Malcolm wouldn't cry like this. He'd be tough. Didn't know what to do. Ole John Amos over there kept telling me to be like Malcolm, and hate all women.
I decided it was better to act like Malcolm than like me who was a sorry thing. Wasn't no good trying to be King Kong, Tarzan, or even Superman; being Malcolm was better, for I had his book of instructions on how to do it right.
"Bart, it's growing very late. Apple is hungry and waiting for you."
Tired, so tired. "I'm coming," I said wearily. Gee, pretending to be an old man was tiring. Bad to act so old, better to be a boy again. Old meant no time from work and trying to make money with no fun at all. Took all my time getting there now that I made my legs walk slow. Foggy all around. Summer wasn't so hot when you were old. Momma, Momma, where are you? Why don't you come when I need you? When I call, why don't you answer? Don't you love me anymore, Momma? Momma, why aren't you helping me?
I stumbled on, trying to think. Then I found the answer. Nobody could like me, for I didn't belong here, and I didn't belong there. I didn't belong anywhere.
Tales of Evil
. I gobbled down my bacon, scrambled eggs with sour cream and chives, and a third slice of toast as Bart nibbled on and on as if he didn't have any teeth at all. His toast grew cold--waiting for Bart to sip orange juice as if it were poison. An old man on his deathbed could have had more appetite.
He shot a hostile glance my way before he fixed his eyes on Mom. I was jolted. I knew he loved her--how could he look like that?
Something weird was going on in Bart's head. Where was the shy, introverted little brother I used to have? Gradually he was changing into an aggressive, suspicious, cruel boy. Now he was staring at Dad as if he'd done something wrong--but it was Mom who drew most of his scathing looks.
Didn't he know we had the best mother alive? I wanted to shout this out, make him go back to the way he used to be, mumbling to himself as he stumbled around hunting big game, fighting wars, riding herd on cattle. Where had all his love and admiration for Mom gone? Soon as I had the chance I backed Bart up against the garden wall. "What the heck is wrong with you, Bart? Why do you look at Mom so mean?"
"Don't like her no more." He crouched over, put out his arms horizontally and turned himself into a human airplane. That was normal--for Bart. "Clear the way!" he ordered. "Make way for the jet taking off for faraway places!--it's kangeroo shootin time in Australia!"
"Bart Sheffield, why do you always want to kill something?"
His wings fluttered; his plane stalled; his engine died and he was staring at me in confusion. The sweet child he'd been at the beginning of summer came fleeting to his dark brown eyes. "Not gonna kill real kangeroos. Just gonna capture one of those itty-bitty ones and put it in my pocket and wait for it to grow big."
Dumb. Dumb! "First of all, you don't have a pocket with a nipple for the baby to suck." I sat him down hard on a bench. "Bart, it's time you and I had a man-to- man talk. What's troubling you, fella?"
"In a big bright house setting on a high-high hill, while the night was on and the snow came down, the flames of red and yellow shot up higher, higher! Snowflakes turned pink. And in that big old house was an old-old lady who couldn't walk and couldn't talk and my real daddy who was an attorney ran to save her. He couldn't!--and he burned!--burned!-burned!"
Spooky. Crazy. I pitied him "Bart," I began carefully, "you know that isn't the way Daddy Paul died." Why had I put it like that? Bart had been born only a few years before Daddy Paul died. How many years? Almost I could remember my thoughts back then. I could ask Momma, but somehow I didn't want to trouble her more, so I led Bart toward our house. "Bart, your real daddy died while he was sitting on his front veranda reading the newspaper. He didn't die in a fire. He had heart trouble that led to a coronary thrombosis. Dad told us all that, remember?"
I watched his brown eyes grow darker, his pupils dilate, before he raged with a terrible temper. "Don't mean that daddy! Talking about my real daddy! A big strong lawyer daddy who never had a bad heart!"
"Bart, who told you that lie?"
"Burning!" he screamed, whirling around like a man blinded by smoke as he tried to find his way outside. "John Amos told me how it was. All the world was on fire, one Christmas night when the tree burned up. People screamed, ran, stepped on the ones who fell down!--and the biggest, grandest house of them all snared my true father so he died, died, died!"
Boy, I'd heard enough. I was going straight into the house and tell my pa
rents. "Bart, you hear this. Unless you stop going next door and listening to lies and crazy stories, I'm telling Mom and Dad about you--and them next door."
He had his eyes squinted shut, as if trying to see some scene scorched on his brain. He seemed to be looking inward as he described it in more detail to me. Then his dark eyes flew wide open. His look was wild and crazy. "Mind your own damn business, Jory Marquet, if you don't want yours." He swooped to pick up a discarded baseball bat, then took a wild swing that might have splattered my brains if I hadn't ducked. "You tell on me and Grandmother and I'll kill you while you sleep." He said it loud, cold and fiat, his eyes challenging mine
Swallowing, I felt fear raise the hair on my neck. Was I scared of him? No. I couldn't be. As I watched, he suddenly lost his bravado and began to gasp and clutch at his heart. I smiled, knowing his secret--his way of backing out of a real fighting encounter. "All right, Bart," I said coldly. "Now I'm going to let you have it. I'm going next door and I am going to speak to those old people who fill your head with garbage."
His old-man act was quickly abandoned. His lips gaped apart. He stared at me pleadingly, but I whirled on my heel and strode off, never thinking he'd do anything. Wham! Down flat on my face I fell with a weight on my back. Bart had tackled me. Before I could congratulate him for being fast and accurate for a change, he began to pummel my face with his fists.
"You won't look so pretty when I finish." I warded him off as best I could before I noticed he was delivering his blows with his eyes squeezed shut, punching blindly, childishly, sobbing as he did. And I swear, as much as I wanted to I couldn't punch out my kid brother.
"Got yah scared, huh?" He pulled back his upper lip and snarled, looking pleased with himself. "Guess yah know now who's boss, huh? Ain't got nearly the guts you thought you had, do yah?"
I shoved him hard. He fell backward, but darn if I could fight a baby like him, who was strong only when he was angry. "You need a good spanking, Bart Sheffield, and I might be just the one to give it to you. The next time you pull any stunt on me think twice-- or you might be the one left without guts."
"Yer not my brother," he sobbed, all the fight gone out of him. "You're only a half brother, and that's as good as none." He choked on his own emotions and ground his fists into his eyes as he wailed louder.
"You see! That old woman is putting nutty ideas in your head, and one thing you don't need is more nuts in the belfry. She's turning you against your own family-- and I'm going to tell her exactly that."
"Don't you dare!" He shrieked, his tears gone, his rage back. "I'll do something terrible. I will! I swear I will! If you go you'll be sorry!