Twenty-Eight Years Ago
“Ant!” I trudged through the heavy, wet snow after my big brother. He loped ahead like a freaking deer. So darn fast and quick with those long legs. “Hold up!” We moved along the path that bordered the big frozen lake—not so frozen anymore, now that spring was coming and stuff was getting warmer—and Ant was determined to reach the big rocks first.
He was a speck in the snow. We were alone out here—Papa promised nobody would ever bother us while we were in the cabin, but I don’t know, lots of spooky stuff happened in Russia where everyone spoke a weird language and had weird ideas about the world. I missed home, missed New York. I hated the country. I hated Russia.
But I loved my brother. And boy, was he fast. I hurried, almost tripped, but kept going. I was bundled up against the cold, but the sun was strong, so I was sweating. I wanted to strip off my outer layer, but it wasn’t worth carrying the stuff, and anyway, Papa would be pissed if he caught me.
And Papa wasn’t worth pissing off. Trust me.
“Ant!”
He was faster than me. Better at fishing, better at jumping and tying knots, better at languages.
I was better at math and shooting. I could hit a beer bottle from fifty yards with my eyes closed. He couldn’t hit a freaking barn if he wanted.
But he was my big brother and I loved him.
He reached the big rocks first. He always did. They were a bunch of huge freaking boulders right next to the lake. Papa said the lake was the remnant of a glacier or whatever, and the stones were from a glacier too. He said they were super old or whatever.
Not that it mattered.
I climbed up and sat next to Ant. We stared out at the halfway frozen lake. I pulled my knees to my chest, breath puffing out. “Think we’ll go home soon?”
Ant shrugged. “We usually do when it gets warm.”
“It’s kind of warm out now.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. Papa’s got something waiting for us still.”
I shivered. He always had a new game. That was what he called it: games.
But they weren’t games.
It was training.
“Might be easy. We did some hard stuff already.” Ran miles and miles in the snow. Fought each other for hours until one of us walked away bloody. Hunted bears and nearly got mauled.
Worse stuff. Painful stuff. I don’t like to talk about that stuff.
“It’s never easy with Papa. Sooner you accept that, the better.” Ant stared ahead, those ice-blue eyes with flecks of green. I wished I could be as smart as him one day.
A whistle pierced the quiet. My father’s whistle. His fingers in his mouth.
Ant sighed. “See, we shouldn’t talk about him. I swear, he can hear it.”
“Maybe we can wait. We can hide for a while. He might like it.”
“He’ll catch us and it’ll be worse.”
“He showed us—“
Ant put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”
I sighed and forced myself to smile. “Yeah. I’m just joking.”
“Good one.” He grinned at me and hopped down off the rocks.
We walked back toward the cabin together. Papa stood down next to the lake wearing his big black jacket and smoking a pipe. The smoke curled around his head like a halo.
I slowed. Ant took the lead. He always did. Papa looked unhappy, his face drawn and serious. Ant never hesitated, even when Papa was pissed. Sometimes, I ran away, or tried to hide, or begged Papa not to hurt me, but Ant never did.
Ant stayed quiet. He said Papa hit harder when Ant tried to argue. He said it was better for both of us.
I wished I could be that brave.
“Boys.” Papa’s voice was the sound of that glacier, the one that dropped those rocks back there. Big and booming and real old.
“Papa.” Ant crossed his arms. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve got a game.” Papa’s eyes narrowed. “Take off your coat, Anthony.”
Ant didn’t pause. He stripped it off, tossed it aside.
I wanted to throw up. I hated these games. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he’d make us wrestle and fight again. Ant always beat me—he was bigger and stronger and stuff—but he felt bad about it after. He couldn’t go easy, or else Papa would hurt us both, so he always went hard.
But he said sorry. I loved him so much for that.
“Walk out onto the ice.” Papa gestured at the half-frozen lake.
For once, Ant didn’t leap at his command. “You told us never to go out there when the thaw comes. You said it’s not thick enough.”
“It’s not.” Papa nodded as if he was happy Ant questioned him. “You remember what I taught you? About how to survive if the ice breaks?”
Ant looked wary. I felt scared.
“I remember,” Ant said.
I didn’t.
“Then walk out onto the ice, and when it breaks, I want you to show me.”
Ant stepped toward the lake and stared out at the white and gray expanse.
Papa always had games. Violent games, fun games. Sometimes we liked them and sometimes we ended up hurt. Mostly, we ended up hurt.
We never questioned it. But Ant seemed scared, way worse than usual.
That made me want to run and hide even more.
“Go on,” Papa said. “When you come back, we can go home, and you won’t ever have to come out here again.”
Ant looked back, eyes wide. “Really?”
“You’ve learned all you need.” Papa looked at me. “You have one more year, and then it’ll be your turn.”
I nodded, feeling gloomy. Another year without Ant? Gosh, what a freaking nightmare.
Ant looked happy though. It was a scary thing Papa wanted him to do, but this was the last game. Get through it and we go home.
He walked out onto the ice.
It cracked underfoot, but didn’t break. We knew how to walk real light and to stick to the thicker bits. Ant was good at it, and since he was still just a kid, he didn’t weigh all that much. He moved further and further out. Papa watched until Ant was like fifty feet away.
“That’s enough,” Papa said.
Ant stopped moving, turned to look back.
“Now I want you to jump.”
Ant hesitated.
“Papa,” I said. “The ice’ll break.”
He didn’t look at me. Only stared out at Ant. “Jump,” he said louder.
Ant jumped.
The ice cracked. For one second, Ant stood there, unmoving.
Then it snapped and he fell into the frigid water.
“Papa,” I said.
Ant panicked. He splashed, gasping for breath. That water was nearly frozen and must’ve felt horrible soaking through his clothes. He scrambled for a grip but his fingers kept slipping. He grunted, sputtered water, threw his hands out. He fought to get control but the ice was too slick, and he kept dunking back under, frothing and foaming.
Papa didn’t move, only watched.
“Papa!” I ran down to the lake edge. “We have to help him.”
“Don’t move.” Papa’s voice felt like a kick to my throat.
“Papa,” I said, tears rolling down my cheeks.
Ant shouted something. He flailed, trying to get onto the ice. Papa taught us how to do it right, but I couldn’t remember anymore. Something about keeping calm, shimmying out flat on your belly, spreading out your weight.
Ant wasn’t calm. He was flipping out. He splashed and kicked and slammed his hands against the snowy, slick lip of the hole and tried to get out, but couldn’t.
“Please,” I moaned. “Papa, we have to help him.”
“If he can’t survive this, he can’t survive what’s coming next.” Papa’s jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed. He didn’t move. The pipe smoldered between his teeth.
Ant screamed again. I couldn’t make out what he said. I stepped toward the ice, ready to run after him. Papa could go to hell. I’d let him whip me bloody, I didn’t care, so long as my big brother came out of that lake alive.
But Papa grabbed me and held me back.
I struggled and fought. I screamed for my brother, louder and louder.
Ant flailed less. He tried to slip out, like he remembered how do it finally. But he was exhausted, and he kept getting half way before he slipped or the ice broke again. His lips were blue, his face so white and scared.
Papa’s hands were iron.
“Come on, boy,” he whispered. “Get out of there, Anthony.”
That was the last time I ever heard my father say my brother’s name.
Ant tried. He got half way, his chest out, his arms spread, but the ice broke again. He plunged down and I groaned as if stabbed in the guts. Hot tears flooded my cheeks. I screamed and struggled but Papa wouldn’t let me go.
I wanted to die with my brother.
Ant came up only one more time. He reached for the lip, desperate. Almost clawed his way out. That lasted another few minutes, but he couldn’t get a grip, and he was slowing. It must’ve been so cold, so freaking cold.
Then he sank down, and the day was quiet.
Except for my screaming.
Papa stayed there holding me back for a long time until I puked from all the yelling and sobbing, and then he carried me back into the cabin.
We never talked about Anthony again after that.
