Teasing. Gabe’s aura always follows the expressions of
his face; jumping up when he laughs; flooding with green streaks when he thinks
he says something especially clever; and dimming down into pale lavender hues
when we fall into those reflective, quiet moments together. It’s easy to
believe we’re just a normal brother and sister, that I’m wearing these gloves
as a quirky fashion statement.
***
Gabe is running late to MMA
practice, which means there’s not time to drop me off at the house. On the way
over I try to predict which particular scowl Tarren will use on us when we
arrive. I think I do a pretty good Tarren impression. I clench my jaw, press my
lips together tightly, and squint my eyes just a little. I stare down at Gabe.
“Nah, that’s not it,” Gabe says.
“He’s more like: ‘You.Are.Late. Does not compute. Does not compute.”
We are giggling stupidly like kids
by the time we reach the gym’s parking lot.
“Who dares flaunt the sacred rule
of Tarren?” I boom.
“You fools! Your insolence has torn
open a vortex in the space-time continuum,” Gabe mimics the same tone.
“Now the entire universe will
collapse unto itself. All of humanity will be destroyed.”
“Thus is the penalty for not
following my orders. The great Tarren is never wrong.”
“Stop, stop, stop,” I say, trying
to catch my breath. We reach the door of the gym. “We’ve got to be cool,” I
wheeze.
“Totally…totally cool. No emotion,
like the Tarren-bot,” Gabe says, and that starts us all over again. We are
forced to retreat back to the truck where we both sit on the hood and try to
compose ourselves.
This takes a while, but when the
laughter drains away I’m left in a strangely somber mood.
“Can I ask you something?” I
whisper to Gabe, who is leaning his elbows on his knees.
“Shoot.”
I don’t really know how to approach
this; if I should even bring it up at all, though it’s one of those nagging
question that won’t leave me alone.
“The scars. Isn’t there some kind
of…um, treatment? You know, something that could help him?”
Gabe’s aura flutters and turns
dark. We never talk about Tarren’s scars. He hides them beneath long sleeve
shirts and pants, and we all endure the silent tension of his pain.
Gabe is quiet. Real quiet. I don’t
think he’s going to answer. Then, without looking up, he tells me a story.
“When, uh, when Tarren was
recovering from his…wounds, I went out and did a job. I was going stir crazy
with Tammy dead and Tarren all drugged and mummified at Dr. Lee’s house. It was
an easy job. New angel. Didn’t know nothing about staying under the radar. Had
this huge mansion in Los Angeles. I actually hotwired a BMW, pretended to be a
harried personal assistant to get past the front gate. That was pretty
awesome.”
Gabe’s aura remains dark, and the
words stream out of him like he’s afraid that if he pauses he might not make it
to the end.
“Got to his house, and the maid was
dead, iced, on the floor in the kitchen. Wife was dead out back. Her little
Chihuahua or whatever was running around barking like crazy. The husband, the
angel, was in the bedroom in a panic, packing a whole set of suitcases, ready
to get out of Dodge. I gave him two bullets in the back of the head. And there
was this duffle bag on the floor next to him. I opened it up, and it was full
of cocaine, jewelry and cash.”
“No way,” I interject.
“Scout’s honor,” Gabe holds up his
hand. “Just like in the movies. Well, I left the jewelry and coke, but I
grabbed the cash.” He whistles low. “Dude was loaded. There was three hundred
grand in that bag.”
“You just took it?”
“It was cash. The guy cleaned out
his bank account. None of that is traceable.”
“So, then, what? We’re rich?”
“Well,” Gabe looks down, and the
color runs up to his cheeks. He fiddles with the sleeve of his jacket. “I put
it all into a safe deposit box for Tarren. I haven’t touched
his face; jumping up when he laughs; flooding with green streaks when he thinks
he says something especially clever; and dimming down into pale lavender hues
when we fall into those reflective, quiet moments together. It’s easy to
believe we’re just a normal brother and sister, that I’m wearing these gloves
as a quirky fashion statement.
***
Gabe is running late to MMA
practice, which means there’s not time to drop me off at the house. On the way
over I try to predict which particular scowl Tarren will use on us when we
arrive. I think I do a pretty good Tarren impression. I clench my jaw, press my
lips together tightly, and squint my eyes just a little. I stare down at Gabe.
“Nah, that’s not it,” Gabe says.
“He’s more like: ‘You.Are.Late. Does not compute. Does not compute.”
We are giggling stupidly like kids
by the time we reach the gym’s parking lot.
“Who dares flaunt the sacred rule
of Tarren?” I boom.
“You fools! Your insolence has torn
open a vortex in the space-time continuum,” Gabe mimics the same tone.
“Now the entire universe will
collapse unto itself. All of humanity will be destroyed.”
“Thus is the penalty for not
following my orders. The great Tarren is never wrong.”
“Stop, stop, stop,” I say, trying
to catch my breath. We reach the door of the gym. “We’ve got to be cool,” I
wheeze.
“Totally…totally cool. No emotion,
like the Tarren-bot,” Gabe says, and that starts us all over again. We are
forced to retreat back to the truck where we both sit on the hood and try to
compose ourselves.
This takes a while, but when the
laughter drains away I’m left in a strangely somber mood.
“Can I ask you something?” I
whisper to Gabe, who is leaning his elbows on his knees.
“Shoot.”
I don’t really know how to approach
this; if I should even bring it up at all, though it’s one of those nagging
question that won’t leave me alone.
“The scars. Isn’t there some kind
of…um, treatment? You know, something that could help him?”
Gabe’s aura flutters and turns
dark. We never talk about Tarren’s scars. He hides them beneath long sleeve
shirts and pants, and we all endure the silent tension of his pain.
Gabe is quiet. Real quiet. I don’t
think he’s going to answer. Then, without looking up, he tells me a story.
“When, uh, when Tarren was
recovering from his…wounds, I went out and did a job. I was going stir crazy
with Tammy dead and Tarren all drugged and mummified at Dr. Lee’s house. It was
an easy job. New angel. Didn’t know nothing about staying under the radar. Had
this huge mansion in Los Angeles. I actually hotwired a BMW, pretended to be a
harried personal assistant to get past the front gate. That was pretty
awesome.”
Gabe’s aura remains dark, and the
words stream out of him like he’s afraid that if he pauses he might not make it
to the end.
“Got to his house, and the maid was
dead, iced, on the floor in the kitchen. Wife was dead out back. Her little
Chihuahua or whatever was running around barking like crazy. The husband, the
angel, was in the bedroom in a panic, packing a whole set of suitcases, ready
to get out of Dodge. I gave him two bullets in the back of the head. And there
was this duffle bag on the floor next to him. I opened it up, and it was full
of cocaine, jewelry and cash.”
“No way,” I interject.
“Scout’s honor,” Gabe holds up his
hand. “Just like in the movies. Well, I left the jewelry and coke, but I
grabbed the cash.” He whistles low. “Dude was loaded. There was three hundred
grand in that bag.”
“You just took it?”
“It was cash. The guy cleaned out
his bank account. None of that is traceable.”
“So, then, what? We’re rich?”
“Well,” Gabe looks down, and the
color runs up to his cheeks. He fiddles with the sleeve of his jacket. “I put
it all into a safe deposit box for Tarren. I haven’t touched
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