The Fortunate Brother

by Donna Morrissey

“My thinking was no different. We were all screwed up.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “No. No, I wish I were. I liked being blamed. It was my punishment. When I wasn’t looking for punishment, I was blaming, too. I blamed Trapp.”

  He pulled back, looking at her. “Was it his fault?”

  She shook her head. “No. It was not.”

  “They says he fucked up.”

  “He was good at his job. Things just happen, Ky.”

  “You tried to tell me before, and I wouldn’t listen. Can you tell me now?”

  Sylvie sat back. She closed her eyes, pressing her palm against her forehead, still seeing it, still feeling it, and he was incensed at his selfishness.

  “I’m stuck, Sis. It’s with me all the time. I’ve sealed him off somewhere. It’s like he’s fighting to get out and I’m fucked with it, I’m so fucked with it.”

  “Hey, I know it. I know it, okay?”

  “Something always feels foul about the whole thing—you coming home without Ben, him coming three months later with Trapp and the bad feeling around them. And Trapp sneaking around. I just never had the courage to hear about it. Can you talk about it?”

  She nodded. “It’s when you’re alone with it, in your head. That’s when I get in trouble.”

  She wrung her hands and he took one, circling her thin wrist, massaging it with the pad of his thumb.

  “It might hurt you,” she said quietly. “Some little detail, something new you haven’t figured—like pulling the scab of an old cut. It starts hurting all over agin.”

  He shrugged. “Hurts all the time anyway. Trapp had something to do with it, didn’t he?”

  She took his hand in hers, held it like a puppy in her lap, stroking it. “Remember how Chris used to go off in his mind all the time, like he was sleeping? Remember once he was eating a crust of bread and he went off, the crust across his mouth like a soggy moustache?”

  “His little trances, Mother called them.”

  “That’s where he was when it happened. Gone off somewhere. His magical place, I’ve always thought it, where his drawings came from. Those crazy magical drawings. The limb of a tree morphing into a bird’s claw. Three moons into cabbages on an old woman’s hand. Everything spooling from the one thing into everything else. Nothing’s separate. And that’s where we went wrong.”

  Her eyes shadowed in the dimming light. “After the accident, we felt him severed from us. It’s not so. He’s still spooling somewhere. But we’re not. We’re the ones caught in death. All tangled up in our grief. Not fair to him that we should be all entangled like this. It’s not fair.”

  He nodded and she stroked his hand some more. “That’s where he was when the well hole blew. In that place. That magic place. He was already gone.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ohhh, everything, Kylie.” She dropped her head back against the headrest, her words scarcely audible. “I don’t really understand it. The pipes in the well hole were blown back up through. There were about twenty of them—I’m not sure—all vertical into the ground, one linked to the other. The top pipe had a chain linking it to the rig. Something like that. When the pipes were blown back out of the hole, skywards, the chain snapped. Snake-whipped around his chest. And he never felt nothing. It was so fast he never felt a thing. He was still in that place. It’s how he would’ve drawn it, that bigger thing enclosing him. And that’s all there is, my love. That’s all he knew.”

  He closed his eyes. Felt her words eddying around him. Felt them flowing through his heart, pooling there. He opened his eyes onto hers, saw the sadness beneath their calm.

  “And you saw it.”

  “He was lying there when I found him.”

  “You were the first one to see him.”

  “I lay beside him.”

  “You watched the light leave his eyes.”

  “It felt so soft.”

  He laid his head on her shoulder. “How did you survive it, Sis?”

  “I’m still learning to do that, to look through a moment. Everything was leading up to that accident: Dad’s heart attack, my being out West, Chris on that rig when the chain snapped. You can’t pick it apart, Ky. Before Chris was even born, things were shaping themselves towards that moment—the fishery going down, Dad meeting our mother. Who can change any of that? Same with Trapp. He was good at his job, the one thing he was proud of. Then, something happened. He froze. Who knows why? Everything leading to that one moment. Just like the pipes coming up from under that ground. A hundred things coming together and Trapp couldn’t hold it back. Couldn’t hold back those things that froze him. Too many things coming together every moment and we can’t hold it back. You see it, Ky? It’s never the one thing. We’re never the one responsible. And yet we all are. If there’s forgiving to be done, it’s ourselves we need to be forgiving, for being a part of it all. Clear enough, right?” She shrugged. “Chris knew it. A part of him knew it. It came through his drawings—everything flowing from one thing to the other. His gift to us.” She smiled, her words so filled with promise, his heart surging unexpectedly.

  “I need to be there, Sis. Where you are with it.”

  “Let it find you, then. Just…let it in. Mother always said we’re sainted like Job when we can stand the pain and thrive in the end.”

  Mother. He turned from her. How the Jesus was he going to tell her about that.

  “You must miss him terribly, Ky.”

  “No more than you.”

  “I’ve tortured myself. Thinking about you, back when it first happened, walking home by yourself in the dark.

  “Bears, Sis. I’m scared of bears, not the gawd-damn dark. Listen, we have to talk about something.”

  “It was his fault, barring you in that haunted house.”

  “What house?”

  She grinned. “An old house we liked to think was haunted. He barred you in there—only for a minute. Half a minute—he was just being mischievous. You screeched your head off and near had a fit.”

  “Sonofabitch. How come that was never talked about?”

  “Thought it was. Only time I ever seen Mom mad at him.”

  “Must be why he let me keep the lights on all those years. Sis, we really need to talk.”

  “Thought we were. Hey!” Her attention shifted, something in the rearview catching her eye. She twisted sideways, looking through the back windshield. “That was Trapp. I just seen Trapp back there. He was on the highway by the restaurant when I drove out. Most likely he’s heard Ben’s home.”

  Kyle looked back, searching the road and up by the woods. “Don’t see no one. Why the fuck is he always sneaking around?”

  “He never did like attention. He’s gotten worse, especially around me. Most likely he seen me and turned back.”

  “Why? What the hell is his problem?”

  “Oh, Ky, we think we got problems.” She sat back, keeping an eye on the rearview. “If there’s one of us with the clearest claim for guilt about Chris’s accident, it’s him. He was the one at the controls. He blames himself. He liked Chris. Aside from Ben, Chris was the only other person I’ve known him to like. He’s been taking it pretty hard.”

  “Yeah, well, guess we know what that’s like.”

  “Yeah. Shame and guilt. Two ugly sisters. And shame’s the worst—it don’t hear no logic, always too busy damning itself. I’ll go tell Ben.” She reached for her door handle, then looked at him. “You going to be all right, Ky?”

  He nodded. “Let’s go in.”

  “Oh, by the way, who’s that Kate woman? She was in Mother’s room.”

  “When, today?”

  “This morning. And Bonnie Gillard—what’s that all about?”

  “What were they talking about?”

  “I don’t know, I came into the room and they were hovering over Mom like flighty hens.”

  “You heard nothing? What about Mother?”

  “What about her?”

  “What w
as she saying—or doing?”

  “Mothering them is what it felt like.”

  “You heard nothing they said?”

  “Nothing, I told you. Clammed up soon as I come into the room. And she—Kate—near ran me off the road just now, driving out Hampden Road. Who is she?”

  “Just a friend. Listen, Sis, I got to run home and wash up. Clothes sticking to me with cement.”

  “But, Kyle…”

  “No buts, I’ll be back. Tell Ben to order me one.” He got out of the car, heading for Manny’s truck. “Go on, I’ll be back in a minute.” When he looked back she was still sitting there, staring after him. “Better get inside,” he said, gesturing to the bar. “Good-looking women hanging off Ben in there.” He laughed at her scowl and drove off, his face shedding itself of laughter as she faded from his rearview.

  —

  He drove down the rough, narrow road from the club and swung up Bottom Hill. Coming down the other side, he hit the brakes. Trapp stood by the bushes near the shortcut. Jesus, he was skinny. Pale, scruffy face. He swung around like a cat, hightailing out of sight through the brush. Kyle pulled over, shut off the engine, and leaped out of the truck. He came to the mouth of the path and stopped, listening. Wind showering through the trees. Faint drone of the sea riding against the rock face. He started down the path, one quiet step after another, looking from left to right. “Hey?” he called out. “Hey, man, what’s up?”

  The grating call of a crow. He went farther down the path, heard the creaking limb of the old sawmill and was soon upon it.

  “Hey!” he called out again. “What’s up, Trapp, man? Wanna go for a beer?”

  Kyle crept past a sunken mound of petrifying sawdust and neared the charred remains of the platform. There was a gap between the foundation and the ground beneath where the creaking limb swayed. As if an animal might be burrowing there. A couple of dead branches lay to the side of the opening. No animal would do that. He went over and bent down, peering inside. A shaft of light from a back entrance tunnelled through, showing a few bits of rags—and a coat. He saw a sleeping bag in there, too. A plastic bag sat to the side of the opening and he pulled it out. A chunk of mouldy cheese, dated from a month ago. Emptied juice packs. Two not opened. A couple of emptied sardine cans. He hunched down, thinking back to that morning when he’d felt something—someone!—skulking behind him in the dark. Trapp. Gawd-damn!

  He peered into the burrow again and then stood, looking around. Wind stirred through the black spruce, carrying the nip of a coming evening chill. Lean, bare branches of aspen scratched the air. Sawdust still frozen into mounds and with hearts of ice. Some shelter from the wind perhaps, but little warmth. The limb creaked above, giving him the heebie-jeebies, and he cursed and climbed atop the platform and jumped up, grasping hold of the swinging, fire-blackened joist. It clung on and he wrenched harder till he felt it give and then stood aside as the fucking thing wrenched from its socket and fell at his feet. He brushed the dirt off his hands with satisfaction, wondering why the hell he hadn’t laid that thing to rest the first time it spooked him.

  He went to the edge of the platform, searching through the woods, listening. Facing east and just beyond a thin ridge of trees was the dropoff over the cliff face below, the inlet that had cradled Clar Gillard’s body. He could hear the tide, full in and scraping sluggishly against the cliff. He cupped his hands to his mouth.

  “Just wanted to have a beer, is all!” he yelled. He walked back up the path to the truck. He cruised the rest of the way down Bottom Hill and cut onto the gravel flat. Kate’s car was parked by her door. Clar’s dog trotted from behind the cabin, barking in warning, neck fur bristling.

  “Hang ’er tough, buddy,” he snapped. Didn’t like that fucking dog. “Kate!” he hollered. “You home, Kate?”

  Her door was ajar. He hopped onto the step and tapped lightly. It drifted open and he stood back. “Kate?”

  He poked his head inside. Her guitar stood on a mat, leaning against a wooden rocker. Bread sliced on the table, a jar of mayo and a chunk of cheese. He looked towards the coffee pot on the stove and saw that it was full, a mug beside it with a hungry mouth. A door led to a bedroom.

  “Kate?”

  He turned back, looking about the gravel flat and to the wooded west-side hills shadowing black on a flat sea beneath a pearly sky. The river rumbled beyond the old ruins, songbirds twittering through the nearby alders. He looked to the coffee pot again, took a quick step across the room and touched it. Still warm. The dog’s muffled growls grew into excited yips. Kyle went outside, rounded the cabin. The dog’s rump was in the air, his head down, front paws digging furiously through the burdock and sow thistle that choked the base of the cabin. He’d been digging for some time, had an opening big enough for his snout to reach inside. He drew back as Kyle approached, black eyes burning with urgency, tongue lolling. He held his head high, barked, and then resumed his frantic clawing at the ground. Kyle turned to leave but stopped as the dog wheeled towards him with an excited whine, eyes fevered, and dove its snout back inside the hole. He emerged with a piece of dirtied cloth between his teeth, dropped it to the ground and then circled it, whining and howling. Kyle looked closer. His scarf. It was his scarf. His cashmere scarf that he’d lent his mother the morning she went to Corner Brook with Bonnie Gillard. He bent to pick it up and the dog yapped at him.

  “Batter to hell,” he muttered and snatched the scarf from the ground. He held it before him; it was shrunken and clumped together in parts. Blood. Dried black blood. Jesus. Oh, Jesus. He dropped to his knees, the scarf laid across his hands like a bloodied infant. He closed his eyes and saw it folded soft around his mother’s nape that morning. He had impulsively kissed her there once when he was a boy, surprising her as she knelt in the doorway, tying his laces before shooing him outside for school. He’d been surprised himself by the strength of her scent suffusing his face. Oh, Mother, Mother, the world had felt so big outside and she so strong, kneeling there in that doorway. How safely he had grown in the pools of light filtering through her, the terror of dreams banished by warm milk at her morning table. He held the scarf aloft like a penitence and he an unworthy penitent. I should’ve fought harder, made them cuff me.

  The dog circled him, tail between its legs. It was scared and he was scared, too. He started rocking with the scarf in his hands, picturing her coming out of their house through the effusion of yellow from the overhead light, the scarf shawled around her shoulders against the minted cool of that fog-shrouded night. He saw Bonnie running towards her from the bottom end of the wharf and the fog thickened in his brain and he saw no more and understood nothing of how her scarf became bloodied when it was Clar who was killed. He heard only her voice, whispering to Bonnie, It’s all right, you never have to be afraid again…

  The dog pricked its ears towards the river and a flock of gulls rose, squawking, their wings lit by slanting rays of the evening sun breaking through cloud. A grey head topped a rise on the far side of the river. Kate. Kyle rose. She didn’t see him, and the river was probably too loud to hear the yapping dog. He ran to his uncle Manny’s truck and stuffed the scarf underneath the seat. He closed the truck door and stood with his back to it. Kate’s head was down as she picked her path across the thinning part of the river, now strewn with boulders. He opened the truck door and took the scarf back out to make sure it was what he’d seen and the sight of the blood made him crazy and he circled the truck holding it, seeing again his mother coming through the house door with the scarf around her neck and Bonnie running towards her from the bottom of the wharf and Clar—where was Clar? And where had she found his knife? He couldn’t remember it being in the house, it was always in the shed, and why was the scarf bloodied when it was Clar who’d been stabbed.

  He opened the truck door and shoved the scarf back beneath the seat and then closed the door and saw Kate balancing herself with her arms as she teetered across the narrow, rotting footbridge. He cut across the flat and walke
d alongside the muddied ridge by the river, waiting by the concrete ruins as Kate stepped off the footbridge and clambered up a small incline of banked beach rocks. She looked surprised to see him standing there and looked anxiously past him towards her cabin.

  “Thought I heard a dog barking.”

  “Clar’s dog. That fucking thing got a name? You left your door open.”

  “He never needed calling, was Clar’s shadow. I’ve been feeding him. I better get back there, close the door.”

  “I already closed it.” He stood before her and she stood back, appearing calm and yet unable to keep from darting glances towards her cabin.

  “Some things I need to ask you, Kate.”

  She nodded, glanced towards the cabin again. “Can we talk another day, Kyle? Tomorrow?”

  He touched his pocket where the bloodied scarf still burned like a phantom limb and shook his head. She lowered her eyes from his and with great effort sat on the ridge of beach rocks. Her hair was loose, feathery about her shoulders. She gathered it in a handful and tucked it beneath her jacket collar like a scarf against the cold and her mouth drooped with sadness as she stared into the fattened river.

  He sat beside her. “What do you know about my mother?”

  “That I wish she was mine.”

  “I thought you loved your mother.”

  “Love has many shapes, Kyle. Some of them can get pretty warped.” She rubbed her throat as though her words pained her.

  “Starting to feel like a stranger, Kate.”

  “That worked for a while, not knowing anyone. Gives a person time to hunt one’s self down.”

  “You running?”

  She shook her head. “I tried to once. The past shadows us like those birds up there. Cheats our every triumph, and I expect I’m starting to sound tiring here.”

  “More like Kate writing a song.”

  She gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Turning days into words. You said that once, and I like that. Guess some days can never be sung.”

  He jiggled his foot impatiently and she reached out her hand as though reaching for more time.

  “It’s not a terribly interesting story, or original. My father used to be decent till the moonshine rotted his brain. Started knocking us around like yard ornaments. I cut out.”