The Fortunate Brother. Donna Morrissey

the brush, passing the scorched remains of the Trapps’ sawmill and ending at the bottom of the hillside, directly behind his house. His father had cut the trail to shorten their walking distance to Hampden. Faster route getting to school in the mornings than walking the length of Wharf Road and then cutting back up Bottom Hill. Kyle hurried past the shortcut. Rather a longer walk than passing that creaking, stinking ruin in the dark.

      Another creaking started to his left and he picked up his step. Jaysus. He hated this gawd-damn stretch of road; there was always someone seeing a bear prowling around here. Chris wouldn’t be scared. One night like this they were both walking down Bottom Hill and heard something coming up the road towards them—click-clap, click-clap, click-clap. And then a reddish pinprick of light appeared in the distance, weaving through the dark in their direction. Kyle almost had a fit thinking it was a fucking bear, and he drew back, readying to throw himself off the road and thrash insanely through the woods. But Chris reached back and took his hand and it was warm and strong and he, Kyle, was a big boy of thirteen or fourteen but he let his older brother lead him towards that click-clap, click-clap and the reddish pinprick eye burning closer. Chris’s step never faltered while Kyle’s heart was kicking with fright. And then the thing was in front of them. A young fellow running with two Pepsi cans stuck onto the bottom of his boots, smacking his hands to his sides, a cigarette stuck in his mouth. Chris released his hand and they kept walking. Kyle looked back.

      “What’s that fucking idiot doing?”

      “Scaring off bears,” said Chris.

      Kyle thought for a minute. “Good thinking. But he’s still a fucking idiot!”

      Chris busted out laughing. It felt good, his making Chris laugh like that. Felt more like a friend than a kid brother. It was the first time he had ever felt a sense of his self.

      He wished Chris was here now; he wished his big warm hand was holding his. “Where you at, old buddy?” he called to the heavens. He felt himself choking on unleashed tears and bent over to get a grip on himself. He bent too far and staggered off balance. He was closer than he thought to the edge of the road, and with a yelp, he fell over. Rolled down a rough slope, his shirt scraping up his back and his ribs striking against the cold rough bark of a black spruce. He tried to get back up, tried to pull his shirt back down, but the pain in his ribs cut off his breath. Jaysus. He heard something or someone cry out—a faint cry—more like a scream, a weird scream.

      He lay still, listening, and heard nothing, only the wind rifling through the trees. The fog crept through the woods and drifted over his face like melting snow, and he smiled. Julia . .

      A knife-cutting pain through his ribs. He opened his eyes to darkness and wet ground pressing against his face. He tried to move—oh Christ, his ribs. He held on to them and crawled back up the bank to the road, wondering how the hell he’d ended up down there. He smelled smoke. Someone had a fire lit. Kate.

      He started down Bottom Hill, legs straddling the quavering road like a fisherman negotiating a heaving boat on choppy seas. He turned onto Wharf Road and then onto the gravel flat, his stomach roiling. He bent over and vomited so hard he emptied his stomach with one heave. His stomach kept heaving and he fell to his knees now, gagging on bile and gasping for breath. Water leaked through his eyes and nose and his head spun and he held it in his hands. Jaysus.

      Dragging his coat sleeve across his mouth, he stood. He waited a moment, his stomach settling. He weaved cautiously towards the glow of the fire. It was just Kate sitting there, picking at her guitar strings.

      “Hey.” He lowered himself onto a log opposite her and missed, his butt hitting the beach rocks hard. “Hey, Kate. Sing us a shong—song!”

      Kate tightened a key on the neck of her guitar. She didn’t look up, didn’t speak, didn’t smile in greeting. Her fingers weren’t calm and fondling and patient with her tuning, but fidgety and stiff. She tightened and plinked and tightened. Her hair wasn’t braided tonight, but fluffed out in soft, rippled curls that floated around her shoulders. Hardly ever saw her hair loose. Going to church, sometimes. She always went to church Sunday mornings.

      “What’s up?” he asked. A dog barked from up the road and he shivered. “Arse. Near broke my jaw.” He wriggled his lower jaw.

      “Who, the dog?”

      “Close enough. Gillard. He sucker-punched me.”

      Kate bent her head over the neck of her guitar.

      “Down by the bar. Just out of nowhere. Punched me.”

      “He’s been prowling about of late. Something getting him stirred again.”

      Kyle wriggled his jaw some more. “Don’t think it could wriggle if it was broke?”

      “No.”

      “Yeah. Good, then. What’s up, Kate?”