Over here at Works Progress we love fiction by journalists, and so we're very glad to have this haunting, headline-adjacent piece by Will Bredderman, who is more often seen exposing the real-life lies and shenanigans of local and national politicians.
Happy reading, happy New Year (and ink-stained wretches reading this, submit!),
The Editors
My brother? What do you want to know about my brother for? Well, I don't know. We're not a close family. We're four years apart, my brother and me. Growing up we were close.
He had a wife for a while. Bridget. Don't know what happened to her: split up, I guess. Just seemed like she wasn't around any more. That was a long time ago. I thought they lived in Arizona. No, it wasn't Phoenix, I don't think. You keep asking about Phoenix. No, I haven't had a chance to look at the news. I'm in the car.
Eddie's an appliance repairman out there. He's got all the certifications: Maytag, Whirlpool, you name it. He has his own business. Or he used to, anyway. I told you, it's been a long time. He's a hard-working man. Always was. I remember when we were kids one time the TV crapped out, and he took it to the garage and didn't come out the whole day till it was fixed. He couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve at the time. I went in there and he had it all taken apart, the pieces just spread out on Dad's workbench. There were so many I thought he'd never get it back together again. So I started getting upset, because Dad could wake up and think Eddie did all that for no reason, and then—but, you know, Eddie told me to keep watch, and by the time Dad was up for work that night the TV was in one piece and you wouldn't know it'd been broken at all. I thought he could fix anything after that. Mom was relieved, too.
You know, when Mom passed last year, Eddie went right back to Arizona after the funeral. He said he had to work. I couldn't understand that. They hadn't talked in a long time, I know, but he wouldn't miss one day of work, not even after that. He's a workaholic.
He had to be, I guess. Not too long after the TV thing—couple of weeks, maybe—Dad was out back with the chainsaw and it just exploded on him. Must've been a fuel leak or something. I don't know. He had burns all over, real bad. On the inside, too. He was in the hospital a month almost, and even when he came home he hardly could get out of bed.
Mom had to take more hours, and Eddie, he went around to all the neighbors and offered to fix anything that was broken. Half the stuff they gave him he had no idea what he was doing, probably. But he got things fixed. He'd bring home a big roll of money sometimes and give it to Mom. He always wanted to fix things. He liked making things work. Making them right. That's when we were close, the three of us.
After Dad died people stopped giving Eddie jobs for some reason. We moved after that. We moved a couple times. Got tired of places, I guess.
Sorry, hang on, I got another call coming in—no, never mind. I don't know that number. Only reason I picked up for you was you got the same area code as me. I thought you might be calling about a job or something. You from around here originally? We don't have a lot of reporters out this way.
I don't mean to cut you off but, funny thing, I was at the light a second ago and the radio in the next car over was talking about Phoenix. It was too fast, though. I didn't catch it.
What? No, I didn't hear them saying anything about that. That's in Phoenix? I told you, I don't think he lived in Phoenix. I don't know what he'd be doing there. That can't be right.
Oh, and there's another call. Somebody texted too. No, I can't look at it. Because we're talking right now and I'm driving, that's why.
Yeah, he liked guns, sure. Dad wasn't a big hunter, even before he got hurt, but we had a Remington in the house that came from one of Mom's uncles. It was just another thing Eddie could take apart and put back together. That's what he liked. I mean, he shot it sometimes. A dog bit me one time and he shot it. But with him it was always more figuring out how it worked, you know, cleaning it, putting in the different parts he got through the mail. He wasn't school-smart, but he had a mind for that kind of thing. Making everything click, all the pieces moving smooth, taking out whatever was sticking. If there was ever something he couldn't make work the way he wanted, he'd get so mad he couldn't even talk to you after.
Sorry, I'm having trouble hearing you. No, that's okay, don't repeat it. Don't repeat it.
What? Look, I don't know what you're talking about, even. That's on the Internet? No. I don't know what you're talking about.
I want you to understand we were a good family. We always had a nice quiet home, after Dad died at least. There was maybe one big fight I remember my whole life.
I don't know, I stayed in my room. That's what I always did. Mom was mad I think because the police came to her work. But that was just the one time. I knew families, the cops were at their house every couple of weeks. I still know people like that.
It was teenage boy stuff. Eddie was seventeen. He and Mom had a big screaming fight and after that he moved out. It was time, anyway. He was seventeen and it was time.
What? No. I don't know. No!
Hey, hey, wait! Just—hang on. Okay? Wait. I got a ways to go yet. What else you want to know? Ask me anything at all and I'll answer, okay? I'll try my best, anyway. Just keep going. Okay? Keep going. Come on. Just whatever you do, please, just please don't say what happened out there.
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Will Bredderman is a journalist and writer in Brooklyn. His reporting career began at the Bay Ridge Courier and now finds him at The Daily Beast. His fiction has previously featured in Breadcrumbs magazine and at the Crystal Radio Reading Sessions at KGB Bar.