Dogfight by Michael Knight Page B

might.”
    â€œShe won’t,” I said.
    I turned from her, convinced my point had been made. From the pool, our backyard sloped over a neatly cut acre to the sixteenth hole of a golf course. Marking the border between the two was a hedgerow of holly, red berries among the leaves like Christmas decorations. When we were kids, Virginia and I would hide beneath the diving board, submerged to the nostrils like alligators, and wait until a golf ball was shanked into our yard, then we’d swoop down on it and retreat to the pool. We didn’t use the balls. They collected like fish tank gravel on the bottom of the pool. We just liked the thrilling mischief of the thing. Now, I could see natty golfers in the fading light and just barely, I could hear the sound of their club faces whisking through the grass, like whispered secrets.
    â€œI’m Art.” The boy with my sister was as tan as she was and his hair had been bleached almost white from days in the sun. “You must be the brother.”
    â€œYou getting laid, Art?” I said without looking at him.
    â€œThere’s an idea,” he said. Virginia socked him in the arm and he winced. He was wearing floral print jams and a bulky diver’s watch, one of those that’s pressure tested to something ridiculous like six thousand feet.
    Virginia said, “That’s it. I’m getting Mom.”
    She stood and padded across the deck toward the sliding doors. I said, “That’s a mistake, Virginia,” but she kept walking, skipping a little over the hot pavement. She snapped her bikini bottom into place with two fingers as she went. “Bitch,” I said. “Dyke, cunt, whore.”
    â€œWhoa now,” Art said. “You shouldn’t talk to your sister like that.”
    I climbed the four concrete steps from the pool. My bodyfelt huge and slick and dangerous. It would do whatever I wanted. I walked over to Art, and he stood to meet me. We were almost the same height, and our bodies made a stark contrast, his browned and indolently soft, mine white like hard marble. I leaned into him, our faces inches apart, and gave him an evil wink. “Don’t fuck with me, Art,” I said. “Just don’t.” We looked at each other a moment longer before he sidestepped me and followed Virginia into the house.
    My sister had a remarkable propensity for never appearing sleep-worn. I didn’t know what went on in that bathroom of hers before the lights went out, but she woke each morning in mint condition, emerging from bed as fresh as she went in, no puffy eyes, no crust around the mouth, not a hair mashed out of place by the pillow. She said it was because she never dreamed. But one night, not long after my meeting with Art, I was startled from sleep by something and jerked awake, heart fluttering, thinking I’m late for work, the house is on fire, whatever, to find my sister standing at the window in my room looking out.
    â€œJesus Christ, Virginia, you scared me shitless,” I said. I rolled over to look at the clock. Five-thirty. The night crew at the yard would be getting off any minute. “Get the fuck outta here. I’ve got an hour left to sleep.”
    Virginia didn’t answer right away. She was wearing her white knee-length nightgown and the light coming through the window made her shape a silhouette beneath the fabric. Her hair was smooth and perfect on her shoulders. My room faced the golf course and I could see morning mist just above the ground.
    â€œWhat the fuck, Virginia?” I said.
    She turned toward me and I knew that she was asleep. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, her fingers curled up a touch. Her eyes were open but as distant as the moon. The world was pulling itself together outside. Sprinklers ticked sleepily on the golf course, the garbage truck ground its way down the street. I pictured Wishbone and Gerald, right then, finishing the first leg of a double shift,