Chris Offutt - The Good Brother

“Because the rubber piece is cut in half,” Joe said.

“You got it,”

“How can I make it stronger?”

“You can’t. You can strengthen the leg and let muscle protect it, but the ligament will always be weak. A sharp pivot and it’ll go out on you.”

“Anything else?”

“Your meniscus is probably tore up, but I can’t tell how bad without X-rays.”

“What’s a meniscus?”

“It separates your bones. Sort of like a rubber gasket. What it does is keep your leg bones from banging against each other when you walk.”

“So now they’ll rub.”

“Not too bad, but yes.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t know,” Rodney said. “The whole knee is a bad design for the weight it has to carry.”

“You mean I got hurt because of a bad design?”

“No. It was the bullets that did the hurting. The way the knee is built is pretty much proof that we used to walk on all fours. Another million years and our knees won’t be so vulnerable.”

“How do you fix it?”

“Used to, a surgeon cut off the extra tissue, trimmed the ends, overlapped them, and sewed the whole rig back together, I don’t know what they do now. Knee surgery is the only branch of medicine where they use power tools. They can restring a knee like a tennis racket.”

“Can you do that?”

“No.”

Joe moved his gaze to the light fixture on the ceiling. He felt something shift within him, a settling of some depth, and he realized that he’d aged. Just as children endured growth spurts, aging happened in short bursts, and he’d moved one step closer to the dull white skulls on the shelves above his head.

“What’s that stuff I’m on?” he said.

“Started you with an opiate-base, then tapered you off into Percodan, now just Darvon.”

“Is that animal dope?”

“The first one was, but it’s the same routine for humans. Begin with morphine, then back you down.”

“I’d like to quit them every one.”

“That’s up to you and the pain. I’ll leave some ibuprofen. You might take the Darvon at night to sleep.”

“Is that the best?”

“No,” Rodney said. “The best painkiller is heroin, but it’s against the law to give it to someone who’s dying, no matter how bad it hurts.”

“Why’s that?”

“The government’s afraid they might get addicted.”

Rodney gathered his tools. He wadded the old dressing and stuffed it into a plastic bag.

“Any more questions?”

“Just one. Why’d Johnny shoot me?”

Rodney stood and Joe noticed straw adhering to the bottom of his jeans. There was an expression of resignation on his face.

“Now you know why I like working with animals,” he said, “They don’t talk.”

After Rodney left, Joe felt better, but he was exhausted. He’d forgotten to ask about walking. He shifted his body and the pain made him gasp. He reached for the Darvon, changed his mind, opened the bottle of ibuprofen, and swallowed four pills. He was furious with himself on every front. He shouldn’t have shot himself. He shouldn’t have buried the possum. He shouldn’t have come to Montana. He closed his eyes. He’d brought it all on himself, and he hated himself for it.

His leg hurt but the fatigue was stronger. As sleep took him he realized that he didn’t blame Johnny, and he wondered why.

He awoke to a different presence in the room and blinked several times to shed the haze of sleep. Sunshine poured through the window, edging everything with a rim of light. Two small boys stood just inside the door, their faces solemn. Joe waited for them to disappear into the light of reality until he understood that they were actual children.

“Hidy,” he said.

“It’s my brother’s birthday,” the older boy said. “He’s three.”

“Happy birthday.” Joe said.

“He gets presents.”

Joe closed his eyes but a shadowed after-image of the boys remained outlined against the glowing light inside his head. He thought of Sara’s children and how he’d failed to tell them good-bye. A sudden sadness pressed him to the bed. His limbs felt heavy and thick. He opened his eyes and regarded the younger boy. His hips were as broad as his shoulders, but he had no neck. His head rested directly on his body as if bolted to his shoulders.

“I have something for you,” Joe said. He held his cupped hands in the air. “It’s just what you need.”

The older boy stepped forward.

“No,” Joe said. “It’s for the birthday boy.”

“What is it?”

“I can only tell him.”

The older boy coaxed the young one closer to the bed. Joe extended his arms and opened his hands in a quick motion toward the boy’s head.

“That was a neck,” Joe said. “Now you have a neck.”

The boy covered his throat with a hand.

“I got a neck,” he said. “For my birthday. A neck.”

“Now get out of here,” Joe said.

The boys ran from the room. Joe’s leg ached. It had been hurting all along but he’d forgotten about it in their presence. A quick anger overwhelmed him and he wondered if he was mad at the boys for returning his pain.

Through the window, the shadow of the roof pointed at the seam of sky along the ridge. Much of Montana was vacant — the land, the streets, the riverbeds. The sky was often bereft of cloud. Perhaps it was natural that he’d stayed here. There was less need to fill the emptiness in him when he was surrounded by an equal amount of empty space. The anger shifted to a profound despair. His leg hurt and he couldn’t walk He wanted to lie in his childhood bed, tended by his mother. At birth his grandmother had given him a stuffed bear that he’d slept with for many years. He missed it as much as all of Kentucky.

He slept. Three times the pain woke him in the night and he ate ibuprofen, determined to wean himself from the heavier medication. In the morning Botree changed the dressing and brought him food. He ate slowly, careful not to spill anything among the sheets. His leg hurt worse than it had in days and he wondered how much time had passed.

She pulled a chair near the bed and smiled for the first time, a breaking of light that was just as swiftly gone.

“A neck,” she said.

“I didn’t mean it to be an insult.”

“It’s already his favorite present. His brother wants one now. A bigger one.”

“Of course.”

As she looked at him, Joe was abruptly embarrassed at his weakened state, his dependence, the nakedness she had seen. He wished he was still taking painkillers.

“How long you all planning on keeping me here?” he said, “What are you anyhow, drug dealers?”

“What,” Botree said. “Who?”

“The whole bunch of you.”

“No. We’re not drag dealers.”

“Well, you’re damn sure something fishy. Shooting a man for no reason, then keeping him knocked out on animal dope.”

“You’re a hair on the fishy side yourself,” she said. “No mailing address. Carrying a pistol. Pew thousand in cash. Burying a stuffed animal.”

“Nothing wrong with any of that.”

“Nothing wrong with going to a hospital, either.”

“My business. What’d Johnny shoot me for, anyhow?”

“I guess that’s his business,” Botree said. “Why’d you shoot your leg?”

“I don’t rightly know.”

“There’s plenty of people out here who’ve killed themselves. But you’re the first dumb enough to try it in the knee.”

“I guess I thought shooting would knock out the bullet that was already in me, like driving two pool balls into a pocket at once. I didn’t think the second bullet would bust up like it did.”

“You didn’t think at all,” Botree said. “About like every man on this land.”