Katherine Hanna - Breakdown

Chris glanced up at him. “Laura has a fellow? Good for her.”

“I thought maybe you—”

“No,” Chris said with a firm shake of his head.

“Right, sorry,” Jon said, and felt his face getting warm. “I just…”

“What about you? Do you have a girl?”

Jon had been afraid he would ask. His stomach clenched up. Chris was watching him.

“Not anymore.”

Chris nodded a little, chewed, swallowed. “I asked Brian about Sandy, but he didn’t know the name. I’m sorry, Jon. I liked Sandy a lot. You know that.”

Jon realized he was staring with his mouth open when Chris’s eyebrows drew together. Sandy had been so long ago, it was hard to feel anything about her, to remember how he’d once felt about her. It was hard to remember that Chris wouldn’t know that. “Uh…yeah, thanks…” he muttered.

“Not Sandy,” Chris said, more as a statement than a question. “Tell me.” He took a bite, kept his eye on Jon.

“Nothing to tell,” Jon said, his heart thumping in his chest. “Didn’t work out.” He clenched his teeth, angry that after a year he still felt nearly as raw as he’d been that day, stumbling home with the ring in his pocket, having to face everyone and tell them what had happened. He knew if he let himself, he could still cry over it, over her, and he wondered if he’d ever get to the point where he could leave it behind.

“Okay,” Chris said and went back to eating. He finished the food, drank the water, set the plate aside. “That was good. Thanks.” He sat with his eyes down, and Jon could see Chris’s left thumb caressing his wedding band.

“Has there been anyone since Sophie?” Jon asked him, not sure what he wanted the answer to be. Chris tensed, clenched his left hand into a fist, studied the floor.

“No.”

“Do you still miss her?”

Chris paused, as if he were trying to decide what to say. Jon was starting to get used to that.

“Of course I miss her.”

Jon felt a stab of regret. “I’m sorry, I…that’s not really what I meant.” He shifted his feet on the floor, stuffed his hands into his armpits. He didn’t know how to ask what he really wanted to know.

“Go on, then,” Chris said, his voice softer.

“Um. How long was it before—well, before it didn’t hurt so much anymore?” He managed to look at his brother and saw understanding in Chris’s face, and sadness.

“Is there still a chance—?”

“No,” Jon interrupted, his voice coming out harsh.

“Then let it go. Don’t torture yourself.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Jon pointed out, a little miffed that Chris would resort to the same overused statements he’d already heard too many times.

Chris took a breath, but didn’t look away. “Part of me died with her,” he said. “It’s just been this past year that I’ve been able to—to start—to move on.”

Jon’s heart sank, but he wasn’t sure if it was more for Chris or for himself. He didn’t know how to respond. Chris went on before he could.

“Don’t end up like me,” he whispered, shaking his head.

“What do you mean, ‘like you’?” Jon asked, taken aback. He’d never had any reason not to admire his older brother.

“Don’t make the wrong choices,” Chris muttered. “God, I’ve made so many wrong choices. I have so much to regret.”

“Don’t say that!” Jon pleaded. “Chris, please, don’t say that. I know you. It can’t be that bad. Just forget it all, whatever it is, and start over now, here, with us. Everything will be okay.”

Chris got that look on his face again, the one he’d had earlier, the uncertainty. Jon wanted to ask him about it, even though he thought he might know the reason—he was pretty sure Brian had something to do with it—but Chris spoke before Jon could.

“Do you ever think about going somewhere else? Finding something different, something with a future?”

“This is a good place,” Jon said, feeling suddenly defensive. “It’s got a good future. I’ve seen a lot worse. You’re not the only one who’s seen things. And of all the places you say you’ve been, have any been that much better than here? It doesn’t seem like it, from the looks of you.” Jon made himself stop. Chris’s face had gone expressionless, but Jon knew his brother was thinking hard. “Is it Brian? Do you still hate him that much?”

Chris sat back, and a look of hurt washed across his face.

“I’ve never hated him.”

“No one would know that, from the way you’re acting,” Jon said, trying not to be angry, at a loss. The conversation was veering off into territory he wasn’t prepared for.

“The way I’m acting? What exactly did he tell you?”

“Nothing,” Jon said, fidgeting where he was. “But I can see it. I’m sure everyone can.”

Again Chris fixed him with a stare, keeping his face a neutral mask. Jon found it disconcerting; it was so unlike the Chris he remembered from before.

Voices drifted up the stairs, and the sound of footsteps. Brian’s voice, with two smaller answering him. He was bringing the boys up to bed. Jon nudged the door closed with his foot. Brian shushed them as they passed and went into the loo to brush their teeth. Jon looked back at Chris, who stared blankly at the floor, his arms crossed.

“Are you going to let what happened back then ruin everything now?”

Chris answered him in a monotone. “It’s not entirely up to me, is it?”

“But you’ll try, won’t you, to make it work?” Jon persisted, a bit of desperation creeping in. The thought of the two of them, Chris and Brian, remaining as angry at each other as they had been before made him feel slightly sick.

“Of course,” Chris said, reaching for his coat draped across the foot of the bed. “This ought to be washed,” he went on, changing the subject. Jon stayed still, watched him empty the pockets onto the coverlet.

It was a roomy jacket with deep pockets, and Chris had put them to good use. Among the junk, Jon could see two folding penknives, a spoon, bits of paper, string, candle stubs, a blood-test card, coins, keys, and rocks. He thought he saw a bullet, or at least a casing. From a breast pocket, Chris pulled a bunch of folded maps and other papers. Lastly, from an inside pocket, he pulled out a black handgun. He glanced up at Jon as he stuffed it into his duffel.

“Where did you get that?” Jon asked.

Again, the pause before Chris answered.

“I found it. It’s handy if you’ve got bullets for it.”

“Have you?”

“A few.”

“Have you used it?”

Chris straightened up to look at his brother with his face hard, then shook his head and turned away. “No,” he said, but something about the way he said it made Jon think he might be lying. Chris dropped the coat into the laundry basket with the rest of his dirty clothes.

Out in the hall, beyond the closed door, they heard Brian say “Good night, sleep tight,” and pull the boys’ bedroom door closed. Chris watched the door as footfalls descended the stairs. Jon kept quiet. Chris began to scoop the debris from his coat pockets into his bag.

“Rocks?” Jon asked, to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Flints,” Chris replied. “Handy…” and Jon remembered making sparks when they were children. He glanced over at the bureau, where a small framed picture sat. He’d taken it from his own chest of drawers, put it there earlier after he’d made up the bed, a small gift for Chris. It was one of the last group pictures taken of their family: their mother and the three boys, she looking happy and proud, the boys all looking a bit annoyed. He didn’t remember how old they all were. Teenagers, obviously. Chris looked over and saw it too. He moved tentatively, reached out, picked it up.