Blood Brothers

One

Hawkins Hollow

Maryland

July 6, 1987

INSIDE THE PRETTY KITCHEN OF THE PRETTY house on Pleasant Avenue, Caleb Hawkins struggled not to squirm as his mother packed her version of campout provisions.

In his mother’s world, ten-year-old boys required fresh fruit, homemade oatmeal cookies (they weren’t so bad), half a dozen hard-boiled eggs, a bag of Ritz crackers made into sandwiches with Jif peanut butter for filling, some celery and carrot sticks (yuck!), and hearty ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

Then there was the thermos of lemonade, the stack of paper napkins, and the two boxes of Pop-Tarts she wedged into the basket for breakfast.

“Mom, we’re not going to starve to death,” he complained as she stood deliberating in front of an open cupboard. “We’re going to be right in Fox’s backyard.”

Which was a lie, and kinda hurt his tongue. But she’d never let him go if he told her the truth. And, sheesh, he was ten. Or would be the very next day.

Fra

“Mom!”

“Honey, I just want to be sure you didn’t forget anything.” Ruthless in her own su

“Sheesh, we’re not going to Africa.”

“All the same,” Fra

He’d been born-after eight hours and twelve minutes of vicious labor-at one minute past midnight. Every year she stepped up to his bed at twelve, watched him sleep for that minute, then kissed him on the cheek.

Now he’d be ten, and she wouldn’t be able to perform the ritual. Because it made her eyes sting, she turned away to wipe at her spotless counter as she heard his tromping footsteps.

“I got it all, okay?”

Smiling brightly, she turned back. “Okay.” She stepped over to rub a hand over his short, soft hair. He’d been her towheaded baby boy, she mused, but his hair was darkening, and she suspected it would be a light brown eventually.

Just as hers would be without the aid of Born Blonde.

In a habitual gesture, Fra

“I will.”

“And when you leave to come home tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She took his face in her hands, looked through the thick lenses into eyes the same color as his father’s calm gray ones. “Behave,” she said and kissed his cheek. “Have fun.” Then the other. “Happy birthday, my baby.”

Usually it mortified him to be called her baby, but for some reason, just then, it made him feel sort of gooey and good.

“Thanks, Mom.”

He shrugged on the backpack, then hefted the loaded picnic basket. How the hell was he going to ride all the way out to Hawkins Wood with half the darn grocery store on his bike?

The guys were going to razz him something fierce.

Since he was stuck, he carted it into the garage where his bike hung tidily-by Mom decree-on a rack on the wall. Thinking it through, he borrowed two of his father’s bungee cords and secured the picnic basket to the wire basket of his bike.

Then he hopped on his bike and pedaled down the short drive.

FOX FINISHED WEEDING HIS SECTION OF THE vegetable garden before hefting the spray his mother mixed up weekly to discourage the deer and rabbits from invading for an all-you-can-eat buffet. The garlic, raw egg, and caye

He stepped back, took a clear breath, and studied his work. His mother was pretty damn strict about the gardening. It was all about respecting the earth, harmonizing with Nature, and that stuff.

It was also, Fox knew, about eating, and making enough food and money to feed a family of six-and whoever dropped by. Which was why his dad and his older sister, Sage, were down at their stand selling fresh eggs, goat’s milk, honey, and his mother’s homemade jams.

He glanced over to where his younger brother, Ridge, was stretched out between the rows playing with the weeds instead of yanking them. And because his mother was inside putting their baby sister, Sparrow, down for her nap, he was on Ridge duty.

“Come on, Ridge, pull the stupid things. I wa

Ridge lifted his face, turned his I’m-dreaming eyes on his brother. “Why can’t I go with you?”

“Because you’re eight and you can’t even weed the dumb tomatoes.” A

“Can, too.”

As Fox hoped, the insult had Ridge weeding with a vengeance. Fox straightened, rubbed his hands on his jeans. He was a tall boy with a ski

He dumped it beside Ridge. “Don’t forget to spray this shit.”

He crossed the yard, circling what was left-three short walls and part of a chimney-of the old stone hut on the edge of the vegetable garden. It was buried, as his mother liked it best, in honeysuckle and wild morning glory.

He skirted past the chicken coop and the cluckers that were pecking around, by the goat yard where the two na

He knew most of the people in and around the Hollow thought of his family as the weird hippies. It didn’t bother him. For the most part they got along, and people were happy to buy their eggs and produce, his mother’s needlework and handmade candles and crafts, or hire his dad to build stuff.

Fox washed up at the sink before rooting through the cupboards, poking in the big pantry searching for something that wasn’t health food.

Fat chance.

He’d bike over to the market-the one right outside of town just in case-and use some of his savings to buy Little Debbies and Nutter Butters.

His mother came in, tossing her long brown braid off the shoulder bared by her cotton sundress. “Finished?”

“I am. Ridge is almost.”

Joa

“There’s some carob brownies and some veggie dogs, if you want to take any.”

“Ah.” Barf. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

He knew that she knew he’d be chowing down on meat products and refined sugar. And he knew she knew he knew. But she wouldn’t rag him about it. Choices were big with Mom.

“Have a good time.”

“I will.”

“Fox?” She stood where she was, by the sink with the light coming in the window and haloing her hair. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks, Mom.” And with Little Debbies on his mind, he bolted out to grab his bike and start the adventure.

THE OLD MAN WAS STILL SLEEPING WHEN GAGE shoved some supplies into his pack. Gage could hear the snoring through the thin, crappy walls of the cramped, crappy apartment over the Bowl-a-Rama. The old man worked there cleaning the floors, the johns, and whatever else Cal ’s father found for him to do.