Boys of Blur

  Sugar turned the boat and throttled the engine all the way down. He let the little aluminum shell drift as they took in the view.

  Charlie glanced back at him. “I know it’s insane,” he said, “but we should hurry. I haven’t even gotten started until I get all the way to the swamp past the church.”

  Sugar burst out laughing. “Did you really think I was going to send you off on your secret swamp mission? No way. Everyone loves Mother Wisdom, but Mack is Coach. He would seriously kill me if I found you and then let you take off again.”

  Charlie’s mouth fell open. For a moment, relief flooded through him, but it was just as suddenly gone. Charlie closed his mouth as Sugar throttled the engine back up and the boat surged forward through the drizzling rain and the fading daylight.

  Bouncing in the bow, clutching his bag, Charlie was cold all the way from his wet skin to his shivering bones. Every time he blinked, he saw Cotton—made of clay, bloodless and still. He pictured another stone box sliding beneath dark water, one with coz carved on the top.

  Eventually, the trees were gone, replaced with acres and acres of needle-tipped grass. The grass finally thinned and the boat slowed, turning into a narrow channel of water with green on both sides.

  And Charlie was starting to feel sick. His head was lighter and his stomach was gurgling, threatening to knot. Pressure was building behind his eyebrows. His eyes felt hot, but the rest of him was cold.

  Mrs. Wisdom had been right. Or maybe he was just boatsick. He hoped.

  “We’re south of Taper,” Sugar said. “We’ll double back up the canal by the dike.”

  As they entered the deep canal that lined the lake, Charlie scanned the dike. It was too tall for him to see anything behind it. Above it, he could see the distant aura of bright lights. Above the light, a helicopter was circling with a spotlight sweeping down from its belly.

  “What’s with all the light?” Charlie asked.

  “Friday,” Sugar said. “Football. First home game without Coach Wiz since I don’t know when.”

  “Really?” Charlie asked. “Still?” He couldn’t imagine people playing a game right now.

  “Football and church,” Sugar said, “don’t cancel for nobody.”

  “The chopper?” Charlie asked. “Is it looking for us?”

  “Nah,” Sugar said. “Just for trouble. Town needs a game right now. Last couple days, people been hating in Taper like I’ve never seen. Craziness. Houses been broke into, diner got burned, every nice car in town been smashed up, muggings, two shootings. And the whole place keeps stinkin’ up like skunk and sewer line.”

  “Envy,” said Charlie. He wiped rain from his forehead and tried not to shiver.

  “Rivalry game,” Sugar said. “According to the cops.”

  “Mack’s there?” Charlie asked. “At the lights?”

  “Nah,” said Sugar. “But someone there will know how to reach him. He hasn’t stopped looking for you, not even to breathe.” Sugar turned the boat and killed the motor. They were drifting sideways toward a dock in the shadow of the dike. Sugar stood up and stepped to the rail, leaning out over the water, stretching a long arm toward the dock. His throwing arm.

  “Hold on,” Charlie said suddenly. “What time does the game start? Why aren’t you there?”

  Sugar was silent. He pulled the boat up against the dock and held it while Charlie climbed out. Charlie watched him loop a rope around a dock cleat and then cinch it tight. The older boy dragged his arm across his forehead and sat back down. He picked up a stained and frayed ball cap from the bottom of the boat, pushed back his dark hair, and pulled it on. He didn’t look at Charlie once through the whole process.

  “What is it?” Charlie asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Sugar pulled his hat back off and stuck it on his knee. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. When he spoke, it was to the bottom of the boat.

  “I’ve hated you for a long time, Charlie. Probably as long as you’ve been alive.”

  Charlie blinked and took one step back.

  Sugar finally looked up. “But now … well, now I don’t.”

  “Why would you hate me?” Charlie asked. “We’ve never met before. I’ve never even been to this place.”

  Sugar exhaled long and slow. “Charlie … I’m your brother.”

  Charlie shook his head. “I don’t—”

  “Your dad, our dad, put a ring on my mom’s finger when they were both in high school, before he left for college. They set a date. But then he hit the big time and was gone for good. She even bought a dress. When I was little, she would hang his football pictures in my room. When I was four, she took me to bars to watch his games on TV, bought me team gear from those fools who drafted him into the pros. Told me that my daddy was rich and famous and amazing.” Sugar’s voice dripped anger. He clenched his knees and rocked slowly where he sat.

  Charlie was numb. He wiped drizzle from his eyes. Whispered through the distance, he could hear cheering. Drums. Chanting.

  Sugar stared hard at Charlie.

  “He never answered her letters. Never took her calls. So my mom saved up money and then put me in a car, and we went looking for Bobby Reynolds. She still wore that stupid ring. We waited outside stadiums after games. I finally met him standing beside a team bus. He was surprised to see my mom. He looked terrified to see me. He told her never to come around again, that he’d gotten married. That he had his own son.” Sugar laughed. “Looked right at me and said it. ‘I have my own son.’ I was five.”

  Sugar stood up in the rocking boat, smiled at Charlie, and shrugged. “So I hated you. For the next few years, I was birthday-wishing you dead so he would come back. My mom throws her ring in the swamp, burns her dress, moves us up the muck to Taper—where everyone already hated Bobby Reynolds—and then marries her fat old boss. Pretty soon after, Bobby Reynolds blows up hard and awful, goes to jail, and the next thing I know, I’m eleven years old and the word goes round that Bobby Reynolds is coming back to the muck. And even though he never calls and never comes by, I was just glad that you didn’t have him anymore. You and me, we were finally even. Until I see a picture of you from the paper. People cut it out and stuck it up in just about every window in Taper. It’s still under the glass by the cash register in the hardware store. Mack has his arm around your mom, and he’s in his pads and he’s covered with sweat and champagne and confetti, and he has you sitting up on his shoulder. And the caption says something simple like, ‘Prester Mack celebrates with wife, Natalie, and son, Charlie.’ I don’t know how old you were.…”

  “Eight,” Charlie said, and he swallowed hard. He was feeling dizzy. And he was sweating, even in the cool, wet air. He could taste the salt on his lips. “Sugar, I—”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you all this right now. It’s just I’ve been sitting on it so long, and when you came to town, I was hoping for a chance.” Sugar hopped up onto the dock. “It’s not your fault. Coach Wiz got my head mostly straight when I hit high school, but when I saw you with Mack at the funeral, I was scared I might start hating you again. But I didn’t. You were just … my little brother. I hadn’t even thought about that part. I have a brother. That’s why I’m not at the game. That’s why I’ve been out looking for you.”

  “Sugar—” Charlie said. His ankle throbbed. His knee wobbled.

  “Half brother.” Sugar smiled. “I know. But out here …”

  “… brothers is brothers,” Charlie finished. “I’m going to be sick.”

  For a split second, Sugar looked insulted. And then Charlie slipped onto his knees, flopped onto his belly, and threw up in the canal.

  Charlie stared at the spatter on the water. He felt better empty and lying down. It kept the blood in his head.

  But the water reeked. Even worse than his own chuck. Like sewage or something nastier. He snorted and spat and watched the dark ripples carry it away.

  Sugar. His brother. He wondered if Mack knew. Why would he? It was
strange and awkward and …

  The smell was getting worse.

  Why should Sugar hate him? Charlie was the one who’d gotten kicked around. Sugar was the lucky one. Of course Mack knew Sugar was his brother. He knew when he had Sugar throw that ball to Charlie. Mack had wanted to embarrass him, to show his older brother that Charlie was just an uncoordinated little tick.

  Charlie blinked. That wasn’t like Mack at all. He scrambled up to his knees. Sugar was standing above him with his hands on his hips. His lip was curling.

  “You know, you reek.” Sugar sneered. “Forget everything I just said. I should throw you into the canal right now. Bro.”

  “No!” Charlie shook his head. He pointed past his brother. Sugar turned. A man stood twenty feet away on the narrow ramp between the dock and the bank. He was wearing a ragged cape of rotting raccoon skins, a pair of ripped-up pleated dress slacks, one shoe, and nothing else. A mass of mud ran up his torso and into his clumped and tangled beard.

  Sugar took a step back. “Who are you?”

  “Stank,” Charlie said. He climbed to his feet. “He’s one of the Stanks. Whatever bad things you’re thinking right now, ignore them. It’s the smell.”

  Sugar gagged. His eyes were hot with hate and his fists were balled.

  Charlie was panting through his mouth, trying to ignore thoughts as quickly as they spattered across his mind.

  The Gren pulled a massive hooked club over his shoulder and pointed it at the boys. But he didn’t step onto the dock.

  Why wasn’t the Gren attacking?

  “The water,” Charlie said. “Mrs. Wiz said to get them into deep water.”

  Mack eased out of his new car and stood in the open door with one arm on the roof. The headlights shone on a slumping, flat-roofed shack. A crumbling chimney decorated one end of the little building, and a cockeyed door was almost centered between two small windows. A light was on inside.

  Mack’s wipers squeaked across his windshield and went back to sleep. For just a moment, he shut his eyes and felt the rain. His stomach held nothing but coffee, and he needed sleep. His throat was raw from yelling in the cane and in the glades and at the sheriff. He’d almost gotten himself arrested.

  He glanced into the backseat of the car. Natalie hadn’t wanted to be in front. She hadn’t wanted to be seen. She was leaning forward, peering through the windshield. Molly was asleep in the car seat beside her.

  Natalie nodded. She was still wearing his heavy rings around her neck. “This is it,” she said. “He only brought me here once, but I’m sure.”

  Mack inhaled long and hard and stepped away from the car. A gun would be nice, tucked into the back of his waistband. Or some cops, though if they’d tagged along, they’d be more likely to arrest him than their old teammate, Bobby Reynolds.

  All Mack had was a phone, his wife, and his daughter. And an awful feeling.

  “Bobby!” Mack shouted. He walked toward the front door. “Bobby Reynolds!”

  Mack stepped under a little stoop above the front door. He thumped the door with his fist, then tried the knob.

  The cockeyed door swung open, dragging through a long, scraped-out groove as it did. Mack stared into the silent, glowing room.

  “Bobby?” He stepped inside. “You here?”

  There was a tightly made bed against one plank wall with a blanket folded at the foot. A lamp, a bookshelf, an overflowing ashtray. A thick rag rug, a woodstove, a sink, a refrigerator barely bigger than a five-gallon bucket, and a toilet sitting in a boxed-in closet with the door open.

  Two newspaper photos hung on the wall, one of which Mack recognized immediately—Natalie had hung a large print of it in their bathroom. Mack was in his pads and drenched with champagne, holding Charlie on his shoulder. Natalie was standing beside him, laughing and lovely, more alive and beautiful than anyone he had ever seen. That part of the photo, worn and creased, was in Mack’s wallet.

  The other photo was of Sugar, his lean arms crossed, long black hair tucked behind his ears, and an almost-smile on his face. The headline above it read:

  “SUGAR” TAKES THE REINS

  That was it. No Charlie and no Bobby. Mack thumped his foot on the floor and looked down. A single piece of paper rested in the center of the rug. He picked it up.

  Mack,

  Spitz said you might be coming. I ain’t no monster. If I find Charlie, he’ll be safe. Out looking for my boy, same as you (only he ain’t yours).

  Bobby

  PS If you still want my blood after, then just you try and take it.

  Charlie crouched at the very end of the dock with the bag under his arm and his hand inside, on the bone knife wrapped in cloth. If the Stank came at him, he could pull it out. He could fight. At least he wanted to look like he could.

  Sugar was beside him. The tall Stank was still pointing his club. He hadn’t taken one step onto the dock.

  “What’s he doing?” Sugar hissed. “That stink, it makes me … it makes me think …”

  “… awful things,” Charlie finished. “Me too. Don’t believe it. And keep breathing through your mouth.”

  Sugar groaned like he’d been punched in the stomach. Charlie felt the same wave of hate. He suddenly wanted to throttle his quarterback brother with the strong arm. He wanted to take that arm from him.

  “No!” Charlie shouted, and the effort gave his mind a small blast of clarity. “Change the subject. Think about something you know you love. Just … just run football plays in your head.”

  Sugar nodded, breathing hard, focusing on the still-motionless Gren. “What’s he waiting for?” he asked.

  “Us,” Charlie whispered. “Probably doesn’t want to risk being over deep water.”

  “Do you think he’ll jump on me if I get in the boat?”

  Charlie glanced at the boat, drifting where it was tied, then looked at his brother.

  “Flare gun,” Sugar whispered. “Or we just boat away?”

  “He’d only follow us on the bank,” Charlie whispered. “Grab the flare gun. I’ll get him out here, then you shoot and knock him in.”

  Sugar nodded, then took one step and jumped into the boat. It bounced and splashed and swung out to the end of its rope.

  The Stank tensed, crouching like a runner ready to explode. As Sugar rooted around under the seats, the Stank raised his club to throw.

  “Hey!” Charlie shouted. The Stank turned to him, club still raised. Suddenly the crowd in the distant stadium erupted in cheers, the sound rolling down over the dike like a flood. Thousands of voices. Horns. Drums. Joy. The Stank snarled and rolled his neck and shoulders, writhing in pained irritation.

  Mrs. Wisdom was right. The Stank hated sound.

  “Touchdown,” Sugar said from the boat. He held up a bright yellow flare gun.

  Charlie fished around in his bag, found the heavy air horn, and pulled it out. He pointed it at the Gren.

  “Where’s your mother?” Charlie asked.

  The Stank snarled.

  Charlie shrugged and pulled the trigger.

  The horn had been designed to signal distress across miles of water, to throw blaring sound beyond the horizon to the horizon that came after.

  It did.

  The blast shivered Charlie’s teeth. The Gren screamed and fell backward onto the bank. But only for a moment. Even as Charlie released the trigger, the Gren was exploding forward onto the dock with his club raised. Two huge strides. Three …

  The dock bounced under his weight. Charlie didn’t even have time to jump.

  A hot pink flare shrieked past Charlie, straight into the Gren’s face. The flare careened off his forehead and corkscrewed up and away. The Stank slipped sideways and tumbled into the water, limbs flailing as he was swallowed in splash. A swirling mat of raccoon fur bubbled up in the wash.

  Sugar jumped out of the boat to stand beside Charlie. As they stared at the roiling water, a man surfaced, no longer the terrifying creature that had fallen in. This man’s beard was muddy
but white and his bare back was moon-pale. The muck that had been caked on his shoulders had been washed away, and his skin was baggy on his bones.

  The old man—for that was now all he was—flailed weakly toward the bank.

  “Mr. Welles?” Sugar asked, but the man didn’t answer. Sugar looked at Charlie, his eyes wide. “I knew him,” he whispered. “He worked at the bank before it closed. He used to give me candy. Until he died.”

  Charlie didn’t know what to say. He felt a little better now that the stink was drifting away, but he was still sweating, still dizzy. The old man in the water was struggling to pull himself up onto the boulders that lined the canal bank. His skin sagged off the ribs as he freed himself from the water. His movements were jerky. Clumsy. Dead. And then they stopped completely. The strange second life of Mr. Welles had ended.

  Sugar was staring at the body.

  Charlie looked around. One hundred yards down the dike, two more shapes rose in silhouette against the glow of the stadium lights. The horn. And the flare.

  “We have to go,” Charlie said. “Quick. To the swamps past the church, where the mound goes into the trees.”

  Sugar shook his head. “I told you. I can’t let you—”

  Charlie ran to the dike and began to climb. Sugar caught up easily. When they reached the top, Sugar stayed low, practically crawling across the high, flat back of the dike to the other side. Charlie copied him.

  Across the cane, Taper’s lights were dull and yellow beside the humming white of the stadium. In the stadium, tiny boys ran into each other. Tiny people banged drums. The crowd stomped and chanted. The lights above the stands rocked slightly. The helicopter had moved on, but cop lights flashed in the parking lots and along streets. On the northern side of town, alone in the darkness, a single light glowed next to the white church on its mound.

  Charlie wiped sweat from his eyes and squinted. It looked like a LEGO block from here. Or half a sugar cube.

  The good news was that heading north through town to the church wouldn’t take him any farther from Mrs. Wisdom’s trees than he had already gone. Unfortunately, there was no way to know exactly when he would run out of time—Cotton’s, or his own.