Sticks and Stones

Rachel Reznick

When I was nine I witnessed a murder. My brother was eleven; in my world he was a god—and not of the kind and benevolent variety. He had more in common with the warlike gods of ancient times, the ones who demanded utmost obedience and enjoyed retribution when it was not given. His name was Benjamin, but at that time everyone called him Benji.

I used to say he was a lot like the weather—erratic and often violent, but generally manageable as long as you met him prepared. I never watched TV beside him without a pillow to ward off the blows that came during the commercial breaks. Even more than fists, Benji loved projectiles. He picked up stones every time he left the house, throwing them as hard as he could. In winter, he threw rocks packed in snow. He took aim at anything--birds, squirrels, stray cats, me. Strange as it may sound, I don't think he really intended any harm. He was more of a natural disaster than a calculating hunter; he flung debris in all directions without much regard for where it ended up. That was why I didn't immediately catch it, when, one afternoon, his missile found its mark.

For a moment we were both completely still, too stunned even to breathe. It's this moment that looms largest in my memory; that brief period for which we stood, slack-jawed and rooted to the spot, united by our mutual incomprehension. Of course, it didn't last. I could almost hear the cogs turning in my brother's mind.

"Ah yeah!" he shouted, his voice cracking, for an instant making him sound that much younger. He grabbed me by the arm. "C'mon," he grunted, husky and authoritative once again. Too shaken to resist, I allowed myself to be towed across the yard, to where the body lay. It was most definitely dead, although I can't say why I was so sure of this. I don't remember any blood, only cold certainty weighing heavily in my stomach like I had swallowed one of Benji's rocks.

Benji was determined that this should be a moment of triumph. He puffed up proudly, his shadow swelling over the little limp form. "Wow, we really got him." Suddenly, I was an accomplice. I didn't dare speak; I knew better.

"What are you guys doing?" We jumped as if at a gunshot. The voice belonged to Danielle, one of the infamously irritating girls who lived up the street. She peered at us from the curb for a moment, and then began to approach. Already criminals, we shifted defensively, instinctively positioning ourselves between her and the body. Not that this accomplished anything. "Is that a squirrel?"

"None of your business," my brother growled, his voice low and guttural. "Go play with your dolls."

Ignoring him, Danielle began to circle around us. "What did you do to him?"

"Get out of here!" I could see he was ready to hit her. The cold knot in my stomach was rising, splitting into electric fingers of fear. A little girl was a target even Benji knew to avoid. Luckily, Danielle backed off.

She regarded us with an expression too shrewd for her age. "You guys are in trouble," she proclaimed. Before we could move, she turned and fled. "I'm telling!" she shot over her shoulder.

Meanwhile, I was receiving orders. "Go get a trash bag, and don't let Mom see you." I was frozen. Numb with fear, my brain refused to make sense of his command. I felt his fist slam against the back of my head. "Now!" I ran.

Everything became a haze of urgency and nausea. I don't remember how I got the bag, or which of us held it open while the other dumped the body inside. I don't remember running, but I know we were breathless by the time we reached the little creek in the woods out back. I do remember that the bag floated for a long while, or at least that it seemed a long while, before it finally slipped beneath the surface of the water.

"You tell; you die." I had expected no less. But he needn't have threatened me; the frost in my heart was far more terrifying than any reprisal of his. I was quite prepared to deny the whole thing. I even rehearsed expressions of surprise and innocence in the mirror. But I suppose Danielle never got around to telling on us after all, or her mother simply dismissed it. Either way, no one ever confronted me, or gave me the chance to lie about it out loud. Maybe that's why I was never able to forget the truth, or to trivialize the event in my mind. The nature of the life we took, its size and shape, all that has become inconsequential. It remains murder. That was what my brother and I buried that afternoon.