Calamity

“We’re supposed to dress appropriately. It’s league rules.”

Tyler snorted. “It’s a youth league for twelve-year olds, not some PBA thing.”

Even if Brendan tried to explain the real meaning behind the clothes, he knew that Tyler would say it was stupid and that he should stop wasting his time on fantasies. It was better to let Tyler rag on him a bit for the clothes than to actually try to explain why Brendan had made sure his pants were clean, his shirt unwrinkled.

After a few minutes (still no break in the house pattern), Tyler sighed loudly. “So, how long’s this thing last, anyway?”

“About two hours,” Brendan said, “but you don’t need to stay. Mrs. Capra will drive me home. And if not her, then Mr. Coyle. He’s always there. His son is really good. 185.”

“What?”

“His bowling average.”

“No, I was thinking I’d stay, watch you bowl.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Dad doesn’t stay?”

“He used to.”

After a pause, Tyler said, “They got food there, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, I’ll get us some hot dogs and French fries and I’ll watch you bowl.”

If Tyler stayed, it would be even harder to do what must be done. “You probably want to see Paul or something. I’ll be fine.”

“Paul?” A tremor of concern peppered his words. “Why would I want to talk to Paul?”

… fucked up real bad with that weird bitch …

“I just figured he was your friend. That’s all.”

Tyler relaxed. “He is, but you’re my little brother. That’s more important.”

Brendan loved Tyler; there was no question that Tyler had been a good big brother, especially when Brendan had been younger. Tyler taught him how to ride a bike with no training wheels, how to throw a baseball like the professionals instead of like girls, and how to manipulate Mom and Dad so that he could always get what he wanted. That play-one-against-the-other strategy stopped working since Mom no longer came out of her room, but it had still been a hell of a trick and though Tyler used it more, Brendan had used the tactic a few times, the most memorable when he got out of going to church last Easter. He had stayed home eating chocolate while Mom, Dad, and Delaney went to church. Tyler had slept right through until they returned. The sleeping strategy worked best for Tyler, as it did now for Mom.

Tyler never hurt Brendan or was really mean to him. He wrestled with him sometimes and always won, but he never left any marks or permanent damage. The only thing Brendan didn’t enjoy was the tickling wars in which Tyler took on both him and Delaney and always stood victorious over their shuddering bodies, tears streaming from their eyes. Tickling could be ruthlessly painful but it was always sort of fun. He had even started talking about girls with him. They’re all crazy, he told him, always remember that and you’ll be okay.

That Tyler wanted to watch him bowl was cool. It was fun when Dad would watch him bowl and cheer him and his team on and tell him it was okay when he missed an easy spare or dropped the final frame and cost the team a win. Without Dad watching, bowling had become more like a chore. The other parents cheered him on, especially Mr. Coyle, but the fun had seeped away little by little, almost frame by frame, so that now, almost a month since the baby died, the sport of bowling had become no more entertaining than long division problems in math class.

With Tyler watching him, perhaps some of the fun might seep its way back into the games. Three games with an actual family member cheering him on would be a treat. Even if Tyler made fun of him for gutter balls or looking silly on the approach (he had adopted the leg kick common to the professionals and even the kids on his own team ragged on him for it), it would still be cool to have him watch. But that would make it even harder still to do what the gods wanted and offer the sacrifice they demanded. It was tempting to put off the sacrifice, tell the gods they could wait, but after Tyler’s problem (fucked up real bad) last night, Brendan knew the gods were growing impatient. If he didn’t do it today, the situation would get worse and before next Saturday it might be too late. Tyler could end up in jail … or dead.

“You really don’t have to,” Brendan said. “In fact, it might make me nervous. Today’s the first round of qualifying, so we need to do well or we won’t make it to the playoffs.” The first round of qualifying wasn’t until after Easter but Tyler wouldn’t know. That was the number one rule from Tyler’s own How to Fool the Parents Handbook: be sure the lie is believable.

“Pretty serious stuff, huh?”

Tyler kept glancing at him, but it wasn’t just at him; there was something else, and it held his focus a few seconds too long. “You’re going to miss the turn.”

Tyler made the turn with only the faintest complaint from the tires. The bowling alley was at the end of this road (more trees than houses on this one) set between Fillipe’s Pizza and Jan’s We Do Nails Salon. Mom used to go there.

“How’s school?” Tyler asked.

“Fine. How about you?”

Tyler laughed. “Fine, too, I guess.” He turned into the bowling alley parking lot. The lot was over half full; most of the kids and their parents were already here. “You must do well in English.”

“Why’s that?”

“That book.” He gestured to the composition book. “You’re always writing in it.”

Brendan had known something was up and now he was starting to figure it out. “I guess,” he said. “It’s nothing really.”

Tyler parked the car between a minivan and shiny SUV. “You write down stuff that happens, like in real life?”

He wanted to know if Brendan had overhead him last night. He was afraid his little brother had been a eavesdropping and had written down the conversation. Tyler tried to use the same manipulation tactics he used on their parents against his little brother. Brendan almost felt betrayed. Well, it was okay. Brendan was going to do something to make everything better, and then Tyler could forget about (weird bitch) his date last night and (fucked up real bad) whatever had happened.

“No,” Brendan said, “just made up stories. Fictional stuff.”

Tyler nodded, appraised him. This was the moment of truth. Stay or go. “Sounds good. Maybe I can read some of it while you bowl?”

Damn. “I have to start my practice throws.” Brendan got out of the car.

* * *

All the parents made a big fuss over Tyler. Mrs. Capra asked repeatedly if their mom was alright and to have her call anytime she wanted, day or night. Mr. Coyle slapped Tyler on the back and gave him a man hug. “How’s the old man holding up? I miss our Saturday morning beers together.” His full-bellied laugh made everyone smile.

While Tyler handled the parents, Brendan went through his warm up routine and started throwing a few practice balls. Two of his three teammates had arrived—Dave and Nick, but that was okay: he had a plan.

He couldn’t take the composition book with him without appearing like he was up to something, but he had learned enough about misdirection from Tyler to know what to do. While Dave and Nick donned their shoes and started their practice throws, Brendan turned to a page well away from his sacrifice list, a page marked CHAPTER SEVEN: The Discovery, and scribbled above it, Tyler’s Problem. He folded the page diagonally to make a triangle and closed the book without really flattening the page. He placed the book in his bowling bag. When Tyler finally got his hands on the book, he would turn right to that folded page and, hopefully, start reading. The temptation would be too great for him to resist. Instead of discovering his little brother had overheard the conversation from last night, Tyler would read about a mysterious detective named Bo Blast who was, by Chapter Seven, in hot pursuit of a killer known only as The Darkman.

Neither Nick or Dave made any comment about the two gutter balls Brendan threw, though Cody, arriving late as usual, flashed him a look which was as loud as saying, Jeez, if you bowl like that, I guess it’s going to be a long afternoon. In response, Brendan said to himself, It will be a long