Page 32 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
She ran straight into my arms, sobbing. I patted her back awkwardly and looked over her shoulder in time to watch a tall, burly man exit the driver’s side of the vehicle. He slammed the door shut and stalked slowly up the walk toward us. Tate.
The seven years since I’d seen my brother hadn’t been kind to him. His hair was greasy and lank. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was sallow. Dirt clung to his nails. In contrast to his broad chest and shoulders, his cheeks were sunken, almost hollow.
“Mom, go inside,” I said, my voice shaking.
She craned to look over her shoulder at Tate’s thunderous face. “Honey, no.”
“Go inside,” I said more forcefully. I gave her a small push toward the open door. Reluctantly, she went inside and shut the door behind her.
“Hey, little man,” Tate said.
I ignored it. I knew he was trying to get a rise out of me, and even at sixteen, I had the self-control to ignore it.
“What are you doing here, Tate?”
“Jesus, visiting my mother and brother. Bring it in.” He stretched out his arms.
I curled my lip. “I don’t think so. You need to leave.”
“You need to watch how you talk to me. I’m your older brother.”
“You’re nobody,” I told him.
He laughed a bitter laugh and spat a stream of chewing tobacco on the patio.
“Don’t,” I warned. “Don’t do that.”
He spat again, and I balled my fists.
His eyes tracked my movement, and he smirked. “Try it, little man.”
In my peripheral vision, I could see our mother peering through the curtain in the living room, watching us.
“Tate,” I said as calmly as I could. “Mom doesn’t want anything to do with you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t know why you’re here, but it’s time for you to go.”
“You two think you can turn your back on me—on Dad?”
“Dad’s dead,” I told him flatly.
“He was your father.”
“I have a father. A decent one.”
He whipped out his hand and slapped me, fast and hard. “Watch your mouth. Next time it’ll be a closed fist.”
“Like father, like son,” I shot back, my cheek stinging.
His eyes narrowed. “You’re soft.”
Adrenaline poured through my body. I was somehow both hot and cold and vibrating with nervous energy, but I kept my voice level.
“And you’re trespassing. Get off our property.”
His face darkened, and his eyes shifted to the window. He flipped our mother the bird and turned as if he were leaving. Classic Tate. Barrel in, cause a scene, and leave. I sighed with shaky relief as he stepped away from the patio.
Then he wheeled back around so fast I didn’t even notice that he had our garden flag in his hand until it connected with my shoulder. As I wondered if the haboob had uprooted it, he swung it at me again. Another heavy blow landed—this one to the side of my neck.
That red mist people describe when they’re enraged? I saw it. I lunged at him, wrenching the iron stake from his hands. I threw it aside and punched him, splitting his lip. Then we were on the ground. He was bigger, stronger, faster, and—it has to be said—meaner than me. I got a few good punches in, but he pummeled me into stillness and then kicked me, his work boots connecting with my ribs in a series of breath-stealing staccato strikes.
