A Brother's Keeper: A Clifton Heights Tale

  A Brother’s Keeper – A Clifton Heights Tale

  By Kevin Lucia

  Copyright 2010 – © Kevin Lucia

  Originally Published, 2010 – Raw: Brutality As Art

  2013 - Released in Things Slip Through

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Welcome to Clifton Heights, New York. Just another average Adirondack town, and nice enough in its own right.

  Except after dark, or under the pale light of the moon. Or in a very private doctor's office at Clifton Heights General Hospital, where no one can hear you scream. Or on a road out of town that never ends, or in an old house sitting on the edge of town with a mind - and will - of its own.

  Maybe you shouldn't have left the interstate, my friend. Maybe you should've driven on to the next town.

  But you didn't. You saw our sign, turned down our road, figuring on just a short stay. And maybe it will be.

  Or maybe you'll never leave.

  Anyway, pay a visit to The Skylark Diner. I'll be there. Pull up a chair and let me tell you about our town. It's nice enough, it really is.

  Except after dark. Or on cold winter days when no one is around, and you're all alone…

  A Brother’s Keeper

  Craig Hartley stood at the tiny hospital room window, sweating. It was summer and eighty degrees and here he was, stuck in a room with an ancient air conditioner that grinded and wheezed and grumbled but had very little effect. Nothing he could do about it, of course, but stand and sweat and hate hospitals in general, especially small town, backwoods hospitals like this one.

  He watched townspeople scuttle along the sidewalks outside and smirked. Look at them, running around in the shadow of the place that’ll kill them someday. Idiots. That’s why he’d left, of course. So he wouldn’t become one of them.

  His smirk faded. He’d carved out a good life for himself, dammit – but now it felt like he’d never left. He still felt nineteen: still defiant, reckless, insecure, still scared of his father’s bullshit, still haunted by…

  No. Didn’t believe then, won’t believe now.

  A dry spot on his scalp itched.

  He turned to inspect the room, avoiding the burnt thing lying in its middle. He ignored the gurgling tubes and wheezing respirator that jiggled that burnt thing…

  The thing that used to be his brother.

  Buddy.

  Tubes breathed for him, IVs flushed and drained him and the itchy patch on Craig’s scalp burned. He couldn’t ignore it or push it away. According to Pop, it bore testament to Buddy’s sacrifice. So Pop had always claimed, anyway, before disappearing into the swamps on a trapping run three years ago. Drowned, most likely. God rest, Pop. Awful that he couldn’t muster more emotion than that, but it was all he had.

  Enough.

  Craig swallowed.

  He turned and looked at Buddy, his stomach twisting. Every inch not wrapped in gauze was burnt gut-red. Cracked skin had congealed into molten, oblong globs. Buddy looked half his size; the fire having burnt considerable tissue away. Against his will, Craig imagined a thin layer of gristle coating Buddy’s charred frame.

  Layers of gauze also hid Buddy’s face. If Craig didn’t know better, he’d think Buddy was a badly done movie prop. Small bumps stuck out where ears should be. The mouth – intubated with a plastic air tube – was only a burnt hole. The crisped remains of Buddy’s nose peeked from underneath the gauze.

  An insistent cardiac monitor sounded Buddy’s heartbeat with a rhythmic ping. Somehow, Buddy’s heart was still beating.

  “He’s dying, Craig.”

  Craig glanced over his shoulder at Dr. Stanley Jeffers, chief resident. Tall, gaunt, with bloodless lips and a black widow’s peak, he looked like a classic Universal Movie Mad Scientist instead of country hospital doctor.

  Craig shivered. Dr. Jeffers had freaked them all out as kids, and Craig imagined that no matter how many peppermints he distributed when treating pediatrics, Dr. Jeffers still freaked all the kids out.

  Craig’s scalp burned.

  And he thought he smelled Old Spice, Pop’s favorite cologne.

  Dammit. Man’s dead and drowned, out in the swamps. Can’t hurt me now.

  “How long?”

  The doctor frowned. “A few days. We’ve done all we can. The trauma is too severe. His body is breaking down.”

  “What happened?”

  “After your father disappeared and the farm was repossessed by the bank, Buddy boarded at Miss Walpole’s and worked the landfill. It was burning night. A load of burning garbage shifted and fell on Buddy, pinning him to the ground.” Coal-black eyes stared at him. “It’s fortunate you came. He needs your help.”

  Something twitched in Craig’s belly. Shame? Or despair? He ignored it. “I can’t do anything about this. Nothing anyone can do.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Craig turned and studied the doctor’s pinched face. “What do you mean?”

  “Measures can be taken. Your father left explicit instructions in his will regarding either of your deaths, as well as a healthy trust fund. He left specific instructions regarding efforts to save Buddy’s life, particularly.”

  Craig snorted. “I’ll never understand why you let Pop peddle his hoodoo here. Surprised no one ever sued your asses off.”

  Dr. Jeffers shrugged. “We’ve an open mind.” A heavy pause. “Your father healed many people over the years.”

  Craig glanced away, cheeks burning. “Placebo-effect. Healing power of the human mind. Trick people into feeling better, they heal.”

  Another silence, filled with pumping, wheezing, gurgling, ping, ping, ping…

  Craig looked everywhere but at the doctor’s intense gaze. “Don’t understand how Pop could’ve saved that much money. He did fine on the farm, conned lots of hill folk with his hoodoo.” He glanced at Dr. Jeffers, suspicious. “Not enough to set up a trust fund, though.”

  “As I said, your father healed many people. Many grateful people.”

  So that’s how the old man had paid for his college tuition. And to think, he’d let Craig believe it had been Buddy slaving away on the farm.

  But he shook his head. “No way. He’s burnt to hell and I’m too old to believe in Pop’s hoodoo.”

  “Nevertheless, Buddy is fading quickly. He needs blood. As his brother, you’re a compatible match.”

  Craig looked away. What the hell am I supposed to do?

  As if reading his thoughts, Dr. Jeffers whispered, “Save his life.” A pause. “It’s what your father would’ve wanted.”

  So many words he had for that man, if he were still alive. So many words, bundled up tight with bitter feelings. Bastard. Even when you’re dead, you can’t stop, can you? If only you were still alive. I’d take those words and shove ‘em down your damn throat.

  “We need blood, son. Desperately.”

  Craig faced the doctor and smiled stiffly. “What the hell? You get some blood and I go back to my life. Why not?”

  Dr. Jeffers’ grin spread taut over his face. “Indeed.”

  But as he followed Dr. Jeffers out of the room, Craig’s scalp itched and burned.

  #

  Craig sat in a small, featureless examination room. Several racks of empty blood bags stood next to him. He knew nothing about medicine, but there seemed too many bags for just a simple blood transfusion.

  Seated, shirt rolled to the elbow, Craig felt a prick on t
he inside of his forearm, as painless as the wide-hipped, dour-faced nurse had promised.

  As Dr. Jeffers entered and the nurse exited, Craig felt many emotions and surprisingly, one was pride. Finally, he was doing something for Buddy. He may not believe Pop’s hoodoo, but it felt good to give back to his brother.

  Dr. Jeffers checked the IV lines and smiled. “This is a good thing you’re doing. Not many people would sacrifice so much.”

  Craig offered Dr. Jeffers a smile in return. “It’s only a few pints. Haven’t given to the Red Cross lately. Got some karma to redeem.”

  Dr. Jeffers’ smile grew. He withdrew a syringe from his jacket pocket. “Yes. A few pints. So modest.” He paused. “‘Karma to redeem.’ Apt words. Tell me, Craig – did you truly disbelieve your father’s faith?”

  Craig did his best not to scowl. “You mean his crazy hoodoo magic? Don’t get me wrong. Pop raised us best he could, hard but fair. Never laid a wrong hand on us. He provided for us.”

  Dr. Jeffers tapped the syringe, then secured it in the IV’s port. “But you didn’t approve of his practices.” A statement, not a question.

  Craig blinked as a warm fuzziness touched him, but he pushed the encroaching fog away. “C’mon, Doc. Casting spells, binding spirits, mixing herbs, composing arcane incantations? That’s no way to raise kids, especially one like… Buddy.”

  “You turned out fine. Good college degree, high-paying job, fancy car, even?”

  “I got the hell out. If it’d been up to Pop, I would’ve stayed here forever, working the farm with Buddy.”

  An intense wave of vertigo hit him, tugging down his eyelids. Looking up at the syringe jutting from the IV port, he mumbled, “Lissen… Doc… what’s in that syringe? I’m losin it, here.”

  The doctor smiled again, looking very eager, for some reason. “We need to get you prepped, Craig. You’ve quite a procedure ahead.”

  Whatever was in the syringe, it was acting fast. Craig’s tongue felt heavy. “Boy – you guys take blood transfusions seriously, huh?”

  Dr. Jeffers knelt next to him, his smile turning somber. “I’m afraid I’ve misled you. This is more than a blood transfusion. We’re going to save your brother’s life, and pay back your Weirguild to him.”

  Cold suspicion stabbed Craig’s heart.

  Because he knew that word from somewhere. “Wait-a-minute. Whatdidja say?”

  “Weirguild. Your life debt to Buddy.”

  The sedative slammed into Craig, finally. His head swayed and his tongue flopped. Dizzily, he searched Jeffers’ face… and saw a glittering pendent hanging around the doctor’s neck, under his open-collared shirt.

  It was a simple yet ornate pendent, in its own way. Pewter, braided by gold, a circle with an inverted ‘Y’ inside. Similar to one his father used to wear.

  A sudden panic spiked through the medication’s warm, fuzzy glow, and Craig jerked back… only to find his arms and torso restrained.

  When had that happened?

  A line of cold drool leaked from the corner of his mouth, down his cheek. Dr. Jeffers fingered the pendent while he talked. “Your father was a great man. His knowledge of the netherworld was vast. He taught me many things before he left us. You can’t imagine how many lives I’ve saved because of him.”

  Craig’s shoulders twitched.

  “Believe it or not, he was proud of you. But he was prouder of Buddy. I was the attending physician when you and Buddy were born, the night of your mother’s death. You were conjoined at the head. Impossible to sever cleanly.”

  Craig’s scalp burned.

  “I had to cut nearer to one scalp than the other, and the blood loss was going to cause irreparable brain damage to the twin I cut nearest to. It was inevitable.”

  Every nerve screamed as Craig slumped further down. He felt a small tug on his arm. Unable to turn his head, from the corner of his eyes he glimpsed tiny red streams flowing upwards, away from him.

  All the while, his scalp burned.

  “I watched, amazed, as your father touched your souls, even in the womb.” His eyes flickered. “In Buddy, he found such a willing spirit. In you – not so much.”

  Craig’s head rolled back and the white, blurry ceiling filled his vision.

  Dr. Jeffers must have leaned close, because as Craig faded away, warm breath tickled his ear. “Everything you’ve achieved is because of Buddy. It’s time to repay the Weirguild, Craig. It was your father’s last wish.”

  There were no more words, only darkness… and a breath of Old Spice, sharp on the air.

  #

  Light.

  Sound.

  With a gasp, Craig awoke into pain.

  He lay on his back. Above him, a rectangular mirror reflected his naked torso. A white blanket covered the rest of him. He tried to move his head and found it secured. He squinted in the excruciating glare. Bone-white forms drifted by.

  He tried to scream but he hissed, nothing more.

  A masked face leaned close.

  Piercing eyes, the bridge of an aquiline nose.

  Dr. Jeffers.

  Craig tried to push against the restraints but his brain fired blanks. Tenderly, Dr. Jeffers gave his brow a rubbery caress. “Good news. The transfusion was successful. Buddy has several more days. We’ve got room to work, now.”

  No! Getmethehellouttahere!

  As if sensing his anger, Dr. Jeffers chuckled. “You may wonder why we’ve woken you. We’ve adjusted the anesthesia so you will feel pain, but not unbearably so. We’re simply following your father’s last request. He felt your Weirguild would be more meaningful if you were awake for the procedure, to create a sense of balance. All these years Buddy suffered quietly, watching you live a life forbidden him. Never did he blame you. Ever. It hurt him, though. Badly. I saw it in his eyes every day.”

  A white wraith floated near. Craig recognized the gray eyes of the big-hipped nurse. Dr. Jeffers turned, accepted from her a silver scalpel without a word, then faced him.

  God, no! Please!

  Stop!

  He felt it, then.

  A sting first.

  Followed by a sharp stab, a line of fire, then worse… pressure. As the cut lengthened, his insides pushed against flesh and muscle.

  “For thirty-three years, your brother suffered. Never once did he complain.”

  OH GOD! I’M SORRY!

  “Your father hoped someday you’d understand what Buddy gave up for you. As a physician, it’s my charge to fulfill that hope.”

  Hu-hu-help m-me. Someone help me… PU-PLEASE!

  “There.” Dr. Jeffers probed the incision. Fire streaked along Craig’s abdomen. Jeffers reached up and adjusted the mirror’s angle. “You may watch, of course. In fact, your father insisted upon it.”

  Craig tried to shut his eyes and hide in the darkness… and found he couldn’t. They’d taped his eyelid open. No matter how he strained, they remained so. He sobbed silently. The mirror above reflected his mouth sagging in a lopsided O.

  “He wanted you to see everything taken away. Just as Buddy watched you grow, you must watch yourself diminish.”

  Unable to stop himself, Craig looked into the mirror. The incision in his abdomen was perfect. Straight. The organs inside pulsed and quivered. It was almost… .

  God help him.

  Beautiful.

  Blood pooled to the incision’s edge but didn’t run over. Dr. Jeffers’ hand descended again. Craig stared. Though there was still pain, it had started to feel very far way.

  “Unfortunately, though the blood transfusion helped, Buddy’s kidneys and liver are failing.” Dr. Jeffers turned and gazed into his eyes. “This will be your first repayment to him.”

  He resumed cutting, skillfully parting flesh. As Jeffers made three more identical incisions across his stomach, Craig marveled at their symmetry, balance and order.

  The blood flowed.

  And he lost himself in its red, shining brilliance. It swirled into little whorls and spirals. As Jeffe
rs cut, tendrils of crimson ivy crept across Craig’s skin. Craig was reminded of those plastic spirographs he and Buddy drew pretty little designs with as kids.

  Bloody spirographs, all over him.

  All for Buddy.

  But the grotesque fantasy broke. His rapture vanished and Craig screamed silently.

  DADDDYYYYY!

  Dr. Jeffers peeled the skin back. Craig glimpsed squirming organs – purple, pink, smooth and rubbery and turgid, sliding around his guts – before his mind shut down. He saw no more, open eyes regardless.

  #

  Black spotted to a gray mist that slowly dissolved into a reflection of Craig’s open chest. Ribs had been sawed and pulled back, revealing two white, shivering lungs.

  “Good news.” Dr. Jeffers’ face eased into view. “Buddy’s immune system accepted the transplants. No signs of infection or rejection.”

  He felt down Craig’s open chest to his abdomen, which had been stitched up. Bright, throbbing red muscle gleamed in the mirror. “Nearly 70 percent of Buddy’s skin was burnt beyond repair. We took some grafts from your stomach to close over his abdominal incisions. He’ll need more, of course.” He passed a strangely comforting hand over Craig’s brow. “That will be later. Our final step. For now…”

  He turned, accepted again the scalpel from the dour-eyed nurse, and descended into Craig’s chest cavity. “As you can imagine, Buddy’s lungs were badly damaged by smoke inhalation. One was recoverable, the other, however…”

  In the mirror, Craig watched Dr. Jeffers cut into the bronchi. A great slash of pain exploded in his chest, powerful enough to make him jerk in spite of the anesthesia. He moaned, panicking as blood filled his nose, choking off his breath.

  “Don’t be alarmed. Blood and mucus flooding the trachea and nasal cavities is expected. The naso-gastric tubes will suck it out. We’ll intubate if we have to, of course.”

  He paused, shifting his hands so the nurse could assist holding Craig’s lung as it fell slack from its bronchi.

  The pain dulled. True to Jeffers’ word, two lines suctioned away blood and mucus from his nose. The blood on his lips, however, glimmered like fantastic lipstick on a mime or clown. He stared at his reflection as the doctor and the nurse pulled away the quivering, gore-spotted lung. He was a clown, with shining red lips, red rivers running from his nose, and a glistening, red wet belly.