by Joe Clifford
The two black and tan coonhounds in his neighbor's backyard sound meaner than they are, barking loud and relentless, rattling the boarded-up gate. Mitch can hear them as he chases Ruby Jean into the dark, through the grasses stretching to trees behind his property. He's panting like a dog, loaded Springfield 1911 tucked into his jeans and his billy club in one hand.
The night air is cool and humid. He doesn't know how, but he can still see her ahead of him: white tank top and high-waisted denim shorts, long honey brown hair, bare legs pale. The bitch can run, but Mitch's legs are longer, his body fitter. He closes the gap between them like a lion on the hinds of a gazelle, grabbing that hair and yanking her to a stop. She yelps and whimpers, begging him not to hurt her as soon as he's got her. She screams, as if somebody might come find them at quarter to one in the morning.
The sound eggs on the barking to a frenzied pitch.
"Think you're gonna come into my house and hurt my brother that way?" Mitch says to her, his voice raised. He drops his club on the ground and punches Ruby Jean in the face. Blood pours from her nose. He punches her again, and she bursts into tears, letting out a big sob. "Shut up! You fuckin evil bitch! Think you was gonna kill him and disappear? Huh?"
She tries to guard her face with her hands. He's got her by the roots of her hair, her ass on the ground and her knees bent. Her legs squirm. He backhands her hard across the cheek, then drops her.
She starts crawling away from him as he looks around for his club in the blackness. The club, made of wood and wrapped in leather, is about the size of his forearm and shaped like a chicken drumstick. The bulbous end is already stained with the blood of Mitch's brother, Cole.
Mitch walked in on Ruby Jean mid-strike. Cole was sprawled on the kitchen tile, lying on his belly unconscious. Ruby Jean leaned over him, barefoot with a crooked body, beating him. She must've expected Mitch to come home later. She froze soon as she saw him, and he stood still in the kitchen doorway with two fingers still hooked into his key ring, his woman Kelly right behind him asking what was wrong.
He finds the club, listening to Ruby Jean coughing and slurping blood and mucus behind him. The lights on the house show her to him. When he turns around to finish her, she's on hands and knees, crawling like she doesn't trust her legs.
The dogs roar. He can't hear sirens yet.
Mitch grabs her by the hair at the back of her head again, yanks up until she's kneeling in the grass. Her face is a palette of strange colors when he looks at her in the dark and light, creased in anguish. He wants her to see him before she dies.
He lets go of her and swings the club against the left side of her face in one fluid motion, snapping her neck to the right. He feels a wave of heat suddenly rise into his body, skin damp with sweat, stomach twisting up like a rag wrung out because Cole might be dead. His baby brother. His favorite person in the world.
Mitch throws the club hard into the night and takes his gun out of his pants. He aims at Ruby Jean's motionless body and shoots her without pausing. BANG BANG BANG.
The dogs howl and bark. Howl and bark.
He stands there looking down at her shape on the ground, gun lowered, chest heaving as he breathes. The only thought that occurs to him is: he should've done this sooner.
Cole stays in intensive care for two weeks, mostly because of the cerebral contusion. The doctors tell Mitch that's a fancy medical term for bruising on the brain. They're worried they'll have to open up Cole's skull to relieve the pressure from swelling, but in the end, surgery's unnecessary. They keep Cole unconscious for near three weeks, feeding him with IV bags. Mitch can tell his brother's losing weight.
The rest of the damage was done primarily to Cole's torso: severe and extensive bruising, broken ribs. The doctors wrapped him in bandages. They've got him on morphine, even though he's unconscious. They tell Mitch the brain can still register pain during unconsciousness, and Cole's doesn't need that avoidable stress.
Ruby Jean is in the lake two miles behind the Rose brothers' house, belted into the driver's seat of her car. Soon as he knew his brother was going to survive until morning, Mitch left the hospital to hide the corpse before daybreak. He sweated on the drive home, worrying that his neighbor looked for Ruby Jean after Mitch and Kelly left with the ambulance, but she was right where he left her in the vacant back lot. Not a peep out of the dogs. Just the first few birds starting to come awake in the trees, tweeting eerily in the blackest hour of night.
Mitch brought Ruby Jean's car around the house to pick her up, dumped her in the trunk, and drove to the lake on the other side of the trees. He strapped her in behind the wheel, shifted the car into neutral, and pushed it into the water as far as he could walk with his feet on the lakebed and his head above the surface. He flung his billy club as hard as he could into the middle of the lake.
He washed away the sweat, grime, and blood, standing in the shower with his eyes closed. Poured himself a glass of Jack. Took a few minutes to sit and drink, listening to silence fill the house. Maybe he should've felt wretched and damned about what he'd done and what he might lose—but he didn't.
The deputy sheriff himself talks to Mitch about what happened, all sympathy and concern and not a trace of suspicion. Mitch tells him it was Ruby Jean Douglas who beat Cole with Mitch's club. Tells him Ruby Jean—who most folks in town know is a volatile bitch—was wild bitter over Cole scorning her affections. They fucked for a few months, but it was never going to be anything more than that, far as Cole was concerned. Mitch warned his brother off of her, and only after they were done did Ruby Jean start acting like a meth head in withdrawal.
The deputy sheriff believes Ruby Jean hightailed it out of town soon as Mitch and Kelly found her, and took Mitch's club with her. He promises Mitch that the sheriff's department will send out a county-wide notice that Ruby Jean Douglas is wanted for attempted murder. "Cole will be in my wife's prayers," the older man says, as he shakes Mitch's hand.
When Cole wakes up, Mitch is sitting in the chair at his bedside with a cardboard cup of lukewarm hospital coffee in his hands. The blue of Cole's eyes burn his brother's heart and soul, just like they did the day Mitch met him in this same hospital twenty-six years ago. Blue as the hottest kind of flame.
Once the doctor checks on him and he's watered his dry throat, the first thing out of Cole's mouth is: "What'd you do, Mitch?"
"What you'da done," the older brother says, voice soft. His chest feels lighter now, not because he can talk to Cole (been doing that the last twenty-four days), but because if Cole can talk back, everything's all right.
Cole works his mouth and swallows. He takes a careful breath, shallow inside his broken ribcage. "I want to go home," he says.
"Soon as they tell me I can take you, I will."
"I want to leave tonight."
"Well, I'm not breaking you free until they're sure your head's only as fucked up as it was before."
Cole doesn't smile. Mitch feels better anyway.
"You remember anything?" Mitch asks.
"No," Cole says, after a pause. "No, I don't."
It's another two weeks until the hospital sends Mitch home with his brother, a set of prescriptions, a long list of care instructions, a pamphlet detailing the signs of PTSD, and possible complications of brain injury that require immediate medical attention. Mitch is supposed to bring Cole back for a check-up in ten days.
Cole's sitting in the big porcelain bathtub that stands in the middle of the master bathroom, leaning forward toward his knees. Mitch sits on a stool behind him and washes his back with a soapy sponge, running it gently over Cole's bruised, white skin. He doesn't go lower than Cole's shoulder blades, even though he unwrapped his brother's torso. He doesn't want to risk jostling one of the cracked ribs.
Seeing Cole without the bandages for the first time took Mitch's breath away. So much of Cole's torso is purple, blue, green, and yellow with bruises. Mitch damn near feels sympathy pain, looking at his brother's body.
Mitch
gets up, puts the sponge on the rim of the sink and trades it for the bottle of shampoo. He sits down again, knees spread wide around the end of the tub. "All right, lean back for me," he says.
Cole obeys, hands curled around the tub lip on either side of him, carefully resting his head in the curve that Mitch padded with a folded towel. He straightens his legs out as much as he can, knees still above water. Mitch pours water over Cole's head with a plastic pitcher, then works a dollop of shampoo through his brother's hair until it suds.
"You should've let her go," Cole says, his eyes closed.
Mitch rinses out his hair, slowly emptying the pitcher. "Why do you say that?" he asks, matching his brother's quiet tone. When Cole doesn't answer, Mitch follows with, "You afraid I'll get arrested?"
"That's a dumb question."
"There something else, then?"
Cole pauses, as Mitch gets up for a towel.
"I don't want you dying with regrets because of me," the younger brother says.
Mitch cradles Cole's head in both hands and rubs it gently with the towel until his hair's damp instead of wet. "Only thing I regret is not coming home sooner," he says.
"What you did—that's not who you are."
"No. It's who I am if I have to be."
"I'm not worth killing for, Mitch. Nothing is."
"If you walked in on somebody beatin me, would you let em go?"
Cole's silent.
"I don't know why you expect me to love you less than you love me," Mitch says. "I'm older. It's my job to protect you."
In Mitch's room, while he's securing clean bandages around Cole's torso, the brothers hear a loud series of knocks on the front door of the house. Mitch tells Cole to stay where he is and goes to answer their visitor.
Delilah Redgrave's looking frantic on the Rose brothers' doorstep. Mitch dated her near twelve months, four years ago. They're not friends now—Mitch keeps to himself, his brother, and his lover, mostly—but they're on good terms. Mitch looks past her and sees the sky thick with bluish gray clouds. He smells rain in the air.
"Mitch, I know now can't be a good time, but I had to come tell you in person," Delilah says.
"You're right," says Mitch, talking soft the way he's been doing since Cole got hurt. "I'm in the middle of something."
"I don't need to stay any longer than it takes me to get this out. There's a man in town says he's Ruby Jean's husband. He's looking for you and Cole."
"Her husband? You've got to be shittin me."
"He says his name is Bud Wolfe. He's huge, Mitch. Taller than you, big as a moose."
"What the hell does he want?" Mitch says.
"I don't know. All I know is, he's asking around for you. He must want to get even. Why else would he come here looking for you instead of her?"
Mitch is quiet for a beat. Just what he needs right now: another reason to look over his shoulder. He meets Delilah's gaze and says, "Thanks for stopping by. Don't worry about me and Cole."
She nods, still wide-eyed.
"Take care of yourself."
She turns around to leave, the screen door creaking and banging against the frame when she lets it go, and Mitch doesn't wait to watch her.
Cole's sitting on Mitch's bed, right where Mitch left him. He looks somber, the way he has since he woke up in the hospital. Mitch hopes it's only because Cole's in pain, not because something's changed in him.
"How much did you hear?" he asks.
"Nothing," Cole says.
Mitch sticks his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans, thumbs hooked over and out, shoulders hunched up. "That was Delilah."
"Delilah?" And for a brief moment, Cole's voice sounds light again. "I thought she was done with you."
And God damn it, Mitch wants nothing more than to lie and say that Delilah did show up to ask him out. He wants to go find Bud Wolfe on his own and take care of him, one way or another. Never let Cole know.
But all their lives, Mitch hasn't kept anything important from his brother, and he sure as hell isn't going to start now.
"She is done with me," he says. "She came by to warn us."
Cole frowns. "About what?"
"Bud Wolfe."
"Mitch. I'm not going to drag it out of you. I don't have the energy for that."
Mitch sighs and looks away, trying to figure out how to phrase this. Doesn't take him long to give up. There's no way to make it sound better than it is. "Bud Wolfe says he's Ruby Jean's husband. He heard she's gone missing, and he's looking for us."
Cole looks down into his lap and doesn't answer for a few beats. He's straight-faced.
"If you're going to tell me I fucked us both, go ahead," Mitch says.
Cole's silent.
Mitch shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hands still in his pockets. "All right. You're pissed. You're scared. This is the last thing we need right now, I know. But you gotta believe me when I tell you that I will not let this guy or anybody else touch you. I'm going to keep you safe, Cole. Do you trust me?"
Cole looks up and meets his brother's gaze, everything about him tired. "I'm not five years old anymore, Mitch. I'm not scared. I ain't pissed at you neither. And it's not your job to keep me safe."
"Yes, it is," Mitch says. "Always will be."
Cole lowers his eyes again. "I trust you," he says, voice soft. "What are we going to do?"
"I'm going to find Bud Wolfe, and I'm going to talk to him."
"What if talk's not enough?"
"Then, I'll deal with it."
"What's that mean?"
Mitch pauses. "I don't know. Depends on Bud."
Cole stares at him, and Mitch can't read the look.
"Think I'm gonna lie down for a spell," Cole says.
"All right. You want your painkillers?"
"No. I'm good."
Mitch lays his brother down on the left side of his bed, cradling his back with one arm and his head with the other hand. Every move hurts, with those busted ribs and pounded flesh. They both know it. Cole doesn't ask for help, and Mitch doesn't mention it. Big brother does what he has to, and little brother takes it without complaint.
Mitch sits on the bed next to Cole, back against the headboard and legs straight in front of him, drinking whiskey on ice and wondering when their lives are going to be beer material again. He looks down at his brother who's supposed to be sleeping, and Cole opens his eyes to look up at him, meaning he can't get comfortable and maybe he's still a little afraid of falling asleep and never waking up again.
Mitch sets his glass of melting ice on the night table next to him and slides down on the bed, head and shoulders lifted on two pillows. Cole lies back against Mitch's chest, head on his brother's shoulder, and Mitch curls his arm around Cole's belly. Mitch can smell the Irish Spring shampoo in Cole's hair.
He can feel his brother breathing.
Bud Wolfe looks a hell of a lot fiercer than a moose. But the size comparison's accurate. He's six foot five with a lumberjack build—the kind that's never seen the inside of a gym but came from doing manual labor just about every day since he was eighteen. His shoulders threaten to pop open his shirt seams any minute. His eyes are lead-gray, bright and ornery.
Mitch finds him in Black Moon, same dive where Ruby Jean convinced Cole it'd be a good idea to fuck her. He doesn't know how he knows to go there, but he figures Bud can smell Ruby Jean everywhere she's been, like one of those coonhounds that live next door to Mitch and Cole.
Bud's keeping to himself in a booth, nursing a beer in a tall, handled glass. Mitch orders Jack on the rocks at the bar, gets the bartender's confirmation of Bud's identity, and goes to join the man whose wife he killed. Bud flicks his eyes up to him when Mitch slides into the other side of Bud's booth.
"Heard you're looking for me. Name's Mitch Rose."
Bud straightens, taking his elbows off the table.
Mitch sips his whiskey, feeling as calm as he would talking to any old friend. "Ruby Jean Douglas truly your wife?"
"That's right," says Bud.
"You hear what she did to my brother?"
"Rumor is she beat him up pretty good with a bat."
"It was a club—and that ain't no rumor."
Bud pauses, staring at Mitch with a wary expression. "Where is he?"
"My brother? He's home, resting. That's where he's going to stay for a while yet. Turns out it takes a long time to heal from a beatin that bad. The movies are full of shit."
Bud takes a drink. "I've been in town the last three days," he says. "I came as soon as I heard she's wanted for attempted murder here. I started chewing on it right away. RJ might be a no-good cheatin slut, but long as I known her, she hasn't been dangerous. She runs off on me two years ago, parks herself here, then tries to kill an innocent man? I asked myself, why would she go and do a thing like that?"
Mitch watches him over the rim of his glass and doesn't say a word.
"She wouldn't do something like that for no reason," Bud continues. "Then, I thought—maybe this man she tried to kill wasn't so innocent. Maybe he done something to her. Maybe he had it coming."
"My brother didn't do a damn thing," Mitch says. "Except tell your wife, who nobody around these parts knew was married, that he didn't want to see her anymore."
Bud stiffens. The movement's so slight that Mitch wouldn't notice if he was any farther away or any less focused on the man.
"So your brother was fuckin my wife," Bud says, voice even.
"The way I see it, Ruby Jean was fuckin my brother," says Mitch. "After she got done with a handful of other men."
"She try to kill them too?"
Mitch pauses. "I don't know. I don't think so."
"So what makes your brother different?"
"Go ask Ruby Jean."
"I would—if I knew where the hell she was."
The men sit silent and work on their drinks. Mitch finishes his whiskey. Bud gets down to the swill of his beer. Crooked Still starts playing "Ain't No Grave" over the speakers, and Mitch hears it like Ruby Jean's singing.
"So how exactly did she go?" Bud asks him, voice rougher and deeper now.
Mitch blinks at him, brain tripping over the question for a second. "She ran out of my house, hopped into her car, and left. That's the last time I saw her. If my brother hadn't been pulp on my kitchen floor, I mighta chased her down."
