feet.
It was odd finding him in the house, this brother who was nearly a
stranger to me. People in town seemed to know him better than I did.
I’d heard rumors about him at Worm Creek. People said he was
trouble, a bully, a bad egg, that he was always hunting or being hunted
by hooligans from Utah or even further afield. People said he carried a
gun, either concealed on his body or strapped to his big black
motorcycle. Once someone said that Shawn wasn’t really bad, that he
only got into brawls because he had a reputation for being unbeatable
—for knowing all there was to know about martial arts, for fighting like
a man who feels no pain—so every strung-out wannabe in the valley
thought he could make a name for himself by besting him. It wasn’t
Shawn’s fault, really. As I listened to these rumors, he came alive in my
mind as more legend than flesh.
My own memory of Shawn begins in the kitchen, perhaps two
months after the second accident.
I am making corn chowder. The door squeaks and I twist at the waist
to see who’s come in, then twist back to chop an onion.
“You gonna be a walking Popsicle stick forever?” Shawn says.
“Nope.”
“You need a chiropractor,” he says.
“Mom’ll fix it.”
“You need a chiropractor,” he says again.
The family eats, then disperses. I start the dishes. My hands are in
the hot, soapy water when I hear a step behind me and feel thick,
callused hands wrap around my skull. Before I can react, he jerks my
head with a swift, savage motion. CRACK! It’s so loud, I’m sure my
head has come off and he’s holding it. My body folds, I collapse.
Everything is black but somehow spinning. When I open my eyes
moments later, his hands are under my arms and he’s holding me
upright.
“Might be a while before you can stand,” he says. “But when you can,
I need to do the other side.”
I was too dizzy, too nauseous, for the effect to be immediate. But
throughout the evening I observed small changes. I could look at the