My brothers were aroused, excited. I could hear only isolated words. Fuck, shit. Keep it down!

My brothers never caught me eavesdropping, so little notice did they take of me.

Then, I heard the outdoor faucet being turned on. Were my brothers doing something with the hose?—washing the car?

Through the crack in the doorway I saw them squatting close together just outside the garage where the water from the hose would soak into the soil, not accumulate on the garage floor. There was a light—an overhead light in the garage—a bare bulb, harsh and coated in grime—so that I could see, just barely, that they were washing something: a baseball bat.

Had to be Jerr’s bat he carried in his car “for protection.” He and Lionel had rolled up their sleeves to wash the bat, and to wash their hands and forearms, vigorously.

They’d brought out soap from the house. Bar of strong-smelling soap on the kitchen sink that mostly just our father used, wiping his hands on wads of paper towels.

My brothers were laughing, nervously. There was something very wrong but I felt an impulse to laugh too. They were only about ten feet away, for I was seeing them at an angle. Thinking They won’t like this. Being spied on. No.

Still, I remained where I was. Staring. (Maybe) memorizing. Not for a long time would I learn that my brothers were deliberating what to do with the bloodstained bat during these minutes. The murder weapon it would be called one day.

They were sober now, they’d have said. Stone-cold sober.

Fucking totally sober.

Not really thinking clearly but they knew they had to get rid of the bat, fast. Considered throwing it into the river—but what if it floated? Even weighed down, a wooden bat might somehow work loose and the river would be the first place South Niagara cops would look for a weapon. Nor could they burn it—(would a bat burn? The smoke would be detected). Not a great idea to hide it in the trash, even somebody else’s trash can on the street and so finally they decided to bury it on the riverbank, in the underbrush. A few hundred yards from the house. There was litter on the riverbank, some of this was compost from Mom’s garden. This was a better idea, they thought, than driving somewhere. They’d had enough of the car, for the night.

They’d managed to lessen the dents in the fender. Struggling, with bare hands. Panting, cursing. Next day, in daylight, on the curb by his rented place Jerr would take a hammer and un-bend it more, if he remembered.