My parents release fake yawns, their eyes filled with fever lust, make a lame excuse, and retire for the evening. Phillip shifts his gaze down to our game; he chuckles after Keary gets a Go to Jail card, and slides down to the rug next to me.
“She’s murdering you. Are you letting her beat you?”
Keary tilts his head and sends my brother a defeated expression. “And you beat her at Monopoly?”
“Hell no, she wins constantly. Join the club.” Phillip grins at Keary with conspiratorial eyes.
He stretches and leans towards the fire, looking suddenly distant and uncomfortable. “So, it’s just like summer. We three, one too many, and I, sorely in need of a girl.”
I stroke my brother’s leg and my lips form into an inviting smile. His fingers curve into tickling worms, and he reaches out and finds the spots under my ribs that always send me into a fit of laughter. I roll away from him and strike my hands out like blades, eyes challenging him. He quickly glances at Keary, returns his gaze to me, and sighs humorously. He pushes himself up to his feet and swaggers towards the kitchen. Before he disappears, he stops, and turns back to stare at me.
“I’ve been thinking…thinking about the stuff that happened, when shit was going down. One thing still messes with my mind…remember that night? You woke me up, wanted that key, the silver key up in the attic. What ever happened with that?”
My lips release a long, tired sigh and I shrug. “Never went so bad that I really needed it.” I get all mischievous and feel proud. “I handled it all by myself, somehow…didn’t I?”
Phillip chuckles like he has no doubt, and says as he walks away, “You sure as fuck did.”
I study Keary for any trace of sadness or regret but find nothing but clear acceptance. He holds out his hand and takes mine and I sidle my way over into his embrace.
“What are we going to do now? I mean, with all we went through, what will define our life?” My voice is uncertain and strained thinking about all the bad stuff that happened in this room.
Keary nuzzles my hair and kisses my forehead softly. “Remember all those drawings I made, and how you used to sneak stares? Your face would light up in curiosity and wonder, like you were trying to figure out what I was creating. Do you remember that? Well, we have the ink, we have the pen, and we have the empty page. What should we create?”
And at that moment, in the quiet and depth of the room emptied of violence, I picture a road: not long and straight, not desolate and barren, but a road full of curves and intrigue, sheer cliffs plummeting down to the sea. A road imbued with the thrill of love and freedom and endless adventure. Fuck convention and traditional expectations. I want to live life like a pirate, taking and claiming whatever I conquer. I don’t want gold or silver or jewels, but experiences: to claim unknown knowledge, and to own the genuine and discard everything that is fake in life.
“Let’s find the real, do the real, meet all the really alive people. Can we create that life? Let’s let our minds roam free, like mountain lions at night, sniffing out the real and genuine thoughts and experiences. Once we find it, we’ll create. You’ll draw and I’ll write. But until we find something real, we’ll keep roaming, open and listening, paying attention to everything. We’ll read, we’ll think, we’ll explore, we’ll meet new people and talk to them, listen to them. We’ll find and follow threads that lead to the creative source.”
Maybe we see something, a flicker of firelight in each other’s eyes, because all at once we turn and gaze into the fire. The shivering shadows under the flames dance a macabre dance, demon’s eyes and gaping mouths lingering fitfully, waiting, hungry. Fear bubbles up my spine and I toss it out with my exhalation, retaining my chillingly deep gaze.
Then I see it, the road, the motorcycle, the storm clouds issuing pulverizing lightning strikes onto the dark land. I see a shady corner of Paris, a slum and greedy eyes in the night. I see a monastery high in the Himalayas, monks chanting, mandalas springing forth from their open mouths. I see a revolution, a hungry mob of impoverished people with fear and anger in their eyes. I see war and chaos, and in downtrodden, uncertain eyes I see a flicker of hope, the kind of hope that only comes from eyes that have reached the absolute bottom in life.
Keary tells me everything he sees, and everything he sees is what I see, too, so I tell him and he hugs me close until I feel we’re swimming in the same pool of light, staring at the flow of time. What will we create? My body shivers, picturing blood oozing from Howard McNaughton’s forehead, a gushing, dirty third eye. The scents of red wine and sex and hay from the barn on Martha’s Vineyard swirl in my nostrils. What will we create?
Then one singular vision fills me up so completely. Aleksey, his face grave and determined, tells me, “You should work for me,” and hands me his black gun. I feel the heavy weight.
I like how it feels.
Beautiful Revenge Page 19
