Sons of the 613 by Michael Rubens

hot on.”
    â€œThat was different.”
    â€œAre you gay? Is that it?”
    â€œNO!”
    â€œLook, you can just tell me.”
    â€œJosh, shut up. I just don’t think I’m a motorcycles-and-guns type of person.”
    â€œOh, no shit? But that doesn’t mean you can’t at least know how to do it, know what it’s like. That way, you see some dude on a bike, you can say, I know how to do that. Or you hear some jackass going on about guns, and you can think, big effin deal, I’ve done that. He’s got nothing on me.”
    â€œDo you know how pissed Dad would be?”
    â€œThat’s exactly the point. You’d never get to do this with Dad, never, never, never, never. Christ, I wanted to give you a chance to do something like this, and thought it was something special that we could do together. Because once I’m gone you’re not gonna get another chance.”
    So we ended up in a field that had plywood targets set up against a hillside. I had to get a lecture from creepy Darrell on how to shoot and the importance of the Second Amendment, and then they all had a great time, an orgy of
weeYOOOO
ing and cheering and
BANG BANG BANG POP POP POP BLAM!
as they worked their way through a lovely sampler plate of shotguns and pistols and assault rifles. Darrell shoved guns in my hands and I took my turns, flinching with each shot and weirded out and miserable, and, yes, sulky and pouty and uncooperative so that Josh would know just how miserable I was. Pretty soon he was shaking his head and making snide comments, and they were all snickering, and finally they all gave up on me and my half-assed shooting and I faded into the background, eventually just taking a seat on the ground a dozen yards behind them, wanting to go farther away but not wanting to draw more attention to myself.
    You wouldn’t like guns so much, I had muttered to Josh earlier—“‘If you’d ever seen a child with a bullet wound,’” finished Josh for me. “Do you know what would be great? If you had an independent thought in your head that didn’t come directly from Dad.”
    While I sat there on the ground I watched Josh interacting with Craig. That’s who he wants as a brother, I thought, the two of them talking about guns and motorcycles and the NFL. Josh gesturing with his hands, describing some fight, Craig looking at him worshipfully. Maybe he could teach Craig my haphtarah.
    After a lot more
WEEEYOOOO
ing and gunfire and male bonding and Craig using the 20-gauge to transform a passing crow into a puff of black feathers—they’re really smart birds, you know; they use tools—the ammo was used up, and Darrell said, “Ooo
kay!
Let’s ride some bikes!”
    Which we did. And I crashed. I crashed within seconds of starting my very first ride, crashed with all of them watching, crashed exactly when I didn’t want to crash, the front wheel rocketing skyward and throwing me onto my ass.
    Everyone ran to the bike to make sure it was okay.
    I got up and limped in circles, swearing loudly and rubbing my leg, not because I’d hurt myself but because I wanted to make it look like I had, at least a little bit.
    Josh watched me for a few moments and said, “You’re all right.” It was a command. So I made some faces and swore a bit more and kind of dialed back the limp, fading it out after a few more circles.
    Then Josh sighed—another check mark in my failure column—and said, “Screw it. Let’s just go to the falls.”
    Which is where we are now, the whole horrible day building to this moment, with me standing up on this cliff, a gun-flinching, motorcycle-crashing, non-cliff-jumping coward.
    â€œJump.”
    â€œNo.
    â€œYou know,” volunteers Professor Darrell in his serious voice, “in these sorts of situations it’s important to dominate one’s fears.”
    Giant pine tree, fall and