The Upper Hand Page 3

  The weighty sound of Skinripper’s doom metal rose from the basement. The slow, tuned-down heaviness shook the floorboards. Gretchen couldn’t make out all the growled lyrics, but she made out the word “crepuscular.” No idea what it meant, but damn if that wasn’t the metalest word she’d ever heard.

  She walked into the kitchen, ripped some paper towel off the roll, stuck it in her ears, and opened the door to the basement. The power of the big arena sound almost knocked her backward.

  Skinripper was a power trio. Amanda “Louder” Lauden on drums. Jose “Pepe” Marrero on bass. Which left Gretchen’s brother Kurt “No Nickname” Ucker on guitar and vocals. One hundred decibels of plodding dread that sounded like Chewbacca in a suit of armor slowly falling down a staircase. In a good way.

  Gretchen sat down on the bottom step and watched them play. Kurt strummed, stomped his foot, and wailed.

  A journey of terror.

  Gauntlet of an iron hand.

  Crushing the peasants.

  More than one man can stand.

  Visigoth nightmare.

  A wizard’s pox on the land.

  Horror and violence.

  The womb of the cursed child be damned.

  On “damned,” Kurt let out a sustained scream for twenty seconds. His neck muscles bulged, and his face was beet red. Big drum flourish, cymbal crash, then silence.

  Gretchen stood and clapped. “You guys sound good. Ass has been kicked.”

  “I don’t know,” Kurt said, breathing heavily. “The basement’s got strong acoustics.”

  “He’s being modest,” Louder said. “Of course we’re awesome.”

  “You staying the night?” Kurt asked.

  “Yeah,” Gretchen said. “I’m going to say hi to Mom. We can chat when you get home.”

  “Awesome. Looking forward to seeing those comics.”

  Gretchen went back up the stairs, turned, and waved. “Good to see you guys, too.”

  Pepe waved. Louder shot her some finger guns.

  Kurt turned to them. “We crushed ‘Berzerker Bloodquest.’ Let’s see if we can get through ‘Chaotic Evil (Horak’s Journey).’”

  At her mom’s house, Gretchen stopped in front of the fifteen-year-old Sears family portrait of her parents and siblings. She had often found herself examining the photo, trying to find its secrets.

  At first glance, she saw their normalcy. Opening presents on Christmas mornings. Summer camping trips to Kitchen Creek. Fishing trips to Lake Morena. Dove hunting in the Imperial Valley. The events and images that filled a photo album.

  Three months after the photo was taken, they found Henry Ucker’s body in the desert. Twelve when he died, Gretchen remembered him as a child does, no longer sure whether the memories were real or manufactured from the sparse photographs and video.

  According to multiple newspaper accounts, two off-roaders had found the lifeless body of Henry Ucker approximately nine miles south of Highway 8 in the Yuha Desert between San Diego and El Centro. The cause of death: a single gunshot wound to the chest.

  Three days after the discovery of the body, video surveillance surfaced of Henry Ucker and an unidentified male accomplice burglarizing Haskell Diamonds in San Diego. Gretchen’s father’s face was clearly visible. According to the insurance company report, an estimated three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds, gold, and precious gems were stolen.

  The police questioned Gretchen’s mother relentlessly, never treating her like a widow, but always as a potential accomplice. Rude, aggressive, and unnecessarily cruel. They searched the house multiple times, flashing warrants and breaking items without apology. They threatened house seizure, foster care, and forfeiture. Innocent until proven guilty didn’t apply to the family of criminals.

  Warm Springs had a decision to make: have the Uckers’ backs, or turn their own backs. Martha Ramirez summed up the sentiment of the town in her statement to the papers: “I’m never going to feel completely safe knowing there had been a criminal next door. Until my husband is released from prison next year, these doors stay locked.”

  At the conclusion of a yearlong investigation, fifteen individual thefts spanning a year were attributed to Henry Ucker. In most of the cases, there was little doubt of his participation. A few cases appeared dubious, tossed in to clear an open case. The fact remained: Gretchen’s father had been a professional thief.

  The unidentified male accomplice at the Haskell Diamonds theft was never identified.

  The Imperial Valley Sheriff’s Department investigation into the murder of Henry Ucker remained open.

  Not a single suspect was named in his murder.

  Not a single item of the stolen merchandise was ever recovered. In total, over two million dollars’ worth of stolen cash, jewelry, bearer bonds, coins, and stamps was attributed to Henry Ucker.

  Everyone in Warm Springs focused on the revelation that Gretchen’s father was a thief. Nobody showed compassion for the kids who lost their dad. After all, the children were probably thieves, too. Bad blood and all that. Friends were no longer allowed to play with them. They became the town scapegoats. When something went missing at school, they were accused of the crime. They became “those Ucker kids.” The year her father died was the same year Gretchen learned how to fight.

  She kissed her hand and pressed it to the image of her father.

  Gretchen knocked on the door and entered her mother’s bedroom. “Mom? You up? It’s Gretch.”

  “Come in. Come in,” Bertha said, setting down the book she was reading and sitting up in bed.

  Gretchen sat on the edge of the mattress. She knew that her mother hated to be asked how she was feeling, so she asked, “How are you feeling?”

  Bertha shook off the question. “You’re the one that’s too thin. Are you eating? Taking care of yourself? Is that another tattoo?” She pointed to the stick figure with a halo on Gretchen’s arm.

  Gretchen wondered if her mother recognized the image as the calling card for gentleman thief Simon Templar, the Saint.

  “Your angel doesn’t have any wings,” Bertha said. “Why do you mark your body up like that? You staying out of trouble?”

  Gretchen winked. “It isn’t trouble if you don’t get caught.”

  “What about the new job?” Bertha asked. “What was it? Sales trainee?”

  “Sales associate.” Gretchen was offended that her mother had diminished her pretend job title.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” Bertha asked.

  “You’re burning through the questions tonight. I’ve sworn off men for a while.” Gretchen had dated a few women in the last six months, but she didn’t want to have that conversation again.

  “Don’t give up,” Bertha said. “You were too young when you married Richard. There’s a good man out there. If you went to church, you might find him.”

  “Speaking of something completely different, I was looking at the family portrait in the hall. The one with all of us together. With Dad.”

  “You can almost see Henry’s secrets in that photo.”

  “I thought we were happy,” Gretchen said. “But when I look at our smiles, I only see teeth.”

  “There’s more under the surface.”

  “I wish I had known Dad better.”

  “You and me both.” Bertha reached for her cigarettes. “When you leave, take that picture with you. I don’t want it in this house anymore.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your father was an Ucker. People warned me. People that knew that family. They told me not to marry Henry. Not to marry an Ucker. We always trust the wrong people.”

  “Do we still have family out there?”

  Bertha dug out a cigarette from the pack, lit it, took a deep drag, and hacked a cough that sounded like crinkled plastic wrap. “You don’t want anything to do with those people. Liars and cheats. Thieves and sinners.”

  “It’s not up to you whether or not we meet them. We should know.”

  “‘Watch ye and pr
ay, lest ye enter into temptation,’” Bertha said.

  “Don’t try to Bible your way out of this,” Gretchen said. “How do I find them?”

  Bertha coughed uncontrollably for twenty seconds. She stubbed out the cigarette. “You want a grilled cheese?”

  “Are you serious?” Gretchen asked. “I’m not going to let this go.”

  “It’s for your own good,” Bertha said. “Ask your brother to make you a grilled cheese. He makes the best ones.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Kurt, Pepe, and Louder loaded the last of the equipment into the back of the Skinrippermobile. Kurt shut the sliding door of the van and sat down on the bumper next to Louder. The Skinripper logo and their mascot, Bloodface, adorned the side of the van. Bloodface was a badass, zombie-like creature with red, bloody scratches from forehead to chin.

  Pepe found a joint in his shirt pocket, lit it, and took a huge hit.

  “A few steps back, Pep,” Kurt said. “I don’t want Mom to smell pot on me.”

  Pepe nodded and backed up.

  “I might have got us a gig,” Kurt said.

  “Not another wedding?” Louder said. “You made me learn ‘YMCA’ and ‘Celebration.’ I had to wear a dress.”

  “We played the ‘Macarena,’” Pepe said. “Twice. Love that tune.”

  “They hated us,” Louder said.

  “This is a Skinripper gig,” Kurt said. “Straight-up rocking. Bringing the Warm Springs metal revolution to the people. La Choperia in Tecate.”

  “The place we saw Baculum with Queef Jerky?” Louder asked.

  “That was badass,” Pepe said. “Someone pegged the singer with a full bottle of beer.”

  “He was unconscious for fifteen minutes,” Louder said. “There’s no air-conditioning. They’re violent.”

  “The toilet paper roll in the bathroom was on a screwdriver jammed into the wall,” Pepe said.

  “Now that’s just ingenious,” Kurt said. “Doing my best. Not a lot of people knocking down our door offering us gigs.”

  “There’s got to be a sweet spot between the chicken dance and aggravated assault,” Louder said.

  “I can cancel,” Kurt said, defeated.

  “Screw it,” Louder said. “I’m in the back of the stage anyway. You and Pepe can shield me from projectiles.”

  “Do you guys care about what I think?” Pepe asked.

  “Not really,” Louder and Kurt said in unison.

  “Cool,” Pepe said, putting the joint out on his tongue and climbing in the driver’s seat. “I’ll bring the van back tomorrow. See you later.”

  Kurt and Louder walked the three blocks to his house. They argued about how bad the Receptionists, their wedding band, had actually been.

  “Come on, admit it,” Kurt said. “Our reggae cover of ‘White Wedding’ was inspired. That one dreadlocked dude hippie-danced to the whole thing.”

  “Whose car is that?” Louder asked, pointing at a fifteen-year-old BMW parked on Kurt’s lawn.

  “It looks like my brother Axel’s,” Kurt said.

  As if on cue, Kurt’s older brother got out of the car. “Got out” was generous. In truth, Axel opened the car door, vomited, and fell out into his own puke. He then closed his eyes, curled into a ball, and squiggled in the glop until he found the sweet spot.

  “Yeah, that’s all you,” Louder said. “I gag too easy. Great rehearsal.” She gave Kurt a high five, followed by a big hug.

  “What was that for?” Kurt asked.

  Louder shrugged and walked back in the direction of her house.

  Kurt turned to Axel and kicked the bottom of his foot. “Ax? Get up. You’re sleeping in throw up.”

  Axel opened his eyes and stared at Kurt. Grass blades stuck to the side of Axel’s face.

  “Did you drive here from SD?” Kurt asked.

  “Kurt, little bro!” Axel yelled. “What’re you doing here?”

  “You’re in Warm Springs,” Kurt said. “How did you not die driving through the mountains?”

  “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

  “It’s July.”

  “It’s a Halloween miracle.”

  “Cheese ’n’ rice.” Kurt walked to the side of the house. When the cold water from the hose hit Axel, he shot to his feet and ran serpentine around the yard. Kurt chased him until Axel was thoroughly soaked.

  “I’m wet,” Axel said. “I’m dripping, soaking wet.”

  “You shouldn’t have asked me to spray you with water.”

  Axel stared at his brother, confused. “Did I?”

  “You must have. Why else would I do it?”

  Axel nodded. “Thanks, little brother.”

  It wasn’t the first time that Kurt had Obi-Wanned his brother when he was wasted.

  “Gretch is here,” Kurt said. “It’s been forever since we’ve all been together.”

  “Hasn’t been that long,” Axel said.

  “Two years, Ax. Over two years, actually. You live fifty miles away. Mom misses you.”

  “Momma.”

  “Probably want to save that visit for tomorrow,” Kurt said. “Unless you want a lecture about the evils of alcohol spirits.”

  “Sorry. Meant to visit. My busy is life. House on Xanadu. I got the Inner Tiger. The Supreme Dragon.”

  “Whatever that means,” Kurt said. “Were you at a cookout? You smell like burnt marshmallows.”

  “S’More Drunk Than You.”

  “Yes, you are,” Kurt said. “You most definitely are.”

  Axel sat at the kitchen table and sipped black coffee. His hair dripped, but he wore clean, dry clothes. Kurt’s sweatpants and shirt were three sizes too big, making Axel look childlike.

  Kurt cooked grilled cheese sandwiches one after the other. His secret was to use mayonnaise instead of butter or oil on the outside of the bread. Kurt took his cheesy bread seriously. He spatulaed the last one onto a plate and brought them to the table. One for Gretchen. One for Axel. Two for him. He was a growing boy.

  Axel greedily grabbed his sandwich and took a bite. He froze and looked up at Kurt. “This tastes better than other tastes.”

  “I hope it stays in your stomach and not on the floor,” Kurt said. He topped off Axel’s coffee.

  Gretchen stared at Axel but didn’t say anything. Kurt couldn’t tell whether it was anger or curiosity. Gretchen wasn’t always easy to read. It wasn’t glee. He knew that.

  “Mom wasn’t kidding, Kurty,” Gretchen said. “You killed it on this sammie. I could eat like ten of these.” She punched Axel’s arm. “Why are you here? What do you need?”

  “Ow. What’s with hitting?” Axel said. “Why do I need something?”

  “Because you do,” she said. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  Axel lost a battle with a string of melted cheese that ran from his chin to the plate. He left it there. “I missed everyone. Came to see family, you, Mom. Didn’t know what to do. Got burned.”

  “What’s her name?” Gretchen asked.

  “Why a woman? Why couldn’t it be maybe something else?”

  “You only get drunk when you get dumped,” Gretchen said. “Don’t get me wrong, Drunk Axel is my favorite Axel. You get weird. You’re fun to mess with. But come on, it’s always a woman.”

  “It was a woman the last three times,” Kurt said.

  Axel looked mad for a moment and then drunkenly shrugged. “Priscilla is her. Good, then everything went to bad. Everything. Like in ten minutes. I had it all. And boom, boom, boom, I had shit, shit, shit. I had all the shit.”

  “You fall in love faster than I can choose pizza toppings,” Gretchen said. “You trust the worst people. Bites you in the ass every time.”

  “Love is trust. That’s love. Priscilla fooled me. Conned me. My job? Another con. Nothing I have is what it is. I had answers, then questions, then the wrong answers—then I had fire. I missed you guys.”

  “Are you talking in slam poetry?” Gretchen said. “You’re speaking gibberish.”


  “I have a plan,” Axel said. “We’re going to get it back. You and me and you.”

  He pulled some sheets of paper from his back pocket, unfolded them, and ironed them out with his hand on the table. From Kurt’s vantage point, it looked like a serial killer’s scrawl alongside children’s drawings.

  “Whatever you say,” Gretchen said.

  Kurt washed the pan in the sink. “Let’s enjoy the three of us being together. It doesn’t happen often enough. Mom’s going to be happy to see you. For tonight let’s be a normal family. Eat your sandwich.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Gretchen said. Axel had fallen asleep, using what was left of his sandwich as a pillow. Cheese oozed from between the slices of bread.

  “Think he’ll remember any of this tomorrow?” Kurt asked.

  “Who cares?” Gretchen said. “All I know is that I’m going to eat the rest of his sammie.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Axel was either dreaming or had traveled in time—or he was dreaming about traveling in time. Through some miracle of science or magic, he had been transported back to his childhood bedroom. Tucked into his San Diego Chargers sheets, he half-expected “I Got You Babe” to play on the alarm clock.

  The events of the previous evening blurred into focus. Bits and pieces. Fire, vomit, and grilled cheese—which sounded like a short story anthology that Priscilla would make him read.

  “Priscilla. Right,” Axel said. “So wrong.”

  The decor of his old bedroom hadn’t changed since he left Warm Springs—the National Forensic League speech trophies, the bookshelf stacked with board games, his old notebooks.

  Axel got out of bed and took down the Amy Grant poster on the door. Underneath, the Baywatch-era Pamela Anderson poster remained. It brought back different memories. Pam stared back at Axel seductively. Many a lonely teenage night had been spent fantasizing about traversing her silicone topography.