“Oh. Are you sure?”
He forced a smile. “I’ll meet you at the house.”
He waited until they drove away before sliding into his truck. Hannie had only agreed to let him drive to the private graveside service because she was “an emotional wreck” and could “barely see straight.” She’d taken the news about George and Agatha’s granddaughter hard, as he knew she would. He cranked up the Dodge and headed into Greenville.
When he was nine and Luke was ten, they’d discovered an ancient GMC truck on the edge of the back forty, covered over by years of blackberry bushes. It took them hours to hack away enough briars with their Buck knives to get close to it, but they didn’t mind. It was like stumbling upon hidden treasure.
The truck was covered in rust, and the metal springs had poked out of the bench seat inside, yet to him and his brother it was better than a castle. With wonder in their eyes and scratches covering their arms, they climbed inside, and Luke took the wheel. What magic an old truck could hold for a pair of boys with wild imaginations.
He’d never forget that day. He could still smell the musty fabric of the bench seat. Hear Luke laughing as he pushed buttons on the old radio, pretending to change the station. See the sun filtering through the blackberries, dappling their make-believe world.
When they went home for dinner that night, after a long day of adventure, their father broke the news. “Your mother’s going to have a baby, and the doctor says she needs to take it easy. You boys are going to help out more around the house, you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” Luke had said. But Gerrit hadn’t said anything. Somehow he’d known everything was about to change.
He parked his truck in front of the Bronze Boot and took out the keys. They were heavy in his hand, like metal regrets. He heaved himself out of the Dodge and stood in front of the building. The bar windows were tinted dark and covered in posters and neon signs, but he knew what he would find inside.
A lethargic din met him when he opened the door. Not many patrons yet, but the numbers would increase as the night went on. He walked through the haze of broken dreams and haunted memories and sat down at the bar next to a man in a blue windbreaker.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“Ginger ale on ice.”
The bartender narrowed his eyes, his hopes of acquiring a new long-term customer fading. “All right.”
As the man walked away, Gerrit leaned his elbows on the bar.
Jakob stared at the empty glass in his hand. “What are you doing here?”
He’d been asking himself the same question since parking the truck. “It’s a free country.”
The bartender slid Gerrit his drink, and he nodded his thanks. He took a sip. Looking around the dingy place, he couldn’t guess what the appeal was for a middle-aged man on a Saturday afternoon. But then he never did understand his younger brother. Maybe he’d never tried.
“You talk to Luisa lately?” he asked.
“No.”
“I worry about her, living alone.”
Jakob tensed. He’d lived alone since his wife left him ten years ago, but that was his own doing. She’d given him far more chances than he deserved, and his legacy was a broken marriage and thousands of dollars of gambling debt. Yet Luisa had been a widow since the age of twenty-eight through no fault of her own. No one to blame but Gerrit.
Ice clinked as Jakob swirled his glass like he could coax out one more drop. “He wasn’t perfect, you know.”
Gerrit snorted. “Unbelievable.”
Jakob slammed down the glass. “Do you have any idea what it was like, watching the two of you? Luke would do anything for you, but he wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
“That’s not true.”
“I was always on the outside.”
Gerrit’s hands itched to slam his own glass onto the counter. Instead, he forced his shoulders to relax. He didn’t come here to start a fight. He remembered again that day in the blackberry bushes, playing with the old truck. Had he and Luke ever played with Jakob like that?
They’d never had the time. By the time Jakob was born, he and Luke had taken over almost all the household chores in addition to their farm chores, and their responsibilities only grew from there. It was all their mother could do to take care of Jakob, never mind her other two sons, and sometimes she couldn’t even do that. Luke often had to get up in the middle of the night and give Jakob a bottle because their mother was too depressed to move and their father had to be in the parlor by three-thirty for the early-morning milking. Then Luke would pack their lunches, forge their mother’s signature on Gerrit’s homework, and make sure they didn’t miss the bus.
But Jakob didn’t know about any of that. He was just a baby then.
Gerrit watched condensation run down the side of his glass. “It was hard on Luke to be the oldest brother.”
Jakob didn’t respond. Gerrit glanced at his face and recognized the bitterness there. Felt the familiar weight of self-inflicted chains. Maybe it was hard to be the youngest brother, too. Maybe Jakob wasn’t the only one at this bar in need of forgiveness.
“I’m sorry.” The words hurt coming out. They lay there beaten and bloody on the bar like they’d been yanked from his chest. Gerrit made no move to put them back.
Jakob’s grip on his drink tightened.
“I’ve been thinking of going through Luke’s old boxes. They’re in my barn.” Gerrit took the last swig of ginger ale and slid off the stool. “Maybe you’d want to come by one day and help me.”
“There’s nothing in there for me.”
He pulled a fiver from his wallet and left it on the bar. “You never know.”
Jakob looked up with bleary eyes, desperate and broken. “Why’d you come here?”
The answer was
