Brother

It had been many years. So many that Abe didn’t even think his brother would know him anymore. Sometimes he would have visions of his brother, easily weighing over three hundred pounds, doing some funny, waddling walk into a family reunion or something, a box of Twinkies or Ring Dings under his arm.

When his brother left, the whole neighborhood knew in moments. Rumors spread like wildfire through the tightly packed homes in the old neighborhood. They all knew who he was; all remembered him as the blight of the family, something to be erased from all the family albums.

Unfortunately, it was time for Abe to put the years behind them. Time to meet his little brother again.

He never imagined that it would be on these terms.

“Abe, what’re you doing?” Abe’s brother was a slightly overweight, long limbed child. At age twelve, he was an embarrassment to the family. Gawky, nerdy, already wearing a thin pair of glasses, and, with the amount of time he spent peering into those encyclopedias, he was bound to be blind by 15.

“I’m goin’ over to Heath’s.” Abe continued stuffing his pee-wee football uniform into his sports bag, trying to ignore him.

His brother shuffled his feet, and Abe knew what was next. “Abe, can I come with?” His voice was pathetic, and Abe knew he would start to cry if he didn’t let him come. Still, he remembered the last time he let “Fatass” play, as everybody called his brother; it was horrible watching him try to keep up with the other kids. He was getting fat, had no agility, and was basically a stump.

“No, I can’t let you play. After last time you played, with you crying like a little baby, I ain’t letting you do that to me again.”

“That was because everybody was picking on me,” he said, looking straight down. Abe could already see his lower lip trembling. “I just wanna play like you!” The last word “you” was dragged out in an almost painful whine.

“Well, all the other kids are bigger than you. You’ll just cry again and I can’t have that!” Abe thought for a moment. “Look, why don’t you stay here and play with your toys, or read the encyclopedias some more?”

He turned, slowly, paused for a moment, then shuffled back out of his room, sniffling already.

Abe walked up the stoop and stopped outside the door. The building was of the old Gothic type (which always made Abe think of a morgue), with no sign of life touching it, no birds on its ledges, no weeds growing in the sidewalk out front, nothing. There was a sign in the window saying that the diner was closed, but when he had listened to his brother’s message on the answering machine, it said to walk in anyway. He took a deep breath to steady himself, whispered “confidence, confidence,” for reassurance, then pushed open the door and stepped inside.

He was struck immediately by the overbearing darkness. The door wheezed shut, slowly, on its gas-shock. It was as if he had walked out of the noonday sun of New Jersey into a cave somewhere, and the entrance had been sealed shut behind him. He stood for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. A face materialized out of the darkness, a frightening, pockmarked face, an angry face. He jumped back.

“We’re closed, Mister,” a distinctly New York voice snapped at him. The man was one of the most incredibly hateful faces Abe had ever seen.

“Pete, he’s here for me. Let him go.” The voice came from the back, somewhere in the shadows, a medium tone, yet ultimately authoritative. His knees weakened, slightly.

Pete looked at him once again, from head to foot and back up again, muttered something under his breath, then retreated back into the shadows. Abe slowly stepped forward, trying to locate the direction of the voice. His eyes were beginning to discern the shapes in the darkness: tables, chairs, a dust covered bar, and towards the back of the diner in a separate room, he could detect movement, just slightly. He aimed towards it, stepping through an archway, and as he did so, a quiet buzz emoted from a speaker overhead.

“Abe, take the gun out of your pocket.” There was no trace of emotion in the voice, just...force. Abe opened his jacket, reached into the shoulder holster and slowly removed the .32 he had just bought a week ago. “Now, put it on the shelf next to you. To your right.” He reached over and found a shelf, which was large enough to put an arsenal on. After setting down the gun, he turned back toward the figure and waited. “What’re you waiting for?” the voice snapped, impatient.

“Just waiting for you to invite me in.” He tried his best to sound confident, coy.

The other man paused for a moment, obviously in thought. “What, are you frightened of me?” The voice held an intense mockery in it.

“No, I...I just didn’t know what to expect...” He was now stammering, the way he had before when he had spoken with Martinez. Lately, his cool, confident exterior had been easily cracked.

“Okay, just shut up and sit down, okay?” Abe hurried over to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down, noting immediately the game of Solitaire laid out across the table.

“I see you still play Solitaire.” Abe was taking his natural approach: looking for a positive angle.

The look on his brother’s face said it all; there was no amusement. “Now, let’s take it from the top. What did you do to end up here?”

“Shut up!” The voice snapped at him like a whip. “Shut up. What I’m doing here is not the question. Again, the question is: What did you do to end up here?” Abe sat, silently, just for a moment.

“You know I’ll need your help.”

The pool area in the backyard was crowded with Abe’s friends. It was probably the best birthday party his parents had ever given him, and everybody from school was there to celebrate. The table beside the front door was cluttered with so many presents that they had to take Fatass’s card table out of his room to put the incoming gifts on. Fatass didn’t mind; he just came out into the family room and sat on the floor, playing Solitaire as he always did when he wasn’t reading. Cards were his life; he even had them clothes-pinned onto his bicycle spokes to make what he called “motorcycle noise” when he rode it.

Only now, he had come out to swim. He had become even more awkward-looking, his arms unnaturally long and thin, his gut getting fatter all the time, a couple inches taller (Abe didn’t want to admit it, but his brother was now a good two inches taller than he was). Abe’s friends swam around with him, but they never did really interact with him. Occasionally, one of the kids would bump or brush against him, then swim away, nearly disgusted. Abe almost felt bad, but the fat slob brought it on himself; nobody had asked him to swim with them. Abe himself was out of the pool, the result of an ear infection that the Doctor told him would keep him out.

Several of the kids were diving in, trying to see who could make the biggest cannonball splash. Heath and Eric, the two brothers, were waiting their turn, and Abe saw them start giggling and pointing at Fatass. He could tell what they were saying, and he smiled to himself. They all knew the size of the splash he would make, if he could ever even start running. As it was, he was sitting on the pool steps now, all alone, just sitting by himself like he should. Then, one of the kids piped up, “Hey, who wants to play Marco Polo?”

Marco Polo. A rite of passage. One person, with his eyes closed (of course, never cheating…nobody would ever admit to such a crime, though it was so widespread), would swim after the other kids, depending on sound and the sense of touch to locate them. The only guide was the all-too-limited shouting of “Marco,” so that the others above water would shout, “Polo.” A simple game, one that his brother had never quite mastered.

Everybody began voicing his or her desire to play, some even volunteering to be the first “it.” His brother never said anything, just melded in with the others. After a few minutes, it was decided that Elliot would be the first “it” and that everybody who didn’t want to play would go inside and start getting ready for the cake-and-present ceremony.

Elliot went underneath the water, raising both hands out to count the customary “10 seconds” so that everyone could move into what they felt would be safe havens. His brother moved to a corner, a dangerous spot, and stood still.

Elliot burst out of the water and stood still for a moment, clearing the water out of his nose. “Marco?” he shouted, and the rest replied, “Polo!” The only one not answering was Heath, who would always stay underwater for 30 seconds at a time; he was the crowned master at this game.

Immediately, Elliot targeted the easiest fish in this game: Abe’s brother. Without any hesitation, he started tiptoeing along the pool floor, heading in the direction of the corner, his brother frozen in uncertainty. Moron, Abe thought. Elliot stalked him, shouting, “Marco!” and his brother replying, “Polo,” in a miserable, quaky whisper. At the last second, his brother ducked beneath the water, but Elliot had already caught him there; with a simple flick of the wrist, he was tagged.

“I got him! I got Fatass!” Elliot shouted to everyone’s pleasure. His brother moved sullenly to the center of the pool, closed his eyes, and dunked. Everybody stood where they were, laughing to themselves. Usually, this meant that the next half-hour would be spent watching his fat little brother wander around, waving his arms about himself in vain.

Of course, it followed the same pattern. After surfacing, everybody began taunting him, and as he made chase, they all slipped easily out of reach, laughing, giggling, teasing. The word “Marco!” changed from a delighted shout to a somber croak as the minutes passed. It got so bad that Heath surfaced about a foot behind him and sat there, silently.

Except Heath, still surfaced right behind him. “Marco?” he said again, this time a quizzical look crossing his face. Again, they all shouted, “Polo,” all but Heath. Dammit, Heath, you don’t need to cheat with him! Abe thought. Heath sat there, smiling, and slowly, all the kids began snickering.

As they did, the look on his brother’s face changed. Instead of the look of confusion, his face crinkled up into such a look of concentration, Abe thought he was going to take a shit in the pool. He seemed to be looking down at the bottom of the pool, moving his head just slightly from side to side.

Without warning, he spun around and lashed out, lightning fast, softly touching Heath on the forehead.

The pool fell silent. Fatass smiled, just slightly. The entire pool was still, not a movement, not a noise.

“I saw him open his eyes!” Eric, Heath’s brother, finally shouted. Fatass turned to him, mouth open wide.

“Yeah, I saw him, too!” Greg shouted, even though he had been far behind both of them.

“You cheated?” Heath asked with a sneer, though it was obvious no answer was needed. He splashed water into Fatass’s eyes, laughing when he flinched. “Cheater!” he yelled, splashing harder. He yelled it again, swinging his forearm into the water to send up a torrent into his face. The whole pool took up the chorus, splashing at him, Fatass spinning around, panicking, trying to hide from the water that was blinding him.

The whole crowd was turning into a riot, thrashing the water about like a shark attack. Eric swam underneath the water and tried to yank Fatass’s shorts down, but he caught hold just in time to keep himself covered. His face had turned red with tears hidden by the water. He was, however, sobbing visibly.

Abe stood up from his lawn chair, took off his shirt, and leaped into the water, keeping his head above so as not to get his hair wet and alert his mother he had been swimming. He began trudging his way over to where his brother stood, Fatass hiding his face in his hands, shamefully. The mob parted to let Abe through, and he slowly made it to his brother.

As soon as he was within reach, Abe punched him. Hard. Fatass had his hands covering his face, but it was still hard enough to make contact with the nose, causing a new sound: a squeal. “You fuckin’ baby, you had to go and cheat, didn’t ya?” He swung again, this time striking the exposed left ear. Another squeal and Fatass wrapped his arms about his head in an effort to hide everything vulnerable. It didn’t work, for Abe continued raining down punches on any open spot he could find. Soon, blood began flowing from his brother’s nose, turning the churning water red. It took a while, but Abe finally wore himself out. Fatass stood there, cringing, waiting for the next blow that never came.

They all trudged inside, and his brother stood in the corner of the pool, head resting on his arms folded atop the pool deck, sobbing, back rising and falling with each gasping breath.

“So, let me get this straight. You stole money from one of the most influential mobsters in the country...scratch that, in the world?” He stared at him incredulously. Abe sat, hands folded in his lap, silent. “What kind of accountant are you?”

“Don’t swear when you’re around me. Please.” His brother glared at him, the look expressing everything for him. The eyes that once were always sorrowful now had so much anger built up inside of them.

“Fortunately, this person that you stole from also happens to be one of my biggest clients, and it is also fortunate for you that my client has not realized our relation, as he has instructed me to kill you.” His voice was as if from a great distance, as if reminiscing. “Are you going to try to convince me that you don’t deserve it?”

Abe’s mouth dropped open. “Uh,” he stammered, “I...don’t know, I....”

“Look, you violated one of the most serious bonds that one can make, and that’s a blood covenant. That’s almost family, in some cases more than family. You did sign one, didn’t you, a blood oath?”

Abe thought back, long ago. He had started, fresh out of Duke, as a simple launderer, sifting the funds through multiple chains of transactions, making them all look legitimate. It was an arduous process, but it was what his Master’s degree had trained him to do. He was one of the best. He could clearly recall the day the offer came in, a $200K position with a very prominent figure, as long as he was willing to submit to certain promises. Signing a document in his own blood had not been enough to convince him that loyalty was not just contracted by law, but contracted by soul.

The money was not enough. His cocaine habit had skyrocketed, every cent he stole not paying off his debts, but incurring new ones. Hell, he thought, if I didn’t get hit by Martino, sooner or later, Holmes (his local dealer), would be on my ass.

“Who’s ‘we’?” His brother leaned forward, glaring at him. “I don’t remember ever promising assistance. In fact, my life’s not at stake at all in this; I could plug you without a second thought.”

Abe had not been prepared for this. He had expected, especially since it was his brother that had called him, not the other way around, that he would be getting assistance. “What, now you want to do it? Hey, if you want to kill me, go ahead.” Abe looked at him, trying to steel himself. “I’m prepared for it.”

“Are you?” His brother was glaring at him, the eyes burrowing deep into his soul. “No, you’re not...I don’t think you’ve come to grips with yourself yet.”

“I get off saying that because I can be either your executioner or your savior. I hold the keys.” He shook his head. “Don’t you understand that? I make a lot of money in this field, and if I renege on this deal, it could mean my life.” He leaned back again, settling into the wood bench of the booth. It was still so dark that Abe could not even make out the facial features. He could not even be sure that this was his brother. He sure as hell wasn’t acting like him....

Abe cleared his throat, running out of clever debate tricks. “Hey, if it’s an apology you want, I’ll do that....” His brother was already laughing.

“It’s too late for any kind of apology.” He said it almost as if he was reciting a definition from a dictionary: there was no emotion in the statement. His hands moved about the table, picking up the cards into a single deck again. “I just want to know -- will I be getting my normal fee for this?”

He looked back at him with a wry smile creasing his face. “Well, if I don’t kill you, I don’t get paid. So, I need compensation from somewhere. “I’m the best there is. My teacher considered himself useless to me after six weeks. His teacher did the same. I took them both out a month later for practice.” He paused. “You can’t get anybody better, so I get top dollar.” Again, he leaned forward. “I get a hundred thousand, per confirmed kill.” He smiled again, shortly, and leaned back.

Abe sat, silent. He had that once, but it was now gone, a memory that had flown up his nose. “I haven’t got that...and who are we going to kill?”

He smiled again. “Well, then we have a problem, don’t we?” He began shuffling the cards, grimly, flipping half of the deck deftly over the other, never losing a card, never missing a beat. His fingers were long, thin, nimble tools, flittering about while moving the deck in and out of itself.

Abe sat, dumbfounded. Slowly, he forced the words out of his mouth, stammering. “I’m...I realize that I put you through a lot...and I really don’t know how to make it up to you...I just need some help.” He could not bring himself to look him in the eye.

His brother took half the deck in each hand, twirled them together, then tapped it against the table a few times, hard. Head cocked to one side, he instructed, “Come with me. I know of a safehouse.”

“Mom, Abe won’t leave me alone...but Mom, that never works, he’ll just...Mom...But...But....” He slowly hung up the phone and sniffled again.

Abe laughed, walking towards him. “See, I told you she wouldn’t do anything for you. What, you think she loves you or something? Besides, what’d you think she’d do, run home just to take care of a fat prick like you?”

“She said that she’d ground you when she got h-h-home,” he stuttered, backing towards the corner, vainly searching for a hiding spot.

Abe laughed again. “Where’re you goin’, Fatass?” He lunged at his brother, slapping him across the face, sending his glasses flying. “You should know better by now....”

“Nice place,” Abe said, trying his best to flatter his brother, even though the apartment was, in a word, strange.

His brother saw right through the ruse. “Well, I’ve never had a woman over, so I never figured it’d need cleaning.” He said it so strangely, as if he had never considered cleaning it otherwise. The room was a mismatched bric-a-brac of odds and ends. There was an old Barco-lounger tucked away in the corner. A carved statue of a dwarf with some odd runes inscribed at the bottom sat on a barstool. Off to one side was a huge roll-top desk, a banker’s lamp on top of it and several sheets of paper lying about. Abe walked over to these and began snooping about while his brother walked to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of fruit juice. On most of the sheets were listed transactions that Abe recognized; he had been laundering “Jack and Jill’s Repairs” for years, never having a face to match with the name.

“Yep, that’s me,” he replied, swallowing a gulp of the drink. “I’m a mechanic. In case you haven’t heard, I fix things. Juice?”

Shaking his head at the drink, Abe knew he would be better off not asking any further. He continued walking around. “I did the books for your business, if you believe that coincidence. You’re raking in some serious cash!”

His brother blew off the comment. “Feel free to mess with anything you see. I’ll be in my bedroom for a second.” He disappeared down the hall, moving slowly, like a cat. Abe was very impressed with what he saw. What once was a roly-poly, bespectacled freak had transformed over the past 17 years into a tall, heavily-built man. Eyes that were once so uncertain, full of fear, now reflected true confidence. He felt when he looked at his brother that he no longer knew him at all, that this was a man so used to killing that he had no concept of life anymore.

Almost embarrassed, he looked down at his now bulging gut, his flabby arms. He also wondered when the last time was he had even kissed a girl that was not stoned out of her gourd.

On a small bookshelf, there were multiple books, some dealing, predictably, with firearms, explosives and the like, while others were books of poetry, written in all kinds of languages. However, one book really caught his eye: the Bible. He cracked it open, just to make sure it didn’t have any hidden guns or anything into it. To his surprise, several pages were dog-eared, highlighted, or otherwise marked. He took off his glasses, polishing them, and shouted down the hall, “I thought you had lost all faith in God.”

From right behind him came the reply. “I did. That’s just poetry, nothing more.”

Abe jumped, but stayed facing the bookshelf. “So, you still don’t believe?” Abe turned back, slowly, still expecting to have a knife pushed through him at any moment. His brother was already back at the cluttered kitchen table, holding a sawed-off shotgun that he was absent-mindedly wiping clean.

“I believe what I see, hear, smell, feel, taste. Nothing else.” He paused. “Why, does that disturb you?”

Abe put the Bible back on the shelf and started toward the table. “Well, doesn’t it make you feel any more guilty believing that you’re taking away the only thing people have, then?”

He looked up from the gun, eyes locking onto Abe’s in a cold fashion. “I’m sure they don’t miss it.” He turned back to the gun, scrubbing, wiping, studying. “Look, I’m gonna take a while. If you don't talk to me, it’ll make my job much easier.” He sounded oddly similar to his father when he’d not been drinking, which was a rare event. He was not being rude, just focused, acting as if what he was doing was an ordinary part of life, wiping a gun clean at the kitchen table and ratcheting a full load of shells into it. He did this first with the shotgun and then several handguns.

Abe shuffled to the Barco-lounger and laid down, pulling the handle to release the spring loaded ottoman up under his legs. He giggled a bit to himself, wondering why his brother would have one of these after all these years. After a moment, he removed his glasses, putting them to the side, and relaxed.

Before long, he was asleep.

“Abe, I’m really scared.” He felt the familiar tugging on his sheets, the tug that meant that his brother had awakened from a bad dream and wanted comfort. Since Fatass slept on the bottom bunk, this had become a frequent interruption.

“I had a dream that I....” He stopped, sobbing, “I dreamed that I died.” It was more of a statement than a cry for help.

“Yes I did!” He half yelled back, snorting a strand of snot back up into his nose. “I did!”

“No you didn’t,” he reiterated, matter-of-factly, “Everybody knows that if you die in your dreams, then you die in real life. You just think you did.”

“Look, if you’re really that scared, go sleep with mom and dad. I’m sure they’ll give a shit about your dream.”

Fatass looked back at him, the tears streaming down his face, sniffing up his own mucous. Quickly, he lifted his hands up to his eyes, wiped them, turned and walked out.

The next morning was a Saturday. Mom and Dad had gone off to some company picnic, and Abe noticed that his brother had not awakened yet. Heath and Tim were already over, tossing around the football in the front yard.

“Hey guys! Come ‘ere!” He yelled at them from the backdoor. The two stopped throwing the ball and came running, Heath shoving Tim aside as they reached the front gate and declaring himself the winner. “Wanna see something funny?”

They snuck inside, trying to make no noise at all. Abe motioned to Heath to go into the garage and whispered “grab a 4X4” to him. Then, after Heath came back in, they all crept down the hall to the door to his room. Silently, with only the minute crunching of the carpet fibers underneath them, they slowly leaned the 4X4 (it was a good 5 feet tall) against the door, making sure that it was well centered. After that, Heath and Tim crept back up the hall while Abe stayed there. He looked at his friends, snickered, and knocked on the door.

“Hey, we’re having ice cream out here. If you want some, you better come and get it!” He ran back up the hall, whispering, “This’ll teach the little prick to wake me up.”

In less than 5 seconds, the door was jerked open. They heard a sickening “crunch,” and then wailing. The three began laughing and walked slowly up to his room, Tim giving Abe a high five along the way.

Fatass was lying on his back, bawling like a baby again. He had both hands covering his face, but they could see a little blood dribbling between his fingers. All three started laughing when they saw this, Tim doing what he called his “Little Cry Baby” dance. “C’mon, get up you wimp. Walk it off,” Abe said, reaching out to pull him up. When he pulled Fatass’s hands away from his face, Abe recoiled.

The 4X4 had fallen perfectly to scrape against his forehead, dragging splinters down through his nose. The blood was coming from both the gashes and his nose, and they could see that there were at least twenty or thirty slivers dug into his flesh. “Oh, shit that’s nasty!” Heath yelped.

“Fuck, how’re we gonna hide this?” Abe said aloud, his mind racing. They stood still, minds working.

“I’ve got an idea, if you guys think it’ll work....” Tim’s brain always worked faster than the others, and he was a known mischief maker. He whispered his plan to them, and when they nodded in agreement, they picked the baby up and carried him outside.

There, they found a nice spot in the road where there was a crack in the pavement. Right here, they took his bike (which his brother had just gotten for Christmas) and a sledgehammer and Heath went at it, demolishing the front wheel and handlebars so it looked as if he had just been in a bad accident on the crack. He even took the time to take several of the playing cards from between the spokes and crumple them up, just for effect. Meanwhile, Tim and Abe grabbed Fatass, took him by the hair and, figuring out where his head may have landed in a crash, rubbed his bloody forehead against the asphalt, making a nice “impact” marker.

Afterward, they carried him back inside, his sobs now becoming nothing more than pleading, deep gasps for air. He was coughing badly. They carried him into the bathroom and laid him down on the tile so as not to stain anything with the blood. Here, Tim and Heath held his head down, while Abe used a pair of tweezers to pull out each individual splinter, ripping each one out hurriedly in fear that his parents might come home. This actually served to make it look more like an accident, because the yanking out of the splinters left long, jagged cuts, instead of the pinpoint holes that were left previously.

When their parents got home, he just sat in the corner of his room, silent, even when they asked what happened. Abe had to tell them about the horrible bike accident.

Abe woke up to the sound of pots and pans rattling. He pulled the wooden handle on the side that dropped the leg rest on the lounger and went through the motions of stretching his arms and legs, all limbs and joints crackling. He’d forgotten how comfortable those old Barco-loungers were! “Hey, little bro! Where are ya?”

The banging sounds stopped. “In the kitchen. Hope you like spaghetti. It’s all I can cook.”

“That’s fine. Fine with me.” Abe didn’t want to tell him that this would be only his third meal in a week. The last of his coke stash had kept him going strong the rest of the time, and he almost didn’t even notice the ache in his belly from the ulcers. He walked to the kitchen and took a seat at the breakfast bar. The table was still covered in guns of all shapes and sizes, as well as other small munitions. “Interesting toys you got there,” Abe said, trying to sound funny.

His brother turned towards him with an odd, sad smile on his face. “Yeah, guess they are. Garlic bread?” He motioned to the cookie sheet with several slabs on it, giving one to Abe after a nod. “I figure that I’ll leave in the morning; it’ll be the best time to do what I need to do.”

His brother looked at him, hollow eyes glaring at him. “You’ve been marked for death by the most powerful man in the Eastern US. That’s countin’ the President. The only way to erase the mark is to eliminate the person putting out the bounty.” He turned back to the pot of spaghetti.

Abe pondered this for a moment. “But wait...isn’t he always surrounded by a bunch of bodyguards? I mean, if he had you, doesn’t he have others like you?”

There was silence for a full minute before his answer came. “Yes, there’s a lot like me...none are as good as me, though.” He shrugged. “Besides, he didn’t have me. He was a frequent client of mine.”

Another pause. “There are a lot.” He turned away, and Abe could tell the conversation was closed.

Abe held still for a moment, then asked, “Aren’t you curious about Mom and Pop? I mean, it’s been years since you’ve had any contact with them.”

His brother looked up and stared at the wall a moment, then went back to cleaning a pot. “No…I’m not curious. I don’t wanna know anything else about them.”

“Wait, this is Mom and Dad we’re talking about…you don’t…care?” Abe stared at him in amazement.

There was a pause. “Dad died of liver disease 3 years ago, complicated by his continuous drinking. Mom died of lung cancer last fall.” He turned and stared at Abe. “Do I need to know anything more?” He went back to his kitchen duties, and they ate in silence. Neither said another word until they’d finished eating and had cleaned up the kitchen.

“Now you listen to me carefully. In the morning, I’ll leave, bright and early. I will not come back until the job is done. If I’m not back by the next morning, assume that I’m dead.” He held up a hand to stifle what Abe was about to say. “In that case, you are to stay here for another three days. There’s plenty of food here to last you. This will give you time for things to settle down, and then you can sneak out of here. I’ve already called Pete at the diner and made arrangements. He’ll be expecting you in three days with a full itinerary of where you’ll go. And yes, he’ll be a bit more friendly this time. I also will not come back until I’m sure that everything’s safe. Do you understand this?” Abe nodded. “Good. Now, the way I’ll knock will be two knocks, a pause, then three more.” He quietly made the knock to illustrate. “Nobody ever knocks on this door…nobody knows I live here, so, if you hear anything else, hit this button,” he held out a garage door opener, “and crawl out the fire escape. You’ll need to get at least 2 floors away within thirty seconds or you’ll die in the blast. Got it?” Abe nodded. “Okay, now let’s get some shut-eye....”

“Why’d you run away?” It was a rapid staccato of words. Abe had to have an explanation; he remembered how his parents and he had gone over this same question in their minds for so many months after Fatass ran away.

His brother turned to him, looked at him sadly, and walked down the hall, shutting his bedroom door behind him.

It was Sunday. Church was boring as usual, and Abe was getting really sick of the sermon. There was only so much of the priest’s crap he could listen to before he just had to get out of the damn church!

Abe looked at his brother sitting next to him. He sat, stiff backed, unmoving, a confused look on his face. “Wake up, Fatass,” he hissed at him.

“Now, let us pray,” Father Michael said, and as he lifted his arms outward, the mass fell to their knees and began reciting the Lord’s prayer, as was customary. The words melded together as all said them, forming one voice.

Abe looked at his brother again. He was crying, softly saying the words, lowering in volume until, finally, he stopped saying them altogether.

When they got home, Abe made it a point to tell their Dad, who gave his brother twenty spankings with the wooden plank they kept in the china cabinet.

Abe awoke from a dream. The last thing he remembered was Martino pointing a pistol at his head and pulling the trigger. He could not remember if he had died or not.

It was dark. He looked about, trying to get accustomed to the darkness again. His eyes started to make out the shapes, the forms. He could see that he was back in the Barco-lounger, and that his brother was not in sight. He sat up, shifting his back about until he heard the vertebra crack in the satisfying way he had grown accustomed to. A loud clicking noise jerked his head around to the door.

There, dressed in a long, black coat and loading the shotgun into a holster on the back was his brother. “Where ya going?”

His brother slowly turned towards him, and with a slight smile, “It’s time.” He then stepped out the door, locking it behind him.

Abe stood there, not knowing what to do. He knew he would not be able to get back to sleep: he was too nervous, wondering about the outcome. He had remembered finding a deck of cards lying about earlier, and he took them over to the kitchen, clearing a small area for a game.

When Abe came home from school, his brother was curled up in a little ball in the corner of the living room. He did not move or make a sound, even when Abe made a big bowl of ice cream and ate it right in front of him, making “Mmm...mmm” noises the whole time. When his parents came home, they considered it some kind of tantrum, and told Abe that he would be okay in the morning.

In the morning, Fatass was gone. Since there was no note and there was no sign of a break-in, the police were originally pretty sure that he had been the victim of some foul play of a family member. There were multiple school records of him showing up at school with unexplained bruises, cuts, and black eyes. After a complete search found nothing, however, the detectives found themselves calling Fatass a runaway, adding his face to the thousands that would grace milk cartons that year.

For a few months, the whole family would sit and wonder where Fatass had run off to. There was no worry, just curiosity. Abe found himself thinking about it often, trying to figure out what had actually made his brother leave the house. He even talked with his friends, hoping somebody may have heard him say something, even something in school. Nobody knew anything. It was as if he had just walked off the face of the earth without looking back.

Abe began to worry after awhile. The presence had been almost a good thing at times, and, every once in awhile, his brother’s inquisitiveness was refreshing. Also, now that he was gone, Abe took the brunt of his father’s punishments. While his brother was the person who had told their Dad that he didn’t believe in God, Abe was simply punished because somebody needed to fill the role.

He never quite knew how to explain the bruises. Some days, he would just tell people that he got into a gang fight. Other days, he would tell people that he had a biking accident.

After a while, he began to truly miss his brother, Jude.

Abe snapped to. He had fallen asleep again, this time on the floor. He looked around, things being more familiar this time. However, there was no sign of Jude around. He stretched out again and checked the bathroom, then the bedroom. It was now 3:30 AM. Thirty-one straight hours without the coke. He was beginning to feel like he didn’t really need it anymore. He actually felt good for once! In the mirror, the circles that had resulted from days of fear and insomnia had disappeared, his more youthful appearance showing through. He grabbed a bottle of mouthwash, swirled it about in his mouth and spit it out, trying to wash the bitter taste of sleep away.

Panic swept through him, along with adrenaline. He crept out to the family room, picking up the small .32 he had tried sneaking into his meeting at the diner. There was no more noise, but he did know that he heard something. He walked to the peephole and looked out: nothing. He remembered what Jude had said before:

“You stay here ‘til I come back. That’ll be your sign that it’s safe to leave.”

He thought about the noise. It was nothing, just a thump of somebody next door dropping one of their work shoes on the ground. A dog laying down. Kids wrestling. Somehow, though, he couldn’t force himself to believe it.

On the ground was Jude, motionless, the back of his coat torn apart by a shotgun blast. Behind him, trailing up the stairs, was a trail of blood, a smeared drop about every couple inches.

He crept down the stairs, being careful not to step in the blood, trying to peer around the corners of the stairwell so he could see if anyone was coming. There was nobody, and when he got to the ground floor, he could see that the blood trail led up the street, to the end of the block, and around the corner. It was a dripping pattern until it came to the front of the building, where the smearing began. Jude had managed to crawl the entire way up the front stoop, into the apartments, and up the stairs while bleeding to death.

Jude had come all that way, put forth such an effort. Jude had come home to tell him it was safe, to let him go, to let him live.