My Life as a Rat. Joyce Carol Oates

brothers were aroused, excited. I could hear only isolated words. Fuck, shit. Keep it down!

      My brothers never caught me eavesdropping, so little notice did they take of me.

      Then, I heard the outdoor faucet being turned on. Were my brothers doing something with the hose?—washing the car?

      Through the crack in the doorway I saw them squatting close together just outside the garage where the water from the hose would soak into the soil, not accumulate on the garage floor. There was a light—an overhead light in the garage—a bare bulb, harsh and coated in grime—so that I could see, just barely, that they were washing something: a baseball bat.

      Had to be Jerr’s bat he carried in his car “for protection.” He and Lionel had rolled up their sleeves to wash the bat, and to wash their hands and forearms, vigorously.

      They’d brought out soap from the house. Bar of strong-smelling soap on the kitchen sink that mostly just our father used, wiping his hands on wads of paper towels.

      My brothers were laughing, nervously. There was something very wrong but I felt an impulse to laugh too. They were only about ten feet away, for I was seeing them at an angle. Thinking They won’t like this. Being spied on. No.

      Still, I remained where I was. Staring. (Maybe) memorizing. Not for a long time would I learn that my brothers were deliberating what to do with the bloodstained bat during these minutes. The murder weapon it would be called one day.

      They were sober now, they’d have said. Stone-cold sober.

      Fucking totally sober.

      Not really thinking clearly but they knew they had to get rid of the bat, fast. Considered throwing it into the river—but what if it floated? Even weighed down, a wooden bat might somehow work loose and the river would be the first place South Niagara cops would look for a weapon. Nor could they burn it—(would a bat burn? The smoke would be detected). Not a great idea to hide it in the trash, even somebody else’s trash can on the street and so finally they decided to bury it on the riverbank, in the underbrush. A few hundred yards from the house. There was litter on the riverbank, some of this was compost from Mom’s garden. This was a better idea, they thought, than driving somewhere. They’d had enough of the car, for the night.

      They’d managed to lessen the dents in the fender. Struggling, with bare hands. Panting, cursing. Next day, in daylight, on the curb by his rented place Jerr would take a hammer and un-bend it more, if he remembered.

      In fact, the dents and scratches and (even) blood-smears on the front of the Chevrolet still registered in the name of Jerome Kerrigan would be evident when it was closely examined by police investigators. Like the clothes, socks, shoes my brothers would try to launder that night.

      Like the bat, that could not be scrubbed clean by my brothers for its minute cracks and indentations would harbor traces of Hadrian Johnson’s blood, unmistakably.

      Burying the bat in the underbrush, near Mom’s compost—that seemed like a practical idea. I saw my brothers wrap the wetted bat in a piece of burlap and I saw them leave the garage but I could not observe them after this, only to understand that they weren’t going far, into our backyard it seemed, or a little farther, on foot.

      I was mystified. I had no idea what they were doing. I guessed they might be drunk. Maybe it was some kind of joke.

      I went upstairs, back to bed. But I couldn’t sleep.

      AND THEN ABOUT A HALF HOUR LATER I HEARD THEM RE-ENTER the house. The kitchen. Heard the refrigerator door being (quietly) opened and shut. The sound of beer cans being opened.

      Almost, I could hear voices. Soft laughter.

       Jes-sus.

       Fucking Chri-ist!

      I was sleepless, and I was curious. I was thinking—Nothing is different tonight.

      Left my room to join them. Their tomboy kid-sister, they favored over Katie and (prissy, bossy) Miriam.

      It was so, I adored my big brothers and basked in the glow of even their careless attention. And they loved me, I believed. I’d always believed.

      Taking note of me, sometimes. Tousling my hair as you might tousle the hair of a dog. Hey kid. How’re you doing, Vi’let Rue?

      In a family there are allies, and there are adversaries. It seemed to me that my brothers and I were on our daddy’s side, and my sisters were on my mother’s side.

      Wanting to think this. In my naivete.

      Because, really I wasn’t a female just yet. Lean-hipped as a guy, flat-chested, hard little muscles in legs, arms, shoulders—my brothers had to be impressed, I could run as fast as most boys my age, rarely cried or complained, wasn’t fussy or squeamish like other girls. If a spider darted across a wall, or a garter snake slithered across pavement, I didn’t shriek and run like another girl.

      Why was I proud of this? I was.

      Walking into the kitchen as if I’d only now been wakened. Daringly said, “Hey guys! Where’ve you been so late?”

      They stared at me in my pajamas as if for a shivery moment they didn’t know who the hell I was. As if they didn’t know what to do about me.

      Both my brothers were drinking beer from cans, thirstily. Breathing through their mouths as if they’d been running. I felt their excitement, I saw the fatigue in their faces and yet something raw, aroused. Unzipped, their jackets were wet in front. They’d been vigorously washing, scrubbing. Their shoes were wet, dark-stained. The cuffs of their trousers. Lionel’s big-jawed face looked puffy; a small cut gleamed beneath his right eye. Jerr was rubbing the knuckles of his right hand as if in pain, but a pleasurable pain. He’d taken time to splash water on his flushed face, dampen his long, lank, sand-colored hair and sweep it back from his forehead. Like Lionel’s skin Jerr’s skin was blemished but he had a brutal handsome face. He had Daddy’s young face.

      With a tight smile Jerr said, “Over at the Falls. We ran into some sons of bitches. But we’re okay, see? Don’t tell Mom.”

      Lionel said, “Yeah, Vi’let. Don’t tell Mom, or—him.”

      Him. We knew what him meant.

      No need to warn me against telling Daddy. None of us would ever have ratted on one another to our father. Even if we were furious at one another, or disgusted, we wouldn’t. That would be a betrayal so profound and so cruel as to be unforgivable for Daddy’s punishment would be swift and pitiless and for a certain space of time Daddy would withhold his love from the one he’d punished.

      I asked who it was they’d been fighting. How badly I wanted to know their secrets. To be like a brother to them, and not just a sister.

      Though I knew it was futile. They would shrug as they always did when I asked pushy questions. Jerr said, lowering his voice, “You got to promise you won’t say anything, Vi’let. Okay?”

      I shrugged and laughed. I was feeling wild! Asking, could I have a taste of their beer?

      They looked surprised. Had I surprised them?

      Lionel handed me his can, which was still cold. It turned out not to be beer but Daddy’s favorite, Dark Horse Black Ale. The taste was repulsive to me, even the smell, but I was determined to persevere in trying to like it, to see why my brothers and my father liked the dark ale so much, until one day (I was sure) I would like it just fine. I swallowed a mouthful. I was choking, liquid stung in my nose, the guys laughed at me, but not meanly. I managed to say, “I promise.”

       The Promise

      BY MONDAY NEWS OF THE “SAVAGE BEATING” OF HADRIAN Johnson spread through South Niagara. Even