I STOOD ON THE BACK porch in my pajama bottoms and the fuzzy cardigan, taking a piss as the newborn sunlight tiptoed across the suede-colored hills in the distance to slide into the yard. The subtle light illuminated the barn roof on my right, revealing the exposed rafters that poked through the rotting shingles like bare ribs. It'd already passed over the corpse of the ancient red tractor abandoned on the edge of the field and was almost to the graveyard of a flower bed that I currently graced with the contents of my bladder.

     Our farmhouse had many peculiarities, but one human-related oddity was the bathroom. There was one in the house, on the second floor only. What a pain in the rump. I had no interest in traveling upstairs until the pager I kept in my saggy pocket forced me to untangle the clean clothes squirreled away in the corners of my bedroom. Until then, I'd pee off the porch.

     I don't know how long I stood there after finishing,  tucking everything back under cover and hugging the sweater close against the chilly air that nuzzled my skin. In the half-shade of the barren, dusty yard, I watched smallish black shapes skirt and shoot around like busy rats. They popped from the dirt, dodging this way and that, disappearing again into the soil without effort. I wasn't afraid of them. They bothered me about as much as the sparrows scratching seeds along the fences. I called them the 'bobbers,' reminiscent of the plastic floaters on a fishing line. They were an energy for sure. From where?—I didn't care to examine that question.

     After a while, the sun was in full swing, warming the back of the house and my toes. About this time, the cakey-vanilla scent of pancakes wafted through the screen door behind me, making the air delicious and confusing because when Amy said, "I'll be home for pancakes," it was more a sentiment than fact. My stomach grumbled. I inhaled deeply, appreciating the homey smell despite the mystery. Whatever was cooking smelt fresh. Somebody had excavated our pantry and uncovered actual flour, not the crusty Bisquick.

     I should've guessed who right then and there. But I could be pretty stupid when the opportunity arose, and mixing early morning with a sleepless night and a quaalude or two had me on the ropes.

     I walked barefoot through the mud room and into the kitchen. The screen door shut in my wake, snapping hard against the weathered casing. The echo clashed with my voice:

     "Amy—? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"

     "Are you making a list?" Aunt Cindy half-turned to face me from her place in front of the clunky gas stove. She smiled. Her lips twisted briefly upward, but her eyes remained flat blue. The smile was a cordial action, not an expression of true feelings. I had an inkling she was here on a mission. She was in full-fledged uniform: khaki pants and a matching blazer open to the waist revealing a hot pink sweater that blinded me. On her feet, the same congruent pink held a pair of sharp-toed booties hostage. Like Ma, Aunt Cindy was as blonde as bleach would go without claiming a strand of her lion's mane perm.

     Near Aunt Cindy's elbow, the chrome toaster sat uncovered on the counter, the tea towel draped over her padded shoulder. Electricity shot up my body, zinging from my toes through my crotch to spark in my chest. A flash of movement snagged in the corner of my eye, and I saw myself, or the color-smeared summation of me, stretched across the toaster's silver surface. The black mass alongside my reflection drifted, sliding along the chrome to catch my attention.

     "You startled me," I said, unsure which one I was talking to. I closed the gap across the stained linoleum and kissed Aunt Cindy quickly. She smelled floral, like lilacs in the sun. Her cheek was powder dry under my lips. I pulled the towel off her shoulder and tossed it back over the toaster before she could process my greeting. For a breath, a warmer smile tinged her brightly lipsticked mouth. The corners of her eyes cracked. Crow's feet sprung to the surface.

     Then it was back to business.

     "I made breakfast," she said. The lumpy batter sloughed onto a hot cast iron pan as she spooned it from a mixing bowl. "Why don't you sit."

     In response, the breeze from the screendoor skimmed me, a sudden reminder of my shirtless state and the other bits below the belt, swinging freely around in the thinnest fabric possible for Aunt Cindy's surprise visit.

     I tugged at Amy's cardigan, fisting the yarn closed under my chin.

     "Oh, please," Aunt Cindy waved the spatula dismissively, "I changed your diapers. Sit."

     I obeyed. Partly because when Aunt Cindy spoke, my mental clock swung to an age when I did wear diapers, and the staggering indecision that came with the toddler stage inhibited my autonomy, but mainly because, at that moment, a soft thud sounded directly overhead.

     Aunt Cindy tilted her head up, crunchy curls caught in the crease between neck and shoulders, "You should get someone in to check for rats."

     "Yeah, sure." I pulled out a kitchen chair, knowing I wasn't going upstairs soon. "So, why the surprise visit?"

     She grazed over my question, "Where's your sister?"

     A plate appeared before me, golden flap jacks stacked neatly. "Um, I don't think our flour is edible anymore, Aunt Cindy. We don't cook much." I prodded a pancake with the tip of my fork.

     After rinsing the concealed sugar off the red cap, she passed me the fake maple syrup bottle without my asking and said, "Don't be ungrateful. Do you think poor kids care about expiration dates on flour? Where's Amy?"

     There was a reason we spent no holidays together, and visits were few and coerced. Amy had a lexicon of nicknames for the elder Goodwin sister: Cynical Cindy, Sciatica Cindy (because she was a pain in the ass), Syphilis Cindy—The last two were phonetic, but they stood up under pressure. For the list of services—good deeds—Aunt Cindy had performed for us throughout our lives, there were ten additional tasteless memories to blanch.    

     It was an odd experience to see her in our kitchen. If I squinted the right way, in the rill of butter-gold morning light rushing the window over the sink, I could see Ma standing by the stove instead of Aunt Cindy, despite Ma having never cooked a day in my life. They weren't twins, just fiercely competitive with the same round face, small nose, and close-set eyes that adored vibrant powder. Aunt Cindy was older and Ma's more capable version. An attribute she clung to and worked hard to ensure we always remembered. The Goodwin sisters tried to outpace each other to the point where they were now an amalgamation of both. Fingers interwoven at the knuckles. You couldn't tell the left from the right hand. Except, now, one hand was dead. I guess that meant Aunt Cindy won.   

     My stomach pinched. I cut a bite of pancake. The taste of butter and sugar melted on my tongue. When had I last eaten real food? Yesterday's frozen pizza dinner was suspect at best.

     "Good?" Aunt Cindy studied me curiously; the spatula still clutched in a manicured hand. 

     "Yes, thank you."

     "Asa, where's Amy?"

     I swallowed hard and opened my mouth to deny all knowledge. At that moment, from deep inside the house, the front door opened. A pair of shoes kicked off, thunking on the hardwood. A bag hit the floor. Before I could get anything up my throat, a warning or otherwise, Amy appeared in the doorway.

     "Judas!"

     "Oh, another one," Aunt Cindy's free hand settled on her hip. "Glad to see you kids haven't forgotten your family Bible."

      "What is she doing here?" Amy directed her question first at me, then switched, "What are you doing here?"

     Aunt Cindy picked up a second plate of food, "Pancakes?"

     Amy stared at her, dumbfounded. The color on her face changed from white to pink to beet red. I watched her inhale,  words forming, changing, forming again...

     "Auntie stopped in for breakfast," I heard my voice say, "she's just...she was in the area?"

     "I heard what happened."

     And there it was, laid out on the faded floor tiles like a fresh cadaver under an autopsy light, naked and overexposed: Aunt Cindy's mission. 

     Amy's eyes widened, and a second fire lit behind her vellum skin. "Heard what?"

     "About the body. About the police interview."

     "How?"

     "Pamela Laden is a friend of mine and a dispatcher for Sterling Hill. She fielded your call last night."

     "Christ," the denial drained out of Amy. I watched it go, flushing her body in a glimmer before dissolving at her feet. She tilted, her shoulder finding the door frame for support.

     "It's been a long night, Aunt Cind. I have nothing more to say about it."

     "I do."

     Amy rolled her eyes. Her green Dime Stop shirt was as stiff and wrinkled as she was. Her jaw tightened, redrawing her lips in a thin line across her face.

     "Dead bodies, Amy," Aunt Cindy continued, gripping the plate, knuckles yellowing, "after everything."

     "I didn't find it on purpose," Amy said.

     "You called it in."

     "What—you think I shouldn't have?"

     "No. This family has had enough attention. Another dead body, Amy. What if they reopen your mother's case."

     My heart hardened like sap, broke off its vessel stems, and dropped into my balls.

     "Oh, no, you don't," Amy said, pushing off the doorframe. "I was cleared. I didn't do anything."

     "Do you know why you were cleared? Because I got down on my knees and begged—"

     "—here we go again—"

     "—begged them to acquit you."

     "I did not kill Polly."

     The plate from Aunt Cindy's hand crashed on the countertop, sliding off into the porcelain sink. The sound of it made me jump in my seat. My fingers steepled on the tabletop, ready to shove off if I needed to run. She threw the spatula in after the fallen plate and placed a hand on her forehead, muttering under her breath.

     "Polly. Polly. You don't even have the respect to call her your mother."

     Amy crossed her arms over her chest. "She never acted like one."

     "The evidence—"

     "What evidence?" Amy dropped her arms. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. "The cigarette butt that started the fire? Please. She did that to herself."

     "Your mother never smoked a day in her life," Aunt Cindy snapped, whipping a finger between us, even though I was no better than the abandoned mixing bowl in this discussion, sitting alone, pancake batter globs hardening on the rim.

     Amy shook her head. "Did she tell you that? She wasn't the most honest person. You, of all fucking people, should know that."

     "Your mother had a complicated perception of life, but she wouldn't harm herself."

     Amy scoffed. "That's...that's your excuse. Should I add it to the list under postpartum depression, maybe? We all know that wasn't real, either."

     "She tried."

     "Woohoo, give the woman a medal. Dad deserved one for putting up with her mental Hoola Hoops as long as he did..."

     I'd begun to realize two things as I watched the exchange displayed in front of me, my thighs aching from my half-seat behind the dinette table. One: Amy was a raw nerve, scrapped down to the base strands from years of betrayal and hurt. A sad type of hurt that I couldn't wholly share. Ma and I, we were different together; I knew that. Was it perfect? No. There were days I tied myself in knots to make her smile. Weeks when the only affection I could pawn off her was a pat on the shoulder before bed. Then her mood shifted, the heavens opened, and we would be inseparable for a month or three, eating pizza and telling secrets, watching movies, and counting stars. I was convinced these pleasant spells would last. When they didn't, I blamed my sensitivity for taking her absences too hard. I didn't feel the hate my sister did, but I understood how it got inside her.

     Two: a man stood behind Amy.

    "A murder. A serial killer." Aunt Cindy's shrill voice floated to me.

     Amy's glid in next, "Did you hear that from Pam."

     I'd lost hold of the conversation, my focus on the figure slowly appearing in the doorway, how an image in a dark room developed on paper. Unlike the shadow that trailed me, this man's outline filled in quickly with the ebb and flow of the argument. Soon I could see his head's shaved dome, large ears, and meaty jawline. Tattoos threaded around his thick neck and disappeared into the collar of his blue denim coveralls. Numbers stamped on his chest pocket 13819 confirmed what I'd already guessed. He saw me, the skinny kid in the corner, and threw me a mishappen grin before lifting a cuffed paw to grasp Amy's shoulder.

     I rushed to stand, "Hey, sis."

     But she was somewhere else, body hunched, fists lifting. Her eyes locked on Aunt Cindy in a way that scared a skid mark out of me.

     "I'm putting my foot down," Aunt Cindy said, oblivious to the destructive intentions pounding towards her, "you're both coming to live with me."

     "Bullshit," Amy roared. I caught her as she lunged and shoved her backward into the hallway, casting Aunt Cindy a muffled "give us a sec" as we went.

     Our feet hit the old rug. "It's not worth it," I said, really hoping Amy wouldn't opt for a physical altercation. Previous experience had taught me that I wouldn't win a fistfight or a wrestling match. "Take a minute and think about what you're doing. This isn't you." 

     It really, really isn't you.

     The convict (because that's what he was, in life and in death. I'd felt his malice and the resentment in my chest when he coalesced. I coulda mistook it for mine if I hadn't seen him) vanished before we'd exited the kitchen. My palms gripped Amy's soft shoulders through the bulk of her jacket, holding her in place. We were the same height. I watched her eyes clear. The foreign sneer that had contorted her face faded.

     "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what happened."

     "And another thing," Aunt Cindy shouted from the kitchen, "there's no food." The fridge opened. Loose bottles rattled on the door shelves before slamming shut again. "This house should be condemned. Not to mention the grotesque room upstairs. Think about your brother."

     Amy's gaze flickered over my shoulder and back. Suddenly, Aunt Cindy was behind me. The word "brother" rang explosively loud in my ear. I clenched my teeth to suppress an exasperated sigh.

     "Thanks for giving us a second," I said.

     "Don't be fresh, young man. The pair of you have had it your way long enough. It's time you came to live with me."

     Amy patted the top of my hand, letting me know it was safe to release her. I did, but I kept between them. I didn't turn around.

     "We're not going anywhere," Amy said calmly. "I'm twenty-nine years old. I'll be thirty next weekend. You can't order me around like a kid."

     Aunt Cindy set both hands on her hips, "You live like one."

     "Thank you for the concern and the offer. But we're doing fine. Right, Asa?"

     I nodded, letting Aunt Cindy read the agreement off the rear of my flat head. It was the biggest lie we'd ever told. I couldn't risk my face betraying the truth.

     A pitchy beeeeeeeeeppppp shredded the air. I flinched and fumbled in my pajama pocket for my pager. The small, black plastic rectangle withdrew in my hand. I checked the phone number on the silky grey numeric display.

     "I have to go to work." (Time to go upstairs.)

     "I'll come with you," Amy said. "Dime Stop is closed today."

     We all knew why, and she didn't try to elaborate. Being the epicenter of a murder investigation was as terrible for business as one might imagine.

     "I only have the bike."

     The pager interruption had shifted the attitude of the room. Wiping the argument clean like Windex on a glass surface. When Aunt Cindy spoke again, her tone lacked its previous fervor, authoritative nonetheless but not quite as inciting.

     "I'll drive. Do not argue with me, Amy. I swear to God."

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