A Simple Plan by Scott Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

of them would screw it up.
    I reached over and adjusted the rearview mirror so that I could look at my forehead. Jacob turned on the dome light for me. When I touched it, the bump felt smooth and hard, like a pebble. The skin directly above it was shiny and taut, while the area around it was taking on a purplish tint, a painful-looking darkness, as blood coagulated within the damaged tissue. I licked the thumb of my glove and briefly tried to clean the wound.
    “How do you think that thing knew he was in there?” Jacob asked.
    “The bird?”
    He nodded.
    “It’s like a vulture. They just know.”
    “Vultures see you, though. They see you crawling in the desert. That’s how they know you’re dying, if you’re crawling or just lying there. That thing couldn’t see inside the plane.”
    “Maybe it smelled him.”
    “Frozen things don’t smell.”
    “It just knew, Jacob,” I said.
    He nodded, three short, quick movements of his head. “That’s right,” he said. “That’s exactly my point.” He took another bite of his candy bar, then fed the last little bit to Mary Beth. The dog seemed to swallow it without chewing.
    When we pulled into my driveway, I sat there for a few seconds before climbing out, staring off through the windshield. The house’s front light was on, illuminating the trees in the yard, their branches glistening with ice. The living-room curtains were drawn, and there was smoke coming from the chimney.
    “You and Lou going out tonight?” I asked. “Celebrating the new year?”
    It was cold in the truck; I could see our breath in the air, even the dog’s. The sky outside was cloudy, starless.
    “I suppose.”
    “With Nancy?”
    “If she wants.”
    “Drinking?”
    “Look, Hank. You don’t have to be so hard on Lou. You can trust him. He wants this just as bad as you—more so, probably. He’s not going to mess it up.”
    “I’m not saying I don’t trust him. I’m saying he’s ignorant and a drunk.”
    “Oh, Hank—”
    “No, hear me out.” I waited until he turned to face me. “I’m asking you to take responsibility for him.”
    He put his arm around the dog. “What do you mean, responsibility?”
    “What I mean is, if he fucks up, it’s your fault. I’ll hold you to blame.”
    Jacob turned away from me and looked outside. All up and down the street my neighbors’ windows were full of light. People were finishing their dinners, showering, dressing, busily preparing for their New Year’s celebrations.
    “Who takes responsibility for me?” he asked.
    “I do. I’ll look after the both of us.” I smiled at him. “I’ll be my brother’s keeper.”
    It came out like a joke, but I only half meant it that way. All through our childhood our father had told us how we ought to take care of each other, how we couldn’t depend on anyone else. “Family,” he used to say, “that’s what it always comes down to in the end: the bonds of blood.” Jacob and I had never managed to pull it off, though; even as children we were always letting each other down. Because of his weight, he’d been mercilessly teased at school and was constantly getting into fights. I knew that I was supposed to help him, that I ought to be jumping to his defense, but I could never figure out a way to do it. I was weak, small for my age, a thin, bony kid, and I’d just stand with everyone else, in a tight circle around my brother and his tormentors, watching, in absolute silence, while he was beaten up. It became the template for an interaction that we’d ceaselessly repeat as we aged: Jacob would fail somehow, and I—feeling impotent and embarrassed and unworthy—would do nothing but observe.
    I reached over the dog’s head and punched Jacob lightly on the shoulder, feeling silly doing it, an awkwardly forced attempt at fraternal camaraderie. “I’ll take care of you,” I said, “and you’ll take care of me.”
    Jacob didn’t respond. He just watched me open the door, pull the duffel