Page 8 of Broken Brothers

I prayed that we got the attentive Mrs. Claire Hunt and the cheerful Mr. Edwin Hunt today. I didn’t need even more people disliking me after the disaster that was the Sarah Hill incident just now.

We chased each other as if Mrs. Hunt had promised us fresh ribeye steaks at the house. Whenever one of us seemed to get the upper hand, the other would lunge, slow the other down, and sprint ahead. It became a nonstop race in which no clear winner would emerge.

“Morgan and Chance Hunt!”

As it turned out, there was an easy answer to that question. No one would win, because Mrs. Hunt would see what we had done to ourselves.

“My goodness! The two of you—heavens, are you OK?”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Morgan said, cheerful but with a hint of annoyance. “We were just playing.”

“I know you were just playing, you two are always just playing, I just wished that ‘just playing’ didn’t make you bleed so much. Oh, my, look at these clothes, we’re going to have to clean up so much. I might have to get you new clothes, oh…”

I didn’t bother to tell her that from where I came from, if shoes got muddy or dirty, they became features of the shoes, not grounds to get rid of them. I didn’t bother to tell her that the idea of getting new shoes on a whim would never make sense to me, even if I happened to someday make as much money as Mr. Hunt. I didn’t bother to tell her that the more she spoke like this, the more removed from the family I felt.

“Now, dearest Claire, let Morgan have his time.”

Notably, but not surprisingly, Mr. Hunt’s voice from the other room did not include me. But, on the other hand, hisvoice didn’t carry any anger or disappointment in it. Perhaps I would get to settle for passive indifference today—I could work with that. It would give me the space to get over how fucked up everything felt with Sarah and my “family” situation.

“He’s got to enjoy himself if he’s going to grow into the type of man I want him to be,” Mr. Hunt continued. “Isn’t that right, son?”

The way he annunciated son… the way he paused just before saying the word… the way he seemed to relish using that particular title with me present, I knew it wasn’t an accident. Mr. Hunt didn’t hate me, no, but he sure wouldn’t care if I just up and left. In fact, it might make his life easier. Only because of Morgan, the alternative, and to a small extent, Mrs. Hunt, did I stick around.

“Boys, boys, boys, what were you doing out there?” Mrs. Hunt asked.

“Just playing,” Morgan said.

Please don’t mention Sarah. Please don’t mention Sarah. Please don’t mention Sarah.

I trusted Morgan enough not to run his mouth, though more because a boy from a family like the Hunts knew better than to blurt out ugly truths like that. It would seem “uncouth” or whatever fancy adjective Mr. Hunt liked to use to differentiate himself from the rest of the world.

“You and your ‘just playing’,” Mrs. Hunt said as she continued to clean us up. “Very well, Chance, your turn. Morgan, go see your father.”

Morgan left without a word, hurrying over to his father. It must have felt nice to have a father that he could run to without hesitation. It must have felt good. Real good.

Something I’d never get to feel.

“Chance, how are you, honey?” Mrs. Hunt said. “You don’t look so good. You look like you had a bumblebee poke your nose.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

It was not lost on me that I had adapted Mrs. Hunt’s tendency to either be the life of the party or completely withdrawn in certain settings. Maybe it was a bit arrogant, but, frankly, in that moment, fuck it.

“You can tell me the truth, dear,” Mrs. Hunt said. “If there’s one thing a mother can sense, it’s when her children are suffering, even if those children do not want to admit it.”

A mother. Her children.

As much as the distance would never close, I appreciated Mrs. Hunt speaking like that, even though Mr. Hunt never would. I contemplated telling her the truth… if anyone could hear it, it was her… but to tell her risked word getting around to Mr. Hunt… and while it wasn’t like him to belittle me—I was twelve, for God’s sakes—he certainly would use it as another excuse to see me as emotionally weak, a boy whose only future connection to the family would be as a butler or chauffeur or some other equally supportive but low-status role.

But the moment had gotten to me. I could not help it. That, and I didn’t feel like screaming into my pillow.

“This girl left me,” I said.

“Oh, Chance, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hunt said, continuing to clean me. I felt a little disappointed that she had seemed to take the answer a little too in stride, as if I had told her that I had tripped in the forest and gotten a small amount of poison ivy. “Are you feeling OK?”

Well, gee, maybe I wouldn’t be looking like this if I were feeling OK, would I?

Chance… relax.