Introductions were in order with Johnny’s arrival. Scott’s eyes addressed the newspaper clipping in his hand. T. H. Yarra, meet my brother. It appears you may indeed need a poured scotch.”
Staying true to form as an example of a contradiction, Johnny stood with rounded eyes of disbelief and a hard-edged line defining his lips of disgust.
“Johnny. Come. We should probably talk.” Murdoch’s gravelly few words stalled.
The younger Lancer halted his journey short of committing to a welcoming distance, crossed his arms and reiterated the current topic of conversation. “Tellin’ Kinsey her rapist is dead. Sounds to me we’re miles past probably.” A mocking snort punctuated the statement. “Was it Westcott?”
“What?” The taut rope in Scott’s neck complained at the shake of his head. “No! Not Seth Westcott.”
Another name fired across the room. “Will Jenkins.”
“No. Look, Johnny. Sit down.” The directive to contain his brother’s escalating assumptions ricocheted off the walls - never hitting its intended target.
“Toby Anderson. Henry Smalls. Fred Banister.”
“Jesus, Johnny!” Scott raised his hand to fend off the verbal Gatling gun. “Close your mouth and listen!”
“Just crossin’ names off the list. I believe it’s called process of elimination.”
“Best mind your manners, little brother.” A reprimanding tone pointed out the possible remiss of a delinquent. “You’re about to step over a line.”
“Hell, Scott, there was never a line. Not when it comes to her.” One by one Johnny ticked off the facts supporting his reasoning. “Ridin’ off with a change in the wind. Tossin’ aside her bloomers at Martin’s Lake. Drinkin’ champagne like well water.”
“Giving Kinsey a little independence doesn’t make her a -“
“That mouth of hers sure can talk like one. But, naaaah. Can’t have any of those in the Garrett lineage, big brother.” A pinky finger extended as if drinking a spot of tea. “Need to call them pro-MISC-u-ous social-ITES.”
“Is that a fact. Well then, Johnny, let’s invite some of your childhood memories to this discussion, shall we? Let’s start with your mother.” Scott knew his distasteful remark matched his brother’s low blows, but it delivered the anticipated result: a moment of shocked silence.
“Enough.” Murdoch’s low rumbling demand extended the room’s timely stillness. “I want you both to sit down.” Seeing neither young men comply, the patriarch voiced wishful thinking. “I’d like to believe my sons have reached the age where it’s unnecessary to repeat myself.”
Johnny’s reluctant footsteps landed him with a flop on the room’s settee. Arms recrossed as his eyes cast downward to scrutinize a spot of whitewash on the toe of his boot.
With T.H. Yarra in hand, Scott returned to his chair - taking note of his father’s softening jawline and mindful breathing. Before me is a man who successfully escorted two bulls out of his china shop. A retrieved glass from the table followed by a final gulp treated Scott’s jangled nerves.
A third serving of the good stuff was poured by the one person left standing for his youngest. “Take it.”
“I’m not interested in your scotch.”
“Yes, you are John. You just don’t know it yet.” Like a cast iron vice, Murdoch’s free hand latched on to Johnny’s wrist. “You best start praying that little girl upstairs didn’t hear one stupid word of your asinine views of her morals.” A crystal glass forced its acceptance unto an unwilling participant.
With the approach of his father, Scott assumed a refill was in his future. Instead, the tumbler left his possession and returned to the table more firmly than needed by the man towering over him. “I suggest you never again reference Maria in the disrespectful manner you so childishly displayed moments ago. You’re better than that.”
Scott’s embarrassment allowed only a quick nod.
Murdoch recommended a reading of the newspaper story as a start in rectifying Johnny’s miles past probably. “Take your time, Scott. Your brother has a drink to finish.”
Doing his best in keeping an even keel, Scott honored his father’s request and retold the unusual demise of Kinsey’s attacker. By the time he reached Constable Birch’s theory of inebriation and the role it may have played, Johnny’s required drink had disappeared. Scott tossed the clipping on the table. Well, you dead sonofabitch, I guess you don’t get to enjoy that poured scotch after all.
T. H. Yarra left the Great Room and went straight to hell.
The lemongrass aroma of Murdoch’s Grousemoor pipe tobacco. The wall clock’s rhythmic heartbeat. The varied cadence of inhales and exhales. With no words being spoken, this was the best the room could offer until Johnny assisted with a query.
“You pourin’ another round, old man?”
Another round poured. Scott stared at the warm-in-the-belly bronze hue of the scotch in his glass. Winnie would call it Dutch Courage. His grandfather preferred a more refined term. Pot-valiant. However referenced, another round would provide the courage to ask the questions that needed to be asked and the endurance to answer them.
********
Supper took place in name only as Scott pushed the food around on his plate. His appetite’s presence at the table matched that of Kinsey and her empty chair. Earlier he’d quietly looked in on his little cousin - nesting among pillows and blankets. Judging her sound asleep, Scott closed the door behind him.
Johnny attempted a few mouthfuls of potatoes to be polite, but soon excused himself and wandered off. Teresa’s familiar light-hearted dinner conversation was stricken from the menu with Murdoch’s solemn demeanor. His weighted manner reflected the talk to take place after the evening meal. Scott had agreed his father should speak to Teresa regarding her friend and the rape.
We acquire the strength we overcome. Stepping outside for fresh air to clear the mind, Scott picked up a stone and threw it towards the twilight sky of salmon and purple. Emerson sure as hell better be right. Gaining strength when overcoming adversity would certainly be put to the test.
Shadow movement enhanced by a few lit lanterns near the chicken coop claimed attention. Johnny? Evidently, his little brother had found a mindless task to focus on - finish whitewashing the coop.
Drawing near, Scott’s brow headed south with confusion. The lantern light must be playing a visual trick. The coop displayed less white and more -
“Pink?” Hands went to hips. “You’re painting it pink?”
“Yep.”
Scott watched Johnny, with the finesse of Rembrandt, bestow a stripe of rosy hue on a worn board. “Mind telling me why?”
“Half-pint wanted it pink.” The artist stood back and admired his work. “So it stays pink. Have a problem with that, big brother?”
“Sets fine with me.” A second brush dipped into the bucket of paint. “I’d like to help. Have a problem with that, little brother?”
“Nope. Sets just fine. The Chicken Coop Slaughter.” Remembering the day sparked a flickering smile on Johnny’s face. “Thought Murdoch was gonna jump the tracks when he saw what the kid had done here.”
“What makes you think we won’t be tied to the tracks when he sees what we’ve done here?” Scott scrutinized his few brush strokes. Somehow returning the chicken coop to its gaudy color felt… correct. It felt justified. “If he complains we’ll use Kinsey’s response - I beg to differ.”
“¡Dios Mío!” Johnny lit another lantern to fend off the intruding darkness. “Who says that to the old man more than once without flinching?”
“A very independent young lady who got dealt a lousy hand through no fault of her own.” Pink paint went down a plank and around the corner.
“It is a fact. Bad cards don’t care where they land.” A window frame returned to Kinsey’s color of empowerment. “That’s why this goddamn chicken coop needs to stay pink.”
Chirping, twilling katydids accompanied the slaps of wet paint when the brothers’ conversation lapsed into periods of silence. More lanterns offered light. More white boards surrendered. And a full moon rose to supervise the work being done.
Shoulders and arms requested a break from the repetitive motion of applying paint. Squatting down on the coop’s stoop, Johnny’s knees popped. “Jesus, I’m sounding like Murdoch.”
“You’re not alone, brother.” Scott rubbed his neck as he settled his backside on the upper step.
“Murdoch. Having that bastard killed.” If Johnny had a further opinion it remained in solitary confinement.
“Eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth.” Scott rounded his shoulders to work out a few knots. “The belief runs damn deep in our father but, trust me, it’s there.” A hand gestured into the dark. “Think you or I would do differently if Yarra stepped out of the shadows?”
Johnny removed his hat to wipe a sleeve across his forehead. “What about the Grape Crusher? Does he know what happened?”
“Seth isn’t aware. It’s Kinsey’s story - her decision to tell him.” Scott let out his customary heavy sigh. “I’m not sure how he’ll react to the news. ”
“Same reason you didn’t tell me?”
Scott raised an eyebrow. “Oh, predicting your reaction took little guesswork, brother.”
“I was a fuckin’ jackass.” A puff of dry dust resulted in a kicked boot toe. “Didn’t need a damn crystal ball for that one.”
“I wasn’t any better.”
“Well, Boston, I beg to differ.”