“He’s not the type of psychology we study. His way of thinking isn’t useful.” There was the soft crunch of a cookie. “But I’m sure he would’ve had something to say about the size of your gun.” There it was again, the mixture of child and man. The ravenous inroads he was making into the Oreos was the picture of a hungry Little Leaguer after the big game. The psychological point of view combined with a swipe worthy of Saul himself put him in the range of a cynical and caustic forty-year-old.
Bemused, I felt my lips curve. “Keep up with the sarcasm and I’ll take my cookies back.” I didn’t mean it of course. If anything, I was happy, fucking delirious to see a hint of humor in him. It made him seem a little less than a galaxy length out of reach.
“I wasn’t being sarcastic,” he said seriously, flattening my cheer instantly. “The weapon is obviously an attempt to overcome your insecurity in many areas.” Fingers prying the next cookie from its row, he finished matter-of-factly, “You’re vulnerable. You should watch that.”
Now what the hell could you say to that, I thought, nonplussed. And my 9mm was a perfectly normal-sized gun, no bigger than . . . shit. Cutting off that train of non-productive thought, I frowned with confusion. “Aren’t you at all curious, L . . . Michael? I swoop in and drag you off in a scene straight out of a movie. Don’t you have any questions about that?” Just one normal question to let me feel as if I had some control over the situation?
“No.” Finally done with the cookies, he’d placed them carefully on the floor by his feet. “Either this is a test and you’ll lie or you’re an enemy and you’ll lie.” He rested his head back on the seat. From the corner of my eye I watched as he closed his. “Or you’re a crazy man and you really do think I’m your brother. It’s still lies, only then you’re lying to yourself.”
Our first conversation in ten years was considerably different from our last regarding sidekicks and sand-castles, heroes and horses. Right then I was more than ready, cowardly enough, for the grown-up in Michael to be gone and the child to reappear. The child I could handle, but this unwavering brick wall of a young man—I wasn’t sure I could. I wasn’t even sure I could see him . . . truly see him at all, not as he really was. That would involve letting go of the vision of a seven-year-old tag-along who had shadowed me silently into adulthood. I didn’t think I would ever be willing to do that.
Beside me I could see him chew his bottom lip, leaving a smear of chocolate. The motion didn’t last long, not with this self-possessed kid. His mouth relaxed as his jaw conversely tightened. He was tired; with the night he’d had it wasn’t any surprise. The one thing, the only thing, he needed now was to rest. No one had accused me of having a soft heart . . . not the ex-girlfriends and not the men who’d ended up on the wrong side of my fists or gun. But this was my brother, no matter what he thought. For him I had a number of emotions. They were ancient ones and rusty from disuse, but they were there and chief among them was a mile-wide protective streak.
“Go to sleep, Michael,” I directed, not ungently. “It’s a long drive.” Especially when you had no idea where you were going. I’d picked a direction and gone with it, not that I had much choice in that. There weren’t many options this far down in the state. For now I was simply running. Determining the destination would come when I was positive there was no pursuit.
He opened his eyes to give me a searching glance. There was no fear, but there was no trust either. “Come on, Freud,” I assured with rueful patience. “You’ve been kidnapped, shot at, and fed cookies. What else could possibly happen? Take a nap already.”
From the skeptical narrowing of his eyes I realized he thought that argument lacking, but he slid down in the seat, twisted onto his side as much as the seat belt would allow, and rested his head against the door. It wasn’t long before I heard the deep and regular respiration of sleep. Looking away from the road, I took in the sight of his loose shoulders and the lax line of his spine under the white cloth.
He was here. He was really here. I could stretch out a hand if I wanted and lay it on his arm. I could touch him, flesh and blood that held genetic hands with my own. I could, but I didn’t. He might have woken up or he might have disappeared . . . a soap bubble popping under reality’s touch. I wasn’t willing to risk either option.