Drew Barth

Small Acts

 

​

I dropped my cigarette into the grass by the headstone. The funeral crowd dispersed behind us as me, Tommy, and James walked back to our cars. 

 

My little brother Tommy still believed that story about the girl that stood on a grave at midnight and died. I read him that story when babysitting and his eyes bulged like I’d been sitting on his neck. James ratted me out the first chance he got. He told my aunt, who told my mom, and I was locked up for a month. 

 

Cold grass licked the hem of my pants while we walked. 

 

#

 

I was the only one who left town, but my aunt’s funeral brought me back. She wasn’t around often, but she’d make Tommy and I the macaroni and cheese my parents hated. The one with little character shapes. 

 

Her house smelled like lilacs and gin. We’d only slept over a couple times. My mom yelled at her for not going to their parent’s birthday while we watched from the stairs. I could see my aunt’s nerves. She spun a little gold ring around her finger—like she wanted to twist the bone clean off. 

 

#

 

“Not like you care anyway,” James said behind me. It was the first time I heard anything he said to me in six years. The last time was when he tried to call the cops on me—said I’d ran over his dog. But no one listens when a bratty twenty-something starts crying. 

 

I got in my car without replying. Tommy opened up the passenger’s side door and got in. He wanted to look apologetic, but his face always came out wrong. Tommy at least always tried.

 

Gravel flared out from my tires and we drove off. 

 

#

 

I thumbed the ring and twirled it over my knuckles like a coin trick. Nothing but a small gold hoop—the ring she wore nearly every day was all that was left of my aunt’s jewelry collection after the rest of the family got to it. James cracked her safe open and got the bank key. The teller didn’t ask us anything. 

 

“Hell, Mom ain’t going to miss any of this later,” James said. He dumped everything into his backpack like we were robbing the place. 

 

Rings and bracelets like hail bouncing off a windshield as they tumbled in. 

 

#

 

We were always together. James and I. He didn’t have any siblings, so his mom kept him close to us. He said I was like his sister. Once. When he put a knife to my eye while I was in bed and held it there like he was trying to count each vein. His breath was orange soda.

​

 

My eye twitched at a click from the front door and James vanished. The hall light clicked off and my parents walked past. I could hear blood in my ears and nothing else. Like rubbing old leather. Tommy watched from his bed.

 

#

 

Tommy always kept a .22 in his mattress. The gun was heavier than I thought. I looked up how to check if it was loaded on my phone. The old wood above me creaked as I shoved the gun in my purse. 

​

 

Five different mirrors lined the walls of his room and behind the door. They could all five see me. Hunched over my purse like I was hiding something. I put a finger to my lips as if one of us was going to tell. 

 

I locked the door behind me and went back upstairs. 

 

#

​

 

“You talk about me leaving, but how long have you been waiting on the edge of town? Stalking your mom’s house like you’re some kind of animal peeking at a half-dead rabbit.”

​

 

James cocooned himself in his armchair. Crusted throw blankets flanked him on either side. I thumbed the gold ring around my finger. The gun in my purse weighed my words. He may have known it was there. 

 

“At least you could buy a new chair,” I said. I kicked at a stain just beneath a small cigarette burn hole. 

​

 

“I do what I want,” he said. I left.

 

#

​

 

Slow night at the Bellweather. Half the tables were empty and the families there barely made any noise. James, Tommy, and I took up three spots on a square table. No one was there at my right as I pulled the .22 out of my purse. The gold ring slid along the grip. 

​

 

“Isn’t it nice?” James said. He cut into his chicken fried steak. “We can do this now. Don’t have to eat frozen trash every goddamn night.”

​

 

I pulled the trigger. 

 

James’ blood soaked into the green carpet. All sound fell away. Tommy stared. I left him behind.

 

#

 

Tommy always kept the back porch light on when I would sneak out. The screen door screamed I was there, but the rest of the house was quiet. A street light bled through the front window and I twisted the gold ring around my finger again and again. Tommy stood in the living room like he was waiting for me. He would. But I never did for him and the thought chewed me up.

​

 

“James is in the hospital. Don’t know for how much longer.” He walked away down the hall. 

​

 

The room was open and lit. I couldn’t breathe. 

 

#

 

 

The funeral ended hours ago, but the dirt was still fresh. His face was laser-etched into the grave and I’d forgotten he was younger than me. We’d gone into the graveyard when we were younger to talk to ghosts with a flashlight. Cracks of lightning had scared us back home. 

​

 

There weren’t any flowers for him and I didn’t have any to leave. Voices echoed from a distance and I kicked up some of his dirt before turning away. 

​

 

I dropped the gold ring as I spun it around my finger. The band threaded itself into the grass and disappeared. 

 

Drew Barth is a writer living in Clermont, FL and received their MFA from the University of Central Florida. He is a regular contributor to The Drunken Odyssey. Bienvenue au Danse, Drew.

​

​