Pretty Instinct

Pretty Instinct

by S.E. Hall

Copyright © 2014 S.E. Hall

“Today, we gather to mourn the death, but also celebrate the life, of Anna Christine Carmichael. She was—”

A sharp elbow jab in my gut startles me, sending a shard of pain radiating up my side. “Conner,” I hiss a quiet warning from the side of my mouth while squeezing his thigh. “Sit. Still.”

His big, crystal blue eyes widen in surprise, the tone I’ve taken sharper than usual and obviously scaring him. So badly in fact, water begins to pool in his bottom lids and I’m instantly consumed with regret. I wince, hating that I’ve hurt him, hating the fact we’re even here, my own tears threatening. But
damn
, we have to get through this funeral with our heads held high.

She’d want that.

“Should I take him outside for a while?” Jarrett, sitting on my left, clutching my clammy, lifeless hand in his larger one, whispers in my ear.

Jarrett Foster
. What would I do without his unwavering, unconditional friendship? Along with his brother, Rhett, and my own brother, Conner, I have the three most important, and now my only, reasons for living and living strong. They’re more than enough and well beyond what I deserve.

I answer him with a quick shake of my head and thanking smile, then bend forward to grab last week’s pamphlet and a little pencil from the box on the back of the pew.

“Here, Bub,” I nudge Conner, demonstrating the appropriate pressure to exude with one’s elbow. “Draw me a picture.” I hand him the tools of distraction and whisper, “I’m sorry. Love you.”

His slight pout, which had been lingering from my scolding, disappears, replaced seamlessly with a childlike grin, lifting my shroud of guilt.

Now if there was only something to distract me as well. I need my own miracle mini-pencil, beguiling me so I forget where I am and why I’m here. But no, I’m painfully, consciously aware of this room, the stagnant air suffocating and pungent with the smell of old money and deceit.

“I’ll draw a picture of Mom, okay?” His booming question drowns out the pastor, earning judgmental glares from the gallery, the harshest of which belongs to our father. Ah, the distinguished Councilman, turning around from his seat in front of us, tightly drawn face glowering.

I lift a hand, one finger dangling down, and twirl it in a circle, silently directing the old man to turn the fuck around and then use the same hand, different finger, to “wave” at his shrewdly frowning Personal Assistant.

Yes, his glorified, whoreified secretary accompanied him to my mother’s funeral, so very thoughtfully rubbing his back the entire service.

And not one adult in this overcrowded room of corrupt show ponies has the gumption to say a thing about it. Or perhaps ask why the dearly departed Anna Carmichael’s, the woman you all supposedly cared enough about that you’re here today, children are seated in the
second
row,
behind
the piece of ass?

I’d call them all cowards, but cowardice means not having the backbone to stand up against what you know is wrong. It’s far too generous a compliment for what they actually are—empty, programmed vessels of pure evil no longer cognitive of right from wrong.

“Yeah, buddy,” I pat my brother’s leg and flash him a reassuring smile, “draw a picture of Mom.”

When the pastor asks if anyone would like to come up and say a few words, I anxiously wait, my breath held and my muscles tightly coiled, still foolishly hoping in my naïve, sixteen-year-old heart that my father will stand.

Of course he doesn’t, my dash of hope doused as promptly as it’d risen. Nor do any of the other regaled socialites in the room. Swallowing disgust, I drop Jarrett’s hand and move to make a stand myself,
for my mom
, when one of my angels speaks.

“I got this,” Rhett assures me, shuffling between the pew and our legs to proudly walk forward. He owns his post proudly, his posture and defiance glowing in his eyes leaving no room for doubt he’s got something to say, beside the easel displaying a large picture of my mother, a beautiful snapshot taken back when she still smiled through her whole face. Her piercing blue eyes, the exact shade of Conner’s, glow from here, perhaps finally seeing all.

My sweet Rhett
…beautifully out of place in
this place
. He’s too kind; an empathic soul who writes poetry and leads with his heart…naturally his parents and the fools in this high-browed town use their suspicions that he
must
be gay to tromp on his spirit daily.

He clears his throat and stares directly into my eyes, despair meeting his fury. “When God made
a lady
, Miss Anna was who he envisioned. She cared about us
faggots
,” he glares at his parents, “their burnout brothers,” he throws Jarrett a cocked smirk, “and loved her amazing children more than anything.” His face falls solemnly for a moment as he regards Conner and me. “She had more money than anyone in this room and only wanted the things it couldn’t ever buy. It couldn’t buy her the love and honesty of those who should have given it freely.” My father flinches subtlety in his seat as Rhett visually pins him in place. “It couldn’t protect her kids from evil and it damn sure won’t buy our silence any longer. You’ll never be able to hurt her again, because there’s no room for the likes of Suttonites where she’s gone, far away from here. The lot of you miserable motherfuckers can all rot in Hell, which I imagine is a lot like this place, where you belong. So Sutton’s finest, all together now: kiss her, my, and her children’s asses and fuck right off!”

With both hands and middle fingers high in the air, he waves his two gun salute like a boss as he kicks over the podium and strolls down the middle aisle, banging open the doors to outside.

By far
his best poem ever.

Seven years later

“There any left for me?” The deep, croaky morning voice at my back doesn’t startle me in the least. Not only had I heard him coming, the stealth of a Clydesdale, but my defenses are already on high alert.

Jarrett either woke up with a set of brass balls or amnesia this morning, talking to me all normal and shit, as though he’s not in for an ugly round of
Liz is pissed
.

I spin haughtily to face him, eyes on fire and the pulsing in my neck probably visible. “
Surely
you’re not talking to me,” I hiss. “My coffee, my bus, and my,” poke, “fucking,” poke, “RULES!”

He rubs his bare chest, specifically the spot I just finished jabbing repeatedly as I yelled at him. “Damn, woman, what the hell’s your problem?” His hand tries to sneak around me to snag the coffee pot, but I’m way ahead of him, sliding my body to the right and blocking his attempt.

“You fuck on my bus last night?” I demand, kicking his shin so he backs away from the caffeine. Not that I need to ask; a rocking
fourteen ton
tour bus is pretty unmistakable. Coupled with the hickey above his pierced left nipple and the stench of skank sex wafting off him…the glove fits, we shall not acquit.

I’m also positive that whatever bitch fell into his bed last night has no idea what she let get away. All she saw was a hot guy in a band—
all
of him, I’m sure—lots of bad-boy piercings in his brow, lip, tongue and nipples, an unbelievable body he needs to quit poking holes in, and a face that’d charm the panties off a nun. I hate that he lets them have even a single part of him without earning and appreciating the amazing person he is, but I hate even more when he does it on my bus.

“Maybe. But she left before you got up, and he wasn’t even here, Mama Bear. So what’s the problem?”

I raise my chin indignantly, my arms crossed over my chest. “He could have been. I could’ve picked him up early, or changed plans. Then what? Huh?”

“But you didn’t, and now she’s gone.” He shrugs and flicks my earlobe playfully, same as he always does when he’s trying to appease me. “So quit bitching about couldas.”

I swat his hand away, still pissed
and
short my crucial dose of caffeine. “That’s exactly how it starts, Jarrett! You slack on a rule, take an inch here or there, next thing you know? Poof! Anarchy!”

“You’re insane.” He snickers at me, scratching his boxer-clad crotch,
probably crabs
, and reaches around me
again
for java, which I let him get his hands on this time. “You raggin’?” he asks, those denim eyes of his taunting me over the rim of his mug.

No preamble, I pull back and slug him in the gut, smiling and quite satisfied as the hot,
poached
coffee splashes over onto his hand. “This may come as a shock to you, but females
are
capable of getting pissed without being ‘on the rag,’ which is a disgusting way to say it! Don’t you ever just get mad?”

“Well sure. Your point being?” He sticks his hand in his mouth, sucking on the burn…worse thing you can do for it.

Mercifully, knowing he’ll suck all day wondering why it isn’t getting any better, I turn on the cold water and pull his hand under the flow. “
My point is
, how are you able to get mad, obviously not ever
raggin’,
but it’s inconceivable I’m able to do the same? I may be behind on my CNN, but I’ve yet to hear that menstrual cycles and the ability to get angry have been scientifically linked as exclusive, you sexist pig!”

“You know it, baby.” He digs his face into my neck, oinking.

I giggle and squirm because it tickles,
not
because he’s irresistible or forgiven. But this is the same way all our arguments end, since we were ten and his family took up residence across the street. I’m serious—he’s too adorable for his own good and we always secretly make up—but I never verbalize that he is, in fact, off the hook.

“Please don’t do it again, though, Jarrett, I mean it. If I hadn’t been feeling charitable, I’d have ripped her out of here by her hair.” It was actually more the whole “if the bus is rockin’, you might throw up at what you’ll see if you go knockin’” than charity, but I won’t mention that tidbit. Hands planted on my hips, I resume a deadly serious scowl for emphasis. “I won’t let
anyone
, even you, disturb his harmony. He wins, and—”

“Every other motherfucker loses,” he finishes for me. “I know, babe, I agree.”

“I mean, seriously, how hard is it to get a hotel room or go to their house? Are
all
hoes homeless?”

“Homeless hoes—ha! Good one,” I hear a mumbled echo and laughter in the distance.

“Well, since you’re awake, listening,” I warn the other two, obviously shrinking in their beds away from my
so-called
wrath and
clearly
scaring Jarrett into
non
-compliance, “you best be takin’ notes. I won’t have this conversation again.”

Rhett’s head pokes out of his cubby, ebony hair sticking up wildly in every direction, and flashes me a smile alight with pride and agreement. It’s his usual way of supporting me without blatantly dogging his brother out, or heaven forbid, siding with the female over his “own kind.”

The Foster brothers are always assumed twins, though they’re actually a little over a year apart, Rhett the elder at 25, and they couldn’t be more different. First of all, Jarrett’s got a tiny selfish streak, whereas Rhett is unfailingly self
less
. Rhett’s darker hair is soft and wavy, while Jarrett’s is coarse and tickles your hand. They’re both tall and muscular with navy blue eyes, but Jarrett’s are always dancing with less than subtle motives, reflecting the sarcastic, crass thoughts in his head, while Rhett’s are docile and considering, looking
into
you.

When I want to joke, laugh, and generally cut up, I go see Jarret, his jovial, carefree spirit refreshing. But when I want to “be,” maybe with deep, meaningful words and insights, maybe in the solace of comforting silence, I seek out Rhett.

I love them identically, though.

With Rhett still peeking at me, I stick my tongue out at him and cross my eyes, but keep my voice stern for the rest of them. “I’m leaving to go pick up Conner. This place better reek of Lysol and lollipops when we get back.” I swivel on my heel, grabbing my shit and slamming the door behind me. At the bottom of the steps, I stop to collect myself, and a lungful of fresh air.

“You good?”

My head jerks to the right where my uncle Bruce, our driver, makeshift manager, and only decent relative Conner and I have, leans against the side of the bus having a smoke. I wish he’d quit the nasty habit. My mother’s only brother, he lost his wife to
cancer
, for Christ’s sake…and yet he smokes like the aging, slightly overweight engine that could. Sometimes I wonder if he’s tempting death, trying to speed up the wait until he can see his wife and sister again, cause a pack of non-filter Camels a day is definitely a solid plan.

“Hell no, I’m not good. Jarrett brought a whore on my bus last night. You know anything about it?”