Captain Fartknocker
Mercywood. May 1979.
“This is Captain Fartknocker. Come in Earth. Do you read me?” Late’s 9-year-old voice came out of every intercom in the house. “Commander Renwyck! Do you read me?”
“If you hold the button down, no one else can reply, Kev!” Stephen called out. Late was somewhere else on the first floor.
“What do you think of Mercywood?” Stephen asked as he turned back to Jerk. They were drinking cokes in the too-bright, too-white kitchen.
“It’s OK,” Jerk said. He pointed at the microwave installed over the range. “It’s got a microwave, that’s… cool.”
The house seemed more endurable with Stephen and Late there.
“I think it’s hideous,” Stephen grimaced, then winked and flashed the grin the brothers shared. “But I guess your Mom’s happy.”
“Yeah, it’s ugly,” Jerk agreed, making a face and looking at his drink.
“It can’t even fit all my books,” Jerk said quietly. His coke fizzed and popped. “I don’t like it here.”
“This house is so cool!” Late said, running into the kitchen. His sneakers chirped on the new vinyl floor. He came to stop next to Stephen and grabbed Stephen’s soda off the table, taking a sip before putting it down.
Late looked like a younger version of Stephen. Lake-blue eyes and sandy blonde hair framing wide friendly faces, incapable of affecting guile. Late smiled more.
“When are we going to the mall? I want to play Skee-Ball!” Late bounced away, into the living room, before Stephen answered. Jerk heard him running upstairs.
“Buddy, you have a lot of books,” Stephen said. “More than any other nine-year-old out there.” Stephen borrowed Leaves of Grass the previous week. Jerk hadn’t read it yet.
“I’m eight,” Jerk corrected him. “Nine in September.”
People always got that wrong. Some thought he was ten or eleven.
“I always forget Kevin’s a little older,” Stephen leaned his head back and yelled. “Kev, if you keep running away we can’t leave.”
Late ran back down the stairs and skidded to a stop just inside the doorway. “Buddy has his own bathroom!”
He’d stacked boxes in front of the door. Of course Late noticed.
“I’m glad you like the house, Kevin.” Jerk wasn’t.
“Skee-Ball?” Late said it like Oliver Twist pleading for more porridge.
“We better go,” Stephen said. “Or Kevin might explode.” He took their drinks and put them in the sink.
“I gotta pee!” Late suddenly exclaimed. He raced upstairs.
Jerk knew which bathroom he was going to use. He sighed.
“Kev, best aim!” Stephen called after Late.
“Stevie, you’re a good big brother,” Jerk said.
His face was serious. “If I had a big brother, I’d want him to be like you.”
Stephen titled his head and smiled. Even smiling, his eyes looked like he might cry. Jerk wondered if he said something wrong.
“You’d make a great little brother,” he said, before ruffling Jerk’s mass of cowlicks. “Great big brother, too.”
“I’m ready!” Late said, running downstairs.
“Did you wash your hands?” Stephen knew the answer.
“Forgot!” Late said, turning to run back up the stairs.
“No, Kevin, in the kitchen. I’m not letting you out of my sight again until I get you out of Mercywood.” Stephen winked at Jerk and twirled the keys to his mom’s Oldsmobile around his finger while Kevin washed his hands in the kitchen sink.