Seeing Red (10 page)

Mr Harrison shook his head at me before getting in his car. He called out the window to Mama, “ ’Bye, Betty, I’m always here to help,” as he drove off.

Mama was ready to spit nails, so I figured I’d better defend myself while I had the chance.

“J started it! He’s been pestering me all day. He just threw gravel—”

“Red! You’re twelve years old now! J is only seven.”

“I know, but—”

“You’re his big brother. You’re supposed to be helping him.”

“I’m trying, but he won’t listen to me! You don’t know what that’s like!”

Mama was silent for a long moment, clenching her teeth together. Finally she said, “Oh, yes, I think I do, Red,” and glared at me.

I wasn’t going to let her make me feel guilty. I had a good reason for not listening to her. Ohio.

“My knee hurts,” J said in a crybaby voice, hanging on to Mama.

Mama looked down at the tiny little trickle of blood and gasped. “See, Red?”

When she looked over at me, J lost his pained look and started grinning.

I shook my head. “He’s faking—”

“Honestly, Red!” Mama put her hand on her hip. “I know you’re upset about your daddy, but what do you think Daddy would say if he were here now?” She stared at me, her eyes turning pink and watery.

I looked away because I didn’t want to hear what she was going to say. But she said it anyway.

“Writing foul language on his repair shop? Running after your little brother, hurting him and then trying to blame him, a seven-year-old, for starting it all? And treating me like I don’t even exist?” Her voice was shaky now, and she took a raspy breath. “What would your daddy say?” She choked up, spun around, and marched to the house. “Come on inside, J,” she said, without turning her head, “I’ll fix you up.”

As soon as the door slammed behind her, J started his teasing. “Ha-ha, you got in trou-ble.”

When I looked at him I was surprised at how blurry he was and how croaky and quiet my “shut up” came out. Then I realized I was all choked up, but it was too late to hide it from J. I turned my back on him, waiting for a stream of name-calling and meanness. Not that I cared. Nothing would make me feel worse than I already did, because I knew what else Daddy would say. He said it any time he left, any time there was a problem, any time he needed my help.

I know I can count on you, son.

When I wiped my eyes and turned to stare at him, J wasn’t grinning. His mouth was drooped open and his dark eyes looked kind of scared. I guess he’d never seen me almost crying before, at least not without a lot of blood coming out of me.

“What?” I said.

He shrugged, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his shorts, and looked at the ground, pushing some gravel around with his Keds. Finally he turned and walked towards the house, but he kept looking back at me over his shoulder.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Sheriff

The next day, Mr Harrison came by with another For Sale sign since I’d spray-painted the last one. He was hopping mad because he had to dig the whole wad of cement out of the ground to get the old sign out. I was in my room because I was grounded, but he kept yelling over to my window stuff like, “Boy, you want to come over here and help with this?” and “I don’t own a lumber yard, you know!” and “Sheriff Scott might like to know about this kind of vandalism!”

I didn’t mind at all, though, because I also heard Mr Harrison tell Mama that the buyer he thought he’d snagged had gotten away. In fact, I thought the whole thing was downright funny until the sheriff came by that afternoon.

Every kid in town had been scared of Sheriff Scott since the day he shot his gun off in my first-grade classroom. I’ll never forget it. He started out real nice, about how policemen and sheriffs are your friends. He slowly pulled out his gun, which is what we boys had been waiting for, and we all oohed and aahed. He said, “Y’all like this gun, huh? You want to see how much fun it is?” and suddenly his face went all mad and red, and he let out a blood-curdling war whoop, swung his gun around, and fired a bullet right through the open window. It was such a thundering noise that it sent the birds screaming from their trees and us screaming under our desks. Mama was beside herself when she found out. Daddy said Sheriff Scott did it because he’d seen too many kids get hurt by guns and he wanted to show us once and for all that it wasn’t a toy to be played with. It worked. After that whenever I saw the sheriff I felt queasy, because all I could see was his red face hollering as he shot that powerful gun off right in front of me.

I could hear my own heart pounding when Mama called me into the living room. You don’t know how much you make a floor creak until people are hushed and staring at you. It felt like the time everyone came over after the funeral. Only quieter. At least then, some of them were talking softly. Now it was dead still. Mama was real pale and wavering like she was about to drop. Sheriff Scott was sticking his lips out, making that long, slow kissing noise.

The Kiss of Death.

I couldn’t look straight at him. I was too busy looking at the floor. But out of the corner of my eye I could see his boots, his legs, and all the way up to his holster, with that gun.

I saw a hand move to his belt. “What were you up to last night, Red?”

“N-nothing. Much.” I swallowed hard, and it felt like someone clapped their hands inside my head.

“You weren’t over at the graveyard, were you?”

I let out my breath because I knew I was safe on that one. I even looked up. “No, sir, nowhere close.”

The sheriff looked over at Mama.

“He went straight to bed after painting the shop. As…as far as I know.”

Sheriff Scott made another Kiss of Death. “Seems like a lot of spray-painting going on lately.” He stared at me, took a deep breath, and put his other hand on his belt. The gun side. “This your new hobby?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t think this is what your daddy had in mind for you. You got anything to say?”

I didn’t know what I could say.

Mama spoke real slow, almost like she was taking a breath between each word. “Frederick Stewart Porter, did you spray-paint those headstones at the graveyard last night?”

I stared at her. “Headstones? Someone spray-painted headstones? Daddy’s? Did someone paint Daddy’s?”

Neither of them answered. They just stood there like headstones themselves.

I bolted out of the house and ran all the way to the graveyard without stopping, even though my lungs felt fit to burst. I was almost there when I saw Rosie sitting on the grass in the corner of the graveyard, crying. I wanted to check on Daddy’s headstone, but I couldn’t exactly walk right past her.

“What’s wrong, Rosie?”

“I don’t want to be around when Daddy gets his hands on Darrell.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I should’ve known Darrell was responsible. I looked around and there was more than just spray-painted headstones. One was even busted. It was a Dunlop’s. I looked over towards where Daddy’s headstone was.

“It’s okay,” said Rosie, “I didn’t let them do anything to your daddy’s.” She sniffed.

I still craned my neck, trying to see if there was any damage. The mayonnaise jar was broken and the roses on the ground. I stormed over there and carefully brushed the glass away from Daddy’s grave. I propped the roses up against his headstone, like the blossoms were leaning on Daddy.

When I heard Rosie sniffling some more I looked around. She was looking back towards her house, or more likely, her shed.

I walked over to her. “Maybe the sheriff won’t find out it was Darrell.”

Her big dark eyes looked at me like I was slower than a possum. She took a deep breath and let it out. “At least school starts in a week and a half, so Darrell won’t be getting in as much trouble.”

“What?”

“Okay, he gets in trouble at school, too, but they don’t always tell Daddy, so—”

“No, I mean, school starts in a week and a half? Are you sure?”

“Next Monday is Labor Day, Red. You know school always starts the day after Labor Day.”

How did it get to be almost Labor Day already? Without me even noticing?

I sat down next to her. “Shoot. How am I going to stop Mama from selling our place if I’m stuck in school all day? Who cares about stupid English and stupid history and stupid math?”

She didn’t have a chance to answer because we heard the distant slam of a door, and we both knew it was the Dunlops’ shed. Rosie looked at me, her eyes pleading, like she wanted me to help but there was nothing I could do. Me and Thomas had tried. But it hadn’t worked. She flinched when we heard Darrell scream the first time. After that, we just sat there, as still as the graveyard.

It’s weird how when you want to cover up an awful noise like that you can’t think of anything to say or do and you just sit there stupidly in the stillness that you don’t want. Rosie squeezed her lips together hard, but it looked like the crying was going to come out of her eyes anyway.

I don’t know what made me do it, but I reached out and put my hand over hers. Her hand was so soft and fragile. She looked at me, and if she hadn’t been about to bust out crying, I swear she would’ve smiled. It was almost like holding hands. And it helped while we waited, trying to tune out the smacking sound and Darrell’s crying. I wished Mr Dunlop wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t he see that it didn’t stop Darrell? If anything, it made Darrell worse.

Finally Rosie whispered, “He’s done.”

I gave her hand a little squeeze, and we both let out our breaths. It was over. For now.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Brotherhood

Darrell came to see me the next day. I tried to pretend that he wasn’t walking funny. I guess his backside still hurt from the beating his daddy gave him.

“We’re meeting in the woods behind Kenny’s tonight,” he said.

“Who?”

“The gang, dingbat! Do you want our help or not?”

“It didn’t work so well last time.”

“That was Kenny’s fault. And Thomas’s.”

“Thomas didn’t do anything!”

Darrell shrugged. “Glen said to bring you up the mountain behind Kenny’s, because tonight’s the Brotherhood’s big night.”

“The Brotherhood?”

“That’s the name of the gang.” Darrell looked at me like he was so smart and I was an idiot.

How was I supposed to know the gang’s name? “Why’s it called the Brotherhood?”

Now Darrell didn’t look so smart. “It’s the name Glen picked, okay?”

“Is he the boss?”

“He’s not a boss, he’s a chieftain.”

I guess Darrell didn’t like the face I made. “Fine, you don’t have to come.”

“I’ll come if you think the gang – the Brotherhood – can help me.”

“Of course we can. You have to show you’re worth it, though.”

“How?”

“Glen will tell you.”

I got the feeling that Darrell didn’t have a clue. In fact, I wasn’t convinced he was even a real member of the gang. Still I was desperate. “All right, I’ll come.”

He pointed his finger in my face. “I’m sticking my neck out for you, pipsqueak, so you’d better behave.” He turned on his boot heels and walked awkwardly back home.

Late that night Larry led us up the hill with his flashlight held low to the ground, “so Uncle Kenny don’t see us,” he whispered, as if Kenny could hear us all the way up the mountain.

I heard the gang’s voices before I could see them, talking softly and occasionally laughing. When we got close, Larry’s flashlight lit up the faces of half a dozen guys. They were mostly the guys from Kenny’s earlier that week. Every one of them had a black cross drawn on his right cheek, except Glen, who had a big black smudge on his puffed-up cheek and what looked like the beginnings of a black eye. He also had a white scarf thrown around his neck, which was weird, considering how warm it was.

He raised his arm to cover the banged-up side of his face. “Cut the dang light!”

Larry turned it off and we were in darkness.

“What’s with the crosses?” I whispered to Darrell.

“Nobody told me,” he said, and swore under his breath.

“Password?” Glen demanded.

I looked at Darrell.

Darrell looked at Larry, who looked back at him. “You,” Larry said.

“Brotherhood?” Darrell asked.

“Figures,” a deep voice to the right of us said. “That must be Dunlop.”

Glen sighed. “Brotherhood is our name, stupid. The password is ‘Burn ’em all’. ”

“What’s a kid doing here?” the deep voice said.

I looked into the darkness and could barely make out the figure, standing off to the right of the gang, leaning against a tree. When I stared harder, I saw it was actually two figures, one much bigger than the other.

“It’s all right, Joe,” Glen called over to the tree. “Porter needs help. And it’s just the type of problem the Brotherhood is here to take care of. Come on over here.”

Me and Darrell both started walking until Glen barked, “Not you, Dunlop! Porter.”