The Creek Knows

When I find Jimmy, he is standing over the lump half submerged in the creek. His arms hang like twigs at his hips and his cotton t-shirt clings to his back, soaked and muddy. I want to say something, to scream, to fight, but my feet are rooted to the ground. Jimmy senses me and snaps his head in my direction, wild eyed and pale. His lips begin moving but I can’t hear him, not fully. My mind stills, almost to a complete calmness because there’s an explanation. There has to be one. I swallow the bile in my throat and attempt to focus. Jimmy stands in front of me now, his palms pressing down on my shoulders and shaking me out of paralysis. 

“Is that–?” I manage to whisper, dreading the answer I already knew. There was no denying who the lump at the creek was. The silly orange traffic cone t-shirt gave it away, the t-shirt Jimmy and I laughed at earlier that morning. 

“Yes,” Jimmy bends slightly to my eye level. “Sonny, you have to listen to me,” he demands, a stern face replaces the panicked one. Now this was the Jimmy I knew– indifferent and level headed, a born leader. 

 “You’re gonna help me move the body.” Body. A body that used to be a person, a boy with a name. A kid who waved goodbye to his parents this morning and would never return. A body now. 

Jimmy shakes my shoulders again, more aggressive and urgent. “Focus, Sonny, they’ll pin this on me. Get moving now!” And I moved. Closer and closer until I could make out the pink tint mixed with the mud and a pair of white sneakers bobbing in the creek. Bile rises up my throat again and I lean over an old stump. Jimmy’s breath heats up my neck and I hear him shouting a string of “don’t you dare puke, don’t you dare!” The urge to punch his face settles in the depth of my belly in place of nausea. But Jimmy was a brother, and his mess was my mess too. I push him away from me and watch as displeasure paints his features. His head cocks to the left as if to say “you’re no match for me,” and there was truth to that. 

“Let’s do this,” I click my tongue and move past him. I am a fish who bit the hook, trapped in Jimmy’s fishing line. I am just as dead as the body in the creek. The only difference between us is innocence. 

We carry the body from the creek to our grandmother’s farm. Fortunately the journey was quick and secluded, nestled at the edge of the woods. It also doesn’t take us long to hide the body in the earth.

Neither of us say a word to each other, we dig and move swiftly like we have done this many times before. I want to cry for the first time since our mother’s overdose. She’d be disappointed in us, as she usually was, and point out how much we resemble our pops. Bad right to the core, she used to say with bitterness lacing her tongue. It had always stung me but never fazed Jimmy. He seemed to embrace our mothers curses like a familiar old sweater. 

Jimmy and I wash off with the backyard hose, the grime and sweat disappearing from our bodies. Nothing interesting had occurred today. Nothing new, nothing old. Jimmy’s indifference hadn’t bothered me before but as I watched him comb his fingers through his wet hair, it bugged me horrendously. I wanted to climb inside his brain and understand where the apathy comes from, and how I could get some of it. 

“Let’s find grams,” he mumbles.

We find grandma at the kitchen table, fumbling with her knitting project. She doesn’t look up but greets us with a simple “good evening boys.” 

I’ve always wondered why she let us stay here every summer. We were nothing but bad news, and the amount of grief we dumped upon her over the years should’ve been enough to disown us. But her front door always stayed open.

“Hi grams,” Jimmy leans over and plants a kiss on her cheek. “How was your day?” 

“Superb,” she smiles through her glasses, “How was the creek? Ya’ll catch us supper?” 

Jimmy shakes his head, “No luck today, grams.” 

Grandma finally looks up from knitting and sets her pale eyes at me, a frown etching on her brows. “Sonny, you don’t look so good.” 

I attempt to smile but it doesn’t quite reach my face. “I’m fine grandma, just tired of this August heat,” I say, hoping she’s convinced when she nods and goes back to knitting. 

“Goodnight grams,” Jimmy says and we turn to leave.

“Oh my I almost forgot!” Grandma's voice stops us, “Bonnie called earlier asking about her boy. Seems he hasn’t come home yet. The two of you seen him ‘round the creek today?” 

Jimmy and I look at each other, then back at grandma. If she senses something off she doesn’t let it show. I lick my dry lips. 

“No grams, we haven’t seen him today,” Jimmy assures her. He is steady and calm, unlike myself.

I open my mouth, then close it when Jimmy’s glare burns through my skull. He reaches for my arm and tugs me through the kitchen doorway. I know he’s cursing me in his head, pissed because he knows I wanted to tell her about the boy, about what we’ve done. If Jimmy hadn’t pulled me out of there, I might have burned us both.

Jimmy pushes me into our summer bedroom and slams the door shut. It shakes on its hinges as he stands in front of it, arms crossed and glaring at me through scorching brown eyes. An angry Jimmy was a terrifying Jimmy. After his recent stint in juvie, nobody wished to cross paths with him because Jimmy’s temper, albeit fleeting, truly was terrifying.

“You got something to say, you spit it out here.” 

I lick my dry lips again and match Jimmy’s stance, feigning confidence. It does nothing for me but makes me feel like a tiny bug that Jimmy would happily squash.

“Tell me the truth.” I demand.

Jimmy waits for the question. He knows it’s coming, and if it makes him uncomfortable, his face is too blank to tell. 

“Did you do it?” 

Jimmy blinks, and the smallest smile emerges on his lips. “Don’t be stupid, brother. Even the creek knows.”