"Why am I resentful?" I hissed as I moved closer to him so that my mother wouldn't hear us. "You've got to be fucking kidding me, right?"
"No, I don't get it," Lincoln muttered. "You got out and never looked back. I had to stay here with him. I got trapped in this hell hole, and now you come back acting all victimized by a situation you left almost a decade ago?"
I opened my mouth to argue with him, but my mother intervened before I could say any more. The look on her face told me that she wasn't going to allow this discussion to take place in front of the children.
"Do you boys want some of these cookies and a glass of milk," my mother asked. There was a sternness to her voice, and I knew better than to challenge her.
"I'd love some," Lincoln said, looking over at Joey who sat coloring on one of the big sheets of butcher paper that my mother kept stocked just for his visits. "I'm sure Uncle Jack would love some, too. Right?"
"Can't think of anything I'd like more," I said with a fake bright smile. My mother gave us both a warning look and then went into the kitchen to pour the milk.
"After the funeral, we'll meet with the lawyer and settle this," Lincoln said.
"And once that's over, I'm out of here for good," I said. "I want nothing more to do with the mess that man created."
"So, you're going to leave us behind again?" Lincoln said. His face showed anger, but his eyes were deep wells of pain. "Great. Just fucking great."
"Gamma! Daddy said a bad word!" Joey yelled.
"I'm sure your daddy didn't mean to say a bad word, did he?" my mother said as she carried a tray of full milk glasses into the dining room and set it on the table. "Did he?"
"No, Mother, I certainly did not," Lincoln said bowing his head slightly. I caught Jessie's disapproving look out of the corner of my eye and knew that there was something else going on.
Lincoln took a glass of milk and one of the cookies my mother offered, and shot me a look that let me know this was far from over.
*
After Lincoln and Jessie and the kids finally left, I said goodnight to my mother and went up to the room she'd assigned me. It had once been the room that Lincoln and I shared, but after we'd gone to college and moved out, my mother had renovated and turned it into a permanent guest room.
I hated the room. It reminded me of an ice cream parlor, with the peach striped wallpaper running halfway up the wall ending in cream wainscoting. The upper half of the walls was painted a frothy peach color, which matched the bedding and all of the accessories. The room made me feel like throwing up.
I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, trying to conjure the image of the room before its makeover—back when Lincoln and I had still been close.
We'd begged my parents to paint the walls navy blue so that we could hang bright, space-themed posters on the walls. We had ordered glow-in-the-dark stars from the back of a comic book and wanted to fix them to the ceiling. My father had ignored the requests until we finally drove him over the edge. He'd taken off his belt and punished us for having annoyed him then told us to take our request to our mother.
My mother's mouth had formed a thin, grim line when she saw what Father had done to us with his belt. She agreed to have the bedroom painted a dark blue. The painters came the next week and laid down tarps before they coated the walls in darkness. Lincoln and I had watched from the hallway as they worked, discussing the various ways we were going to arrange the posters and mapping out a pattern for the stars. The punishment had happened almost two weeks before, but Lincoln was still limping a little from it.
"You okay?" I asked as we descended the stairs in search of snacks in the kitchen.
"Yeah, I'm good," Lincoln said over his shoulder. "I just forgot not to stiffen my legs when he hit. It'll be fine in another few days."
I nodded and wondered why our father felt the need to punish us so severely over things that seemed so trivial. Once we'd gotten our snacks and taken them out to the patio, I worked up the courage to ask Lincoln.
"Why do you think Pop does what he does to us?" I asked as I took a bite of a peanut butter sandwich and followed it with a swig of milk.
"Dunno," Lincoln mumbled through his sandwich. He chewed for a few moments, swallowed, and said, "I think he's stressed out about something, and we're the way he works out that stress. Either that, or he's one sadistic son-of-a-bitch."
"What's sadistic?" I asked earnestly. As my older brother by two years, Lincoln was both my encyclopedia and dictionary.
"It means you like seeing other people in pain," he replied as he took another huge bite of his sandwich.
"Oh, yeah, that makes sense then," I said. "But he doesn't seem to be happier after he punishes us. Does that count?"
"It's not that it makes people happy, dummy," Lincoln said with a full mouth. "It's that he likes it."
"That's just weird," I said, popping the last bite into my mouth and chasing it with the last bit of milk. I liked it when things evened out just right.
"I didn't say it made sense," Lincoln said crossly. "I'm just saying …"