Scott Nicholson - Disintegration

Even though she could have screamed, she whispered instead. "Listen. You know you're not yourself. When Christine died-"

"When Christine fucking died. Stop pretending."

"It was a hard time for us, Jake. Mattie, too."

"The problem with Mattie was she was too much like you."

"You-" She pulled the phone away from her head, clamped it in her fist and looked for a corner in which to hurl this insanity from her life.

But she was compelled to listen again. The line carried only shallow static for fifteen seconds.

"You want to know the deal?" he said.

"Yeah," she whispered. At least Donald had the decency to close the door behind him. Now she could slip to her knees on the floor, let the tears crawl down without restraint. It took all her willpower to remind herself Jacob was ill. She would have to endure, that's all.

"Okay. Here's what I want you to do. You got the money?"

She nodded to no one. "I've got the money."

"Good. I want you to bring it to the cemetery."

There was only one cemetery in their lives. Heavenly Meadows, where Christine was buried. "Why there?"

"Family reunion, honeybunches."

Honeybunches. Jacob had only called her that once before. Years ago, during that hot August night Mattie was conceived in violent passion. He was cracking and she wasn't sure she had enough band-aids this time around. She summoned enough air to respond. "When?"

"Thursday morning. And no doctors or police."

"Please, Jake-"

"And tell Donnie Boy to go fuck himself. Unless you want to help him with that."

"Can't you see what's happening to you?"

"Sure, honeybunches. Like you said, I'm not myself. See you Thursday."

Before she could warn him to stay away from the Wells farm, the soft click came that cut her off from the man she loved.

Renee was finished crying by the time Donald returned. She promised to be strong, for Jacob and the memories of her children, and for the God who had promised blessings for those who kept the faith. But some rewards were only paid upon pain of death.

"Sure, honeybunches. Like you said, I'm not myself. See you Thursday." Joshua hung up the phone and turned to face Jacob. "Damn. It was real hard to keep the Tennessee out of my voice. How did you get such a sissy accent?"

"I like what you've done to the place," Jacob said.

"Mom always did have great taste in ugly. She and old Queen Victoria had a lot in common. In fact, if it wasn't for us being born, I'd have sworn she never got laid in her life. Can I ask you something, brother to brother?"

Jacob rubbed the itching skin of his cheek, still raw from healing. "I could never keep a secret from you."

"How do you get through it?"

"Get through what?"

"Your damned kids. How do you deal with it when they die? I mean, ain't it supposed to ruin your life, make you blame God and all that shit?"

"You get by." Jacob squirmed in the uncomfortable chair.

"No, really." Joshua lit another cigarette, crossed the floor and loomed over Jacob. "How does it feel? You got to be honest with me. We always shared everything. Or at least we did, until dear old Daddy came between us. But he's out of the way now, so it can be just like old times."

"You wouldn't understand. You have to love somebody before you know what it's like to lose them." Jacob's gaze crawled past his twin brother to the fireplace, where he saw Mattie's peeling face in the curls of flame. He was relieved that he could remember his daughter, but frightened that she would always carry that association.

"Hey, I know what love's all about. It's about getting what you need. Ain't that right?"

"Shut up."

"You loved Mom. She's dead. You loved Dad. He's dead. I guess you loved your kids. They're both dead. And Renee-"

Jacob clenched his fists, leapt up, and shoved Joshua, who dropped his cigarette and staggered back against the bookcase. He fell with exaggerated awkwardness, knocking over the fire poker and ash shovel. A few books tumbled to the floor.

Joshua wiped at his mouth where a thin line of blood had collected in one corner. "They lose and you win, huh? A Wells never fails."

"I never asked for any of it."

"But you got it all, don't you? And every time somebody dies, you get a little more."

"I'll wring your goddamned neck if you don't shut up."

"Jake, Jake, Jake." Joshua wheezed a laugh. "You looked in a mirror lately? We're not kids anymore."

"I don't have to put up with your shit. I put up with plenty of it when we were kids, but you're right. Those days are over. And you can add one more person to my list of dead people." Jacob started for the door, then whirled and jabbed out with his finger. " You."

Joshua rose, the poker in his hand. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Jacob kept walking, entered the foyer with its high ceiling and haunted walls. The front door was locked. The shiny, key-operated deadbolt was new, its bright glint out of place in that dim room.

"You're home, Jacob," Joshua said, tapping the poker on the floor as if it were a cane. "Get used to it."

Jacob yanked on the door. One of his parents' favorite punishments was to lock naughty children in their rooms, and many of the doors in the house could be locked from either side. "I'll bust a window if I have to. Or your head."

"Such anger. I thought the doctors taught you to deal with it. But it's handy to claim you don't remember what happened."

"What do you want?"

"What have I always wanted? To be you, hotshot. I had the bad luck of sliding into the world after you did. And you beat me to everything else, too."

"Look, I didn't want Dad's blessing, I didn't want the inheritance, and I sure as hell didn't want any Wells birthright. I fought against that with every breath, same as you."

"Until just before he died. Funny how that happened. How you got in good when it counted."

Jacob pressed his hands over his ears. If only he could shut off that taunting, accusing voice. Or maybe squeeze hard enough for the memories to squirt from his brain like pus from a festering boil. He hadn't gone to Warren Wells' deathbed and begged for forgiveness, had he? But he couldn't shake the image of that pale wrinkled hand reaching to pat his head, and those watery blue eyes staring in pride and victory.

Joshua approached, the poker raised before him like a fencer's foil, his lips curled in triumph. Jacob had nowhere to run. Even if the door were open, there was no place in the world to escape the past. He stared into the face that looked like a savage mirror, a reminder of all those dark secrets and sick, hidden things.

Joshua stood close enough for Jacob to smell the stale cigarette tar on his lips. "Take it easy, brother. You're acting like you're here against your will. As if you haven't thought of this house every single day of your adult life."

Joshua put a hand on Jacob's shoulder. The hand was as cold as a lizard tucked under a creek rock. "Come on. Let me show you to your room."

Jacob let himself be led across the foyer to the polished stairs with their worn runners. They paused as if both were admiring the splintered baluster, an awesome relic that had resisted repair. Then Joshua nudged him up the stairs. Each riser took Jacob closer to the past, though memory seemed to elude him. Instead of clear and prolonged reels, he saw the events of their childhood in flashes of blurred and fractured images.

Step. On the floor, the sun shining through the window, making a yellow river between them, Joshua bringing a wooden train caboose down hard on Jacob's knee. Step. Jacob's fingers caught in the corner of the crib, his screams filling the world, Joshua grinning while yanking the covers away.

Step. In the dark behind the curtain, holding his breath, something terrible scratching at the door.