You still think we can persuade him to give up his claim?
I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. All I know is there’s something wrong with him. I saw it in his eyes when he was on top of me. He’s torn up inside, just like the rest of us. And if he’s just like the rest of us, then there’s still a chance he might deal.
You’re giving him too much credit. You heard the way he talks. He’s not like us. He’s an arrogant sinner from the big city. When he looks at us all he sees are beaners and rednecks, fresh meat for him to sink his teeth into.
Ellie moved her head slowly from side to side. I noticed her wince as the still-swollen muscles in her neck grew taut. You might be right, she said. For now, though, give him something else to sink his teeth into. Make him a sandwich, and hurry it up.
I pushed my chair out from the table. I started to stand but froze halfway and looked back across the table to where she sat. One of these days, I said, I’m gonna figure out why I let you tell me what to do so often.
She laughed. Isn’t it obvious? You love having a woman tell you what to do. You’d be a complete mess without it.
I shot her an evil look on my way to the kitchen. The bread was still out and I pulled two thin slices from the paper wrapper and slapped them both down on the counter. Sometime when I was in grade school, the local supermarkets stopped carrying the sweetened, factory-made peanut butter that came in plastic jars, and from then on all we could get was a gooey domestic brand with a layer of oil that rose to the top each time it started to settle. I stuck a knife in the glass jar and stirred the oil and butter into a more or less consistent paste and spread the paste over the top of each slice of bread. There was something about that type of peanut butter that felt indecent to me, like we were never meant to disturb its natural condition. I shook the grape jelly from its congealed state and watched it ooze forth and settle in a large glob in the center of one of the slices. I stuck the other slice on top and pressed it under the palm of my hand until jelly burst through the seams of the crust. Wrapping the finished PB&J in a dish towel, I turned and headed down the hall to the back bedroom. There were plenty of clean towels in the drawer, but I opted instead for the soiled one hanging on the refrigerator door.
The room at the far back of the house was barely big enough to fit a twin bed. In our earliest days on the farm, when everyone and his sister was fighting for living space, Dawn had volunteered to sleep out on the living room sofa, but Mom and Sandra convinced her to take the little room at the back, which was practically an over-sized closet, and too secluded for any of the kids to be trusted with. Now, with Jennifer gone, Dawn had taken up the spare bedroom in the house across the way, leaving her former room to serve as a makeshift holding cell for our hostage. I listened at the door before opening it. Nothing. Not even a rustling of bed sheets. I turned the knob and looked inside and saw him sitting up on the bed in the same shirt and pants he’d been wearing when he arrived in our driveway. The sheets and blankets were still tucked in under the corners of the mattress, which meant he’d either slept on top of the covers or not slept at all. The chain was wrapped three times around his ankle. There was a padlock to hold one end to his foot and another to secure the opposite end to the brass head-rail. In the hours before he regained consciousness, I’d combed the property from east to west trying to scrounge up something to ensure he couldn’t escape. It was between this and an old iron crate that had been left behind by a previous tenant. It looked like it had once been used to transport pigs and other livestock, and as far as I was concerned, it was still an option.
I unfolded the towel and set the sandwich on top of the covers. Made you something to eat, I said. He didn’t answer, and he didn’t look at me. He had picked out a spot on the plaster wall that he liked to stare at, and he wasn’t taking his eyes away anytime soon from looks of it. The peanut butter’s pretty thick, I said. You want a glass of milk?
He kept his back to me as he shook his head. Vodka, he said.
We don’t have any vodka in the house. It’s milk or water, take your pick.
Vodka.
Fine. Have it your way.
I was about to turn and head back into the hall when I noticed the bumps on the back of his head. He’d gotten it worse than Ellie, my rifle butt had made sure of that. But now that I saw him sitting as he was, with two purple notches rising up out of the mesh of his unwashed hair, I started to worry about how we would handle a corpse on the property if it ever came down to it. From what I’d heard about people with concussions, it was maybe a good thing he hadn’t slept the past two nights.
We’re not trying to make your life miserable, I said. We’re just trying to protect ourselves from whatever evil you’re trying to bring down on us. What would you do if you were in our position? Would you let yourself go and trust that it would all turn out okay?
I waited to hear what he had to say, because, to be honest, I was really curious to know. When he finally spoke, there was no sarcasm in his voice as far as I could tell. If I were you, he said, I would walk out into the orchard on a clear day and put a bullet in my head. That’s about the best fate you or any of your illiterate family could hope for.
He turned to look at me, probably hoping to take some small pleasure in whatever expression he expected me to have on my face. But as his captor, I wouldn’t allow him the satisfaction. I tried keeping as calm as possible, and shook my head like an adult humoring a child’s disobedience.
Then I suppose by your logic, I said, the same fate would be best for you. You are family, after all.
He looked at me through the dark circles that bordered his eyes. The front of his head had gotten it even worse than the back, with his broken nose setting badly and swelling up so that he couldn’t breath without emitting a faint whistle. He turned again and went back to staring at the wall.
That’s your logic, not mine, he said. If it helps you, though, to think of me as a brother, then by all means, go ahead. I suppose you need something to take pride in, if not yourself.
You’re wrong, I said. Having you as a brother doesn’t make me feel proud at all. If anything, the way you’ve behaved around here, threatening women and hurting young girls, it only gives me reason to be ashamed. What do you think about that?
He shrugged. You’re Catholic, he said. You’re bound to find some reason to feel shame.
I twisted the dish towel in my hands until the little bit of remaining moisture had been wrung out. All right, I said. Try this one, then. If anyone in this family is at risk of getting his head blown off, it’s you. I’ve got the rifle, the aim, and the will to do it. The only thing stopping me is the moral conundrum it puts me in. Thou shalt not kill means something to me even if it doesn’t for you. But you keep pressing me and I might just find myself overcome by temptation. I don’t want that, though, and I imagine you don’t want it either. So how about you try to meet me halfway and work on being civil toward me while you’re here? You think you can do that? Does that sound reasonable?
He laid back suddenly across the bed and rested his bruised head beside the sandwich. Vodka, he said, and closed his eyes.
Fine, be like that. See where it gets you.
He still had his face to the wall as I slammed the door and left him alone once again in his improvised jail cell. I hadn’t taken two steps toward the kitchen before the regret started to sink in and I could see clearly what Ellie had meant. It was too easy for him to get to me. I’d have to learn to keep a cool head if I was going to keep working at him, and if the peaceful resolution we hoped for was ever going to be a real possibility.