Vixere
Melbourne Member
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There may be jokes here one day. I'm not very funny, so it will take a while.
Current avatar credit because the world needs art.
Current avatar credit because the world needs art.
Most Recent Posts
January update! ❄️
August update -- ✌️
07/07/20 update!
That was it then. She was going to stay. And he was going to stay with her. Their only attempt to run the farm together still hung in the air -- hot for days, digging out a new fence, the damn goat running away --
Having a farm had always been Melissa McCormick’s vision, but she’d only started to buy land and get a few chickens before she got sick. Luke remembered what it was like to watch his mother, barely through her mid-thirties and so frail that it was a major accomplishment for her just to sit on the front porch. After everything, Sam was the one most likely to take up the mantle, then probably Matthew. Luke couldn’t and wouldn’t run a farm. He was too irresponsible and hot-tempered. Now, all of a sudden, he was the only one left. Just him, Charlie, and an entire business that depended on them. The truth was, he needed her too. She was his last connection to home, to his brothers, to his family. In many ways, she was all he had left.
I need you.
His jaw tightened and he looked down into his empty coffee mug. He made a noise that was something between a grunt and a sigh. “I don’t think you want to hear about my last few months. I was mostly in rehab in Germany. Bad food, bad TV, shitty weather.” The scar on his neck was small compared to the one that spiderwebbed closer to his chest. His shoulder, where there was more mottled tissue, had given him the most trouble in Syria. It was so bad that they threatened to send him back to the States to recover. This prospect made Luke furious, and the only way he got them to compromise was by taking care of himself. He had to prove that he could still use his shoulder and arm. The process had been complicated because they had to drill plates into a few parts of the bone. It’d more or less been crushed. He was in rehab when Sam died.
The skin and tissue damage far exceeded anything he wanted to show Charlie, so he didn’t talk about it. Ideally, she would never see it. He didn’t want to know what her reaction would be.
While Luke was attracted to just sitting and catching up, he knew that he couldn’t. He needed to check on the fences, equipment, and animals to see if anything had changed since he was last at the house. He needed to shower, change, and put his bags away. He needed to get used to being in Sam’s space without him. He needed constant things to do or he’d just drink and fuck off. If he sat down with Charlie, and they started talking, and she got going about Sam...Luke wasn’t sure what he’d do then.
“I can’t sit,” he said bluntly. One by one, he went through the fridge, pantry, cabinets, and freezer. “Do you want to eat? Dinner? Are you hungry? I have to go to town anyway. I have a few errands to run.”
One of his errands included stopping by the police station -- and he wasn’t very thrilled by that prospect.
Having a farm had always been Melissa McCormick’s vision, but she’d only started to buy land and get a few chickens before she got sick. Luke remembered what it was like to watch his mother, barely through her mid-thirties and so frail that it was a major accomplishment for her just to sit on the front porch. After everything, Sam was the one most likely to take up the mantle, then probably Matthew. Luke couldn’t and wouldn’t run a farm. He was too irresponsible and hot-tempered. Now, all of a sudden, he was the only one left. Just him, Charlie, and an entire business that depended on them. The truth was, he needed her too. She was his last connection to home, to his brothers, to his family. In many ways, she was all he had left.
I need you.
His jaw tightened and he looked down into his empty coffee mug. He made a noise that was something between a grunt and a sigh. “I don’t think you want to hear about my last few months. I was mostly in rehab in Germany. Bad food, bad TV, shitty weather.” The scar on his neck was small compared to the one that spiderwebbed closer to his chest. His shoulder, where there was more mottled tissue, had given him the most trouble in Syria. It was so bad that they threatened to send him back to the States to recover. This prospect made Luke furious, and the only way he got them to compromise was by taking care of himself. He had to prove that he could still use his shoulder and arm. The process had been complicated because they had to drill plates into a few parts of the bone. It’d more or less been crushed. He was in rehab when Sam died.
The skin and tissue damage far exceeded anything he wanted to show Charlie, so he didn’t talk about it. Ideally, she would never see it. He didn’t want to know what her reaction would be.
While Luke was attracted to just sitting and catching up, he knew that he couldn’t. He needed to check on the fences, equipment, and animals to see if anything had changed since he was last at the house. He needed to shower, change, and put his bags away. He needed to get used to being in Sam’s space without him. He needed constant things to do or he’d just drink and fuck off. If he sat down with Charlie, and they started talking, and she got going about Sam...Luke wasn’t sure what he’d do then.
“I can’t sit,” he said bluntly. One by one, he went through the fridge, pantry, cabinets, and freezer. “Do you want to eat? Dinner? Are you hungry? I have to go to town anyway. I have a few errands to run.”
One of his errands included stopping by the police station -- and he wasn’t very thrilled by that prospect.
The “your brother” and “my husband” shit Charlie sometimes liked to pull was another layer of guilt on top of the several he already had. Though Luke bristled, he didn’t take the bait. She knew damn well what Sam meant to the both of them. Sure, Charlie could have wet dreams all she wanted about the McCormick she’d never touched, but that didn’t hold a candle to the fact that she’d married the other one. Luke liked to remind himself of this whenever he threatened to get taken away by Charlie’s claims. As far as selling the property went, he supposed her reaction wasn’t the worst outcome -- but he was certain that saying “hey, you should sell” would have gone much more poorly if they’d played house together for a few weeks first.
He spread his arms wide and pointed at the ceiling. “Look at this place! It’s full of rooms for kids you’re never going to have with him. His fucking picture is on almost every fucking wall. His truck is still in the driveway, Charlie. You’re going to live here? Really? In this mausoleum of a house? Or say you do move on -- what’s the new guy supposed to do? Recreate your dead husband’s dream with you?” Luke couldn’t argue and sit still. He was moving, pacing, tense. Further, he was cagey from travelling for two days, and being in Sam’s space without him was odd. A stubborn part of him still believed that Sam was going to walk through the door. Maybe Luke’s lack of acceptance was why he wanted to force Charlie into selling. Or maybe it was because selling his childhood home had been the quickest way to get rid of his father’s memory after he’d finally, finally died.
I don’t have the luxury of running away when shit happens.
Luke wasn’t going to forget or ignore what had just come out of her mouth, but if they snapped at each other after each jab, then the rebuilding process was going to be incredibly difficult for the both of them. “I said I wanted to be here,” he reminded her, “and you’re not going to change my mind.” Hopefully the yelling, pacing, and pointing was over. As he started to cool, he went back to his coffee, feeling a slight headache build behind his eyes. The scotch he’d drank at Sam’s grave was wearing off.
“I don’t know. I’m sure you don’t know either. But selling is my opinion. I can’t make you. If keeping it is what you want, then maybe you can prove me wrong. I want to help you. I do. I really do.” Exhausted eyes found hers. “It’s just the hardest option.”
He spread his arms wide and pointed at the ceiling. “Look at this place! It’s full of rooms for kids you’re never going to have with him. His fucking picture is on almost every fucking wall. His truck is still in the driveway, Charlie. You’re going to live here? Really? In this mausoleum of a house? Or say you do move on -- what’s the new guy supposed to do? Recreate your dead husband’s dream with you?” Luke couldn’t argue and sit still. He was moving, pacing, tense. Further, he was cagey from travelling for two days, and being in Sam’s space without him was odd. A stubborn part of him still believed that Sam was going to walk through the door. Maybe Luke’s lack of acceptance was why he wanted to force Charlie into selling. Or maybe it was because selling his childhood home had been the quickest way to get rid of his father’s memory after he’d finally, finally died.
I don’t have the luxury of running away when shit happens.
Luke wasn’t going to forget or ignore what had just come out of her mouth, but if they snapped at each other after each jab, then the rebuilding process was going to be incredibly difficult for the both of them. “I said I wanted to be here,” he reminded her, “and you’re not going to change my mind.” Hopefully the yelling, pacing, and pointing was over. As he started to cool, he went back to his coffee, feeling a slight headache build behind his eyes. The scotch he’d drank at Sam’s grave was wearing off.
“I don’t know. I’m sure you don’t know either. But selling is my opinion. I can’t make you. If keeping it is what you want, then maybe you can prove me wrong. I want to help you. I do. I really do.” Exhausted eyes found hers. “It’s just the hardest option.”
The mere prospect of anyone even attempting to get a fraction of McCormick property pissed Luke off. The Ambrose brothers had all but moved up Sam’s ass once their mother died to get a few acres on the sly. While arable land wasn’t rare in Hingham Valley, all of it was private property or protected by the state forestry service. When Charlie told him that nobody had bothered her yet about Sam’s assets, he was surprised, but he said nothing. All the property had belonged to Sam -- and Charlie by extension -- and that was for a very good reason. If this was ten years ago, Luke would’ve lost the deed in a card game.
But this wasn’t ten years ago. This was now, and Sam was gone. Luke was the last McCormick left. The lack of kids kind of baffled everyone, but it was Luke’s understanding that Sam wanted to wait until the farm and house were fully operational before adding another responsibility to the mix. However, every time Sam tried to talk about his sex life, Luke made it very apparent that was a no-fly zone. His responses ranged from “I don’t care” to “shut the fuck up.”
There had been a few times when Luke was home on leave and the thought of Sam shooting him in the backyard was the only thing that kept him from pushing Charlie against the fridge until all the magnets clattered to the floor. It would have been different if it was one-sided, if he was just making up this shit in his head.
The closest he’d come to crossing the line was a few summers back when Sam was gone for five days at a business conference in Bozeman. A huge fight between them ensued when Charlie insisted on looking for a missing goat that had gotten scared during a storm, and they both said some mean things to each other. Luke was furious that she was jeopardizing her safety for an animal, and she was mad at him for thinking he had any right to tell her how to run a farm when he was gone most of the time. When she came back, she was soaked to the bone and started to peel off her wet clothes in the mud room. He didn’t speak to her when he handed her a towel and one of his work shirts from the hooks on the wall.
She still had the shirt on in the morning, open at the collar and with the sleeves rolled up. Their silent apology to each other consisted of small touches while they moved around the kitchen -- her fingers on his elbow when she placed his coffee on the counter; his hand at her back when he moved around her with a hot pan.
I was worried about you, he said finally.
You went to Fallujah. Then Baghdad. Then Syria.
Charlie --
Fuck you. What you felt when I looked for a goddamn goat in the rain is not even a fraction of what I feel when you go on tour.
He stared at her, and she stared at him back, flush and bright-eyed. His gaze moved up each button of his shirt she wore, over her throat, and stopped at her mouth. She swallowed, jaw hard, and put their plates on the table. Even years later, he remembered what it was like to eat breakfast with her in silence, refusing to look when she brought her coffee cup to her lips. They both knew that fucking shirt should’ve been twisted in his fist, tight around her waist while he pushed her up against the fridge…
You’ve got your own life, Luke. I can’t pull you away from that.
Since stepping foot in the house, his memories clicked and slipped from one snapshot to another. The entire property was layered with the past. Each time he returned was like forcing himself to relive certain moments -- the good as well as the bad.
“You gonna make me stay in the motel?” he teased, trying to find a piece of levity in their haunted kitchen. “I dunno. It’s hard to stay, and it’s hard to go. But if you need space, I understand that too.” Jack nosed at his knee, and Luke bent down to the ground to pet him. “Wilson Ambrose has been after parts of the property for the last decade. He always listened to Sam, so I know he’d give two shits about me. He’s probably more inclined to take something with me here.” Luke’s slow, easy grin spread across his face. “It may even be better for you if I’m gone.”
It was all pleasantries, as there was a zero percent chance of him leaving. He knew she didn’t want him to feel obligated to stick around. The “life” she’d mentioned was years of him trying to inject purpose into his existence with the military.
He filled Jake's water dish, wiped his hands off on his pants, and took a long sip of his coffee. “I’ve got a few months of down time at least.”
What he had to say next was the hardest part. It was hard because he knew if he waited, then it would be thousands of times worse later. At this point he was only looking at her, eyes fixed on her every movement. “I’m mostly here to see how much you want it. The farm. Because right now, I think you should sell.”
But this wasn’t ten years ago. This was now, and Sam was gone. Luke was the last McCormick left. The lack of kids kind of baffled everyone, but it was Luke’s understanding that Sam wanted to wait until the farm and house were fully operational before adding another responsibility to the mix. However, every time Sam tried to talk about his sex life, Luke made it very apparent that was a no-fly zone. His responses ranged from “I don’t care” to “shut the fuck up.”
There had been a few times when Luke was home on leave and the thought of Sam shooting him in the backyard was the only thing that kept him from pushing Charlie against the fridge until all the magnets clattered to the floor. It would have been different if it was one-sided, if he was just making up this shit in his head.
The closest he’d come to crossing the line was a few summers back when Sam was gone for five days at a business conference in Bozeman. A huge fight between them ensued when Charlie insisted on looking for a missing goat that had gotten scared during a storm, and they both said some mean things to each other. Luke was furious that she was jeopardizing her safety for an animal, and she was mad at him for thinking he had any right to tell her how to run a farm when he was gone most of the time. When she came back, she was soaked to the bone and started to peel off her wet clothes in the mud room. He didn’t speak to her when he handed her a towel and one of his work shirts from the hooks on the wall.
She still had the shirt on in the morning, open at the collar and with the sleeves rolled up. Their silent apology to each other consisted of small touches while they moved around the kitchen -- her fingers on his elbow when she placed his coffee on the counter; his hand at her back when he moved around her with a hot pan.
I was worried about you, he said finally.
You went to Fallujah. Then Baghdad. Then Syria.
Charlie --
Fuck you. What you felt when I looked for a goddamn goat in the rain is not even a fraction of what I feel when you go on tour.
He stared at her, and she stared at him back, flush and bright-eyed. His gaze moved up each button of his shirt she wore, over her throat, and stopped at her mouth. She swallowed, jaw hard, and put their plates on the table. Even years later, he remembered what it was like to eat breakfast with her in silence, refusing to look when she brought her coffee cup to her lips. They both knew that fucking shirt should’ve been twisted in his fist, tight around her waist while he pushed her up against the fridge…
You’ve got your own life, Luke. I can’t pull you away from that.
Since stepping foot in the house, his memories clicked and slipped from one snapshot to another. The entire property was layered with the past. Each time he returned was like forcing himself to relive certain moments -- the good as well as the bad.
“You gonna make me stay in the motel?” he teased, trying to find a piece of levity in their haunted kitchen. “I dunno. It’s hard to stay, and it’s hard to go. But if you need space, I understand that too.” Jack nosed at his knee, and Luke bent down to the ground to pet him. “Wilson Ambrose has been after parts of the property for the last decade. He always listened to Sam, so I know he’d give two shits about me. He’s probably more inclined to take something with me here.” Luke’s slow, easy grin spread across his face. “It may even be better for you if I’m gone.”
It was all pleasantries, as there was a zero percent chance of him leaving. He knew she didn’t want him to feel obligated to stick around. The “life” she’d mentioned was years of him trying to inject purpose into his existence with the military.
He filled Jake's water dish, wiped his hands off on his pants, and took a long sip of his coffee. “I’ve got a few months of down time at least.”
What he had to say next was the hardest part. It was hard because he knew if he waited, then it would be thousands of times worse later. At this point he was only looking at her, eyes fixed on her every movement. “I’m mostly here to see how much you want it. The farm. Because right now, I think you should sell.”
05/16/20 update!
Luke had last been on the property the winter previous, and as he followed the sounds of Jack’s barks and Charlie’s voice, he found it hard to forget the way he’d left. The whole conversation sat malignant under his skin, flaring up every now and then to bother him. There had been plenty of phone calls and emails since then, but Luke hadn’t thought that Sam would go and get himself killed.
They were all well and properly greased from their holiday drinks. It was customary that the brothers share a bottle of something too expensive for Christmas, but for all of Sam’s merits, Luke could better hold his alcohol. He remembered that it was nice -- to just drink and sit and enjoy friendly company, until Charlie left the room. That’s when Sam’s smile faltered and he tapped his empty glass against the table. More bourbon? He tinkered with the bottle some, twisting it around and picking at the label before he topped them both off.
You doing all right? Luke asked.
Sam took a sip of his drink, rolled up his sleeves, and put his elbows on the table. Luke eyed his brother, wary, as he chewed on a hangnail. The house was silent for a few seconds until they heard Charlie’s voice in the hall. She was on the phone with someone.
Sam cleared his throat. When’d you fuck her? Like a dog clawing at the door, he insisted on getting a response. Last week? Last month? Or during any of the other dozens of times I put you the fuck up in my fucking house --
Charlie? Cut your bullshit. You’re drunk.
Answer me.
Get out of my face. And shut up, or she’ll hear you -- and you’ll have to deal with that fucking mess.
It was just bickering at first, but when Luke got up to end the conversation, he felt Sam’s grip at the front of his shirt. Everything happened so quickly. Tell me, or I swear to God, I will bury you under this goddamn house.
Luke shoved his brother back and hissed, Calm the fuck down. Listen to yourself. Enough. He carefully considered what he was going to say next. The words came out of his mouth slowly, as if against his own will. Did she tell you we had sex?
No.
Jesus Christ, Sammy.
No -- He put up his hands. No, but listen. She was asleep and started touching me and saying your name and all this shit --
Oh for fuck’s sake, Luke groaned. Give me a break. Stop. No. I don't care about your bedroom life. I don't give a single fuck.
She did it the night you came back. Last week.
What part of “stop” don’t you get? Huh? I need a cigarette. I’m done with this conversation.
Sam had started to come down, but now he was back at it with a freshly poured drink, playing surgeon with every word that Luke said. You never answered my question. His anger was a snakebite when Luke tried to leave for a smoke. Sit back down. You’re gonna say it to my face.
I did not fuck your wife. The chair creaked under his weight as he sat back, pushing his empty glass towards Sam. I will not fuck your wife. With a few clicks of his lighter he started his cigarette. Even if you’re dead I won’t touch her. He took a drag and went out onto the porch before anything else could be said. It was several minutes -- well after his cigarette was done -- until Charlie opened the door to let out the dog. She said something about how cold it was, that Sam got too drunk and went to bed, that he should have a cup of coffee with her, that she was so happy to have him home for the holidays.
Luke grabbed her waist and pulled her into him once she was close enough. Sam’s absence only sharpened Charlie’s presence, and he didn’t even know where to begin talking about it. So he didn’t. He only let the fact that she was there wash over him. Her weight, warmth, and smell hit him all at once. “It’s so good to see you too,” he said, squeezing her shoulders once she eased back. To say her spark was gone was an understatement, but her focus on behaving normally made him a little more comfortable.
The knot in his chest tightened as they walked across the property and into the house. Jake weaved through his legs, something he only did when he was excited and eager for attention, and Luke had to take a few minutes to pet him down before he calmed. Seeing all of Sam’s things peppered through the living room and kitchen made the knot bury further, somewhere far behind his ribs. If Charlie could keep existing in this house, then he could too.
The mug she gave him had a chip on the edge from years of washing, exchanging hands, and moving from counter to table. It had the state flag on it, faded blue and yellow letters. He traced the chip with his thumb, fixating on something so he wouldn’t keep looking around at all the things that reminded him of the man that was so very clearly gone.
“Trip was long,” he said finally. “There were no crying babies during any part of it, so that’s good. Decent weather. No delays. I, uh…” He closed his eyes, grasping at word straws. His brain pulsed, picturing himself as Charlie was probably seeing him. Most of it was his normal self -- short hair, clean shaven, no new tattoos (he was running out of arm space anyway). Some of it was abnormal -- bruised knuckles, the red edge of a fresh scar peeking out from the collar of his shirt, the dark circles under his eyes. Luke opened his eyes and started again. “I stopped to see Sam right before I got here. I’m sorry I couldn’t leave sooner. I would’ve fucking swam here if I thought that would be faster.”
I’m sorry that you had to do it all by yourself, was what he actually meant to say.
“Listen, I know I can’t do everything that he did. But you’re only one person and nobody can run this farm by themselves. Not even he could’ve. And I know people are gonna be coming around here soon -- shit, I mean if they haven’t already -- to buy parts of the land, or some of the equipment or animals. I’m here, Charlie. To help. I want to be here.”
They were all well and properly greased from their holiday drinks. It was customary that the brothers share a bottle of something too expensive for Christmas, but for all of Sam’s merits, Luke could better hold his alcohol. He remembered that it was nice -- to just drink and sit and enjoy friendly company, until Charlie left the room. That’s when Sam’s smile faltered and he tapped his empty glass against the table. More bourbon? He tinkered with the bottle some, twisting it around and picking at the label before he topped them both off.
You doing all right? Luke asked.
Sam took a sip of his drink, rolled up his sleeves, and put his elbows on the table. Luke eyed his brother, wary, as he chewed on a hangnail. The house was silent for a few seconds until they heard Charlie’s voice in the hall. She was on the phone with someone.
Sam cleared his throat. When’d you fuck her? Like a dog clawing at the door, he insisted on getting a response. Last week? Last month? Or during any of the other dozens of times I put you the fuck up in my fucking house --
Charlie? Cut your bullshit. You’re drunk.
Answer me.
Get out of my face. And shut up, or she’ll hear you -- and you’ll have to deal with that fucking mess.
It was just bickering at first, but when Luke got up to end the conversation, he felt Sam’s grip at the front of his shirt. Everything happened so quickly. Tell me, or I swear to God, I will bury you under this goddamn house.
Luke shoved his brother back and hissed, Calm the fuck down. Listen to yourself. Enough. He carefully considered what he was going to say next. The words came out of his mouth slowly, as if against his own will. Did she tell you we had sex?
No.
Jesus Christ, Sammy.
No -- He put up his hands. No, but listen. She was asleep and started touching me and saying your name and all this shit --
Oh for fuck’s sake, Luke groaned. Give me a break. Stop. No. I don't care about your bedroom life. I don't give a single fuck.
She did it the night you came back. Last week.
What part of “stop” don’t you get? Huh? I need a cigarette. I’m done with this conversation.
Sam had started to come down, but now he was back at it with a freshly poured drink, playing surgeon with every word that Luke said. You never answered my question. His anger was a snakebite when Luke tried to leave for a smoke. Sit back down. You’re gonna say it to my face.
I did not fuck your wife. The chair creaked under his weight as he sat back, pushing his empty glass towards Sam. I will not fuck your wife. With a few clicks of his lighter he started his cigarette. Even if you’re dead I won’t touch her. He took a drag and went out onto the porch before anything else could be said. It was several minutes -- well after his cigarette was done -- until Charlie opened the door to let out the dog. She said something about how cold it was, that Sam got too drunk and went to bed, that he should have a cup of coffee with her, that she was so happy to have him home for the holidays.
Luke grabbed her waist and pulled her into him once she was close enough. Sam’s absence only sharpened Charlie’s presence, and he didn’t even know where to begin talking about it. So he didn’t. He only let the fact that she was there wash over him. Her weight, warmth, and smell hit him all at once. “It’s so good to see you too,” he said, squeezing her shoulders once she eased back. To say her spark was gone was an understatement, but her focus on behaving normally made him a little more comfortable.
The knot in his chest tightened as they walked across the property and into the house. Jake weaved through his legs, something he only did when he was excited and eager for attention, and Luke had to take a few minutes to pet him down before he calmed. Seeing all of Sam’s things peppered through the living room and kitchen made the knot bury further, somewhere far behind his ribs. If Charlie could keep existing in this house, then he could too.
The mug she gave him had a chip on the edge from years of washing, exchanging hands, and moving from counter to table. It had the state flag on it, faded blue and yellow letters. He traced the chip with his thumb, fixating on something so he wouldn’t keep looking around at all the things that reminded him of the man that was so very clearly gone.
“Trip was long,” he said finally. “There were no crying babies during any part of it, so that’s good. Decent weather. No delays. I, uh…” He closed his eyes, grasping at word straws. His brain pulsed, picturing himself as Charlie was probably seeing him. Most of it was his normal self -- short hair, clean shaven, no new tattoos (he was running out of arm space anyway). Some of it was abnormal -- bruised knuckles, the red edge of a fresh scar peeking out from the collar of his shirt, the dark circles under his eyes. Luke opened his eyes and started again. “I stopped to see Sam right before I got here. I’m sorry I couldn’t leave sooner. I would’ve fucking swam here if I thought that would be faster.”
I’m sorry that you had to do it all by yourself, was what he actually meant to say.
“Listen, I know I can’t do everything that he did. But you’re only one person and nobody can run this farm by themselves. Not even he could’ve. And I know people are gonna be coming around here soon -- shit, I mean if they haven’t already -- to buy parts of the land, or some of the equipment or animals. I’m here, Charlie. To help. I want to be here.”
You’re going home.
McCormick blood ran deep in the roots of Hingham Valley, Montana, and Luke was the last of his generation above the ground. He shouldn’t have been. His constant quest for a death wish was so far unfulfilled, though not for lack of trying. Between his attitude and Aleppo, one of them should’ve killed him by now -- yet he was the one pouring out Macallan in the September sun.
“Scotch for a dead man,” Luke muttered, sitting next to his brother’s grave.
Samuel McCormick
03/12/1986 - 7/21/2019
Loving Husband & Brother
Sam’s last words to him had been while Luke lay in a hospital bed in Germany. If you die, I’ll pour you out a scotch. His death hadn’t sunk in yet. Until Luke saw the farm without him, it wouldn’t be real.
“I was supposed to be first, you fucking asshole.”
As far as burial spots went, Sam had a pretty good view. It was in the Valley plot, sure, but most of the family was there anyway. Luke sipped from the bottle as he remembered the last few family funerals he’d attended with his brother. First had been Matthew, the third McCormick boy. Car accident. Then there was their mother. Cancer. Then their father. Suicide. Three deaths in three years. It got the point where people started to treat Luke strangely, like he was a package without a label on the front steps. When horrible things happen, people tend to either spread out or close in.
Sam had spread out. He wasn’t supposed to go -- because he was the responsible one. When Sam spoke, people listened. He had been on such good terms with everyone in the town that he had a bartering system with most of the businesses. Free pastries at the bakery in exchange for raw milk. Beer for fence mending. Eggs for bacon. Sam was the one who would’ve made their mother proud, and Luke was the one who would’ve made his mother sigh and say, “Jesus Christ, what have you done this time?”
Granted, Sam had a lot to do with the success of the farm. It had been their mother’s dream, after all. His brother, however, was only one man. Charlie was the other half of the magical equation. She had just as much to do with the farm’s prosperity as Sam had.
Luke took a swig from the scotch bottle and lit up a cigarette. He rested his shoulder against the cool granite of Sam’s headstone and looked up at the sun, through the oaks that framed the graveyard. On the inhale, a sharp pain poked between his ribs. It happened every now and then, since Germany. Ignoring it, he took another drag and screwed the cap back on the scotch. “Short visit,” he told Sam’s grave, “I know. You’re dead, so I don’t have a lot to say.”
His first order of business back in town was to see Sam -- Charlie would understand. He stuck the bottle in his Army bag and slung it over his shoulder. Cologne to Hingham Valley was one international flight, two domestic connects, a bus ride, and a hitch. Somehow, the walk from Sam’s grave to the farm was much longer.
After two more cigarettes, he turned up Lawson Hill, one of many dirt-to-farm roads in the county. It was a half-mile to the property, mostly uphill. Dusty in the summer, muddy in the spring, and a total icy bitch in the winter. He’d abandoned many trucks at the bottom in Januaries past.
You’re coming home.
The house was the first thing he saw. The barn and pasture quickly followed. If Luke hadn’t known better, his brother could have been still alive -- his truck was in the driveway and sheets were hung out on the line to dry. He half expected dinner to be in the oven and football on in the background, Sam sharing a beer with one of the neighbors on the porch.
“Charlie!” Luke called out.
It had taken him weeks to get cleared for a flight back to the States. She knew he was coming back, but she didn’t know when. Mostly because he didn’t tell her. Talking to her was harder than he wanted to admit. There was no way to have an easy, simple conversation now that Sam was gone.
She could be anywhere, and if he knew her at all, then she certainly wasn’t in the house.
He stuck his thumb and index in his mouth and whistled. “Charlie!”
You're coming home.
McCormick blood ran deep in the roots of Hingham Valley, Montana, and Luke was the last of his generation above the ground. He shouldn’t have been. His constant quest for a death wish was so far unfulfilled, though not for lack of trying. Between his attitude and Aleppo, one of them should’ve killed him by now -- yet he was the one pouring out Macallan in the September sun.
“Scotch for a dead man,” Luke muttered, sitting next to his brother’s grave.
Samuel McCormick
03/12/1986 - 7/21/2019
Loving Husband & Brother
Sam’s last words to him had been while Luke lay in a hospital bed in Germany. If you die, I’ll pour you out a scotch. His death hadn’t sunk in yet. Until Luke saw the farm without him, it wouldn’t be real.
“I was supposed to be first, you fucking asshole.”
As far as burial spots went, Sam had a pretty good view. It was in the Valley plot, sure, but most of the family was there anyway. Luke sipped from the bottle as he remembered the last few family funerals he’d attended with his brother. First had been Matthew, the third McCormick boy. Car accident. Then there was their mother. Cancer. Then their father. Suicide. Three deaths in three years. It got the point where people started to treat Luke strangely, like he was a package without a label on the front steps. When horrible things happen, people tend to either spread out or close in.
Sam had spread out. He wasn’t supposed to go -- because he was the responsible one. When Sam spoke, people listened. He had been on such good terms with everyone in the town that he had a bartering system with most of the businesses. Free pastries at the bakery in exchange for raw milk. Beer for fence mending. Eggs for bacon. Sam was the one who would’ve made their mother proud, and Luke was the one who would’ve made his mother sigh and say, “Jesus Christ, what have you done this time?”
Granted, Sam had a lot to do with the success of the farm. It had been their mother’s dream, after all. His brother, however, was only one man. Charlie was the other half of the magical equation. She had just as much to do with the farm’s prosperity as Sam had.
Luke took a swig from the scotch bottle and lit up a cigarette. He rested his shoulder against the cool granite of Sam’s headstone and looked up at the sun, through the oaks that framed the graveyard. On the inhale, a sharp pain poked between his ribs. It happened every now and then, since Germany. Ignoring it, he took another drag and screwed the cap back on the scotch. “Short visit,” he told Sam’s grave, “I know. You’re dead, so I don’t have a lot to say.”
His first order of business back in town was to see Sam -- Charlie would understand. He stuck the bottle in his Army bag and slung it over his shoulder. Cologne to Hingham Valley was one international flight, two domestic connects, a bus ride, and a hitch. Somehow, the walk from Sam’s grave to the farm was much longer.
After two more cigarettes, he turned up Lawson Hill, one of many dirt-to-farm roads in the county. It was a half-mile to the property, mostly uphill. Dusty in the summer, muddy in the spring, and a total icy bitch in the winter. He’d abandoned many trucks at the bottom in Januaries past.
You’re coming home.
The house was the first thing he saw. The barn and pasture quickly followed. If Luke hadn’t known better, his brother could have been still alive -- his truck was in the driveway and sheets were hung out on the line to dry. He half expected dinner to be in the oven and football on in the background, Sam sharing a beer with one of the neighbors on the porch.
“Charlie!” Luke called out.
It had taken him weeks to get cleared for a flight back to the States. She knew he was coming back, but she didn’t know when. Mostly because he didn’t tell her. Talking to her was harder than he wanted to admit. There was no way to have an easy, simple conversation now that Sam was gone.
She could be anywhere, and if he knew her at all, then she certainly wasn’t in the house.
He stuck his thumb and index in his mouth and whistled. “Charlie!”
You're coming home.
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