Second String
by David Larsen
Daniel Wade shook hands with each well-wisher, male, female, young, old, gringo, Mexican. He was far from good at this sort of thing. He’d always been the quiet, almost timid, member of the Wade family, the one Wade who went unnoticed. A few women, tears in their eyes, trembling-lipped like witnesses to the crucifixion, hugged him as they whispered what must have been sympathetic utterances, but none of their comforting words registered in Daniel’s dulled mind. He was stoned, as smoked as a Deadhead a half hour before the concert, the only way he could get through an afternoon like this.
More than a few of the good old boys from town, friends of his late father and of his brother, in their best pairs of boots and wide-brimmed Stetsons, many who had known Daniel and, of course, Peter, since they were well-heeled grade schoolers, placed their hands on Daniel’s shoulders or patted him on the back and nodded as if they understood just how he felt. They didn’t. Daniel didn’t feel much of anything; he was as numb as the occupants in the graves all around him; his only wish was that he could be anyplace other than the Dos Pesos cemetery with his brother, not more than ten feet away, his empty eye sockets fixed on the closed lid of his eternal residence. A shotgun blast to the head was even more gruesome than Daniel would have imagined. Hence: the closed casket. What the hell does Peter think of all this? wondered Daniel. Can he hear all this bullshit?
Not more than a half dozen steps from the polished, shiny coffin in which sure-of-himself Peter rested—for all time, perhaps amused at what the shy, sole-surviving son of the late Richard and Sandra Wade was having to put up with—Daniel stood as steadfast as he could. He worried that his quaking knees might give out on him, that he could easily slip into the hole that awaited his twin brother. But, no, he couldn’t take his brother’s place in the rocky, caliche-layered ground—even if he wanted to, which he didn’t.
Peter, the first-born son, by a measly nine minutes, was due his birthright, or so he had claimed for twenty-eight years, an entitlement that demanded that he be the first at everything. Why not being buried? Whether he liked it or not. The second son listened to the townsfolks’ condolences and nodded as if he heard what was offered in hushed, reverential tones. It was his duty. He listened, but everything about the afternoon was a jumble.
Kyle Reid, the Contreras County sheriff, a man who knew the two boys about as well as anyone, was the last to amble over to pay his respects.
“Danny,” said the tall, round-bellied man, “I can’t say that I know what you’re feeling today, but I can tell you that all of Dos Pesos feels like we lost one of our best.”
Daniel nodded. Yes, they had lost one of the best. His throat was too dry to agree with the twice-elected man, a friend of his dead father since they were pups at Travis High School, back in the sixties.
“How long’s it been since you and Peter played ball?” The sheriff squinted as he looked across the desert at the sun that lingered like the last guest after an unsuccessful party. “I can still see you two out there on that football field, Peter throwing the long pass to Jimmie Gil with the clock running out.” He shook his head and smiled. “You were on the line, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I played tackle. Second string. Peter was the star.”
The sheriff grinned. “And basketball, my God. I think your brother averaged over nineteen points his senior year.” He chuckled. “He was a marvel out there on the court with his ballhandling and outside shooting. How long ago was that?”
“We graduated in 2012,” said Daniel. He glanced at the coffin. It remained elevated, reluctant to allow itself to be lowered into the cool underworld of the desert. “Peter was something special. That’s for sure.”
Sheriff Kyle Reid sucked the dry, pungent air through his horsey teeth, then exhaled hardily. “Ten years ago? Seems like it was yesterday.” He blinked, then said, “As for the cause of death, I assured those state troopers that this was an accident. Hell, the state of Texas has bigger things to worry about than some poor kid’s shotgun goin’ off as he tried to get over a barbed-wire fence.”
Daniel nodded. Yeah, they most certainly did.
“A couple of those troopers wondered why someone would be out huntin’ with a shotgun. I told ‘em he was probably after some quail. That he got tangled up in the barbed wire and the gun went off.” The sheriff paused. “When I told ‘em that it was Peter’s own brother who found him out there dangling on that fence they seemed to be satisfied that it must’ve been a huntin’ accident. Shoot. You know how those state people are, always trying to find something that ain’t there. But I convinced them.”
Daniel cleared his throat. “Sheriff, you’ve been a great help in all of this.”
“Well, after all you’ve been through, I felt like I needed to do what I could.” The sheriff shuffled his scuffed boots in the gravel. “When your mama and daddy died out there on Highway 1129, I felt downright bad for you two boys. Having to take over the ranch and your daddy’s business. Getting’ run off the road like your parents were. Downright criminal. And probably by some hepped-up no-good just passin’ through. Didn’t even have the decency to come back and help ‘em.” The sheriff scratched under his arm, then snorted. “And that it was your poor brother that came across the overturned pickup…then he had to wait for that damned ambulance to come all the way from Ft. Stockton.”
Daniel wiped the sweat from his forehead. Though it was late October, the afternoons were still in the mid-eighties.
“You never know,” said the sheriff, “when it comes to drugs, what some folks might do.” He looked into Daniel’s eyes then off across the creosote and mesquite bushes that dotted the hills. “Those boys with the state are always thinkin’ everything has to be drug related.” He removed his hat, ran his fingers through the few strands of hair he still owned and sighed. “Like in your brother’s case. Those state toxicology folks claim that your brother had marijuana and traces of fentanyl in his system. I told ‘em that that couldn’t be the case. That I’d known you two boys forever. That, hell, your brother was one of the best athletes ever to play at Travis High. I told ‘em about how you and your brother ran the ranch and your father’s feed store without ever whining about your family’s misfortunes.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Damn, it’s the least I could do. I know how hard things have been for you two boys. Everyone felt pretty bad when Peter’s wife left town and took up with that gigolo over there in Ft. Stockton. And what made matters worse was that she’d been your galfriend before your brother married her.” The sheriff shook his head. “Most brothers might get their backs up over somethin’ like that, but not you two. You managed to deal with it sensibly. Now, if it’d been my brother who’d done somethin’ like that, I think I would’ve had more than a little resentment toward him. But you two, being twins and all, managed to get through it.” The sheriff wiped his whiskers with the back of his hand. “Like when you two were in school. Peter was the star, and you were more than happy to block for him while he got all the glory. You were satisfied getting’ rebounds while your brother set all of those records. Not every brother could do that.”
“He was a better athlete than I was.” Peter smiled. “He was good at everything.”
“He was good, that’s a fact.” Sheriff Reid stopped. “Ya’ know, some folks thought your brother was a bit cocky and stuck on himself. But not me. No, siree. I knew how good he was. But you were the one that always impressed me. Always in your brother’s shadow. Backin’ him up when he walked off with all the awards.”
“That was my role. Everyone does what he has to do.”
“You know, that’s the way I see it. Everyone’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. That’s just about exactly what I told those state troopers. That out here in West Texas we see things a little different than they see ‘em back in Austin. Of course, I didn’t tell ‘em that out here we just kinda look the other way sometimes. That things have a way of workin’ themselves out. They wouldn’t listen anyway. No matter what I tell ‘em, they’re just gonna keep on spinnin’ their wheels tryin’ to find somethin’ that just ain’t there. But don’t you worry none. They’ll see things as they really are soon enough.”
Alone, just Peter in the coffin plus the four somber men who waited to lower the box into the ground, Daniel gazed across the horizon. The sun would soon set. The shovels the workers leaned on were the implements of finality for his brother. It would be but one more, he hoped successful, attempt to bury the past and all its secrets. Yet, Peter would be remembered. He was the star in the family. The favorite son of Richard and Sandra Wade, their firstborn. The student and athlete who, throughout his life, had to be the best at everything. Quarterback. High-point man on the basketball team. First in the family to graduate from college, A&M, while Daniel diddled away at Angelo State, graduating in five years, one year after his talented brother.
Daniel stared at the glossy casket. Just once, he mumbled, I wanted to be the one. But you couldn’t stand it; you had to be the leader. It was your birthright, or so you claimed. I was the follower. When you told me that you’d go over that barbed-wire fence…Peter, that was the final straw. “Let me go first, you said. You hold the shotgun while I slip over the fence.” You shouldn’t have said that. Just once, you should’ve let me be the first one to do something. Just once.
More than a few of the good old boys from town, friends of his late father and of his brother, in their best pairs of boots and wide-brimmed Stetsons, many who had known Daniel and, of course, Peter, since they were well-heeled grade schoolers, placed their hands on Daniel’s shoulders or patted him on the back and nodded as if they understood just how he felt. They didn’t. Daniel didn’t feel much of anything; he was as numb as the occupants in the graves all around him; his only wish was that he could be anyplace other than the Dos Pesos cemetery with his brother, not more than ten feet away, his empty eye sockets fixed on the closed lid of his eternal residence. A shotgun blast to the head was even more gruesome than Daniel would have imagined. Hence: the closed casket. What the hell does Peter think of all this? wondered Daniel. Can he hear all this bullshit?
Not more than a half dozen steps from the polished, shiny coffin in which sure-of-himself Peter rested—for all time, perhaps amused at what the shy, sole-surviving son of the late Richard and Sandra Wade was having to put up with—Daniel stood as steadfast as he could. He worried that his quaking knees might give out on him, that he could easily slip into the hole that awaited his twin brother. But, no, he couldn’t take his brother’s place in the rocky, caliche-layered ground—even if he wanted to, which he didn’t.
Peter, the first-born son, by a measly nine minutes, was due his birthright, or so he had claimed for twenty-eight years, an entitlement that demanded that he be the first at everything. Why not being buried? Whether he liked it or not. The second son listened to the townsfolks’ condolences and nodded as if he heard what was offered in hushed, reverential tones. It was his duty. He listened, but everything about the afternoon was a jumble.
Kyle Reid, the Contreras County sheriff, a man who knew the two boys about as well as anyone, was the last to amble over to pay his respects.
“Danny,” said the tall, round-bellied man, “I can’t say that I know what you’re feeling today, but I can tell you that all of Dos Pesos feels like we lost one of our best.”
Daniel nodded. Yes, they had lost one of the best. His throat was too dry to agree with the twice-elected man, a friend of his dead father since they were pups at Travis High School, back in the sixties.
“How long’s it been since you and Peter played ball?” The sheriff squinted as he looked across the desert at the sun that lingered like the last guest after an unsuccessful party. “I can still see you two out there on that football field, Peter throwing the long pass to Jimmie Gil with the clock running out.” He shook his head and smiled. “You were on the line, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I played tackle. Second string. Peter was the star.”
The sheriff grinned. “And basketball, my God. I think your brother averaged over nineteen points his senior year.” He chuckled. “He was a marvel out there on the court with his ballhandling and outside shooting. How long ago was that?”
“We graduated in 2012,” said Daniel. He glanced at the coffin. It remained elevated, reluctant to allow itself to be lowered into the cool underworld of the desert. “Peter was something special. That’s for sure.”
Sheriff Kyle Reid sucked the dry, pungent air through his horsey teeth, then exhaled hardily. “Ten years ago? Seems like it was yesterday.” He blinked, then said, “As for the cause of death, I assured those state troopers that this was an accident. Hell, the state of Texas has bigger things to worry about than some poor kid’s shotgun goin’ off as he tried to get over a barbed-wire fence.”
Daniel nodded. Yeah, they most certainly did.
“A couple of those troopers wondered why someone would be out huntin’ with a shotgun. I told ‘em he was probably after some quail. That he got tangled up in the barbed wire and the gun went off.” The sheriff paused. “When I told ‘em that it was Peter’s own brother who found him out there dangling on that fence they seemed to be satisfied that it must’ve been a huntin’ accident. Shoot. You know how those state people are, always trying to find something that ain’t there. But I convinced them.”
Daniel cleared his throat. “Sheriff, you’ve been a great help in all of this.”
“Well, after all you’ve been through, I felt like I needed to do what I could.” The sheriff shuffled his scuffed boots in the gravel. “When your mama and daddy died out there on Highway 1129, I felt downright bad for you two boys. Having to take over the ranch and your daddy’s business. Getting’ run off the road like your parents were. Downright criminal. And probably by some hepped-up no-good just passin’ through. Didn’t even have the decency to come back and help ‘em.” The sheriff scratched under his arm, then snorted. “And that it was your poor brother that came across the overturned pickup…then he had to wait for that damned ambulance to come all the way from Ft. Stockton.”
Daniel wiped the sweat from his forehead. Though it was late October, the afternoons were still in the mid-eighties.
“You never know,” said the sheriff, “when it comes to drugs, what some folks might do.” He looked into Daniel’s eyes then off across the creosote and mesquite bushes that dotted the hills. “Those boys with the state are always thinkin’ everything has to be drug related.” He removed his hat, ran his fingers through the few strands of hair he still owned and sighed. “Like in your brother’s case. Those state toxicology folks claim that your brother had marijuana and traces of fentanyl in his system. I told ‘em that that couldn’t be the case. That I’d known you two boys forever. That, hell, your brother was one of the best athletes ever to play at Travis High. I told ‘em about how you and your brother ran the ranch and your father’s feed store without ever whining about your family’s misfortunes.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Damn, it’s the least I could do. I know how hard things have been for you two boys. Everyone felt pretty bad when Peter’s wife left town and took up with that gigolo over there in Ft. Stockton. And what made matters worse was that she’d been your galfriend before your brother married her.” The sheriff shook his head. “Most brothers might get their backs up over somethin’ like that, but not you two. You managed to deal with it sensibly. Now, if it’d been my brother who’d done somethin’ like that, I think I would’ve had more than a little resentment toward him. But you two, being twins and all, managed to get through it.” The sheriff wiped his whiskers with the back of his hand. “Like when you two were in school. Peter was the star, and you were more than happy to block for him while he got all the glory. You were satisfied getting’ rebounds while your brother set all of those records. Not every brother could do that.”
“He was a better athlete than I was.” Peter smiled. “He was good at everything.”
“He was good, that’s a fact.” Sheriff Reid stopped. “Ya’ know, some folks thought your brother was a bit cocky and stuck on himself. But not me. No, siree. I knew how good he was. But you were the one that always impressed me. Always in your brother’s shadow. Backin’ him up when he walked off with all the awards.”
“That was my role. Everyone does what he has to do.”
“You know, that’s the way I see it. Everyone’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. That’s just about exactly what I told those state troopers. That out here in West Texas we see things a little different than they see ‘em back in Austin. Of course, I didn’t tell ‘em that out here we just kinda look the other way sometimes. That things have a way of workin’ themselves out. They wouldn’t listen anyway. No matter what I tell ‘em, they’re just gonna keep on spinnin’ their wheels tryin’ to find somethin’ that just ain’t there. But don’t you worry none. They’ll see things as they really are soon enough.”
Alone, just Peter in the coffin plus the four somber men who waited to lower the box into the ground, Daniel gazed across the horizon. The sun would soon set. The shovels the workers leaned on were the implements of finality for his brother. It would be but one more, he hoped successful, attempt to bury the past and all its secrets. Yet, Peter would be remembered. He was the star in the family. The favorite son of Richard and Sandra Wade, their firstborn. The student and athlete who, throughout his life, had to be the best at everything. Quarterback. High-point man on the basketball team. First in the family to graduate from college, A&M, while Daniel diddled away at Angelo State, graduating in five years, one year after his talented brother.
Daniel stared at the glossy casket. Just once, he mumbled, I wanted to be the one. But you couldn’t stand it; you had to be the leader. It was your birthright, or so you claimed. I was the follower. When you told me that you’d go over that barbed-wire fence…Peter, that was the final straw. “Let me go first, you said. You hold the shotgun while I slip over the fence.” You shouldn’t have said that. Just once, you should’ve let me be the first one to do something. Just once.
David Larsen is a writer and musician who lives in El Paso, Texas. Over the past two years, his stories have been published in more than two dozen literary journals and magazines including Aethlon, The Heartland Review, Cholla Needles, Floyd County Moonshine, and The Raven Review.