Bitter Sun

by Beth Lewis

  ‘Hi,’ she said, smooth and easy and cold. ‘Is there dinner? I’m starved.’

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was perfectly innocent. Maybe Jenny had a free period and went to the Backhoe for a milkshake and Darney just walked her back to school. Maybe she’d been with Gloria or Maddie-May, or any of those girls, for the last five hours.

  A long, dark laugh inside my head. Stupid, stupid Johnny Royal.

  ‘John?’ Jenny said, still in the doorway, her eyebrows up. ‘Is there food?’

  ‘In the oven,’ I murmured and she huffed, shook her head, and stomped to the kitchen.

  As she passed me I smelt it. The tang. The sharp, unmistakable sourness.

  I followed her to the table. ‘You’ve been drinking.’

  She bent to open the oven and sighed. ‘Mac n’ cheese again?’

  ‘Who gave it to you?’

  Jenny took the plate from the oven and set it on the table with a fork. She didn’t look at me. I was an irritant to her then, a blackfly buzzing in her ear.

  ‘You could learn to cook something else now you have all this free time,’ she said as she took a mouthful. ‘Something not out of a packet.’

  The burning in me grew, the rage taking form under my skin. I clenched my fist around the back of the spare chair. Felt like the wood would scorch and catch and blaze up under me.

  ‘Was it Darney Wills?’

  She looked up then. Stopped chewing a moment. Her eyes on mine, reading between my lines and finding her answer quickly. Eyes tinged red like Momma’s after a few cans. A flicker of a smile. Then she went back to her dinner.

  ‘So what if it was?’ she said.

  ‘What did he give you?’

  The wood creaked beneath my fist.

  ‘It was just a beer. Jesus, can you back off?’

  Her tone was cold water on my fire. Hiss and spit and reduced to steam and smoulder. Momma’s drunken temper reared in my sister, a paler version but still vicious.

  I pulled out the chair and sat. Told my voice and body to soften, to loosen up and listen to her, not berate her.

  ‘He’s not a good guy,’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘People say bad stuff about him but he’s actually sweet. Once you get to know him.’

  ‘How long have you been getting to know him?’

  But I wanted to say, how long has he been touching you and holding your hand and making you laugh? What have you done with him? Have you let him do it? I’ll kill him if he put those filthy fat hands on you.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Not long.’

  Then she saw my thoughts through my eyes, my face, my clamped jaw.

  ‘Oh, John,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t done anything to me.’

  But I didn’t believe her and she could see it.

  She dropped her fork onto her plate. ‘He is a gentleman, okay? He hasn’t touched me. You really think I would do that? Is that what you think of me?’

  ‘I don’t …’ but I did and I hated that I did.

  She surged up, knocking over the chair. The noise shook the house, shook us both. Her face set in a sneer, deep and dark. It was Momma’s sneer. On Jenny’s sunshine face it didn’t fit but it did at the same time.

  ‘Darney Wills is bad news. Remember that time in the Backhoe? What he said to us?’

  Jenny almost laughed. ‘That was years ago and it was just a joke. He apologised to me for that, anyway. He was in a really bad place what with Mark being drafted. We got talking about Mark. When he died, Darney had a breakdown, did you know that? His best friend killed himself. He’s a good guy, really. He’s kind.’

  I dug my nails into the back of my neck. Pain brings clarity, Momma always said. Start at the beginning.

  ‘When did this start?’

  Jenny’s expression softened. ‘A couple of weeks ago. I ran into him outside school. We started talking and he walked me home.’

  Every word was a sharp jab in my chest. I remembered the feeling of Darney’s spit on my face. Of his weight on my back, pushing me against the sidewalk.

  ‘He’s too old for you,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not a kid,’ Jenny said, the sneer returned. ‘I’m a woman. I can make my own decisions. Momma doesn’t care and you’re not my father. It’s none of your business who I see.’

  I felt Darney grinding my cheek into the gritty concrete. I felt the explosion in my gut when he kicked me. I felt the fear of his threat all over again.

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘He’s dangerous. Anyone but him. You’re skipping school to see him, aren’t you? You can’t do that. What about your grades?’

  ‘I skipped a few classes, so what?’ She straightened up, crossed her arms, scent of beer on her words. ‘I’m not going to flunk out like you did.’

  Those jabs turned into a spike and pierced me right through. This was not Jenny. Jenny was bright and kind. This was someone else in her skin, her very own monster come to the surface.

  I stood up. Sadness overtook me and I just wanted to be alone. I’d never wanted to be away from my sister but now I needed to be, in case I said something I didn’t mean. I couldn’t stand up to Momma, I was too weak and her monster was strong and ancient. After so many years, I knew its patterns and could avoid it. But Jenny, hers was volatile and brash and lashed out at me with such force and cruelty that all I wanted to do was bite back.

  But I wouldn’t bite. Not at her. It would just send her further away from me.

  ‘Jenny,’ I said, slowly. ‘I quit school to earn us money so we could leave. Remember that?’

  ‘I’m sorry I said that. I’m grateful you quit, really I am, but I never asked you to.’

  Anger flashed inside me.

  She met my eyes. ‘You have to trust me. You’re my brother and I love you but I can take care of myself.’

  I bit down on my tongue to stop me screaming at her. I told myself it was just the beer. Told myself it wasn’t really Jenny same as it wasn’t really Momma. Over and over again I said it while the voices in my head laughed.

  ‘Why are you being like this?’ I could barely look at her.

  She let out a long sigh, threw up her arms. ‘Like what? John, just chill out and let me live my life. I don’t give you lectures about shacking up with Gloria.’

  Those words were a spear to my chest. Right through my heart and lungs and out my back. She’d killed me with those words. Killed my anger and righteousness and energy. I gave up Gloria for you, I wanted to scream but knew I couldn’t. It wasn’t Jenny’s fault. She didn’t know about Wakefield. It was more important than ever that we leave but I didn’t have enough saved for two bus tickets. I needed a little more time.

  ‘Promise me,’ I said, my voice weak. ‘You won’t let him … do it … to you. Okay?’

  Disgust came over her and I knew then I’d crossed a line.

  ‘I won’t open my legs for the first boy who asks. I’m not like her.’

  Momma. You’re more like her than you realise.

  I’d never say it. That was the worst thing I could ever say to Jenny.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Please stop seeing him. Please.’

  ‘I’m going to bed now,’ she said, arms still crossed, chin tilted up. ‘I think it’s time we stopped sharing a room. We’re not kids any more. You should sleep on the couch from now on.’

  My jaw went slack and the sadness in me grew too big for my body. I didn’t have the will to fight it any more. Not after what she said.

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ I said.

  ‘I do.’

  She went upstairs, didn’t look back, and when I heard the slam of our – her – bedroom door, my legs buckled and I fell onto the chair. I don’t know how long I sat there, still, silent, shocked into immobility.

  She’ll get better. The anger will calm and fade and the real Jenny will come back.

  Or it will get worse and she’ll go steady with Darney and Wakefield will get his hands on her.

  ‘No,’ I murmured. ‘
I won’t let that happen.’

  The sadness solidified into new purpose. Work harder. Save more money. Get Jenny away from Larson.

  I curled up on the couch but couldn’t sleep. I always found it hard to sleep when Jenny wasn’t in the room. When she was at sleepovers with Gloria or Maddie-May I’d stay up all night reading or make an early start on the day’s chores, anything but sleep. Jenny’s rhythms and breathing, her fidgeting and warmth, they were a part of me. Without them I was lost, uncomfortable. For hours, the old couch springs dug in my back and side, the house made different creaks and groans, the air smelled of cold, cooked cheese and cigarette smoke. I could hear the rats in the crawlspace gnawing at our joists, skittering along the bricks.

  I stared at the spots and smears of red nail polish still bright on the dark floorboards. Blood that would never fade to brown. Bright scarlet like Darney Wills’ slug lips. I imagined those lips on Jenny’s and my stomach turned to stone. I started off the couch, my knees hit the boards but I didn’t feel the pain. I was on my feet, in the hall, pulling on my shoes. I took a flashlight from the kitchen and swung open the back door.

  The night air smelled sweet, like the woodsmoke from a far-away fire had found its way here, leaving its acrid taint somewhere behind. The heat was coming. Spring was already dead and waiting to be turned to cinders, the winter so distant it was as if it existed in some other world.

  I switched on the flashlight and lit up a circle of dirty, whitewashed wall. I crouched and pulled away a board covering the entrance to the crawlspace. Rats scattered in the light. The loose earth sucked back worms and beetles and the spiders retreated to their corners. The smell of cool soil and stale air hit me. My body ached from tiredness, from hauling potato sacks, from weeding fields, from the uncomfortable couch, but I got on my hands and knees and crawled beneath the house.

  I found the brick. Prised it free. Pulled out the knife. RB scratched into the handle. I pressed the small silver button and the blade sprung free. The years hidden in the wall hadn’t slowed the mechanism and, but for the layer of dust, it was as good as the day Rudy bought it. As good as the day Gloria threw it in Big Lake and I fished it out and made it mine.

  I closed the blade and put the knife in my pocket, where I kept it every day from then on, ready for anything Darney Wills could do. I closed up the crawlspace and sat on the back steps to watch the sunrise.

  Jenny and me lived in a tense rhythm for the next two weeks. Her hair was just brushing her shoulders now but as that got longer, the hem of her dresses crept higher. I saw her with Darney, when she should have been in school, a few more times. Throwing it in my face. She knew where I’d be at what times and she’d parade herself before the big windows of Westin’s grocery store on purpose. I’d turn away. Close my ears to their laughter. Push my anger and sadness down into the dark pit of my stomach.

  The heat hit hard and turned the county humid, like we were all sat in a steamer basket. With only me caring for the farm, I planted about half the west field before the season closed up. But I had rushed and the stalks sprouted in mismatched, uneven rows. They wouldn’t grow right or tall or golden, I knew it from those first tiny spits of green from the earth. They were gnarled and twisted, stunted stalks, clustered and overlapping, leaves a sick brown colour.

  The humidity only lasted a few weeks before the sun dried us out. This will be a broken year, Momma told me one night, it’ll snap right in two and people won’t remember it right. Momma said they’ll forget about those short, hot months and talk about it as the time before the heatwave and the time after, nobody will remember what happened in between.

  The sun scorched the air and dried the mud and made every breath burn the inside of my lungs, filled them with pale dust. We breathed out shimmering heat and the sidewalks, asphalt, truck hoods, and rooftops turned to liquid glass. That heat, that awful heat, drove Larson deeper into madness. Drove calm men to pull their guns over a spilt drink, drove them to fists and fury over the wrong look.

  Then that madness showed itself in my home. I heard the sandy crunch of Momma’s truck in the yard. Too early. The sun wasn’t half set and she was due at Gum’s until the last drunk stumbled out into the parking lot. Momma burst through the front door, ragged panic all through her, a long cut on her forearm. Bung-Eye with her. Blood on him. Blood on her.

  ‘What happened?’ I jumped up as she came through the family room, holding her arm above her head, blood trickling, dripping onto the floor, joining the stark, red nail polish.

  ‘Ain’t that sweet? He’s all worried about his ma,’ Bung-Eye drawled, drunk and grinning. He went straight to the fridge for a Budweiser. Since Bung-Eye became our Pigeon Pa, Momma had to buy Buds instead of Old Milwaukees. Four times the price on Momma’s pay cheque but Bung-Eye wouldn’t drink cheap.

  My mouth dropped open. He’d left my momma hissing and bleeding to get himself a drink. The bastard. Didn’t even get one for her. Didn’t even offer. Momma likes to drink to calm her nerves, don’t you know that? Don’t you care, you son of a bitch?

  I went to Momma and guided her to the kitchen, set the water running, and got some towels to clean her up.

  ‘Who did this?’ I leaned close to her. ‘Did he …?’

  Momma shot me a look that said, don’t you say another word. Her eyes were red and raw. There was fear and pain deep inside them and all I wanted in that moment was to take it away, heal her, save her.

  ‘Just a fight at Gum’s,’ she said, loud, the official story for Bung-Eye’s ears and mine.

  ‘We ran out of ice,’ she said and flinched as I wiped the edges of the cut.

  ‘What’s a bar expect when they can’t keep their drinks cold?’ Bung-Eye said, leaning against the fridge, one arm up, over his head. A crooked lothario. ‘Ain’t reasonable to ask a man to drink warm suds. Might as well ask him to drink warm piss.’

  ‘It was a broken glass,’ Momma said. ‘No real harm done.’

  But her voice trembled, either from the shock or from Bung-Eye’s attitude to it. Maybe it was his broken glass, his warm drink. I tried to keep my eyes on Momma, tending her, but they kept straying to him. A wolf in my house, appearing tame, appearing soft, but on the inside, its veins boiled with rabid blood.

  ‘Where’s your sweet sister?’ Bung-Eye pushed away from the fridge, didn’t stumble despite the slur in his words. As he spoke, he prodded his tongue around the inside of his mouth.

  ‘Upstairs. Studying,’ I said, didn’t try to keep the hate out of my voice.

  ‘Mmhmm,’ he said and finished off his beer. ‘I need to drain the snake.’

  His hand adjusted his crotch and started toward the stairs, up to the bathroom. I listened for every step as I got the medical box from under the kitchen sink. Momma’s cut wasn’t that deep and had almost stopped bleeding.

  ‘You think I’ll live, Dr Royal?’ Momma smiled and squeezed my hand.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. But this is going to hurt.’ I doused the wound with Bactine and Momma swore like a mill-hand.

  As I bandaged up the cut, I noticed the footsteps upstairs. They went to the bathroom but then weren’t coming back down. Not going into Momma’s room. The footsteps went up to my room. Jenny’s room. Where Jenny was right now. Alone.

  Momma grabbed my hand.

  We both knew every sound of the house, every breath and stretch and ache of it, and we knew when something didn’t belong. Her eyes blazed into mine but I couldn’t read them.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  But she wouldn’t say. The footsteps stopped, their destination reached. No sound but my thundering heart.

  ‘What is he doing?’

  Momma took a pack of Camels from the pocket in her jeans and lit one up. She wouldn’t look at me any more but kept her attention on her arm.

  ‘What a good job you’ve done,’ she said, too bright, too breezy.

  I wanted to scream, overturn the tabl
e, rage and rage until she gave me my answers.

  ‘What is he doing?’ I asked again, and again, she said nothing.

  My bones began to itch.

  ‘Momma?’

  Then his footsteps. One heavy, plodding boot after the next.

  Momma blew a plume of smoke high into the air, like steam from a kettle spout.

  The footsteps came down the stairs. It was a few seconds, really, a few horrible, haunting seconds he was up there with Jenny.

  ‘What’s going on, Momma?’

  ‘Nothing, baby, he’s just saying hello.’

  She stood up, took a beer from the fridge, no doubt for Bung-Eye, pre-empting him, keeping him always calm and wanting for nothing. She’d stopped drinking as much at home when he was around. There’d been a half-full jar of whiskey in the cupboard for a month. Maybe we couldn’t afford the Buds for both of them. Maybe she wanted to keep herself sharp.

  ‘Tell me the truth,’ I said, eyes darting to the bottom of the stairs. What had he done to her? What had he said? If he touched her – my head fizzed with anger, and I couldn’t finish the thought.

  ‘I am, baby.’ Momma’s voice was thin, dazed. ‘Nothing is going on. Now what do you want for dinner?’

  ‘How about some of that fine chicken, Patty-cake?’ I flinched. Bung-Eye’s voice from behind me, booming, full of malice.

  I turned to him. Wanted to rip his throat out. Dig my nails into his flesh. I felt the weight of Rudy’s flick knife in my pocket. One press of the button, one swipe, and Bung-Eye would be gone. Jenny would be safe. Momma would be safe. Even Rudy would be safe.

  Bung-Eye stood a foot away from me. Tilted his head. Sized me up. ‘You got something to say, sport?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I have. There’s a whole lot I want to say.’

  Bung-Eye arched his eyebrow and a wide grin peeled apart his lips.

  The words burned inside my throat. I want to say fuck you. I want to say get the hell out of my house. I want to take my knife and show you who’s the man here, who’s protecting Momma and Jenny and if you touched my sister I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you where you stand.

  ‘Well, sport?’

  ‘John,’ Momma said behind me and I faltered.