Free Hunter's Moon by Don Hoesel Page A

ears.
    “Congratulations on your award,” Graham said. “Even if I’m about a year late in saying that.”
    “Thanks,” CJ answered. “And back at you for your state senate seat. And I’m much more than a year late in saying that.”
    Graham looked much the same. A little gray in his hair, maybe a line or two on his face, but other than these he looked like a man in his midtwenties. Graham had always been the athletic one—larger and stronger than his younger brother. CJ was the cerebral one, although Graham was no slouch in that department either. CJ had no doubt that Graham had the mental acumen to succeed in the political arena. In fact, it was that part of his brother that CJ thought had changed the most. He was more confident, certainly; he’d always had that. But he was now a man who could handle himself among other men, even if they were his social, economic, or even intellectual superiors. He’d become what his potential had promised.
    “So when’s Sal’s funeral?” CJ asked.
    “Sunday at two o’clock. Visitation at eleven.”
    CJ nodded. He didn’t ask about the particulars of the service and what his responsibilities would be. There was time enough for that. He pushed away from the table. When he stood, he raised an eyebrow at his brother. “You coming?”
    It took a moment for Graham to catch on, but when he did he smiled, dropped his cigarette in the PBR can, and followed CJ through the mudroom and into the garage, Thor in tow. CJ took the three steps down by memory and felt for the light switch along the wall.
    The two-car garage was a relatively new addition to the home, built in the 1920s. The automatic garage door was added in the ’70s. When he still drove, Sal would run one beat-up pickup or another around town, and he parked these anywhere on the property he had a mind to. The garage was reserved for a single vehicle—the one that now sat under a tarp illuminated by a half dozen fluorescent fixtures. It was a 1937 Horch 853, and the prize of his grandfather’s collection. Sal had kept the rest of his cars— the ones worth anything—in a garage he rented in Winifred, and before his health had confined him to his bed, one or the other of his sons would drive him over there once a month to check on them. But the 853 (legend had it that Sal had acquired the car in a poker game before Sal Jr. had even been conceived) stayed here, and Sal, even in his last declining months, would roll the tarp off and apply a thin and completely unnecessary coat of wax to it almost weekly.
    “She’s still here,” CJ said. He wasn’t sure what it meant that the sight of the car stirred more emotion in him than had the news that his grandfather had died.
    “And not a mile more on her than there was when you left,” Graham said.
    “So he never drove it.”
    “Not even once.”
    CJ shook his head, suspecting his grandfather had missed out.
    He forced his gaze away from the covered automobile and looked at the storage shelves affixed to the near wall. It wasn’t long before he spotted the ball clustered with the other sports equipment. It looked old, as if it hadn’t been used in the entirety of the time since CJ left.
    He crossed the immaculate, gray-painted floor and picked the ball from the shelf. His fingers sank into it as he looked over at Graham.
    His brother shrugged. “I haven’t played in years.”
    A quick search located the pump and soon they were bouncing the ball on the driveway and taking practice shots at the basket hanging over the garage door. Time and weather had done their work on the backboard, and showed in the rust on the rim, but CJ found the sweet spot after a few shots and sent the ball through the net more often than not. Graham always beat him when they played, and it looked as if his brother still had his shot too. A few dribbles, a small hop, and a smooth release sent the ball through the net almost every time, without use of the backboard. About five minutes in, after