Another slice of life, vignette.


I hear a dog bark.

Which would be fine, cept we don't have a dog, and neither do our next door neighbors.

Waking up I rub heavy, sleep crusted eyes and remembering the last place my hands were before I drifted off into a too short but glorious dream about me and my girl, yank sweaty hands off my face.

Linda's headlights are twice as big in my dreams as they are in real life. Is that normal? I dunno, but hell, I like it.

Mom is sleeping, she's a sound sleeper. I'm not. I hear every scary ass shit sound that vibrates through my room like it's a Roman Colosseum. Since Dad left for Texas every nocturnal noise causes my ears to perk up like a bloodhound's.

I don't have a gun in my room, but I know where Dad keeps his. And I'm a good shot.

Least I'd be a good shot if we got robbed by a bunch of ducks. People? Well no one in my family's ever shot a person, except Uncle Pat and Uncle Daniel in the war and Uncle Pat doesn't speak about it and Uncle Daniel can't. He was eaten by a shark in the south Pacific.

Most of the time when I hear the unwanted noises, I move a few inches, raise my head about half an inch off my pillow, and over the sound of my heartbeat, the real culprit emerges. I hear the crickets, the tree frogs, the squeak of late night tires whipping against tar and gravel. I hear every damn shout and coarse curse from a night of too much drinking and hell knows what else that comes from the Cade home.

Once I know the sound ain't nothing to be concerned about, I pull my thick pillow over my head, pinning my ears under layers of cotton and feathers. Sometimes willing myself to go back to sleep, other times imaging the thick, warm pillow is Linda's tits and I'm snugged between 'em.

Those dreams are nice. Real nice.

But tonight, even as I push the pillow so tight round my ears I can only hear the soundwaves from deep inside my inner ear, the barking continues.

Turning on my side so my left ear, my better ear, is pressed against Linda's pillow tits I will the sound to stop; a trickster the sound only grows louder, and it feels like it's coming from inside of me. Like a waterlogged ear, except instead of the swoosh of hot shower water I hear the steady bark of a dog.

Great, I press my fingers against my aching temple, I'm losing my mind.

Being the man of the house, I rub my dirty hands against Dad's old Haines shirt and my gray "Y" sweats and stumble out of bed, nearly tripping on Dad's old work boots, now mine, now with their toes stuffed with cotton pulled from Mom's cabinet.

My eyes fully dilated with hyper vigilance dart across a darkened hallway making out the edges of family photos and a frame containing a swatch of a Schmidt family quilt. My body, half-dead with sleep lumbers far behind. My calf muscles are still in bed, still wrapped around Linda's warm, ghost body.

I stagger, bumping into shadows of shadows. Our house don't have much in the way of furnishings, but we sure as hell got a lot of shadows.

The crack of light peeking through the kitchen window takes me by surprise. My eyes blink, adjusting to a light I don't expect. It's already morning and I let out a tiny sigh of relief.

I figure no one's gonna rob us in the morning; not only are the neighbors up, but the robber can see we don't got nothing worth taking.

Mom always tells us that worn furniture has a lot of 'sentimental value' that there's a story behind every torn piece of fabric. That sounds all hackneyed to me, like when Mom tells us that our messy and useless Mother's Day ceramic candy dishes we made in elementary school is the best gift she'd ever received. Every 2 or 4 years she receives the best gift ever. Our house is dripping in sentimental value.

She always points out a small fingernail size crack in the coffee table, where I chipped my baby tooth. The coffee table is so old now, I can't even find my crack among all the other cracks, slivers and bruising that table's taken over the years. Mom tries to tell us that what we have is worth more than money, but I've never heard of any guy arrested for stealing stuff cause it has 'sentimental value.'

That's when I see it, the cause of all the ruckus. The white-grey light of our T.V. set. The Adventures of Rin-Tin-Tin is on. I interrupted my dream about Linda for a stupid kiddie show?

Christ.

Soda and Pony are lying flat on their stomach, naked except for their Haines. They both got the exact same pose, their feet up in the air, their chin in their hands. They're so close to the T.V. I'm surprised they're not getting shocked by the static.

What the hell are they doing up so early on Saturday? The boys were up late last night, 'til Midnight. It was the first time Pony's been up late enough to watch the sign off. As the National Anthem played, Soda did a messy headstand, bending his legs, slamming his feet into our couch, adding even more 'sentimental value' as Mom would see it, to our comfy, but ratty looking couch.

Pony stood up and put his hand on his heart, mouthing the words with an earnest, if tired gaze. Patriotism is for the young.

I didn't even realize Soda was paying attention until he shout-sang "and the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air!"

I shushed him, telling him not to wake up Mom. He gave me the finger. I was too tired to do anything but keep it locked in my bank of ways I've been wronged and screwed; I'll cash his check later.

I tried to hide a yawn, embarrassed that I was so tired and counted down the seconds until the sign off, while my kid brothers, even Pony, looked like they could stay up for at least another hour.

With only the light of the television and my eyes still adjusting to the severe prisms of light and shadow, Pony's hair looks almost as light as Soda's. Soda's kinda slouched, and that makes him look almost as small as Pony.

I blink. I can hardly tell 'em apart.

Soda's underwear is seeping down, and from what I know about the law of physics, this is one battle he ain't gonna win. Already, I can see the top of his butt crack peek through.

"Shit, Soda pull up your drawers, I ain't wanting to see no ass crack at this time of morning."

I surprise myself.

Not only how easy my words disciplining my little brother flows out, but how much I sound like dad.

Even right down to the accent. The southern drawl in my voice isn't as thick as my Dad's or even Soda, who kinda sounds some sleepy-eyed cowboy just moseying his way through our lives; even as his physical body is like a tornado, always twisting, running, bumping and colliding into everything.

I've never met anyone who could talk so slow but move so fast as my brother.

He pulls his underwear down further, covering up a smirk with his palm.

"Least you can't smell his crack!" Pony pipes up, plugging his nose, he giggles at his own quip like it's the funniest thing in the world. I'm surprised Pony doesn't pull his underwear down a bit letting his own crack show.

He's always aping Soda.

But his underwear is pulled up all the way. It's almost comical, he looks like a little old man.

I roll my eyes, though my mouth is curled into a slight grin.

"Oh, you wanna smell my crack You wanna smell my ass? Okay!" Soda's laughing, but there's a hollowness in his laugh and before I know it he puts his tanned, scar-covered knee on the only part of Pony's back untouched by sunburn or the faint golden tan line, pinning him to the ground.

I watch, a disinterested referee; I know Soda would never really hurt Pony, but I'm a bit taken by how swiftly he pinned Pony down, the force by which he grabs his wrist and pulls them behind Pony's head.

Even in the skeevy light of dawn I can tell it's gonna leave a temporary mark.

Against Soda, Pony don't stand a chance.

Soda's never been a meek kid, but ever since Dad left for Texas, he's been even quicker to strike a blow over the littlest thing. Even Pony, who Soda loves more than anyone or anything, isn't always safe from his temper.

Pony grits his teeth and he kinda looks like I do when I'm angry. I never noticed that before. But even though he's at the disadvantage, he refuses to wuss out or to cry uncle.

He doesn't give up. He could join my old Pop Warner team, if his build wasn't so damn puny.

Watching him under the weight of his stronger, bigger, more seasoned and let's face it, crazier, brother but still not give up; I begin to root for him. Motioning with my hands that he should try to grab for Soda's ankle, throw him off.

Their legs are tangled up together, both of their faces gritted in the almost exact same expression and they morph into some weird blob right in front of me and though they're trying to wrestle each other they never looked or seemed more alike.

They are almost silent except for heavy breathing (Pony & Soda) and low murmured curses (Soda). They're at a stalemate, when Pony slithers out of Soda's grasp, pushing Soda's arm off him and stands up triumphant.

"Ha!"

I can't help but smile, and I wonder if this pride I'm feeling is what my dad felt when I triumphantly came home, busted lip, but grinning like an ol' Jack O' Lantern after clobbering Jesse Walker who had a good 15 lbs on me?

Pony smiles back at me and maybe it's the glare of the T.V. or the fact that I'm still dead ass tired, but the way Pony is standing tall, the way he crosses his arms, he looks like me at eight. Even his skinny body doesn't seem as puny as it normally does.

I wonder if with my uncontrolled bed head and Dad's old shirt on, I remind him of Dad as much as he reminds me of my younger self.

Soda glances at his empty arms with a charged look and I'm expecting some fireworks, not at Pony so much, but at me.

Not that he can take me on. It's almost pathetic to even think of Soda trying to jump me. Course it's even more pathetic thinking of me at 14 trying to fight off a 10 year old kid. But I don't want Mom to wake up, so in a spirit of brotherly love I cross my arms and glare at him, the message, 'try anything buddy and you're dead' I hope reads loud and clear.

Soda looks at Pony, and something inside of him is tempered.

"Good job Pony. Man you got a good grip, Ponykid."

He shakes his head with pride.

I shake my head, wondering if I imagined that a minute ago Soda was all over Pony, looking at him with anything but pride.

But that's Soda, he switches off and on so quickly that he makes you question your own eyes and mind.

He ruefully rubs the area of his arm that Pony yanked, grinning the whole time and though it's clear that he's putting on a show for Pony's benefit, I don't miss the look of total glory and gratitude that Pony shoots Soda. We all know that Soda is Pony's hero. The part of my brain which needs to make everything a competition, to divide the world into winners and losers can't help but compare the grin he gives Soda and the smile he gave me.

It's like the difference between Linda's real tits and her dreamland tits.

There's no comparison.


Soda puts his arm around Pony, "I'm real sorry I got mad at you, I shouldn't have."

Pony like he always does forgives Soda before Soda even forgives himself, "it's nothin' Soda."

Soda looks down and carefully examines Pony's arms for any redness, to my surprise there isn't any markings.

They leave me, Rin Tin Tin and the dawn's early light alone in the living room.

Just as they turn the corner, Pony turns his head and loudly mouths "thanks Darry!"

I shrug disinterested, but the smile on my face betrays everything.


Thank you for reading! :)

S.E. Hinton owns