Country House

“Alan, why are we going to the country house now? I have school tomorrow.”

Alan Ashby tuned his little brother out as he focused on the road ahead of him, the miles and miles of beat-up asphalt highway that led to the charming little farm community that the Carliles, their long-time family friends, called home. It was a six-hour drive that could easily turn into seven if traffic was bad enough, much longer of a drive than the sixteen-year-old who had just gotten his license was used to, and long enough that they only drove out there on weekends and holidays. A twelve-hour round trip wasn’t worth the drive to see their friends for just an evening. So, of course they wouldn’t go out in the middle of the week. Not normally. No wonder little Aaron was confused.

“Shh, A. I need to focus on the road.”

“No, Alan, I want to know!” Aaron unbuckled and, climbing over some suitcases, made his way into the front seat.

“We’re just… visiting for a while.” Alan clenched his fists onto the steering wheel, so hard that his knuckles turned white. One more second of hearing Aaron, ten years his junior, nag about their trip, and he was about ready to steer his car into oncoming traffic. An used Honda Civic that he had bought with years and years of savings from mowing lawns and walking dogs in his suburban neighborhood, Alan valued his car almost as much as his own life – and that he was considering trashing it just to get his little brother to shut up really said something.

“But we can’t visit tonight,” Aaron pushed. “I have a math worksheet tomorrow. It’s multiplying by the threes. And if I don’t learn to multiply by the threes, then I’ll be a whole number behind the rest of the class! It’s not fair! You’re not fair!”

“You can have Austin print you some math worksheets when we get there, okay? But right now you need to let big brother focus on the road,” Alan insisted.

“Fine,” Aaron pouted, settling into the front seat. Then, after a few minutes of silence, he asked “but really, why are we going to the country house?”

“It’s… Mommy called,” Alan lied. “Mommy called and said that we needed to stay with the Carliles for a while. There’s flu in our city and she doesn’t want you to catch the flu, and they live far enough away that we should be safe.”

“Oh, okay,” the younger boy accepted the lie as easily as if it were true. “That makes sense. ‘Cos if I miss a whole week of school with the flu, then I’ll be lots and lots of numbers of behind! Mommy thinks of everything!”

Alan nodded. “She sure does.”

Focusing back on the road, Alan couldn’t help but think of how much he missed his mother, who he hadn’t seen or heard from in almost two years. Aaron, who was four, didn’t understand that she had left their father for another man. All he knew was that Mommy wasn’t around anymore. Alan, fourteen at the time, knew enough to protect his little brother. He had spent those two years inventing fake conversations with their missing mother to tell Aaron about. “Mom says she hopes you’re getting good grades in school. It’s too bad you weren’t home five minutes ago, you just missed her!” “Mom called after bed and says she loves you. I would have let you talk to her, but I didn’t want to wake you up.” As far as Alan knew, Aaron had no idea that their mother had disappeared from their lives – and he planned to keep it that way.

Things weren’t too bad after their mother left. Their father was an army man, working security shifts at various United States military bases across the globe. He was gone for months at a time, leaving the two brothers to fend for themselves, but the checks that showed up in their mailbox paid for food and water and electricity, so there wasn’t much complaining to be done. They got by, and a lot of people struggled to do just that.

But, two months ago, Alan answered the door for a man who told him that their father had been killed in a surprise attack on the military base in some Middle Eastern country or another – the details were a blur.

A month ago, he opened a letter from the bank, addressed to his mother, that said that if they didn’t start making their mortgage payments again, the house would be taken away from them.

A week ago, he checked the mail for the usual check they got from the military – to find that it wasn’t there.

A day ago, he made a phone call to Robert Carlile, an old family friend of his parents’. Robert had heard the news, and of course he would be willing to take them in – “in fact,” he had said, “come tomorrow! I’m grilling burgers!”

And that’s how he found himself driving two states over, to visit a house he hadn’t seen in over a year, towing along a six-year-old who had no idea that his father was dead and his mother had disappeared.

It was a wonder he could focus on the road at all.

“Big brother?” Aaron asked sleepily.

“Yeah?”

“I need to pee. Can we stop at a gas station?”

“Sure, buddy.”

Five minutes later, Alan pulled over at an old 7-Eleven. While Aaron ran inside to find a bathroom, he pulled out his cell phone, thanking God that his service would continue for at least another two weeks. He punched in the familiar digits to dial his mother’s old cell phone – that she never picked up.

“Hi, you’ve reached the voice mailbox of…” Alan allowed himself a smile when he heard his mom’s familiar voice. When you don’t hear somebody’s voice for two years, he thought to himself, you get to the point where hearing a recording is better than hearing nothing at all. “If you leave me your name, number, and a short message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

“Bullshit, mom,” Alan murmured, “you’ll never get back to me.” Then after he heard the voicemail beep – “Hey, mom. I bet you heard about dad. Maybe you didn’t. He’s gone now – not coming back. And I don’t know if you even remember Aaron and I exist. We lost the house and everything. The bank guys and everyone, they think you’re still around so they don’t know we’re on our own. So we’re going to crash at the Carliles’ place for a few weeks, maybe, just until we sort this stuff out. God, this is dumb. Do you even listen to these? You don’t, do you? If you listened, then you would have come two months ago, when he died.

“Actually, you know what, mom? Fuck you. Fuck you for not being here when we need you.”
Alan flipped his phone shut just as Aaron came skipping out of the 7-Eleven with a pack of gum and a donut. “Who was on the phone?”

“Nobody, kiddo,” Alan answered. “Just checking to see if there’s signal.”

“Oh. I got you your favorite donut.”

“Hilarious,” he teased, reaching down to tousle his little brother’s hair. Aaron didn’t have red hair like Alan did, and it made him happy for his brother, who would never have to hear jokes that he has no soul because he was ginger. Aaron was pretty happy in the first grade, and had lots of friends. Nobody teased him. Alan was jealous… but happy. “You’re freaking funny. I bet you don’t even know what my favorite donut is.”

“Cream fill with chocolate frosting!” Aaron beamed, pleased with himself, as he pulled the donut out of a small plastic bag.

Alan grinned. “Gotta say, buddy, I’m impressed. Where did you get the money for this?”

“There were a lot of the big silver coins in your cupholder. Those are worth the most money, right? I just picked a bunch up and brought them inside.”

“You’re smart, you know that? You’re like today’s Einstein.”

“Not if you make me miss school to go to the country house, I’m not!”

“Okay, how does this sound? I proooomise that when we get to the Carliles’ place, I’ll practice multiplying by threes with you. In fact, we can practice fours, too, so you’ll be ahead.” Alan reached a hand down to his brother with one pinky stretched out.

Aaron linked his pinky with Alan’s. “You got it! And it’s a pinky promise so you can’t change your mind!”

“I wouldn’t change it for the world. Now get in, we’ve got another hour and a half to go!”

The drive continued in a less uncomfortable silence. Aaron fell asleep, contented with the promise that his brother made him and his blissful ignorance toward the situation. Alan ate his donut in silence – he was always impressed by the little ways that his brother managed to show him he cared – and toughed it out for the rest of the drive. He was about as tired as the child asleep in the front seat, but he had told himself he would make it before nightfall. He watched buildings become less dense and trees a more prevalent part of the landscape as the city disappeared behind him and the crummy Honda Civic, filled with suitcases and spare clothes and whatever the two brothers could fit inside it, made its first trip to the country.

Alan didn’t disturb his brother’s slumber when he finally arrived at the Carliles’ house. He parked and snuck out of his car as quietly as possible, taking but a moment to envy the peace he saw on Aaron’s face as he dreamed quietly. Aaron had told him, once, that he always dreamed about having fun with their mother, and Alan was since reluctant to disturb those manifestations of his imagination. He wanted to keep his brother innocent as long as possible. He was young. He deserved to believe that he really might see his mom again someday.

Robert Carlile swung the door open and greeted the teen in his booming voice before Alan even had a chance to knock on the front door of the expansive house, tens of thousands of square feet of rugged and sturdy and solid. It was a man cave, and there was absolutely not a more appropriate name for the place than a man cave – ever since Mrs. Carlile had passed away when Austin was young, it had just been him and his dad there, and everything that reminded them of their mother or wife went into the trash. It was too painful to keep her girly, caretaker-y touches around. So, the sewing machine got replaced with an Xbox; the hand-painted decorations on the walls covered up by posters for action movies. The house screamed “manly and proud” – and so did Robert. “Hey, kid!” he thundered. “How’re you? How’s your broth – “
Alan cut him off, putting a finger to his lips and hissing “shhhh!” He gestured at the Honda, where Aaron was still fast asleep.

Robert lowered his voice. “Got it. How much does he know?”

“I… told him that mom called and said we had to live here because there was a flu outbreak in our city.”

“Now, there’s a load of bullshit if I ever heard it.”

“I couldn’t tell him. He’s already confused about mom – I can’t figure out how to tell him that dad’s gone, too,” Alan confessed sheepishly.

“Well, don’t you worry about it.” Robert clapped a hand onto Alan’s shoulder encouragingly and squeezed. “’Cause I’m gonna be like your dad now, right? For as long as you’re here. Anything you need, just ask me.”

Alan smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

“And cut the sir bullcrap,” Robert laughed. “I’m just Rob, okay?”

“Rob. Okay.”

“So do you need help carrying anything in? Suitcases? Clothes? Aaron?” Rob offered.

“I’ll take care of Aaron. Would you mind carrying our suitcases upstairs?”

“Sure thing, kiddo. There’s a spare room for the little one, and a second bunk in Austin’s room. That sound alright?”

Alan stopped cold. Austin Carlile liked to keep to himself, and tended to lash out at anybody who invaded his personal space, even when it happened once, six years ago, and how was he supposed to know he was crying behind his closed fucking door? Austin took his mother’s death pretty harshly, and had emotional breakdowns at random moments whenever he remembered that she wasn’t around anybody. One time, Alan had walked in on him in tears when he needed to borrow a spare t-shirt from his room - and it was obvious that he had caught his friend at the worst possible time. He couldn’t remember Austin’s exact words – some combination of “fuck this” and “fuck you” and “get the fuck out of my life” – but if there was one thing that Alan was sure of, it was that Austin completely hated him.

He tried to protest. “Rob… can’t I sleep in the guest room with Aaron? He’ll be scared sleeping all by himself, you know?”

“Nonsense,” Rob insisted. “I know how to take care of the kid. I’ve got a night-light, monster spray… you know, the works. From when Austin was little.”

“Austin hates me.”

“I don’t think that’s right.”

“I think I was there when he told me to get out of his life. He hates me.”

“Get over it, because I’m not going to let you baby Aaron. He’s old enough to sleep without you. I think your living situation has caused him to become dependent on you, and it’s not healthy for him! He needs to learn to be a big boy and – “

“Alan?” Aaron’s voice cut them off. He had stepped out of the car and was rubbing his eyes, obviously still sleepy. “I’m hungry again.”

Rob’s mood snapped instantly from grave and persistent to welcoming and gentle. He smiled at Aaron. “There’s graham crackers and milk inside. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Yay!” Aaron happily skipped inside the front door that was still wide open. In a bout of awkward silence, Rob and Alan grabbed everything out of the car – two suitcases of Alan’s, one of Aaron’s, and a heaping pile of toys and USB chargers and whatever else they thought might need crammed into a laundry basket – and carried it into the house.

Rob looked at Alan. “I’m carrying this to our guest room. You bring your stuff to Austin’s room and get settled in. I’m sure your stupid feud, whatever you think happened, will be no big deal. You boys are the same age. You should get along.”

Alan sighed. Maybe Rob was right – besides, he would know, wouldn’t he? Austin was his son, after all. He put one suitcase down, freeing up an arm, and nervously pushed the door to Austin’s room open.

Austin had been expecting him. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, the bottom bunk of a wooden bunk bed that looked like it came from a summer camp cabin, staring intently at his door, which was completely covered in posters of his favorite bands. “Alan Anthony Ashby.”

Alan raised an eyebrow at hearing his full name. “Uh… Austin Robert Carlile?”

“Didn’t I tell you to get the fuck out of my life?”

“Your dad told me that I should – “ Alan protested, but was cut off.

“No, I don’t give a fuck what my dad said,” Austin stated coldly, his hard stare never straying away from Alan. “I don’t want you around. I’m letting you stay in my room because I have no other choice, because of your parents or whatever. I think you’re being a big pussy, by the way; my mom’s been gone for ages and you don’t see me crying about it.”

Alan thought about mentioning that he had, in fact, seen him crying about it, and that that was why they were feuding in the first place, but decided against it.

Austin continued. “You shouldn’t be here. So you can sleep up there, but you can’t touch anything – in fact, don’t even look at anything, okay? Don’t look at me, either. Or talk to me.”

“But I – “

“I said don’t talk.” Austin stood up and pushed by Alan on the way out of his room, leaving the ginger boy bewildered. Surely Austin couldn’t be this upset? Still?

In a confused daze, he pulled his bags into Austin’s room. The room was a mess of CDs and posters and an old acoustic guitar in the corner where the bunk bed wasn’t; obviously the quarters of a musician. Alan mused for a bit about how much he would love to play that guitar – he had never owned one of his own, but always wanted to learn to play – but then remembered Austin’s orders not to look at anything.

“What a dick,” he murmured to himself, tossing his things onto the top bunk then leaving the room to walk up the hall and check on his little brother.

This was going to be an interesting few weeks.

Notes

Hi guys! I haven’t written anything for a long time so I’m pretty nervous about posting - especially as a first-time author on this site – but I really hope everyone likes this! It’s a Cashby, but hopefully with a different enough plot that it’ll still be interesting! :)