Shotgun Opera

bagel. I don?t scream anymore when a scorpion scuttles across the bathroom floor.? She shrugged. ?But I like the solitude.?

?Solitude.? Mike said the word like he wanted to see how it felt in his mouth. He finished the gin, held out his glass.

Linda poured more gin over the half-melted ice. ?You okay? Your nephew can?t be that bad.?

What could Mike tell her? His nephew was this heavy weight hanging around his neck, this thing he?d been given to look after. His brother?s ghost had sent the boy. He could see Danny?s face, that impish, wicked grin. I?m calling in the old markers, Mikey. Time to put up or shut up. His solitude was gone, his old life broken. No. That wasn?t quite right. The life he?d fabricated for himself, Oklahoma, the vineyard, it had all been a cover. An illusion. It was inevitable that the past would come back and demand penance. Andrew was blood whether Mike knew him or not. His brother?s blood. Kin, they would say in Oklahoma.

He held the glass toward Linda again. The ice had all melted away.

* * *

The vines were all wrong. Mike walked the rows, but the stakes were too tall, the vines towered over him, closed in on him. It was as if he were in a thick grapevine jungle. He grabbed a bunch, and the grapes burst in his hands, blood seeping like juice over his skin, thick and warm. He tried to wipe his hands on the grape leaves, smearing himself in the vines. It would come off, sticky and hot. It grew hotter, scalding, the blood burning his hands. He screamed, tried to wipe off the blood, the grapevines tangling and he couldn?t see or breathe, like the weight of a planet on his chest?.

His eyes blinked open to darkness. He sat up, his head pounding, mouth dry. He stood, bumped into something, a table. What was that doing there? He looked around, saw moonlight coming through windows that shouldn?t be there.

This wasn?t his house. Linda?s.

He remembered. The gin. Linda?s couch. He?d had too much. Mike shook his head, pain flaring behind his eyes. Embarrassing. He hadn?t done that in a long time. He felt bad, needed to apologize to Linda. He thumbed the button on the side of his digital wristwatch, and the tiny light showed him it was 5:07 in the morning. Still dark.

He left through the front door, shut it as quietly as he could behind him. Checked his pockets and found his truck keys. He drove back to his place, the cabin dark. He hadn?t meant to leave Andrew for so long.

He went inside, passed the kid on his sofa. Andrew was curled up, still wearing his clothes, but at least he?d taken off his shoes. He went into the kitchen, took four aspirin, and drank two full glasses of water. It was too late to go back to bed. He started a pot of coffee. He didn?t try to be quiet.

Andrew rolled off the sofa, rubbed his eyes. ?What time is it??

?Morning.?

?Time to get up??

?Only if you want.? He talked to the kid over his shoulder, not looking at him. Mike took plain white coffee mugs out of the cabinet over the coffeemaker, set them on the counter. ?Look, I figure you can just stay here while we think what to do. You didn?t tell anyone you were coming here, did you??

Andrew hesitated.

?Well??

?No. I didn?t tell anyone.?

?Okay then,? Mike said. ?So who would think to look for you here? Nobody. We?re in the middle of nowhere. We?ll just hang out and think things over.?

?What do you do this early??

?I have a cup of coffee,? Mike said.

?I mean after that. What do you do with your day??

?Work the vineyard.?

Andrew?s face wrinkled into a question. ?Huh. I didn?t know they had them here.?

?They do.?