He sharpened a knife for Davey, there in his room in the cave, as the boys ran feral in the woods, as the mountain made its slow and ponderous protests.He sharpened a knife, a hunting knife with a rusty blade and a cracked handle that he’d found on one of the woodland trails, beside a hunter’s snare, not lost but pitched away in disgust one winter and not discovered until the following spring.But the nicked blade took an edge as he whetted it with the round stone, and the handle regained its grippiness as he wound a cord tight around it, making tiny, precise knots with each turn, until the handle no longer pinched his hand, until the blade caught the available light from the cave mouth and glinted dully.The boys brought him roots and fruits they’d gathered, sweets and bread they’d stolen, small animals they’d caught. Ed-Fred-George were an unbeatable team when it came to catching and killing an animal, though they were only small, barely out of the second grade. They were fast, and they could coordinate their actions without speaking, so that the bunny or the squirrel could never duck or feint in any direction without encountering the thick, neck-wringing outstretched hands of the pudgy boys. Once, they brought him a cat. It went in the night’s stew.Billy sat at his side and talked. The silence he’d folded himself in unwrapped and flapped in the wind of his beating gums. He talked about the lessons he’d had in school and the lessons he’d had from his big brother, when it was just the two of them on the hillside and Alan would teach him every thing he knew, the names of and salient facts regarding every thing in their father’s domain. He talked about the truths he’d gleaned from reading chocolate-bar wrappers. He talked about the things that he’d see Davey doing when no one else could see it.One day, George came to him, the lima-bean baby grown to toddling about on two sturdy legs, fat and crispy red from his unaccustomed time out-of-doors and in the sun. “You know, heworshipsyou,” Glenn said, gesturing at the spot in his straw bedding where Brad habitually sat and gazed at him and chattered.Alan stared at his shoelaces. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. He’d dreamt that night of Davey stealing into the cave and squatting beside him, watching him the way that he had before, and of Alan knowing,knowingthat Davey was there, ready to rend and tear, knowing that his knife with its coiled handle was just under his pillow, but not being able to move his arms or legs. Paralyzed, he’d watched Davey grin and reach behind him with agonizing slowness for a rock that he’d lifted high above his head and Andrew had seen that the rock had been cherted to a razor edge that hovered a few feet over his breastbone, Davey’s arms trembling with the effort of holding it aloft. A single drop of sweat had fallen off of Davey’s chin and landed on Alan’s nose, and then another, and finally he’d been able to open his eyes and wake himself, angry and scared. The spring rains had begun, and the condensation was thick on the cave walls, dripping onto his face and arms and legs as he slept, leaving behind chalky lime residue as it evaporated.“He didn’t kill her,” Greg said.Albert hadn’t told the younger brothers about the body buried in Craig, which meant that Brad had been talking to them, had told them what he’d seen. Alan felt an irrational streak of anger at Brad—he’d been blabbing Alan’s secrets. He’d been exposing the young ones to things they didn’t need to know. To the nightmares.“He didn’t stop her from being killed,” Alan said. He had the knife in his hand and hunted through his pile of belongings for the whetstone to hone its edge.Greg looked at the knife, and Andy followed his gaze to his own white knuckles on the hilt. Greg took a frightened step back, and Alan, who had often worried that the smallest brother was too delicate for the real world, felt ashamed of himself.He set the knife down and stood, stretching his limbs and leaving the cave for the first time in weeks.
He sharpened a knife for Davey, there in his room in the cave, as the boys ran feral in the woods, as the mountain made its slow and ponderous protests.
He sharpened a knife, a hunting knife with a rusty blade and a cracked handle that he’d found on one of the woodland trails, beside a hunter’s snare, not lost but pitched away in disgust one winter and not discovered until the following spring.
But the nicked blade took an edge as he whetted it with the round stone, and the handle regained its grippiness as he wound a cord tight around it, making tiny, precise knots with each turn, until the handle no longer pinched his hand, until the blade caught the available light from the cave mouth and glinted dully.
The boys brought him roots and fruits they’d gathered, sweets and bread they’d stolen, small animals they’d caught. Ed-Fred-George were an unbeatable team when it came to catching and killing an animal, though they were only small, barely out of the second grade. They were fast, and they could coordinate their actions without speaking, so that the bunny or the squirrel could never duck or feint in any direction without encountering the thick, neck-wringing outstretched hands of the pudgy boys. Once, they brought him a cat. It went in the night’s stew.
Billy sat at his side and talked. The silence he’d folded himself in unwrapped and flapped in the wind of his beating gums. He talked about the lessons he’d had in school and the lessons he’d had from his big brother, when it was just the two of them on the hillside and Alan would teach him every thing he knew, the names of and salient facts regarding every thing in their father’s domain. He talked about the truths he’d gleaned from reading chocolate-bar wrappers. He talked about the things that he’d see Davey doing when no one else could see it.
One day, George came to him, the lima-bean baby grown to toddling about on two sturdy legs, fat and crispy red from his unaccustomed time out-of-doors and in the sun. “You know, heworshipsyou,” Glenn said, gesturing at the spot in his straw bedding where Brad habitually sat and gazed at him and chattered.
Alan stared at his shoelaces. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. He’d dreamt that night of Davey stealing into the cave and squatting beside him, watching him the way that he had before, and of Alan knowing,knowingthat Davey was there, ready to rend and tear, knowing that his knife with its coiled handle was just under his pillow, but not being able to move his arms or legs. Paralyzed, he’d watched Davey grin and reach behind him with agonizing slowness for a rock that he’d lifted high above his head and Andrew had seen that the rock had been cherted to a razor edge that hovered a few feet over his breastbone, Davey’s arms trembling with the effort of holding it aloft. A single drop of sweat had fallen off of Davey’s chin and landed on Alan’s nose, and then another, and finally he’d been able to open his eyes and wake himself, angry and scared. The spring rains had begun, and the condensation was thick on the cave walls, dripping onto his face and arms and legs as he slept, leaving behind chalky lime residue as it evaporated.
“He didn’t kill her,” Greg said.
Albert hadn’t told the younger brothers about the body buried in Craig, which meant that Brad had been talking to them, had told them what he’d seen. Alan felt an irrational streak of anger at Brad—he’d been blabbing Alan’s secrets. He’d been exposing the young ones to things they didn’t need to know. To the nightmares.
“He didn’t stop her from being killed,” Alan said. He had the knife in his hand and hunted through his pile of belongings for the whetstone to hone its edge.
Greg looked at the knife, and Andy followed his gaze to his own white knuckles on the hilt. Greg took a frightened step back, and Alan, who had often worried that the smallest brother was too delicate for the real world, felt ashamed of himself.
He set the knife down and stood, stretching his limbs and leaving the cave for the first time in weeks.