Untcigahunk: The Complete Little Brothers

by Rick Hautala

  “Well hurry on up here,” her mother said. “I’ve been holding supper since I saw you drive up. You haven’t seen your brother anywhere, have you?”

  “No, Ma,” Suzie said wearily as she started up the walkway. When she looked once more down the road, Woody was gone, but even after she had shut the front door on the night, she would have sworn she could still hear the steady click-click of his boots on the sidewalk.

  5

  Supper was over. Like the rest of the afternoon, it had passed without incident. Marty hadn’t bothered to exact his revenge on Kip. Not yet, anyway, but he knew it was coming. Kip had protected himself by making sure he was never out of earshot of his father ever since he got home from his visit to the police station.

  The usual post-supper routine was underway: Bill was sitting in his easy chair, reading the new issue of Time. After clearing the table and loading the dishwasher, Marty was slouched on the couch, watching MTV And Kip was curled up on the floor, propped up by several pillows as he read Tolkien.

  The magazine pages rustled as Bill turned page after page, looking for something to capture his interest. He couldn’t concentrate, though, because he was wondering about how best to approach the subject of summer school with Marty. He knew what Marty’s first reaction would be. No doubt of that. It was just a matter of getting beyond the initial outburst as fast as possible so they could deal with the issue.

  Kip was pretty well entrenched on the living room floor, so when Marty got up and walked into the kitchen to get something to drink, Bill dropped his magazine to the floor and followed after him. He had glanced quickly at Kip, whose eyes were peering up over the edge of the book.

  “Wait here” he said. “I want to have a word with Marty.”

  “Sure thing,” Kip said, and he couldn’t help but smile. He watched as his father went out into the kitchen. For long, dragging seconds, Kip sat there, staring at the closed kitchen door, waiting to hear the buzzing of their voices. His hands were slick with sweat as he slowly closed the book and placed it on the floor.

  Now might be the time. Should I do it? he wondered. Should he tiptoe upstairs while his father and Marty were talking? He had to get Marty’s knife. There might not be a better opportunity than now if he really was going to take off tomorrow morning. But was it safe?

  “That’s a load of crap!” Marty shouted, his voice carrying clearly from the kitchen. Someone—no doubt Marty—slammed one of the counter drawers. Then there came the sound of one of the kitchen chairs being dragged away from the table.

  “Just cool your jets, young man, and let’s talk about it,” Kip heard his father say.

  Kip’s eyes danced wildly back and forth from the closed kitchen door to the stairway and back to the kitchen door. His stomach tightened as his muscles coiled, ready to spring as he slowly stood up in a crouch, trying hard not to make a sound. He wished—he prayed that his father would keep Marty cooled down. If Marty got really mad—and Kip knew that was very likely—he might storm out of the kitchen. Then which way would he go? Would he storm out of the house, slamming the door behind him, or would he stomp upstairs to his bedroom to wait it out? If he did that, and he found Kip pawing through his bureau for his knife, Kip knew he’d be dead meat.

  Moving slowly, Kip eased out of the crouch and then unwound to a standing position. His left knee cracked, sounding louder than an exploding firecracker. His heart hammered in his ears.

  From the kitchen—at least for now—the voices had toned down enough so Kip couldn’t hear what they were saying. If they had calmed down and were talking, he’d be a fool to hesitate.

  “He who hesitates is lost,” he whispered to himself as he tiptoed toward the stairway. He stared so long and hard at the closed kitchen door he could imagine his stare could burn two smoking holes into the wood. Then they’d know something’s up, he thought, barely able to suppress a laugh.

  His hand came to rest on the banister, and he gripped it as if it was a lifeline. The pounding of his pulse in his ears was so loud now he wasn’t sure he’d hear it if a gun went off in the kitchen. He put his foot on the first step and winced when it creaked under his weight.

  I have to do it! Now! He had to have Marty’s knife. He’d be crazy to go out into the woods without any protection. What if those things really were out there? He tried not to think about the gouged wood of his windowsill and what that could mean.

  He took the next three steps rapidly and then froze, his ears prickling as he waited for his father and Marty to find him out. He half-suspected both of them knew what he was up to, and they were huddled together behind the kitchen door, listening to him, just waiting for him to make his move. Maybe they’d wait until he was up in Marty’s room, fishing through his bureau drawers before they burst in and caught him red-handed.

  “But what are my friends gonna think?” Kip heard Marty say, his voice more whining than defiant. “Summer school’s for wimps.”

  “Imagine what they’ll think if you stayed back a year and didn’t graduate with them,” Kip’s father said, his voice low and steady, sounding so reasonable.

  The muscles in Kip’s thighs started to twitch, so he took another few steps up. Finally, when he was convinced that no one in the kitchen was even thinking about what he might be up to, he dashed the rest of the way up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  Marty’s room was at the end of the hall. Kip ran to the door, swung it open, and half-dove across the floor to crouch beside the bureau. He imagined his face smeared with black camouflage as he stealthfully reached up and slid open the top drawer. His fingers groped under the clean socks and underwear until he brushed against the slick leather of the knife scabbard.

  “Eureka,” he whispered as his hand closed over the handle. He cocked his head to one side, listening for any indication that his father and brother might be done with their conversation, but he could hear nothing from downstairs.

  Breathlessly, he took the knife and scabbard from the drawer and stood up, hurriedly rearranging the socks and underwear to make it look like nothing had been touched. He couldn’t help but draw the knife from its scabbard and hold the shiny blade up to admire it. The grip fit his hand as if it had been made exclusively for him.

  “Beauty,” he said softly as he flicked the edge with his thumb, amazed by the razor sharpness. After another second or two of rapt admiration, he slid the knife back into the scabbard and, holding it close to his side, slipped back into the corridor and down the hall to his bedroom.

  He pulled the bulging backpack out from under his bed, undid the Velcro flap on the side pouch, and shoved the knife down as far as it would go. He was breathing hard and was feeling a bit weak in the knees, but he also felt heady with success as he pushed the backpack back under the bed and stood up slowly, stretching his aching muscles.

  “All right. There you go,” he said, smiling with satisfaction. He froze when footsteps sounded on the stairs. He glanced at the edge of his bedspread to make sure nothing showed underneath as the footsteps reached the top of the stairs and started down the corridor. He sidled over to his desk and silently sat down. His ears were burning as the footsteps came steadily closer. He was tense and couldn’t tell if it was his father or Marty, but then a sudden hammer blow on his door let him know it was Marty. Kip nearly jumped out of his chair.

  “Yo, Peckerwood,” Marty said. “Dad wants to see you.”

  “Just a—” Kip said, but he had to swallow before he could continue. “—minute.”

  “What’re you doing in there, jerkin’ off?” Marty said. The doorknob turned, and Marty peeked into the room, his eyebrows arched. “Did you finally get hold of an issue of Playgirl?”

  “Get bent,” Kip said, aware that his voice was shaking.

  “You wouldn’t think of touching my Playboys, would yah?” Marty asked. His knuckles whitened as he leaned on the edge of the door and stuck his head a little farther into the room.

  “I tried to,” Kip said, “but all
the pages were stuck together.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. He wanted so badly to look at the bed and make sure no part of the backpack was sticking out, but he didn’t dare to.

  Marty’s face loomed in the doorway, leering at Kip as he walked toward him. When he didn’t move aside, Kip balked.

  “What’re you waiting for?” Marty said. “Afraid I’m gonna bite you?”

  “I’d need shots if you did.”

  “You know what the trouble with you is?” Marty said, standing back and adopting a perfectly reasonable tone of voice. “You think you’re so smart all the time that it irritates the shit out of me.”

  Kip snorted but still didn’t move any closer to him. “I’m not the one who has to go to summer school.”

  Marty’s face flushed at that, and he inhaled noisily through his nose. “You better watch what you say, little brother, or your smart-ass little mouth is gonna get you hurt.”

  Kip tensed, expecting his older brother to pounce on him, but Marty didn’t make a move. Just in case, though, Kip dropped one hand to his side and made a tight fist, ready to try to protect himself even though he knew it would be futile.

  “Remember,” Marty said, “I still owe you for this afternoon, so don’t get too cocky.”

  “Leave me the crap alone,” Kip said, louder this time, hoping his father would hear him downstairs. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “If you don’t want any trouble, you can start by never mentioning summer school again. Understand?”

  Kip was gnawing on his lower lip as he nodded.

  “’Cause the whole idea of that really pisses me off.

  And if you piss me off, you’re gonna be one hurtin’ trooper. Maybe...maybe—” he cut himself off, obviously enjoying watching his little brother sweat it out.

  “I know how it is with guys like you,” Kip said softly. “You try to think and talk at the same time, and every now and then, your mouth just sort of jams up, right?”

  “You little shit,” Marty snarled. He pushed the door open the rest of the way with his knee and charged into the room. Before Kip could react, Marty bore him back like an on-rushing freight train. A small, pitiful grunt came from him when his back hit the edge of the bed, and Marty’s full weight came crushing down on him. The feet of the bed scraped along the floor with a harsh grinding sound.

  “D-a-h” was the only sound that came from Kip’s mouth as Marty’s fist rose ceiling-ward and then came down and connected with a dull thud on his shoulder. Pain lanced up into Kip’s neck and jolted down his arm.

  Kip twisted back and forth like a live electrical wire beneath Marty, but Marty kept him pinned with his weight and superior strength. When Kip tried again to yell, Marty brought his arm around and jabbed his elbow into the side of Kip’s jaw. A sour taste flooded his mouth, and he wondered if it was blood. He couldn’t help but wonder how bad this would be if Marty only knew he’d stolen his knife. A couple of knocks on the head would seem like a holiday if Marty had any idea what he had done.

  The knot of flailing arms and legs slid from the edge of the bed to the floor. Kip’s tailbone hit the hardest, sending a chilling jolt up his spine. Marty got his fist positioned on Kip’s ribcage and then, using his knuckles, started to grind as hard as he could into Kip’s side.

  “Here’s that noogie you ordered,” Marty said, laughing as Kip twisted and turned, trying to get away from the pain.

  “Ahh!Ahh! Cut it out!” Kip cried, but Marty stayed on top of him, digging hard into his ribs with his knuckles.

  The steady clomp-clomp of feet on the stairs suddenly brought both boys to attention, and then their father burst into the room. His face was contorted with rage.

  “Jesus Christ, Marty! Get off him right now!”

  Marty gave one last little dig at Kip’s ribs and then rolled off his brother, bending to brush his pants legs before straightening up to face his father.

  “He started it,” Marty said. “He was giving me grief about having to go to summer school.”

  Bill shook his head and pointed a finger at Marty. “I don’t give a damn who started it or why. I don’t want you picking on your little brother. Can you get that through your head?”

  Kip was still on the floor, gasping for breath with maybe a bit of exaggeration before he got up. He pulled his hair out of his eyes and then, using his shirt-tail, wiped the sweat from his face. Glancing down, he saw that the bed had been pushed back when they had landed on it, and the bottom edge of his backpack was showing. He kicked it with his heel, but the pack was so heavy it only went partway back. Kip glanced at his father and Marty, but they didn’t seem to have noticed anything unusual.

  “He gets on my case all the time,” Marty said, “and you always blame me!” He shook his hands with frustration, but it seemed not to impress his father.

  “Look, young man,” Bill said, still shaking his finger angrily at Marty as he came a step closer. “I’ve had just about all I can take from you today. First a call from the high school principal and now this.”

  “Okay, okay,” Marty whispered under his breath.

  “You’ve got to stop tormenting your brother.”

  “He’s the one bugging me,” Marty said.

  Kip cleared his throat and said, “But he started it this time. He came into my room and started accusing me of—” He almost said “stealing his Playboys” but he let his voice trail away.

  If he checks his knife tonight, I’m dead meat, Kip thought.

  Bill glanced at Kip, then back to Marty. “Come on now, both of you,” he said. “Summer vacation’s just beginning, and this is no way to get it started. I’m sick and tired of you two fighting all the time. It’s up to you, Marty, to stop it. If Kip’s giving you trouble, come and tell me so I can deal with it.”

  “He gets on my nerves all the time,” Marty said, almost whining.

  “Goddammit, Marty! Listen to me!” Bill shouted.

  Both Marty and Kip were startled by the outburst, and each took a step backward.

  “I’ve just finished talking to the police this afternoon about someone who seems to be a lot like you seem to be turning out. He’s the kind of kid who got used to solving all of his problems with his fists, and just this week, he tried to solve a situation by beating up on a cop. You know who I mean?”

  Both boys shrugged.

  “Sidney Wood,” Bill said. “He put a Portland cop into a coma, and if they convict him of that, he won’t see the light of day for quite a while. Marty, I don’t want to see you turn out like that kid. I don’t want you going around thinking you can just beat on anyone who gives you trouble. Work it out peacefully. Christ! After all, you’re brothers.”

  “I wish he wasn’t mine,” Marty said. The sour look he shot at Kip was practically dripping with venom.

  “Same goes for me,” Kip muttered.

  “Well, I can see we’re off to a great start this summer,” Bill said. “Kip, the last thing I knew, you were downstairs reading. Why don’t you go back down there and give Marty some space?”

  Kip started toward the door, and Marty took this as his cue to move, too. Before he left the room, though, Bill reached out and snagged Marty by the shirtsleeve before he could walk by.

  “Not so fast,” he said, giving him a stern look. “I want you to know that you’re grounded at least for tonight.”

  “But it’s the first night of vacation. I was gonna meet up with the guys,” Marty said.

  Bill shook his head sternly from side to side. “Sorry. But I want to make sure you understand I mean business. Go to your room now, and stay there until morning.”

  Marty started to say something but then stopped himself. He could tell when his father would give in and when he wouldn’t, and this clearly was one of those times when he wouldn’t.

  With shoulders slouched, he shuffled past his father and down the hall to his room. Just as he got there, the telephone rang, and his father dashed into his own bedroom to answer it. It wasn’t for
him, though, or if it was, his father told whoever it was that he was grounded and didn’t let him talk.

  6

  After what had happened the night before, Gail dreaded the closing of the day. As she stood at the kitchen sink washing the few dishes from her supper, she looked out at the darkening woods in her backyard. She knew her imagination had to be working overtime, but it looked as if the woods were darker, more threatening than usual.

  Barkley was lying on his rug in the corner by the door, avidly chewing on the steak bone Gail had given him. She usually didn’t let him have his bone in the house, but after last night, she didn’t want him out after dark, either.

  She certainly wasn’t going any place tonight. No way.

  It had been—how long? She glanced at the calendar and mentally ticked off the days. More than two weeks now, at least. Even though she still attributed most of what had happened to her imagination, she had to admit something weird was going on, and last night had been the worst.

  After Barkley’s little scramble in the woods, she figured there must be some kind of animal in her neighborhood, maybe a whole family of them. She hadn’t smelled any skunks around, and she doubted it was raccoons because whenever she did hear something outside and turned on the outside lights to check, she was sure she saw something move away fast from the light. Raccoons didn’t move as fast as whatever she had seen.

  Bill had mentioned it might be a fisher, so she had looked up the animal in an Audubon guide at the library. Fishers were closely related to wolverines, and they had a reputation for incredible meanness and viciousness. The face, Gail thought, had a snarling demonic look. At least the fisher’s reputed speed would explain how swiftly whatever was prowling around her house disappeared, but she wondered what would draw such an animal to her yard.

  She stewed on this as she scrubbed a handful of silverware, and she was just rinsing it under a stream of hot water when a subtle motion outside the window caught her attention.