Chris Offutt - The Good Brother

She was reclining below the surface and he lowered himself until they faced each other. Heat surrounded his body. Steam rose from the rain, hiding the trees beyond the pool. He placed his hands on her ankles and held them there. The warm water relaxed his muscles and he slid his hands slowly along her legs. Their heads were very close. She was breathing through her mouth. Her collar bones held tiny circles of water and she arched her back gently until her breasts rose like islands. The rain was turning to snow. He eased forward, feeling her hands move over his hips. She shifted underwater and he felt himself brush against the soft apex of her thighs. They looked at each other, their faces very near. Her eyes were dark and scared. He waited for them to soften. Their lips brushed. She tugged his hips and he slid deeper into the warmth of water. They pressed themselves together and stayed that way a long time, holding each other in the hot water while snow cooled his back. He moved his hands to her face, the water the thinnest of skin between them. He began to move, watching her eyes.

The water rippled in rings around them. It lapped the rock shore like surf, as if a storm was coming from far at sea. Mist rose in swirls Mown by wind. The water pounded the stone, turning it dark in great splashes that hissed and ran with steam. Their bodies slowed the motion of the pool. The water hushed its splash. They lay still, their skin red from heat, taking air in panting gulps. Twilight moved through the trees. The air cooled as day faded behind the western hills. Night came down the slope and melded the water with the shadows of the firs.

They lay on their back in the heat. The sky was rich with darkness and stars. Snow landed on their faces, melted into the waters of the pool. She stirred against him.

“We have to go.”

They dressed quickly and went down the mountain cold and wet, giggling like children. They huddled in the truck while its engine heated the cab. The windshield clouded from within and they rubbed it with their hands, making peepholes to the sky. The stars gleamed close. The truck smelled of minerals and flesh.

The woods of Idaho caught fire late in June. Smoke lay in ribbons along the horizon, transforming dusk to a garish display of color, Joe had never seen so much smoke. Kentucky woods were moist and shady, and the occasional blaze was easily controlled. Here, the fires lasted for week.

He and Botree attended a Fourth of July picnic at a meadow along the Bitterroot River. Clouds moved like surf across the sky. Abilene and Dallas joined other children. Women clustered around a young mother and her infant beneath a cottonwood. Owen talked with a group of men Joe recognized as the ones who’d questioned him in the barn. Near the river, Coop played a game of horseshoes, his pitched shoes arcing once, sunlight flashing on the iron.

Joe felt as if he was passing for a local in a foreign country, with Botree as his camouflage. He stayed near her, shaking hands and being polite, much like a church social at home. He recognized a few people, including the gas station attendant and the man who’d sold him wood last autumn.

Men and women tended to separate, except for the teenagers, who roamed in a pack. They were dressed in high-fashion ranch clothes-crisp jeans, shiny belt buckles, new hats and boots. Each boy’s back pocket held the round imprint made by a tin of snuff. A young girl bent from the waist and bit the leather Wrangler patch loose from a boy’s pants. She scampered away, giggling.

Botree laughed at Joe’s startled expression.

“That means they’re going steady,” she said. “It tells everybody else that boy’s taken.”

“What’s the next step?”

“Wearing shirts that match.”

“Shoot, my clothes don’t even match each other.”

“You know what impressed me most at their age?”

“What?”

“When the boy made his dog sit in the back.”

“All this is a new one on me,” he said, “Do I have to watch the back of my britches around you?”

“No, I’m over my buckle-chasing days,” Botree said. “I knew one gal used to custom-order her belt. Instead of her name on the back, she’d put her phone number.”

“Where’s she at now?”

“Got six kids and a ranch by Great Falls. Goes to town once a month, if the weather holds.”

“Sounds rough.”

“Around here,” Botree said, “that’s the top of the line. Only thing lonelier than a ranch is not having a man with you on it,”

Dallas and Abilene ran down, a slope, their faces flushed.

“Know what,” Dallas said. “I climbed a tree. From the top I could see past the world,”

“Know what?” Abilene said. “Me, too.”

They ran away.

“Where’s Johnny?” Joe said.

“Probably up by the trucks with his buddies,” she said. “They think nobody knows they’ve got half-pints in their boots.”

“I figured there’d be more people drinking. Beer, at least.”

“Not with the families around like this. That’s why the young bucks go off on their own. You want some?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t stay dry on my account,” Botree said, “Once in a while won’t hurt. You should see me on tequila.”

“I never drank it.”

“More like it drinks you. The best in Texas had a worm in the bottom.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know. But that worm kicked worse than a mustang in a tin barn.”

Several hundred yards away, children were playing in a grove of aspen. Joe could see each leaf clearly. He enjoyed Montana’s dry-climate, the light and space that offered a solace he’d never found at home.

Botree touched his arm. “I’ve got to take a look at Gailie’s new baby.”

Joe watched her walk through wild grasses, moving over the earth in her heeled boots. He climbed the slight rise to the parked trucks silhouetted against the sky. The last one had its tailgate dropped. Johnny and two young men sat on its edge, passing a half-pint of whisky. Johnny offered the bottle to Joe.

“Take a slug of redeye,” he said.

“Ain’t bourbon, is it?” Joe said.

“Some blend,” one of the men said. “We been drinking Canadian whisky since Prohibition.”

“What are you all chasing it with?” Joe said.

“Cigarettes and spit.”

Joe lifted the bottle and let the liquor slide into his mouth. The burn spread along his limbs. He spat and took another drink.

“Damn, boys,” he said. “That stuff works like gravy on Sunday.” He passed the bottle to the nearest man. “I’m Joe.”

“Kip,” the man said. He wore a white Stetson with a pale gray band. He gave the whisky to the other man.

“Here, Z-man,” Kip said.

Z-man took the bottle. A wispy mustache grew above his mouth. “Two bubbler,” he said.

He finished the whisky in two swallows, which forced a pair of bubbles to the surface. He jerked the empty bottle from his mouth and blinked rapidly.

“That’s got a whang I like,” he said.

“Where’s the other bottle,” Johnny said, “Joe’s got to catch up.”

“That’s all right,” Joe said. “You all are too far ahead.”

“I just started,” Kip said. “Z-man’s out front a mile. He couldn’t hit the ground with his hat.”

“I could with yours,” Z-man said.

“Don’t mess with my hat,” Kip said.

“Why not?”

“I’ll kick your ass so hard you’ll have to take off your shirt to shit.”

Z-man began to giggle. He pulled his shirttail free of his jeans, held it away from his body, and leaned backwards. He lost his balance and stumbled against the truck.

“God doggit,” he said. “I didn’t even see him hit me.”