Disintegration Page 16

  Jacob swallowed what felt like a sharp stone lodged in his throat. "Have you seen her naked?"

  Joshua's grin flashed in the dimness. "Better than that."

  "Bullshit."

  Joshua clapped him on the shoulder. "Ten bucks and your run of Hulk comics says so."

  "I don't gamble."

  "Hang around here awhile and you'll get over it."

  An unintelligible shout came from the trailer that hosted the card game, followed by laughter. "Sounds like somebody hit a full house," Joshua said. "Some idiot probably just lost two weeks' worth of trimming branches. Dumb fucks."

  Jacob scarcely heard, because his cheek was pressed against the wall again, his one-eyed gaze crawling between the curtain and up the curving insides of the girl's thighs. He felt a small stir of air. Joshua had opened the shed door. The door closed with a rattle of metal, followed by the sound of a latch slamming home.

  "Joshua," Jacob said with a whispered hiss. "Let me out of here."

  "Keep watching, bro', and I'll show you what it means to be a Wells."

  Jacob scrambled over the scrap metal, bundled straw, and tree baling equipment until he reached the door. He tried his weight against it then nudged it with his shoulder. He was afraid to make too much noise and risk drawing the attention of the card players. Despite Joshua's assessment, he could think of a number of ways the Mexicans could vent their anger at a gringo pervert.

  He heard a tinny knock then Joshua called out, "Carlita, it's me."

  Jacob listened for a moment and scrambled back to the knothole. He got there in time to see the trailer door close. Joshua was nowhere to be seen. Until he stepped into the girl's bedroom, moved to the window, and opened the curtains. He winked, then the room went dark as Carlita leaned over, her robe parted and rumpled, and blew out the candle.

  Jacob wasn't sure how long he sat in the shed, huddled in a ball. The card game went on and on, the laughter sharpening while the Spanish banter grew more gruff and slurred. After perhaps an hour, Jacob looked through the knothole to find the girl's window was still dark. He tried to picture Joshua, the girl lying beneath him with the robe parted, their limbs entwined.

  Two men left the card game and stood outside the shed, passing a bottle, talking quietly in words that Jacob couldn't understand. One of them went into the girl's trailer, and Jacob expected shouts as the couple was caught in the act. Instead, a light came on in the room, an overhead bulb this time instead of the candle. Joshua lay on the bed, the blankets pulled up to his bare chest. The girl was nowhere in sight. Joshua lifted his head and flashed Jacob two fingers in a sign of peace or victory. Or maybe that he'd done it two times.

  Someone fumbled with the latch to the shed door.

  Jacob looked around. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and he could make out some agricultural equipment in the back of the room, fertilizer spreaders and watering tanks. He pushed away from the wall and clambered under the machines just as the door opened. Someone entered the room, clinking glass against the wooden door frame.

  The man slumped into the loose stack of hay, hummed a drunken ballad that contained references to senoritas and corazon, then the toneless notes drifted into snores. When the snores became gravelly and steady, Jacob slipped from his hiding place and knelt by the door again. The half-light lay on the bottle by the man's side, causing the liquid within to glow. Jacob took the bottle and returned to his vigil by the knothole.

  He twisted off the lid and smelled the contents. He knew it was liquor, because his father had a cabinet of the stuff kept under lock and key that was occasionally broken out for dinner guests. Medicine to dull pain, Warren Wells had said.

  Joshua was still on the bed, and the girl was with him now, her bare back to the window as she slid astride him. She threw her head back and Joshua's fingers gripped her waist. She moved back and forth, her firm buttocks flexing with the gentle motion. Jacob sipped the liquor, barely aware of the burning on his tongue and in his throat. He took another swallow as the girl writhed faster, rocking as if on a hobby horse. The trot turned to a gallop and Jacob wasn't sure how much of the liquor he'd drunk but his head swam and his hand ached to reach for the heat inside his pants. The girl began crying out, and Joshua was yelling and groaning, the girl's skin red around the imprint of his fingers. Her flailing black hair fell across her shoulders as she ground her hips against Joshua, and with one great shudder and shriek, she went rigid.

  Jacob drained the last of the bottle's contents as the couple slowed their movements and the girl collapsed on top of his twin brother. Jacob's head was thick; he was angry and aroused and nauseated. The card game must have ended, because silence filled the camp. He leaned his face against the wall and closed his eyes.

  The next thing he knew, Joshua was shoving him awake. "Come on, goober, we better get home."

  Jacob felt as if a plow had speared his skull. He blinked, looked past the door at the graying of dawn, the Mexican asleep in the hay, the empty bottle at his feet.

  Joshua picked up the bottle and laughed. "Jose Cuervo, huh? Cheap crap. I'll bet you feel like Pancho Villa's army camped out in your mouth."

  Thirst scorched Jacob's throat. He tried to clear it but he couldn't swallow. A knot of dry vomit worked its way up past his lungs. "That girl-"

  "Carlita," Joshua said. His hair was mussed, his eyes bright. "Mmm, mmm, moy bien chiquita. "

  "Why didn't you tell me?" Jacob wasn't sure if he was jealous or simply angry because Joshua had kept a secret. His thoughts were foggy and his eyes were dry as stones.

  "Because you wouldn't have believed me."

  "Then why did you bring me out here?"

  "Because I hate you." A rooster crowed, then another. Joshua nodded to the sleeping man. "They'll be going to work soon. Dear old Daddy can't make a profit off them if they sleep all day. Let's get out of here."

  They headed back across the Christmas tree field, Jacob staggering and holding his stomach. The revelry that had colored the camp the night before had died with darkness, and now the trailers looked rumpled and sad. A Dodge van was parked out front, its side door gone, the rear window broken. Jacob knelt in the grass and tried to vomit, but all that came up was a caked, greenish-yellow substance. He crawled several yards with the stuff trailing from his lips until Joshua yanked him to his feet.

  "Shape up, Jake. You don't want nobody to suspect nothing back at the house."

  Jacob took one last look at the girl's window, thought of that miraculous skin against the soft terry cloth of the robe, the black hair, the curves and muscles of her legs. He spat his mouth clear. "Did you…um…?"

  Joshua patted him on the back. "A Wells never fails."

  They made it back to the house, and Jacob was able to shower and have breakfast before Old Man Wells made it to the table. Dad drank his coffee and checked the stocks in the newspaper. Joshua sat in silence, wearing a faint smile of amusement. The greasy bacon and eggs sat in Jacob's stomach like steel shavings and rubber, but the nausea passed and his hands no longer trembled. It was Friday, so he and Joshua would have to walk the half mile to catch the school bus down by the bridge.

  "What are you boys doing after school?" Dad asked.

  "I thought we'd go down to the workers' camp," Joshua said, catching Jacob's gaze and holding it. "I'm thinking of taking Spanish next semester and figured I could get a few free lessons."

  "You stay away from there. Those beaners are rough. They're hard workers, but if they didn't work so cheap, I wouldn't bother with them. When they're drunk, they get mean. They'd cut each other's throat for a nickel."

  "I don't think our workers drink, Dad," Joshua said.

  Dad actually looked over the newspaper at that. "They all drink. So don't be hanging around there. If you want to learn Spanish, we can hire a tutor."

  "But I want to learn about the tree industry," Joshua said, and Jacob was stunned by the glib cunning of his brother. Joshua knew how to trick Jacob, all right, but his recent conquest mus
t have fueled his arrogance, because there he was bullshitting Dad, the king of the bullshitters.

  "I can teach you about the trees when the time comes," Dad said, turning his attention back to the Dow Jones average.

  "What if something happened to you? One of us would have to know what to do."

  "Nothing's going to happen to me."

  "It happened to Mom, didn't it?"

  Dad folded the paper, crossed the kitchen, poured his coffee down the sink, and rinsed his glass. He left the room, and a minute later the front door closed, followed by the sound of his truck engine.

  Joshua leaned back in his chair and grinned like a dyspeptic weasel. "What's really cool is one day one of us is going to have to carry on."

  Jacob put his head on the table, head in his hands. He wondered if he could skip school without Dad finding out. "Are you in love with her?"

  "What's that, pukeface?"

  "Is she your girlfriend?"

  "Love. You really believe that shit, don't you?"

  Jacob wanted to ask what it was like, her hot, slick skin on his, her lips brushing his face, the secret folds opened. He wanted to know how Joshua could enjoy all those wonders and then remain so callous towards them.

  He'd always been afraid that the twins were too much alike, that his and Joshua's shadow would always be merged and neither would escape the other. That morning, he saw for the first time how little alike they actually were, as if they didn't even belong to the same species.

  "Wish me," Jacob said.

  "I can't wish you sober, Jake. Only time can do that."

  "No, wish me to be you one time."

  "You like Carlita, huh? Want a taste of taco sauce?"

  "Wish me."

  "Well, you're already going to be me this afternoon, remember? My algebra test. The one I missed and you're going to make up for. Mrs. Runyon will never know the difference. And don't forget to write with your left hand."

  "How come you can't take it?"

  "You're smarter. Besides, me and Carlita are going to hang out under the bridge. Do a little fishing." He smiled. "One day I might teach you how to use a pole, when you're big enough."

  "What if I don't want to take your damned test?"

  "Come on, now. The cane, remember?"

  Jacob burped and the acid sluiced up his throat. He swore to himself he would never try liquor again. And he was going to quit letting Joshua threaten him, because Joshua was as much to blame for Mother's death as he was. He was done letting Joshua push him around. But, first, he was going to find a way to finish that test early so he could find himself a good hiding place in the weeds beside the bridge.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Dust.

  Which of the tiny specks were Mattie, and which were bits of dead skin, moth wings, dandelion fluff, or lost sea sand?

  Jacob looked down into his palm, then at the urn on the faux mantel of Renee's living room. The urn was cold in its solitude, cast in black porcelain with dark gold piping around the rim. Overwrought solemnity, the best money could buy.

  Jacob let the dust sift through his palm to the floor, knowing Renee would twitch with the urge to get out the vacuum cleaner. "I need the rest of it."

  "I gave it to you already."

  "I can make him go away."

  "By buying your father's place? I thought you hated that house. You always said it brought back bad memories."

  "I'm not buying the place. I'm giving it to my brother."

  "Joshua? The man whose name you could barely stand to say? The one you kept secret from me because you were so ashamed?"

  "I owe him. I took everything my father left. I tricked Joshua out of his birthright because I thought I could put it to better use."

  "You said he refused to take any inheritance. 'I don't want nothing the old man ever touched.'"

  "I got the money and the real estate, Joshua got the home place. But he can't sell or rent it because of the covenants Dad put on it. Since he doesn't want to live there, he basically got nothing. While I got to finish building the Wells empire."

  "Since when did you start feeling guilty about that? If you're going to feel guilty for something, maybe you should show some emotion over the death of your daughter."

  Renee stood with the sleeves of her tan sweater tucked into her fists. Her eyes held enough fire and light to drive the chill out of Jacob's heart, but the combustible places inside him had long since been walled off. He felt like a trespasser in her apartment, in this new life she was trying to make. One where the kids were nothing but photographs on the wall, pieces of slick paper in polished picture frames. A life where Jacob was nothing more than temporary clutter.

  "I've dealt with Mattie's death in my own way," he said.

  "Great. Thanks a lot for leaving me behind while you did it."

  Jacob looked at her, wondering if he'd ever really known her. Or maybe he had never known himself. "You've been talking to that damned Rheinsfeldt again, ain't you?"

  "Yes, and I'm starting to figure out some things. She said you had some traumatic experience-or probably several-that caused your adolescent disorder."

  "'Disorder.' As if everything has to be in order."

  "And now this brother thing. Like maybe if you make amends with Joshua, pay him off, you can buy his love and maybe get your father back that way. But maybe you can't fit all the pieces together again."

  "Money makes a good glue."

  "They won't release the settlement, Jacob. Not until the investigation's complete. You know that."

  "I didn't start the fire. Even if you hate me now, you know I'd never do anything that stupid."

  "I'm not so sure anymore. I don't know which Jacob you are."

  That's what they always say.

  Jacob fought the urge to rush across the room and slap her. He forced his fist open and stretched his fingers. Some of the dust from the urn still clung to his moist palm.

  Jacob took his gaze from Renee's tear-streaked face and looked at the urn. How could such a small jar hold those millions of memories, the hopscotch chalk on the sidewalk, Big Bird's Firehouse, the sticky trip to Disneyland, the juice boxes of midget league soccer? How could his precious little girl be reduced to such a finite space when she had once contained multitudes of possibilities?

  "Fine, then."

  "What the hell do you expect?" Renee said. "You've gone off the deep end again and you won't let me help. You run away from the hospital, hide from Donald and me, start drinking, then you stand in the woods and try to freak me out, pretending you're somebody else. What the hell am I supposed to do? Lock you in the nuthouse again?"

  "That was a long time ago and I'm much better now. I'm a grown-up. I know how to deal with my problems."

  "You didn't handle your mother's death very well. You go crazy when you lose a child. And we're both twice as crazy now. Don't you see that helping each other is the only hope?"

  "Rheinsfeldt and her touchy-feely 'dialoging to wellness.' That doesn't sound like much hope to me. Because when it was over, if it was ever over, then all we'd have would be each other."

  "Maybe that's enough." Renee said.

  "Two million would be enough."

  "I told you. The twenty-seven hundred was the last of it."

  "Give it here."

  Renee's jaw was twisted and tight. "I already gave it to you. At the cemetery."

  "Quit bullshitting me, Renee. If you want to trick me into thinking I'm cracking up, you got to do better than that."

  She shook her head, the tears no longer flowing but lying on her cheeks in thin, bright tracks. Jacob almost felt sorry for her, this woman he had loved for nearly a decade. She had lost as much as he had. Perhaps her suffering was even worse, because she believed in a merciful God, and God had proven the worthlessness of her faith.

  "I don't have it," she said. "Talk to Donald. He'll tell you. You're ruined, Jacob. There's no money left, the banks are foreclosing on your property, and even if you get your insurance
money, it's going to be too late to bail you out this time."

  "No. I'm a Wells, damn it. This is my town. They can't take it away from me."

  "Sorry, Jake. You shouldn't have dropped out of your own life."

  "Give me your keys," he said.

  "No. It's my car."

  "Our car. Don't forget whose name's on the title. Wells."

  "Just like the house, huh? And there's nothing left of it but ashes. Everything we owned together is ashes now. Everything a Wells ever touched."

  They both looked at the urn. It had the power of a sacred relic, an icon that marked not the abiding mystery of faith and life but the absolute consuming nadir of despair and failure.

  "I'll drive you back to the Wells farm," she said.

  "I can't stay there."

  "You can't sleep in the bushes."

  Jacob looked at the couch, then down the hall at the starched covers of her bed. When you turn your back on your life, you leave everything behind, even those things that once seemed valuable. "Take me by the ruins, then. Show me where the person called to you from the woods."

  "That was you, Jake."

  "It wasn't. I swear."

  But he couldn't be sure. Maybe visiting the scene of the nightmare would rob it of its power. He had nothing left to lose. Except two million dollars, his wife, and the Wells homestead.

  They drove to Buffalo Trace Lane in silence, Renee keeping her purse in her lap, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. The town seemed like a movie set to Jacob, a false-front stage for the Wells illusion. He hadn't owned Kingsboro. All he had was a name heavier than blocks, girders, and bricks.

  As they pulled into the driveway, Jacob was struck by the harsh emptiness of the lot, as if the blank space in the sky required the satisfying geometry of walls and roof in order to be complete. The rectangular bed of ashes lay like a black, sunken grave. The yellow crime scene tape had drooped, and in places it was broken and fluttering in the breeze like the tails of crippled kites. The trees around the ruin were scorched, the branches stunted and bare. New blackberry vines had thrust from the dead embers scattered beyond the block foundation, as if sharp and painful edges were the next natural evolutionary step here.