Free The Missing Person by Alix Ohlin Page B

a streetlight. My brother was standing there in the dark, bent under the open hood of the Caprice.

Five
    â€œHi,” I said.
    Wylie jumped about a foot in the air and dropped the dipstick, which clattered loudly against the asphalt.
    â€œLynnie,” he said, “what the hell are you doing here?”
    â€œI was about to ask you the same question.”
    â€œI’m checking the oil.” He picked up the dipstick and held its tip in front of his face, scowling at it. The oil mark was just barely visible in the wan light. “Have you been driving my car?”
    â€œMaybe,” I said.
    He shook his head and turned again to the engine. His dark-blue T-shirt said CAMP KIKOWAWA 1992 on the back. Underneath the worn cotton his scrawny shoulders stuck up in points, and his dark hair hung down in a skinny, knotted braid. I was sure I weighed more than he did.
    â€œWhat are you doing at home?” he muttered to the car.
    â€œI came back to visit,” I said. “Where the hell have you been?”
    â€œBisbee,” he said.
    â€œI sent you an e-mail weeks ago telling you I’d be back. I’ve been looking for you.”
    â€œBisbee, Arizona.”
    â€œWhat’s in Bisbee, Arizona?”
    This question met with a long, irritated pause, during which Wylie reinserted the dipstick, drew it out again, and examined it, scowling all the while. I leaned against the side of the car and waited.
    â€œBisbee, Arizona,” he finally said, “is what’s in Bisbee.”
    â€œI never would’ve guessed. You’re being kind of annoying, by the way.”
    â€œWell, you would know.”
    â€œWylie.”
    â€œLynn.”
    I crossed my arms. Wylie slid his scrawny body under the car and started tinkering around down there. I sat down in the driveway, my head still swimming a bit in the aftermath of drinks and sex and sleep, and looked up at the sky. The moon was fat and sagging. Far down the block a couple of dogs were barking at it testily from their yards.
    Wylie’s feet stuck out from beneath the car, the toes of his sneakers pointing and flexing as he shifted his weight. I could hear him grunting. Across the street Mrs. Sandoval’s rock lawn gleamed in the moonlight. Near my right hand a cockroach sped across the asphalt, and I shuddered and stood up. Our house was dark, and my mother was in there sleeping.
    â€œWylie,” I said to his grimy shoes, “Mom really wants to talk to you.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œWhy don’t you sleep over?”
    â€œI can’t.”
    â€œJust stick around for breakfast. Fifteen minutes, so she can see you. A cup of coffee.”
    â€œI don’t drink coffee,” he said.
    â€œYeah, like that’s the point.”
    A clanging, rusty sound came from under the car; then Wylie said, “Shit!” and scooted out with oil on his face. “See what you made me do?”
    â€œSorry,” I said, and laughed.
    He gave me a mighty scowl and stood up, then closed the hood of the car and started gathering up his tools.
    â€œWylie?”
    â€œI can’t talk to her.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause she doesn’t understand the kind of life I’m trying to live. She can’t admit that I’m an adult making serious moral choices.”
    â€œThose are your actual reasons?”
    â€œPlus she nags me all the time.”
    â€œYou could stand it for fifteen minutes.”
    He thrust the tools angrily into a backpack and shouldered it. When I touched his arm, he flinched. His skin was darkly tanned, his face drawn, and his wrist was hardly thicker than mine.
    â€œNo, I couldn’t,” he said, then strode down the driveway, his back slouched under the weight of his backpack. He looked like a thirteen-year-old heading off to school. Above him, the sky had already begun to lighten in preparation for sunrise. Two condos down he turned around. “If you