Free Cicada by J. Eric Laing Page B

John was forever in his brother’s shadow and knew he forever would be. The little brother. Their father swelled when he talked of Walter. There seemed none of that left over for John. The little brother. Girls looked past John. He was invisible behind the handsome and dashing Walter Sayre; he was lost in his big brother’s shadow. Walter, the one who could do no wrong. Walter, who had died in such a senseless, tragic accident.
    But, no, not an accidently entirely.
    For John knew the whole story regarding his brother’s death. The whole truth. He had never admitted that he had shoved his brother. No, he’d not come that far clean. Even worse, he’d spent years lying to himself, agreeing with the others… what a senseless, tragic accident. But in a far corner of his heart and the dark recesses of his mind the truth was always there.
    The truth was John had seen those yellow jackets first, all along. The truth was he knew Walter was allergic to them. The truth was he had shoved his brother Walter into them…on purpose.
    ...
    Fifty-two miles east of Melby—along a state road that saw very little traffic except for tourists—there nestled together a small conglomeration of businesses, two small motels, a gas station, and a greasy spoon diner. It was all the commerce that could be supported by the diehard Civil War enthusiasts who visited there to tramp over the several hundred nondescript acres of state park dedicated in memoriam to a skirmish that had taken place there nearly a century before.
    The two motels were The Blue Motel, on the south side of the road, and The Gray Motel, on the north. At least once a month the desk clerk at one or the other was suffered to explain to would-be lodgers, busy-bodies, or know-it-alls, that the names were not in error, but that those were the directions from which the two armies had once clashed for two bitter winter days.
    While that was true, an even greater truth was that the two opposing motel signs had indeed been erected in error, but at too great an expense to do anything but concoct the battlefield-clash excuse to remedy the blunder.
    Invariably, even though the two nearly identical motels were situated in the Deep South, The Blue Motel faired a bit better in taking in guests since most that came to see the memorial traveled from one of the Northern states to do so. The Confederates had lost this particular confrontation and it seemed most self-respecting Southerners weren’t interested in such a reminder. So, in their own small way, even after the passage of so many years, the two little motels seemed to keep the great conflict alive. Or at least, so their patrons were led to believe.
    Actually, if The Gray Motel was having a bad week, it was quite common for the desk clerk at The Blue to ignite the neon “No Vacancy” sign even when it still had rooms to spare, since what the staff of both motels knew—and what was never to be disclosed to the guests—was that the two establishments were owned by the same man, Hammond Marshall. Hammond didn’t like to think that the employees at The Gray had it easier on any given day, and further, he liked disappointing the occasional Yankee by sending them across the street to stay at The Gray Motel.
    “I think the rooms over at The Blue are better. Don’t you?” Cicada said, sprawling out between the thin cotton sheets of the room’s queen bed. She was damp with perspiration and the linens clung wherever they met with her otherwise naked skin.
    The air of the small room was stale from the uncomfortable odor of others, the endless nights of drunken conversations punctuated by cigarettes and spilt drinks. Cicada thought for a second time about throwing the single window open, only to remember that their one lonely pane was not only painted, but also nailed shut.
    “I think I know now why they call this one ‘The Gray,’” she bemoaned with a snicker of disdain. “Like mildewed soot…or worse,” she went on chatting to