Chris Offutt - The Good Brother

After a week, Joe went to the bunkhouse for dehydrated food, but it was empty of all supplies, including sheets and dishes. His boots echoed like distant gunfire. Mice had gnawed the Liberty Teeth pamphlets and Joe carried them outside. The autumn sun made his eyes hurt. He siphoned gas from his Jeep onto the pile, and lit a match, The paper ignited and coils of smoke joined the brown sides above.

Joe kicked a tower of ash, which exploded into tiny black pieces that spread rapidly through the air. He jumped into the fire and began stomping the fragments of burnt paper. Ash and smoke whirled around him. He worked in a frenzy as if trying to grind the pamphlets into the earth, but succeeded only in killing the fire. He dumped gas over the unburnt paper and lit it again.

When he returned to the house, Botree sniffed at the smell of gasoline and carbon, but said nothing. They ate and played a board game with the kids. Later, after the boys were asleep, Frank’s voice crackled over the air.

“This is Camp Megiddo on the mountain with an urgent message to all patriots in Montana. We have an army to protect your family. The blue-helmets of FEMA are coming. The black helicopters are coming. The yellow-bellied bastards took your guns and now they want your land.

“When David fought Goliath, he said, ‘I shall strike you down and cut your head off and leave your carcass for the birds and wild beasts.’ We shall be victorious in the name of the Bill of Rights.”

His voice stopped. Botree and Joe stared at each other in the sudden silence of the house.

“Do you think he’s got an army?” Joe said.

“Maybe. A lot of people go along with him.”

“If the government thinks, so, he’s in trouble.”

“We all are.”

They went to bed, and for a long time Joe stared at the ceiling, wondering if she was right.

The morning sky was thick with smoke. Joe missed working, and he decided to forage the nearest timber for winter firewood. He wore his pistol and carried a bungee cord for a tourniquet in case of an accident. He used the ax the way his father had taught him., letting its weight perform some of the work. The pine split easily, each chip scenting the air. He gathered kindling against his body and carried it to the pile beyond the treeline. His leg ached and he limped. A man’s voice spoke from the woods.

“I see you, Virgil Caudill.”

Joe stopped moving. He felt an unmistakable relief.

“Turn that wood loose,” the man said.

Joe let the kindling drop.

“Set down right where you’re at.”

Joe eased to the earth. The hard weight of the pistol pressed his back Brush rustled and a young man stepped from the woods, aiming a rifle at Joe. Everything about him was familiar. His features were of the same rough mold as Joe’s, the Scots-Irish pioneers who’d settled the hills of eastern Kentucky. His face was too young for a beard.

“I’m Zack Stargil’s boy, Orben. You killed my cousin.”

His accent was a comfort. Joe felt as though he’d been temporarily deaf and had suddenly regained the ability to hear. He knew several Stargils. He recalled the man as a redheaded boy, the last of a long line of brothers. Little Stubbin, they called him.

The man spat and moved closer, squinting over the rifle sight. Joe was surprised that the gun was an old.22. He lifted his chin.

“You best speak while you still yet can,” Orben said.

Joe swallowed and licked his lips.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“You ain’t the boss of me,” Orben said. “And I ain’t in no rush.”

He moved sideways to the pile of wood and sat on an upturned log. He was very skinny.

“Did you talk to Billy any?” he said.

Joe shook his head.

“Just killed him in his sleep.”

“He was awake,” Joe said.

“Know who I am yet?”

“Little Stubbin.”

“They don’t call me that no more.”

Joe nodded.

“My cousin seen you driving a truck here. He works for the state, fighting fires out of Menifee County.”

Joe nodded.

“He didn’t say nothing about you having a bad leg. What happened?”

“Bullet.”

“Billy get one in you?”

“No.”

“You scared, Virgil?”

“Maybe.”

“Was Billy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I ain’t,” Orben said. “For your information, I ain’t scared one bit. You smoke?”

“No.”

“Me, neither. Cigarette does.”

Orben laughed and pulled a cigarette from his pocket without removing the pack. He lit it and inhaled, keeping his rifle aimed at Joe.

“I bet you never thought anybody’d find you,” Orben said.

Joe shrugged.

“You were pretty smart. They was all kinds of stories. The biggest was you going to Myrtle Beach.”

“I don’t reckon.”

“They found your car in Cincinnati and Marlon went and got it. It caught on fire one night, accidental on purpose.”

“Is he okay?”

“Hell, yeah. Nobody bothered him. You can’t hurt that big bastard anyway.”

The sun had moved past its noon spot in the sky and smoke came filtering from the west. Conifers surrounded the men with a wall of green.

“How’s Marlon doing?” Joe said.

“He opened up a muffler shop down on The Road. By God, they say he’s the best in the county.”

“He said he wanted to, but I never believed it.”

“That son of a bitch can weld. Looks like a line of sewing thread when he’s done.”

“Well,” Joe said. “How about Sara and the kids?”

“Same I guess. I never see her out. Them kids are fine, you know. Just growing.”

“And Mom.”

“She died.”

“How?”

“In her sleep.”

Joe stared at the dirt, his mouth clamped tight.

“I’m sorry,” Orben said. “She never done nothing to nobody.”

“Thank,” Joe said. “What about Abigail?”

“Took off. Some said she went with you and some said she was pregnant. I heard she went up to Detroit.”

“She’s got people up there.”

“So do I,” Orben said.

“Me, too.”

They looked at each other, trapped by the intimacy of meeting in a foreign world.

“Didn’t you work at that car plant in Georgetown?” Joe said.

“Damn sure did, building them little rice-burners till I couldn’t take that drive no more. Hundred and fifty miles a day. I got on at Rocksalt Maintenance. Landscaping crew.”

“I’ll be go to hell. I used to work there. You don’t know Rundell Day, do you. Boss of garbage.”

“He retired. Old boy named Taylor’s crew boss now.”

Joe began to laugh, a harsh sound in the still air of the woods. Taylor had gotten Joe’s old job, drew a salary, and wore his name on a shirt.

“Taylor was the biggest drunk on the crew,” he said. “He got so drunk he’d apologize for things he never done. That old boy ran on whisky.”

“Not no more. He got hisself saved now. Carries a Bible in the truck. Nobody wants to work with him the way he carries on. Only man who will is his cousin.”

“Old Dewey. I bet he’s the same.”

“He ain’t likely to change.” Orben chuckled. “Was he engaged when you were there?”

“No.”

“He’s going with some girl from Pick County. It’d take two men and a boy to keep up with them. They’re broke up one day and getting married the next.”

“Pick County.” Joe shook his head. “What’d he think he was doing over in there, I’d like to know.”

“Getting about what he deserves.”

Orben and Joe laughed together until it trickled away, leaving an awkward space of time. Orben adjusted his cap and lit another cigarette.

“Grade school’s closing,” Orben said.

“Ours?”

“Yeah, buddy. They’re already building a new one halfway to town. Remember that bunch of trailers called Divorce Court?”