I slowed the car as we turned onto my brother’s street.  In the back, Tracy pointed her little hand out the window. "Is it that one?" she said. "Or that one, or that one?"

The houses were similar enough that I wasn’t sure myself until I spotted Marshall’s Gone Fishing sign.  His drive was empty, the curtains were closed, and it was almost noon on a Saturday.  It occurred to me briefly that he might actually be fishing.

Tracy had been asking questions about Uncle Marshall the whole way up, but now she didn’t want to get out of the car.  I had to carry her up the lane on my hip.

Marshall’s Gone Fishing sign hung above a constellation of rust spots at the centre of his door.  I reached out to touch it just as the door opened.  My brother filled the space, rubbed his eyes then closed the door to remove the chain.  "Well, well," he said.  "Long time no see."

"Just dropping in for a quick visit."  I tried to pry Tracy from my shoulder so she could say hello, but she tightened her grip and dug her face into the crook of my neck. 

Marshall made space, and we followed him down the carpeted hall and into the living room where he collapsed into the corner of the sofa.  "Make yourselves at home."  Near his feet, the parts of a handgun were spread across a white towel--springs, levers, handle, barrel. 

Mother had told me about the gun. 

 "Sorry to barge in, just--you know."  I shrugged and filled my lungs.  The disassembled pistol held my gaze.  "Heard about Susan," I said at last.

"Figured that was why you were here."

"Mom's worried."

Marshall nodded a moment.

I crouched and faced Tracy. "Honey, you want to watch TV?"

"Susan took the TV," Marshall said.  "And that makes her a fucking thief, but you probably don’t want to hear that." 

"We could get some toys, some books or a Barbie?  Lets see what’s in your backpack."

Tracy held it out and I unzipped it as I lead her through to the dining room.  My daughter has two sets of everything--one for her mother’s place, one for mine.  The toys in her backpack were from her mother’s and less familiar to me. 

"After we’re going to the park, right?" she said.

"Absolutely."

Marshall’s dining room table was littered with shopping bags, food wrappers and a few dirty plates.  A small pile of unopened mail sat at one corner next to an empty bottle of Wild Turkey.  When we were kids, Marshall and I had called the dining room "the dying room." As I crossed back through the kitchen, I said, "Looks like you’re doing all your living in the dying room, Marshall."  He didn’t respond though.  His expression didn’t even change. 

"She called me in hysterics," I said after a while.

"Who?"

"Mom.  She mentioned a restraining order, assault charges. You getting a gun, which is obviously true."

"There's no assault charges, Doug."

"Okay," I said.  "But--"

"--it’s just Dad’s Lugar.  Was getting rusty in Mom’s basement so I’m cleaning it up."

"She’s worried is all."

"So why didn’t she come up and say this?"

I shrugged.  I hadn’t asked her, but it did occur to me that she was a little afraid of Marshall.  She might have also believed Marshall and I were closer than we were, that I might have access to some part of him denied to her. 

I said none of this, and eventually Marshall said, "She’d rather have her errand boy do it."

I forced my face still but low in my guts, something turned over.  "She probably thinks I can talk to you in a way she can’t."

Marshall shifted in his seat and licked his lips. "And so what exactly are you supposed to be talking about?"

"Guess I’m just supposed to make sure you’re okay, that you’ll get through this.  I mean--"

"--So tell her."

"Okay," I said.  "I’ll tell her." My words trailed away, and the room seemed suddenly big, empty, and quiet.  Outside a crow swooped past and landed on the grass. 

After high school, when Marshall and I began to veer apart, I’d started telling people that one of us had to have been adopted.  Our trajectories continued to widen--he spent some time in the military, some time on probation, some time unemployed.  I went to university, got a job, spent some time in the suburbs, some time at the Ministry of Transportation, some time in divorce court.  Now days we saw each other for Christmas and most years that was it.

"Moment you came in, I figured you were here to kick me when I'm down," Marshall said.

"I get two weekends a month with Tracy, so I’m not about to waste one--"

"--It's a power trip, Doug. That's all this is.  Susan’s fucking with me.  Restraining orders are meaningless.  I could get a restraining order against Mr Johansson for letting his dog shit on my lawn. Plus her mother made her get it."  Marshall pursed his lips, scratched the tip of his nose.  "We're working it out, actually. Couple therapy and stuff."

 My head snapped up.  "You're going to couple therapy?"

"Can’t be any worse than talking to you."

"Okay."

"Doug, did you ever have a sense of humour?"

"And you can go to couple therapy despite the restraining order?  Legally speaking, I mean." 

"I was just over there last night."

"Over where?"

"Susan's mother's place. Where she's staying."

"What about the restraining order?"

He lurched towards me then--half launched himself off the sofa.  I was a few feet away but still flinched.  Marshall gave a shallow laugh, breathy and short.  "You don’t fucking listen is your problem."

I wanted to smile, but my face didn’t cooperate.  My right eye started twitching. 

Just then, Tracy came trotting through the kitchen and into the livingroom. "Time’s up," she said.  "It’s time to go to Old McDonalds." 

"Okay, Honey, hold on a sec."  I turned back to Marshall, took a deep breath.  "We should probably go, but I’m glad you two are going to work it out.  Mom will be happy to hear all this.  I’m sure it’s what she wanted." 

Tracy gave my arm a pull.  "Old McDonalds."

"Never met a woman who knew what she wanted," Marshall said. 

I was ready to stand and go, but Marshall sat still, hunched in the corner of the sofa.  Tracy pulled my sleeve again.  "I thought we were going to the park."

"Park, then Old McDonalds."

"Old Macdonald had a farm," Marshall sang.  "Ee I ee I o." 

Tracy turned towards him.  A smile rose to her face.  "That’s not it.  I’m talking about the Old McDonalds you eat at."

"That’s just McDonalds.  It’s called McDonalds.  Old Macdonald had a farm, Ronald McDonald had a hamburger."

"You’re silly."

"Worse than silly.  I’m stupid."

Tracy wrapped her fingers into the loose fabric of my sweater, pulled herself close a moment.  "Stupid’s a bad word."  Her voice was just above a whisper.

Marshall leaned back, scratched at the stubble on his neck.  He didn’t show any sign of having heard her. 

"Listen, we should probably get going and leave you to it."  I stood.  "Next time you’re down our way you should come by."

"There’s a park down the road." Marshall gestured towards the street. "Swings and all that."

"Go get your things, Honey.  I’ll be right with you, okay?"

Marshall and I watched Tracy cross through the kitchen.  "She’s kind of duck-footed, isn’t she?" Marshall said.  Before I could respond, a siren wailed in the distance.  We both turned, cocked our heads towards the sound.  Tracy came running in.  She pressed herself against me and covered her ears. Moments later the fire engine passed the house.  The siren  faded, then stopped all together.  Tracy's shoulders dropped, but she kept her hands at her ears. 

Marshall walked to the door.  "Maybe the whole neighbourhood will burn, and I can get some insurance money." 

I nudged Tracy.  "Lets get your things picked up." 

We collected Tracey’s toys from the dining room.  By the time we got back, Marshall was gone.  We stepped outside and spotted him halfway down the block. He was walking towards the billows of dark smoke with a stoop that hid his height.  Two fire engines parked in the middle of the road had their hoses trained on the fire. 

Spilled water had pooled on the street and filled the gutters and the little stream had already reached Marshall’s place.  Tracy raised her arms, and when I lifted her, she held on tight.

I’d intended to simply say goodbye, but we didn’t reach Marshall until he was at the edge of a small crowd of neighbours and residents watching the fire.  Marshall turned as we neared.  "It’s about time someone cleaned that place out.  Fucking crack house.  Whole area is going to shit."

A redheaded woman looked over.  The heavy-set man next to her also turned.  "You mind?" said the man.

"It’s a crack house," said Marshall.

The man stepped closer and pushed Marshall back.  My brother stumbled but recovered.  Tracy screamed.  Marshall raised his fists, took a couple of swings then a tall man grabbed him and held on.  I instinctively backed away, turned my body to keep Tracey’s eyes from the tangle of people now gathered around my brother. 

"Just fuck off," the redheaded woman yelled. 

I hurried back to the car, both arms tight around Tracy.  "It’s okay, Honey," I said.  "Everything’s fine,"  but she just wailed in my ear.

By the time Marshall caught up, I had Tracy buckled into the car seat.

 "No park then, huh?" he said.

Marshall’s shirt was torn open, but otherwise he looked unhurt.

"Call if you need anything," I said. 

"Doug, you are such a fucking shit."

"What?"

"I haven’t seen you in what, six months, and you come up here and expect me to get on my knees or something."

"I'll tell Mom not to worry." 

"You’re just like her.  You should have been born a woman."

I slid into the driver’s seat. 

"All our lives you managed to slip in and out, duck the worst of it while it lands on me.  It really is amazing." 

I started the engine, pulled out of the drive and waved without looking at him.  Behind me, Tracy sniffled.  She wiped her nose. At the first corner, she said, "Don't forget Old McDonald's."

"Will you quit bugging me about Old McDonalds?"

For a while after that, the only sound was the engine and the thumping of my heart.  I adjusted the rearview mirror.  Tracy was gazing out her window. 

"Why were they fighting?" she asked

"I don’t know, Honey.  Uncle Marshall gets himself in trouble sometimes."

"Is he still in trouble?"

"I don’t know. Hope not."

Near the highway, I pulled over for gas. While the cashier charged my credit card, I flipped through a phone book that lay on the counter. It listed Susan's mother’s address on Helmken Street. I asked for directions.  Back in the car, I told Tracy we had one more stop. "On the way to Old McDonald's," I added.

"Quick, okay?"

Helmken borders forest.  Deep dark stands of cedar climb a gentle slope on one side of the street and tower over the bungalows opposite.  Here people live on the cleaned-up corners of the island.  Wilderness begins at the end of every street.  Two steps off the paved road the world turns raw and wild. 

I pulled over at number 218.  "Sit tight," I said.  "I’ll be right back."

The sun was high now and free of clouds.  It warmed the crown of my head as I knocked.  The door opened slowly, still chained.  "Susan?" I said. "It’s--"

"--He ask you to come?"

"I was just talking to him and, I mean.  Are you two still seeing each other?"  Susan leaned forward, peered towards the car.  The movement revealed the rest of her face. Purple feathered out from a dark ring under her right eye.

"Jesus," I said.

She watched me in silence.

"He talked about."  I took a long, deep breath.  "About maybe working things out, getting back together." 

Susan shook her head and closed the door.  Half of me expected her to unchain and fully open it, but instead the lock slid into place.

"I’ll call the police if he sets foot anywhere near me.  Tell him that."

*  *  *

Tracy ate.  I had no appetite.  I drank coffee and watched while she ran around the Playplace. 

One summer when Marshall and I were kids, we biked out to McDonalds almost every day. We took the money from our father’s wallet.  Eventually he caught Marshall with the wallet open. Dad caned him so badly that from where I was hiding in the attic, I could still hear Marshall scream.  I was huddled under the rafters, head pressed so hard against a beam that a splinter cut into my cheek. 

That was the summer Marshall and I formed a gang. It was just the two of us, but we had rules, daily meetings, we even had an oath of loyalty.  The attic was our headquarters.  It was up there that Marshall and I pricked our fingers and held them together, let the blood mingle.

When Tracy was done playing, I drove us back to Marshall’s. The fire trucks were still in view, but the crowd had disappeared, and the smoke had slowed to a trickle. Tracy stared at the trucks in silence. I shifted in my seat and watched her a moment. "Wait here for one hot minute," I said. 

Tracy didn’t look at me.  The fire trucks held her.  "If my house burned down, I’d come and live with you," she said.

"That’s right."

"Could Mom come too?"

"Of course."

I waited for her to say something more, but she didn’t.  She simply gazed out the window.

I knocked on Marshall's door until he answered. "You again," he said.

"Sorry about how things ended."

"Doug, you are such a pussy."

"After McDonald's we were about to head home, only I wanted to come by and say that.  Mind if I use your washroom before we get back on the road?"

Marshall made space. I stepped inside.

"Keep an eye on Tracy for me? She’s still in the car." At the bathroom door, I turned and watched Marshall step onto the porch.  Once he was out, I ducked into the living room and crouched before the disassembled pistol.  I took the most important looking piece I could find. It was the hammer, the ignition system. It's wide and flat. Like an iceberg, the larger part hangs out of sight.

From the moment I left Marshall’s house, I was expecting an angry phone call.  I had images of him coming after me, but in the days that followed, Marshall never mentioned the hammer. He may not have even realized it was missing.  As far as I know, he never tried to reassemble the Lugar. And in the end it didn't matter. In the end, he used a knife.