'You've painted it the way it was when we were children.'
'Bugs the hell out of you, don't it? You'd think the old man would want us to profit from his death, judging from the way he sold out his own family. But lifelong philosophies have a way of changing when you're on your deathbed.'
'There's no 'deathbed' when you suffer a sudden heart attack.'
'There you go again, getting all mixed up. That was a long time ago and none of it matters now. All that matters is making up for lost time. Setting things right.'
As they approached the house, the years fell away, and Jacob could see himself in shorts and sneakers, riding the tire swing beneath the apple tree in the side yard. His childhood seemed part dream, part nightmare, viewed through the gauze of old wounds. He could almost hear his father shouting from the den, demanding that someone bring his pipe and newspaper. He could almost hear the crash of glass, the dull thump of bone-filled meat tumbling down the stairs-
He closed his eyes as the Chevy came to a stop beside the front porch. The abrasive engine was an affront to the stillness of the estate. The place deserved to be allowed to rest in peace. The house was as much of a coffin as the shiniest metal-encased box down at McMasters Funeral Home, this one holding the corpse of an entire family instead of one person's moldering mound of flesh and bone.
Joshua killed the engine and Johnny Cash's train-wreck voice cut off in mid-verse. 'I was tempted to move back in, you know. Figured I'd play royalty, see what being a Wells was like. But it takes money, scratch, boatloads of Franklins, and I wasn't in the mood to join the working class just to stay in Kingsboro. A million ain't what it used to be. And it ain't nearly enough.'
'I'll get you the rest, but you promised to stay away.'
'You worry too much about things that ain't none of your business. Just like always. Seems like you'd be better off taking care of your own business instead of worrying about mine.'
'Go to hell.'
'Short trip.' Joshua opened his door and got out, took an exaggerated gasp of fresh air. 'Ah, the sweet smell of Wells country. Or is that chicken shit?'
Jacob stared at the twin shrunken heads. For the first time, he noticed that one of them had tiny cuts on its face, as if someone had slashed the rubber with a sharp knife. One ear was melted and charred, the nylon hair above it singed. Psycho voodoo, another of Joshua's mind games.
Joshua leaned forward and pressed his face against the tinted windshield, making a distorted dark mash of his nose. 'Ain't you coming in? You're gonna hurt my feelings.'
From the porch, Jacob couldn't resist taking in the panoramic view.
'Prime territory, half of it good bottom land,' Joshua said, as if he'd sold real estate all his life. 'Convenient to town yet with all the peace and quiet you can stand without going crazy. Do you know how much this would bring if you parceled it out right? Especially the way the second-home market is booming here in the mountains.'
'Not interested.'
'Come on, Jake. You've got money now. It don't matter where it came from, neither. I'd be the last one to ever pass judgment on a thing like that.'
'I don't have the money. Renee got it.'
Joshua's grin froze, a speck of saliva on his lower lip glistening in the sun as he stood by the car. 'What are you talking about?'
'We separated. She blames me because of the fire. And Mattie.' Jacob faced the breeze so his tears would dry. He wouldn't give Joshua the pleasure of his pain.
Joshua pounded the bottom of his fist on the Chevy's hood, denting the sheet metal. 'Damn. I should have known she'd try some stunt like that. Leave it to a dumb bitch to take ever goddamned thing you got and still cry for more, more, more-'
'It's not her fault. I just-'
'And after you stood by her when Christine died.'
Jacob turned, his fists clenched. 'You don't know anything about that. Shut the hell up.'
'She was family to me, too. I meant to send a card, but how do you say you're sorry when something like that happens?'
Jacob had been asking himself that same question for nearly a year. Christine's death had been different, tragic in a quieter way. Christine meant 'follower of Christ,' Renee's choice. Coming from Joshua's lips, the name now sounded like a grim cosmic joke.
'So when my other child dies, you pop up out of nowhere,' Jacob said.
'Misery loves company,' Joshua said. 'Just like the good old days.'
He reached up and rattled the brass pipes of a wind chime that hung from the porch's support beam. A die- stamped metal sparrow perched atop the chime, its crevices gritty with age. The chime had been there as far back as Jacob could remember. Their mother had tapped it with her cane to summon them to dinner or bedtime, and the soft notes were a reminder of long summer nights in the forest or games in the barn.
Joshua mimicked their mother's high voice as he climbed the porch steps. 'Time to come in, boys.' His voice rose to a piercing shrillness. 'Jake! Josh!'
Joshua took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, then stood aside. The damp, woody odor of the trapped air enveloped Jacob. Joshua gave him a gentle nudge in the back.
Jacob took a tentative step forward, on the threshold of a life he'd spent a decade burying. A long Oriental carpet led into the foyer where the dining room, sitting room, stairs, and hall intersected. The framed photographs of dead Wells ancestors hung on the walls, dim with dust. A rustic butcher-block table stood on uneven legs against the far wall, topped by a gray doily and an empty crystal vase. A wrought iron coatrack skulked in the corner like a sharp-edged stalker. A path was worn in the center of the oak stair treads. The bottom baluster was still splintered from their mother's fall. Except for the smell and cobwebs, everything was as it had been on Jacob's last visit. The day they'd buried Warren Wells. This house was a museum of pain, a mausoleum of bad memories.
Jacob waded forward, as if the past were a wet stack of calendars. Even Joshua's voice, coming from behind him, sounded years younger. 'I haven't had the power turned on. No phone, neither. Didn't want anybody to know I was around.'
Jacob finally mustered enough oxygen to speak. 'How long are you staying?'
'That's up to you.' Joshua lit a cigarette and the acrid smoke helped drive the stench of failure from the foyer.
Jacob reached the entrance to the sitting room. Books lined the shelves around the central fireplace, the burnt umber of the leather a complement to the bricks. Spread across the mantel was a collection of knickknacks, clay cats, glass figurines, hand-carved exotica from across the world. Their mother had been a collector and had wiped down the objects weekly, spacing them in such a precise manner that she could tell if a piece had been shifted even so much as a centimeter. She would have slammed her cane against the floor in anguish to see the figures now, clouded by accumulated dust.
Joshua crossed the sitting room, his boots shedding dried mud. He flicked his cigarette ash into the fireplace, picked up a crystal poodle, and held it to the muted light that leaked through the drapes. He rubbed a finger across the animal's head then raised his arm as if to fling the object against the grate. Instead, he tossed his cigarette onto the brick apron of the hearth, mashed it out with his foot, and returned the poodle to its proper place in the menagerie.
'It's a little chilly in here,' Joshua said. He pulled a couple of thin books from the nearest shelf. 'Hemingway. Dad's favorite writer. I think we ought to build a fire.'
Jacob sat in a Queen Anne chair, a piece of furniture not designed for comfort. If the foyer was a hallway into the past of the entire Wells family, this room was solely his mother's, stiff and formal and brutal, as severe as a prison cell. Jacob had rarely spent time here during his childhood, and he perched on the edge of the chair as if expecting his dead mother to clatter around the corner, cane-first, and shout at him not to disturb anything. He breathed shallowly, afraid even to stir the air too much.
Joshua stooped and opened one of the volumes to the front pages. 'First edition, what do you know?'
He tossed the books onto the log irons, where they lay like clumsy giant moths with paper wings. He pulled out his lighter. 'Welcome home, Jake.'
He flicked the flint wheel and stared into the dancing flame. The flame touched the brown pages and burst
