style="font-size:15px;"> CHAPTER 6
Five years before meeting Alvin at the Boar’s Head pub in Ireland, eighteen-year-old Archer, on a whim, decided to visit his estranged twin Keane the day before leaving for college at the University of Wisconsin. He stopped at McDonald’s on the way, knowing that Keane wouldn’t have thought of such things as his brother’s need to eat. When Archer arrived for the first time at the rented shabby A-frame, Keane immediately insisted they blast away at the local pine trees with his pistol grip police riot shotgun; it had been a gift from the police commissioner’s equally angry son.
“Fire.”
“Fire.”
“Fire!”
“Fire!”
Archer watched Keane reload while he massaged his fingers. He rubbed harder yet when Keane clumsily dropped a round that was meant for the chamber. Empty boxes of cartridges, empty shells, live shells, all cluttered the ground. Keane didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t notice how sickly green branches now hung grotesquely, or the way whitish patches balded an otherwise majestic black trunk. “This is the mind of my twin brother,” Archer thought. “We are standing in it. For all his secretive pride, he exposes himself. Stupid pot head.”
Keane talked about his business, bulk pot, and how discretion was the better part of valor. He went on and on about how their father hadn’t raised them to be men. Archer held his tongue.
At dusk, Archer’s car rolled down the gravel road, emerging from the thick woods onto the cool black county highway; he pushed the accelerator and gripped the wheel. He tore along, the band “Tool” ratcheting his effort, pulsing his thoughts: eyes of a deer, hidden cop, keep going faster, nothing for me to stop.
The next day, Archer was already six hours into his sixteen-hour drive to Wisconsin when his identical twin received an unexpected phone call. Keane, for his part, was still sprawled lazily on a crap-brown segmented sofa. His brown shirt and brown pants blended him into the couch in a chameleon-esque way. Begrudgingly he answered the vibrating cell. The call was from a number he wasn’t familiar with.
“Hey.”
“Hello, dear. Is that you, Keane?”
“Who’s this?” He sounded casually annoyed.
“It’s your grandmother, dear. I am so sorry if I am interrupting you.”
Grandmother Rood usually only called on holidays; Keane was genuinely flummoxed to hear her voice. The mystery surrounding her call caused his nerves to jangle. “Hello, grandmother,” he said, trying to sound normal, thoughtful, loving, but his eye caught the swirling smoke in the bottom of his bong and he remembered he didn’t really care. Grey and thick, honeycombed with black, the smoke swirled and swirled its endless swirl around its round glass home.
“Dear, I am so proud of you for graduating from high school. I know your father is, too. I only wish I had been there.” She talked quickly as she always had, only now her soft voice croaked with disease. She’d been diagnosed with lung cancer two months ago. Keane nodded, not realizing he hadn’t replied verbally. High school had been a joke. There was nothing to be proud of. He’d graduated by the absolute skin of his teeth.
“We have always loved you—”
“I love you too,” Keane said, interrupting her. His sentiment was genuine. Keane did love her. She was the one he loved the most.
“I know. I know you do, and that is why I have a request of you.” Her voice had taken on a serious tone. “I need your help. I need you to visit me.”
“Grandmother?”
“You have a car. I am sure your father made sure of that.”
“Yes.”
“Take what is important to you, some music you like, your clothing.” Her voice was straining now. “Keane! I wish to see you one more time. I have something for you. Something I should have given you a long time ago.” Keane felt a twang of pain thinking of her throat cancer. She had smoked all those years, West Virginia Slims.
“Okay,” he said, for the sake of the conversation, still unsure of what she really wanted.
“This isn’t about pity for my condition. I’ve had plenty of that, mostly from myself, though I’ve lived the life I wanted. If your grandfather were still here he would find some way to laugh about it. You remember your grandfather?”
“Of course I remember him, Gans. He was the best. Everyone loved him. No one would forget him.” It was the truth, yet Keane found himself speaking faster than he usually did.
“Leave as soon as you can. I will be in my garden on Sunday. The weeds are terrible. If I don’t answer the door, just come around through the fence and find me. We’ll have a steak if you can get the grill going.” Her voice was beginning to sputter. “I have to rest now. Your grandfather would be so proud. I love you very much.” With that, she hung up.
“I love you, too,” Keane said into the ether, before taking a huge hit on the bong. Impossibly, his pallor looked even whiter and more drawn beneath his spiky hair.
Keane spent several hours convincing himself that driving to Tucson, Arizona, from upstate New York would be tantamount to insanity. Besides, what would his customers do for their shit? Find some other dealer and forget all about him! Going was impossible. Keane, satisfied with his decision, let the delicious smoke rise out of his mouth and toyed with one of the hookah’s tendrils that had wrapped itself around his fingers.
Slinking the way she did when she wanted something, Nascha pulled herself onto the couch next to Keane. A wolfish looking black German Shepherd, she nuzzled his chin, whimpering. He pushed her away, laughing, “You’re going to ruin my high.” Nascha persisted in her bid for attention. Gently she bit down on his hand, slowly increasing pressure until their eyes locked.
“Nascha! What the hell,” Keane barked, trying to pull his hand free. For a second she didn’t let go, relenting only when Keane pulled back with more force. “Go bother the squirrels.” Frustrated, Nascha headed outside, pushing open the screen door with her nose. “Good,” Keane said after her.
That’s when the howling began.
Nascha’s howling sounded eerie, sad, lonely and mournful among the regal pine trees. Keane tried to ignore her, but she was unrelenting.
“Nascha!” he screamed, choking as he inhaled too deeply.
The howling persisted.
“Have it your way,” Keane said spitefully, turning up the volume on the TV. After about 15 minutes, Keane had reached his boiling point. If he heard one more howl, that would be it for one of them. “Owewhoooooooo!” Springing up, Keane flew through the rickety screen door only to see Nascha sitting in his Green Nova’s passenger seat looking for all-the-world as though she was ready for a long ride. Keane laughed uproariously at the sight, his anger abating. Nascha cocked her head in his direction, her howling punctuated with a quick, excited bark of approval. “Alright, you little bitch, we’ll go visit Gans, but on one condition—I drive.”
The next morning, after packing a few gym bags with clothing, a few bags of pot, a .44, his pistol grip shotgun, a few personal
