The Memory Giver (#Wattys2014)

Chapter 16

                                                         Chapter sixteen

        That night they hung out in Turtle’s room.  They lay across his bed, comic books open on the floor beneath them, snacking from the stash box as they poured over X-Men adventures.  During the day the old feelings had returned, the feelings of love and loss surrounding his brother. By the time they’d emptied their super-soakers for the last time, the setting sun was a golden haze in the horizon, and Turtle was conflicted. 

        Like it or not, he was bound to A.D., the bindings forged in the fires of years of constant companionship. He felt helplessly attached to him. It was as if he were a child with an old familiar teddy bear, one he’d had for as far back as he could remember. The stuffing was showing and an eyeball was hanging by a thread, yet no matter how ugly it had become he couldn’t let it go. 

        A.D. was a part of him. The past few weeks with Rita had been the most wonderful weeks of his life.  But Rita was his friend and A.D. was his brother.  His brother.  Blood.

        He suspected there was no way he could hang onto both of them.  Telling Rita about his dead brother back from the grave was like saying sayonara senorita.  He wasn’t sure how A.D. might respond if he told him about Rita, either (Yes, if, not when), but he got an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he thought about it. He tried telling himself he was waiting for the right moment to tell each of them about the other.  But in his heart of hearts he felt his wonderful new life was surrounded by the walls of Jericho, and that if the truth ever got out, the walls would come tumbling down.

        He again thought of how things might have been if A.D. had never returned.

         “You’re getting’ awful quiet over there, Mushmouse. You gettin’ sleepy?” A.D.s voice, gentle and soothing pulled him from his thoughts.

        “Nah. I was just thinking.”  His own voice seemed muted, even to himself.

        “About what?”

        “Umm, about us.”

        After a brief silence A.D. said.  “Is this the part where we kiss?”

        Turtle snorted out a laugh.  Only A.D. could make him laugh so easily.  “pucker up, Buttercup,” he said and reached for his brother.

        A.D. rolled away from him, winding up on his back.  “Seriously.  What’s up?”

        Turtle considered his brother, lying in the dark looking so very much alive.  A.D. smiled at him.  It was a coaxing smile. Since telling A.D. about Rita was off the table, Turtle’s thoughts went careening around inside his head. His mind went into default mode, latching onto the kind of thing he would have told his protective brother two years earlier.

        “Ansley Meade and his brothers tried to jump me,” he said.

        “Huh?  What are you talking about?” A.D. was smiling at him. It was a playful smile as if Turtle were pulling his chain.

        The story of Turtle’s encounter with the Meades began flowing from his lips.  Even as he spoke he felt the opening strains of hopelessness begin to play in the background.  They played softly at first, a flicker in A.D.’s inquisitive eyes. The small voice inside should have told Turtle to stop talking, yet the words flowed, and as they did, A.D. rolled off of his back, first onto his side and then sitting up, listening intently, the familiar darkness building in his eyes.

        A crescendo was brewing, like the end of a sad but brilliant overture, and Turtle got the sick feeling this song was going to end badly—a funeral dirge, but whose funeral?  

        Still, the words continued to flow. He couldn’t stop himself. Whenever he was picked-on in the past, or had a problem, he always brought it to A.D., and despite the sick feeling building inside, he couldn’t help but repeat the familiar pattern.

        A.D. was on his feet, pacing like a panther by the time Turtle had finished his tale.  “Okay, come on,” he said and began moving toward the door.

        “Where?”  Turtle’s voice rose with panic.

        A.D. turned to him, his face a mask of rage.  “Where do you think?” he said, the rage spilling into his words.

        “It’s after ten o’clock.”  Turtle said, a near whine.

        “Doesn’t matter,” A.D. replied.  “Too much time has passed already.”

        “What are we going to do?” The words vibrated with fear.

        “I don’t know.  I’ll think of something on the way.  Come on.”  A.D. looked at him pensively.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you when this happened.”

        “That’s okay,” Turtle replied, wishing he could say more, wishing he could say this is my battle, not yours.

        A.D. stomped across the room, placed his hand on the door knob.

        “What are you?” The words slinked up Turtles throat and slid across his lips.

        A.D. wheeled around, eyes incredulous.  “What?”

        “What are you?” he asked again.  He was searching for anything that could keep them in the room.

        “Not now, Mushmouse, okay? I’m your freakin’ brother.  Okay?”

        Turtle’s head began to shake slowly. “Not okay.  Before my brother died, he couldn’t turn himself into smoke, crawl up my nose and shake loose long forgotten memories. No human being I know can do that. So forgive me for being so inquisitive, A.D., but WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU?”

        “I’M BACK!” A.D.’s words were a blast furnace of anger.  “Let me ask you a question?” he said, taking a jab step toward Turtle.  “What are you?  What kind of man let’s Ansley Meade get away with shit like that? You should be ashamed of yourself. You should’ve kicked his ass!”

        “I can’t beat Ansley.”

        “How do you know?  Have you ever tried?”

        “No,” Turtle replied, and he could feel himself shrinking inside.

        “I’m not gonna always be here to defend you, Turtle.  But I’m here now.  Let’s go.”  He peered into Turtle’s eyes, his own eyes blazing.

        After a long moment, Turtle spoke.  “Okay,” he said, his voice a near whisper.

        “Good,” A.D. responded, releasing a tired sigh that sounded like the last air going out of a balloon. “Good,” he said again more softly, as he turned and moved back toward the door.  After another moment, Turtle followed.

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