Revenge!

REVENGE!

         The door to the rusty station wagon labors open like a sarcophagus sealed for a millennium.    I peer into the steamy car and hunt for a good spot to place the animal.  No ordinary place would do, I know.  I eyeball the back seat and decide that the best bet is to toss the creature into the car and slam the door, sealing its fate forever.  In the rodent goes and the door slams behind it.  What a great trick I think.  How grand the payback will be for all the times Tom tortured me with binder clips or dog shit stuffed in my pillow.  I am already proud of myself, and I know that once the smoke clears, Tom will be proud of me too.  This is a masterpiece of revenge.  I only hope the squirrel will live through it.
         At thirty years old, one would think that such infantile games are beneath me.  I have lost girlfriends and even the occasional job due to the antics between my brother and myself.  The reward, though, is greater than the job or the girlfriend or the truck I lost to the fire last year.  The reward is the bond and the permanence that evolves from knowing that sooner or later, I will hear from Tom again.  No gap in space or time will be massive enough to separate us.  Nothing could stop the revenge.
         Inside, Mother’s meatloaf graces the table for the usual Saturday evening family dinner.  Tom sits across from me and gives me the glare – the glare that knows I haven’t been donating money to the church or helping a little wrinkly old woman across the street.  Tom knows I was somewhere I should not have been.
         As the loaf is passed and the potatoes are dished, I watch Tom closely.  The Saturday prior, he decided that the green beans he handed me would be much healthier with the addition of three earthworms dug up from the back yard before dinner.  Never before had he tampered with food, so the squirm in my mouth as I spooned in the roughage was a shock beyond what I had been prepared for.  Mother often ignored and occasionally enjoyed the games, but being the victim of a projectile worm was past her comprehension of humor.  I didn’t even realize I had hit her until she screamed and started clearing the table before we even got a chance to start the main course.  That was the official shortest dinner at The Ripley house.
         Today I watched and I watched closely.  Once an assault was unraveled, the game changed forever.  The rules we obey bend and shift depending on the given circumstances of the hour.  I watch, and around the potatoes come.
         “How is work going, Peter?”  Mother started Saturday evening dinners with the same line of questioning..  Tom and I decided long ago that her questioning was the only way she knew to start any sort of meaningful conversation. 
         “Fine” I say.  I have a couple coming in for three cars in a couple days I tell her.  School is fine I say, knowing that would be the next answer I would give anyway.
         “And Tom, how was the road this week?” she pried.  Tom’s shoulders drop as he hunts for the best response to the question he had prepared for all week.
         “I quit, Mom,” he says.  Because he’s twenty-eight and he drives a delivery truck for a beer company.  Because he wanted better for himself than the skill of shifting gears and avoiding accidents, he says.
         “We promised that you would stay there until you found something new, didn’t we?” she says. “How will we pay the mortgage, Tom?”
         I glance at the bookshelf and feel a twinge of guilt knowing that his dress shoes, the ones he will need for an interview, will be hidden there for weeks before he finds them.

         “I’ll find something else this week,” he snaps.  Dad had left a year ago, and for a year the pressure had been mounting on Tom to support our mother.  It was now our responsibility to support a woman who hadn’t had a job in thirty years.  Sometimes I felt for Tom, but it was he who never left home, not I.
         Meatloaf over silence is the best.  I reach for the salt and the butter and get the third degree stare from Mother and Tom for interrupting the tension.  I eat my loaf and escape, wondering what Amber or Lacy would be doing tonight.  Yummy Lacy I think.
I lose myself in the freedom of her thick blond locks.  My mind caresses the silver ring that wraps itself around her pale little toe.  I lean back and escape into the massage I need from the fingers that have never touched me.  I smile, knowing that she is mine, even if she never knows it.
         The silverware and my plate are gone from the table when my mind returns to dinner.  I glance at Mother, who is eating with the Grand Canyon furrowed into her brow.  I look to Tom.  He doesn’t flinch, but his shifty eyes as he inhales his food are enough of a clue.  You bastard I think.  I’m still hungry.
         Rule number one is that the game stays between us.  Mother is never to know the games we play or the extent to which we go to distribute torture.  On the odd occasion where the event spills over into daily life, like the fire in my truck last year or the black snake that ran loose in the house for three days, we suffer the wrath of Mother.  It is better, we decided, to keep it quiet.
         I kick Tom under the table and he doesn’t move.  I kick him again and he smiles big and bright like the day is new, finishing off the succulent loaf that so far has not pleasured my tongue.  I slide the chair back to retrieve another plate from the kitchen.  The floor is softer than usual as I stand.  Oozing through my toes and around my heel is the wonderful dinner I planned on devouring.  How am I going to explain this one away?
         Mother hears the plate rattle on the floor as I sit back down.  She looks under the table at my feet and the meatloaf beneath them.  Returning to her dinner, the canyon in her forehead deepens but she says nothing.  We would pay for this, I know.
         “Bastard,” I whisper.  Tom smiles again and goes back to his food. 
         Rule two is that no permanent harm can come from the game.  A finger lost or broken teeth are good fun, but all attempts to avoid such things is imperative.  My ankle still throbs when it rains.  Tom constantly complains that his right hand isn’t as strong as it once was.  To be quite honest, pain has been inflicted on more than a few days, but we would prefer to be able to use all of our extremities throughout our lives. 
         The ancient television whimpers on after dinner.  I collapse to the couch after finally finishing my meal.  Tom eases back in the recliner and peels the soiled and tainted socks from his feet.  I watch peripherally, knowing from prior experience the power of a dirty sock.
         “Mom, do we have any antacid?” I ask.  I yawn as I wonder how much turkey was in the meatloaf tonight, and immediately taste the sweat and residue of sock touching the entire inside of my mouth.  Tom is standing over me with his hand firmly holding the sweat drenched cloth against my teeth and tongue.
         “I think it’s in the bathroom, Peter,” she says as she walks into the room to relax.  Tom is gone from the room before she enters and I chase after him.  Sabotage of the antacid is in the future, and I must stop him.
         The rest of the evening goes by as Tom and I watch each others every move.  Mother prepares a care package for me and pats Tom on the back as he heads out for a date.  Outside we say goodbye and wait for Tom to drive off before I leave. 
         “Hey jerk,” he says.  “Next week I’ll bring you that thing you wanted.  Don’t think I’ll forget.” 
         I know what he was referring to.  It's revenge, and I am not worried.  In five minutes, I will deserve what ever retribution I get.
         The station wagon eases out of the driveway and speeds down the street. 
         “What did he mean, Peter?” Mother asks.
         I tell her it isn’t important and I keep watching the wagon. 
         About a block away the wagon jerks sharply into the car coming from the opposite direction, hitting it hard enough to bring both cars to an devastating halt.
         Mother screams and runs toward the accident.  I smile and walk leisurely toward Tom, waiting anxiously for him to leap out of the car and run after me.  As I get closer I see the blood on the window, and then Tom’s head twisted and hanging over the steering wheel.  The squirrel, which has just been through a traffic accident worse than some people ever experience, hops through the broken windshield and scurries away unharmed.  Tom still hasn’t moved.  Blood pours from his nose and his neck isn’t straight – isn't right, but his eyes are open – wide awake open.
         “Tom!” Mother screams, but I know by now that he can’t hear her.  He can’t hear anything.  His eyes glaze and don’t blink.  I begin to cry as I pull Tom from the wagon.  The squirrel is still sitting on the curb, watching the final revenge it helped create.