John Hart - Down River

I put the photo back on the shelf, squared it just so. He thought that day was our new beginning, and kept the photo all these years, never guessing that it was a great, giant lie.

I’d thought that I was ready to come home, but now I was no longer sure. My father was not here. There was nothing for me here. Yet, as I turned, I saw the page on his desk, fine stationery next to an expensive burgundy pen my mother had once given him. “Dear Adam,” it read. Then nothing else. Emptiness. How long had he stared at that blank paper, I wondered, and what would he have said, had the words actually come?

I left the room as I’d found it, wandered back into the main part of the house. New art adorned the walls, including a portrait of my adopted sister. She was eighteen the last time I’d seen her, a fragile young woman who’d sat every day in the courtroom, yet had been unable to meet my eyes. She was my sister, and we’d not spoken since the day I left, but I didn’t hold that against her. It was as much my fault as hers. More, really.

She’d be twenty-three now, a mature woman, and I looked again at her portrait: the easy smile, the confidence. It could happen, I thought. Maybe.

The picture of Miriam turned me to thoughts of Jamie, her twin brother. In my absence, responsibility for the crews would have fallen to him. I went to the big staircase and yelled his name. I heard footsteps and a muffled voice. Then, stocking feet at the top of the stairs, followed by jeans grimed at the cuff, and an impossibly muscular torso beneath pale, thin hair spiked with some kind of gel. Jamie’s face had filled out, lost the angles of youth, but the eyes had not changed, and they crinkled at the corners when they settled on me.

“I do not freakin’ believe it,” he said. His voice was as big as the rest of him. “Jesus, Adam, when did you get here?” He came down the stairs, stopped and looked at me. He stood six four, and had me by forty pounds, all of it muscle. The last time I’d seen him he’d been my size.

“Damn, Jamie. When did you get huge?”

He curled his arms and studied the muscles with obvious pride. “Gotta have the guns, baby. You know how it is. But look at you. You haven’t changed at all.” He gestured at my face. “Somebody kicked your ass, I see, but other than that you could have walked out of here yesterday.”

I fingered the stitches.

“Is that local?” he asked.

“Zebulon Faith.”

“That old bastard?”

“And two of his boys.”

He nodded, eyelids drooping. “Wish I’d been there.”

“Next time,” I said.

“Hey, does Dad know you’re back?”

“He’s heard. We haven’t spoken yet.”

“Unreal.”

I held out my hand. “Good to see you, Jamie.”

His hand swallowed mine. “Fuck that,” he said, and pulled me into a bear hug that was ninety percent painful backslapping.

“Hey, you want a beer?” He gestured toward the kitchen.

“You have the time?”

“What’s the point of being the boss if you can’t sit in the shade and drink a beer with your brother? Am I right?”

I thought about keeping my mouth shut, but I could still see the migrants, sweating in the sun-scorched fields. “Someone should be with the crews.”

“I’ve only been gone an hour. The crews are fine.”

“They’re your responsibility-”

Jamie dropped a hand on my shoulder. “Adam, you know that I’m happy to see you, right? But I’ve been out from under your shadow for a long time. You did a good job when you were here. No one would deny that. But I manage the daily operations now. You would be wrong to show up all of a sudden and expect everybody to bow down to you. This is my deal. Don’t tell me how to run it.” He squeezed my shoulder with steel fingers. They found the bruises and burrowed in. “That would be a problem for us, Adam. I don’t want there to be a problem for us.”

“Okay, Jamie. I get your point.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s just fine.” He turned for the kitchen and I followed him. “What kind of beer do you like? I’ve got all different kinds.”

“Whatever,” I said. “You pick.” He opened the refrigerator. “Where is everybody?” I asked.

“Dad’s in Winston for something. Mom and Miriam have been in Colorado. I think that they were supposed to fly in yesterday and spend the night in Charlotte.” He smiled and nudged me. “A couple of squaws off shopping. They’ll probably be home late.”

“Colorado?”

“Yeah, for a couple of weeks. Mom took Miriam to some fat farm out there. Costs a fortune, but hey, not my call, you know.” He turned with two beers in his hands.

“Miriam has never been overweight,” I said.

Jamie shrugged. “A health spa, then. Mud baths and eel grass. I don’t know. This is a Belgian one, some kind of lager, I think. And this is an English stout. Which one?”

“The lager.”

He opened it and handed it to me. Took a pull on his own. “The porch?” he asked.

“Yeah. The porch.”

He went through the door first, and when I emerged into the heat behind him, I found him leaning against our father’s post with a proprietary air. A knowing glint appeared in his eyes, and his smile thinned into a statement.

“Cheers,” he said.

“Sure, Jamie. Cheers.”

The bottles clinked, and we drank our beer in the still and heavy air. “Cops know you’re back?” Jamie asked.

“They know.”

“Jesus.”

“Screw ’em,” I said.

At one point, Jamie raised his arm, made a muscle and pointed at his bicep.

“Twenty-three inches,” he said.

“Nice,” I told him.

“Guns, baby.”

Rivers find the low ground-it is what they are made to do-and looking over the one that defined our border I thought that maybe the talent had rubbed off on my brother. He talked about money he’d spent and about the girls he’d laid. He counted them up for me, a slew of them. Our conversation did not venture beyond that until he asked about the reason for my return. The question came at the end of his second beer, and he slipped it in like it meant nothing. But his eyes couldn’t lie. It was all he cared about.

Was I back for good?

I told him the truth as I knew it: doubtful.

To his credit, he covered his relief well. “Are you sticking around for dinner?” he asked, draining the beer.

“Do you think that I should?”

He scratched at his thinning hair. “It might be easier with just Dad here. I think he’ll forgive you for what happened, but Mom won’t be happy. There’s no lie in that.”

“I’m not here to ask for forgiveness.”

“Damn, Adam, let’s not start this up again. Dad had to choose a side. He could believe you or he could believe Mom, but he couldn’t believe both of you.”

“This is still my family, Jamie, even after all that’s happened. She can’t very well tell me to stay away.”

Jamie’s eyes grew suddenly sympathetic. “She’s scared of you, Adam.”

“This is my home.” The words sounded hollow. “I was acquitted.”

Jamie rolled massive shoulders. “Your call, bro. It’ll be interesting either way. I’m just glad to have a front-row seat.”

His smile was patently false; but he was trying. “You’re such an ass, Jamie.”

“Don’t hate me ’cause I’m beautiful.”

“Tomorrow night, then. May as well do it all at once.” But that was only part of it. I was feeling the pain, a profound ache that still had room to grow. I thought of Robin’s dark bedroom, and then of my father and the note he had been unable to complete. The time would be good for everyone.

“So, how’s Dad?’ I asked.

“Ah, he’s bulletproof. You know how he is.”