Read Part 3

Jessica went straight upstairs to find Danny, before she lost her nerve. She felt terrible already, and what she was about to do to her brother was completely unfair — nothing a sister should even contemplate. But it always felt so incredibly ... freeing. She got so peaceful afterwards, and right now she was anything but peaceful, and she knew the guilt would be totally gone — even the guilt about Danny. It would all disappear in a moment ...

She slowly climbed the stairs and knocked on Danny's door.

"Come in," her brother said softly.

She hadn't expected him to be awake. She entered the room to see Danny working at the dresser, putting some things inside.

"Hi, Jessica," he said. "Is the service project over?"

"I ... didn't feel too good," she said, averting her gaze. He was always looked so trusting, so naïve, when she came to do this ... "What're you up to?" she asked him.

"Helping Mom in the attic," he said. "We found a couple pairs of Aaron's old jeans that'll fit me." He looked at her bloodshot eyes with genuine compassion. "Is everything OK?"

"Danny ... I, uh ... I need your help." She bit her lip, willing herself to go on; willing to do the thing she knew was horribly wrong ...

"Sure." Danny seemed so willing; so compliant ...

"Just ... come here for a minute, OK?"

He walked towards her like a lamb to the slaughter. She tried not to meet his gaze ...

Then suddenly, she put out both hands and grabbed Danny behind his head, pushing her fingers hard under the base of his skull in a horrible imitation of a hug. He instantly went limp, falling onto the floor, but Jessica held on tightly, not losing her grip. She knelt beside his prone form; beside the brother she was dooming to torment, and whispered into his ear:

"You got an abortion," she said with difficulty. "You ... killed a child."

* * *

Aaron flicked off the truck's lights as he turned into the church driveway. He couldn't hear anyone inside, which was good — the place was probably soundproofed to keep those dumb hymns from assaulting people on Main Street.

Aaron grabbed the shotgun and held it carefully under his coat. On the way inside, he noticed with satisfaction that Greg Hawkins' truck was in the lot.

Right now, he knew, Jessica was in Danny's room, using the freak to get some relief from her ordeal. It was actually Aaron who'd discovered Danny's "gift" — if you could call it that. The time Aaron had put a stick in the spokes on Heath Cramer's bike, he went inside terrified that Dad would half-kill him. Danny just happened to be on the stairway, and he didn't move when Aaron told him to get out of his way, so he'd slapped the back of his little brother's head to teach him a lesson ... and was horrified when Danny fell instantly to the floor.

Aaron didn't know what to do: Danny was breathing but insensible. He looked around and realized that neither Mom nor Dad was nearby. Then for some reason, he started telling his unconscious brother about knocking Heath down. For good measure, he added, "It's all your fault, 'cause you're ugly" — nothing but a childish insult.

Aaron was astonished when all the guilt he'd felt for hurting Heath disappeared. He was even more astonished when Danny stood up from the floor, completely unaware he'd been unconscious — and began begging Aaron to help him stay out of trouble for knocking down Heath. And when Heath's father knocked on the door later, certain that one of Malcolm Burnham's sons had been the evildoer, Aaron was flabbergasted by Danny's tearful, detail-filled confession of the bike incident.

Somehow, in a way that Aaron didn't claim to understand, Danny had absorbed his guilt. From then on, Aaron used the freak whenever he needed to do some payback, and didn't want the consequences himself.

Like tonight, for example.

* * *

Malcolm was worried. One of his sows was missing.

Her pen, where she would have produced a litter of piglets any day now, was empty. One pig in an operation the size of his was no big deal, except it meant there was a hole somewhere. He'd examined the pen and couldn't for the life of him figure out how she escaped.

Now, he was driving around the outside of the barn in the dark, tractor lights trained on the walls and foundation, trying to reassure himself there weren't any pig-sized openings.

He was almost done circling the huge sheet-metal building, and mentally struggling to chalk this up as an unexplained fluke so he wouldn't lie awake worrying all night. Then directly behind the barn, he saw something strange: a patch of the frozen soil was churned up, as though someone had been digging.

Pigs were diggers; this could be a problem. Malcolm hopped off the tractor with his flashlight for a closer look.

That's when he noticed there was a fresh sow's ear, covered in dried dark blood, protruding from the ground.

* * *

Aaron walked into the party wearing his coat with the shotgun underneath. All around him, 40 or so teens were drinking, groping, smoking. One was methodically writing profane graffiti on the pews; another had overturned the pulpit and choir risers.

This time, people were going to be mad enough to do more than just shake their heads: The kids had gone too far. Not that Aaron had any respect for churches, he just knew all those pious Baptists would be up in arms by morning. He was glad the sheriff wouldn't find his fingerprints anywhere.

But he didn't come to contemplate Fairbury's juvenile delinquency problem. He searched the darkened room carefully, and finally saw Greg Hawkins making out with some freshman girl on a back pew.

Aaron walked over and tapped Greg on the shoulder.

Greg turned, not at all happy about being interrupted.

"We gotta talk," said Aaron, putting a vise grip on his arm.

"You're ... Aaron, right?"

Aaron nodded curtly.

"Yeah, so I hardly know you, man. Get lost." He tried to shake off Aaron's grip on his wrist.

"I told you, we need to talk," said Aaron. "'Cause I hear you know my sister Jessica real well."

"What's this about his sister?" asked the freshman girl suspiciously, glaring at Greg.

Greg stood up. "Maybe you wanna back off," he said threateningly.

"Maybe you wanna step outside," said Aaron.

Without a word, Greg walked towards the back door, leaving his freshman behind.

Greg was about Aaron's size and build; in a fair fight, they'd be evenly matched. But this was not going to be a fair fight.

They reached the vestibule in back of the sanctuary. Greg turned to face Aaron: he was nervous about going out in the dark, away from everyone, with this person he hardly knew that was clearly bent on brawling. With the lights dark and the sanctuary doors shut, nobody was going to see too much out here in the lobby. But somehow, he felt a bit safer staying inside.

Greg warily watched his opponent. "Well? What's your problem?" he said.

Aaron responded with a dangerous smile. Then he pulled the shotgun from under his coat.

Greg was terrified; he immediately backed away; stumbled directly into the wall behind him. "Whoa ... whoa ... what're you doing, man?" he stammered.

"You know Jessica Burnham?" asked Aaron, with an eerie calm.

"Yeah ... she's a really nice girl —"

Aaron shoved the shotgun's muzzle directly into his face. "You got her in your car —"

"Come on, man. She wanted some, y'know?"

"If you ever," spat Aaron, "ever look at my sister again, I'm gonna find you. You understand?"

Greg started to nod. He'd nod to anything, say anything, to get this gun out of his face —

But at that moment, there was a noise behind Aaron. Someone had just entered the church.

Aaron whirled, pointing his shotgun now at the intruder. At the same instant, Greg jumped at him from behind, trying to get his hands on the gun. They struggled for a long moment; Aaron still facing the door, Greg with a hand around Aaron's neck and another groping for the gun; both of them trying to get the advantage.

Aaron recognized the intruder even as he struggled with Greg; it was Mr. Mullins, the one he'd beaten down a month ago in the barn. The old man must still be living at the parsonage; must have stayed behind when the pastor went out of town. He'd seen kids pulling into the lot for the party; maybe he already called the sheriff. Mullins had just enough time to say, "How dare you do this in God's Sanctuary!" —

— Then a shotgun blast echoed through the church, and Gabe Mullins dropped to the ground like the sow in the barn.

* * *

Aaron didn't know who'd actually pulled the trigger. He hadn't meant to kill the old man. He stood staring at Mr. Mullins on the ground; staring at the trickle of blood already running out from under his body.

Then abruptly, Aaron ran out the door. Greg stumbled behind him, swearing under his breath; swearing and pleading with God at the same time.

"Shut up!" said Aaron, whirling on him with terrified fury. "Get in my truck. We gotta go see my brother."

Greg looked at him strangely. Aaron looked down at his hand and realized he was still carrying the shotgun. He was wearing winter gloves, there would be no fingerprints — he threw it to the ground. "Look, I'm not gonna do — I can't explain; just get in the truck!"

Greg didn't move. Less than a minute ago, Aaron had been aiming a gun at him. But that was before everything changed —

"You wanna wait till the sheriff gets here?" Aaron shouted. "We both had our hands on that gun!"

"You brought it —"

" — And you might've pulled the trigger!"

"I swear; I didn't mean —"

"Get in the truck!" Aaron barked.

Greg hesitated, then finally clambered into the passenger side.

As Aaron gunned the motor and peeled out of the parking lot, a group of horrified teens started to form outside the church; started to form around the bloody prone form of Mr. Mullins ...

Odds were that in the darkened building, no one could swear that Aaron had ever set foot inside. But everybody knew that old green truck belonged to the Burnham family.

* * *

Aaron pulled into his own driveway with protesting gears and a cloud of dust; his tires skidded to a stop on the gravel. He jumped out and motioned for Greg to come behind him. They dashed into the house and up the stairs.

Aaron went straight to Danny's room. The freak was lying on his bed, moaning — Aaron had forgotten that Jessica already used him tonight. But there was no other way: Aaron walked over to his brother's prone form.

Danny looked up. "Aaron ..." he mumbled.

"What's wrong, bro?" said Aaron, trying to keep his voice calm. "Are you all right?"

"Jessica told me ..."

"Danny, you killed a baby," Aaron said slowly. "I know all about it. But I won't tell —"

"No, she told me how you give me things."

"What?"

"You ... give me things. Abortions and beatings and guilt — always guilt —"

Aaron almost stumbled backwards. No ... no, Jessica couldn't have done this. Why did she tell him? Why did she take away his only hope? Now that Danny knew, Aaron couldn't —

"But it's OK," said Danny, clenching his jaw as though expecting a heavy blow. "Go ahead — whatever you need to give me ..."

Aaron eyed him warily.

"It's all right, brother. You can do it."

Aaron shook his head; was Danny volunteering —

"I think this is what God wants."

Aaron looked at him; couldn't believe his ears.

"I know you did something really bad," Danny said. "Go ahead ... I want to serve."

Aaron looked at his brother; at the brave face he'd assumed. He seemed strangely at peace, as though no guilt could defeat him; as though he was ready for any punishment. Aaron envied him; wished he could have that kind of otherworldly assurance —

Then he expertly reached behind Danny's head and pressed hard. The moaning stopped and his brother lay still on the bed.

"Danny, listen to me," said Aaron, whispering into his ear without a trace of remorse. "You shot a man tonight. You shot Mr. Mullins."

Aaron turned to Greg, who was gaping in disbelief. "You do it too," he said urgently. "You tell him he shot Mullins."

"I don't understand —"

"Do it!" Aaron spat at him.

Greg approached and whispered his guilt. Aaron felt terrible; his shame exceeded anything he thought possible. He was laying what might possibly be judged a murder on the soul of his little brother. Even worse, the freak took it willingly ...

But Aaron didn't have time for remorse as he continued to relentlessly describe his sins of the night for Danny's benefit. By the time he was done, he wouldn't have to feel bad at all.

* * *

When the sheriff's squad car pulled into the drive moments later with siren wailing, Malcolm was the first one on the porch.

"Evenin', Mr. Burnham," said the deputy. "Is your family home?"

"Are you here about the pig?" Malcolm asked, confused. He had considered calling the sheriff and pressing charges against Aaron; he'd had enough of that boy's attitude. It must have been Aaron who did it — he was the only one besides Malcolm who ever fired a gun. But Malcolm hadn't actually called; decided it wasn't a father's place —

"I'm afraid not, sir — don't know anything about your pigs. Someone shot Mr. Mullins up at the Baptist church."

Malcolm caught a breath. No ... it couldn't have anything to do with his family; not his Aaron —

But suddenly, it became frightening clear: Aaron had been gone in the truck most of the day. Clearly, the pig was just practice. It must have been his son who beat old man Mullins last month; he'd gone back to finish the job ... he, Malcolm, had raised a killer. He saw it all now with frightening clarity ...

"Officer, what's this got to do with my children?" he stammered.

"Some of the kids say they saw your truck peelin' out of the parking lot. Was anyone in your family out tonight?"

"I don't think so ..." Malcolm blustered. The sheriff's words were coming from a long distance away ...

"We also found this gun in the parking lot. One of the teens said it was Aaron's."

The sheriff held up the shotgun. Malcolm couldn't believe — wouldn't believe —

"No," he said. "No, somebody must've taken his gun —" Malcolm felt faint; couldn't stay on his feet. He sat heavily on the porch floor.

"I'm sorry, but I need to talk to your boy."

Malcolm simply shook his head; couldn't find words ...

The Sheriff opened the front door and mounted the stairs. Malcolm still sat on the snowy porch, unmoving.

Halfway up the steps, the deputy met the Burnhams' other boy; the loner. The kid seemed to be coming down to meet him.

"Is your brother upstairs, son?" the deputy asked.

"I ... I need to confess, officer," said Danny, looking him straight in the eye. "I shot Mr. Mullins."

* * *

Malcolm stared into the bleak front yard unseeing, unable to think of anything but the fact he was losing a son — simply exchanging Danny for Aaron. He wished he hadn't yelled so much; wished he'd let Danny spend more time at church; wished he could do something to drag the boy back ... he couldn't believe this quiet boy had just committed a murder, but he confessed everything ...

So when Rita came out on the porch, it was the sheriff who had to explain to her what was going on, that Mr. Mullins had been shot to death at the Baptist church — because Malcolm couldn't trust himself to speak. And for the first time, it was Malcolm who was utterly helpless and broken, clinging to his wife as to life while he watched one of his children marched down the sidewalk in handcuffs. It was Rita who was somehow the strong one, whispering prayers as she stroked Malcolm's head like a child's.

Aaron watched from an upstairs window as the deputy loaded Danny into the back of the squad car. He didn't feel even a twinge of shame: The guilt was gone.

Jessica, however — when she came to the door to see what was happening — took one look at Danny and collapsed into a sobbing heap.

A few months into the new year, Danny stood trial for the murder of Gabe Mullins. On his own confession, he became the youngest defendant ever sentenced to death in the state of Illinois.

Ten Years Later

Jessica finally stood; lifted herself off the ground and dried her eyes. The bitter wind in the hilltop cemetery was already threatening to freeze them to her cheeks.

Aaron was sitting back on his heels next to the gravestone, trying to avoid the guilt. Since Danny was gone, shame had been harder to avoid. The freak had somehow taken it away without a trace, and now that he couldn't anymore ... personal saviors were hard to come by.

"He said I could, Jessica. When I got home from the church that night ..."

Jessica nodded.

"Why did you tell him?" Aaron asked his sister suddenly. "Why'd you tell Danny ... about the stuff we 'gave' him?"

Jessica stared off at the vacant horizon. "I don't know," she said.

"Did you feel guilty? Didn't he take all that away?"

"It wasn't guilt, exactly." There was a long pause as Jessica tried to find words. "I think ... I wanted him to hit me, or cuss me out, or tell me I was horrible, or ... something. But it was just those big innocent eyes, and he nodded like it was OK ..."

She added quietly: "Punishment's easier to take than forgiveness."

Her brother tried not to understand what she meant — but he knew. There was a long silence.

Aaron remembered the courtroom: the one day he'd dared to go and sit in the very back of the gallery. Something irresistible drew him there; drew him to see his brother face capital charges.

Aaron had just moved out of the house. He was crashing with a friend in town and wanted nothing more to do with his family. He tried desperately not to be seen by Mom and Dad sitting in the front row; he'd heard that Dad sold the farm to pay for Danny's defense. The old man who'd never had a minute for his kids tried everything to get his son back.

But it was too late — for Dad; for Danny. Aaron placated himself at the time with thoughts that Danny had volunteered to take the fall. But that didn't erase the guilt for Aaron's silence: and now, there was no Danny to take the shame away.

Really, the kid couldn't have recanted his confession if he tried. After that one heroic moment in the bedroom, when Danny offered to take his sins ... Aaron realized his brother wouldn't ever know the conversation took place.

Jessica had an excuse for not defending their brother. The night Mr. Mullins died, she'd gone upstairs and taken an overdose of pills; spent the next months in and out of psych hospitals while she walked around in a medication- and alcohol-induced daze.

Aaron had no such excuse, and it was too late for him. Too late to own up to his sin, which he'd fiercely resisted even while watching his brother hang himself on his courtroom confession. Too late for any sort of penitence; it was useless by now. Too late for anything but trying to forget — block out the reality that his brother met death at age 19 from a lethal injection.

His reverie was broken when Jessica walked back to her car. She returned with a large bouquet. "Dad sent these," she said, laying them at the foot of Danny's memorial.

"Are they supposed to atone for him being a Grade A Loser?" Aaron said cynically.

"Dad's changed, Aaron," said Jessica quietly. "He takes such care of Mom ... you should go see them."

"Not a chance." Aaron stood and started towards his car. He couldn't handle this; couldn't stay another moment —

"Yeah, you might have to face up to some things if you went visiting," Jessica called after him. "Might have to remember, more than once a year —"

" — And go on some lifelong guilt trip, working in a godforsaken homeless shelter like you —"

"I realized what mattered —"

" — And clearly, I should bury myself in the past instead of moving on, just like you. Maybe I should get some Jesus, too — because all that'll bring Danny back, won't it?"

"Aaron, would it be so wrong to remember?"

Aaron whirled on her. "Yes. Because all that's done; Danny died. It's gone, whatever we did —"

"But if you never even regretted —"

"Hey, I know you repented and got religion while you were at the funny farm. You and Danny, you couldn't handle reality —"

"Don't you want the guilt to go away, Aaron? We thought Danny took it all, but I can't forget —"

"You think I'll get on my knees and convert — right here, right now?"

"Jesus takes it away, Aaron. He really does —"

"Which is why you come back every year and guilt yourself."

"There's a difference between guilt and gratitude, Aaron," said Jessica softly. "Problem is, you can't get to one without the other."

Aaron stood there for a moment as though he wanted to say something; as though he wanted to shoot some final rebuttal back at his sister. But then he walked away, and a moment later, Jessica heard his car peel out on the gravel and shoot down the road towards Chicago.

Jessica could only hear him go, not see the cloud of dust, because her eyes were clouded by tears again. She knelt by the grave and sobbed; stroked again the name and the all-too-short dates and the words "Beloved Son and Brother." She cried for a long time, then finally stood to her feet.

"He's right," she said quietly. "I can't do anything, Danny. 'I'm sorry' is empty now ... sometimes, I wish it would all come out, and everybody would hate me." She choked down the lump forming in her throat.

"But not today." She gazed down at the headstone for a long moment. "Right now, I just need to say ... 'Thank you, Danny.'"

Then she looked up to the leaden sky, and far away on the horizon, she noticed a few rays of sun stealing down to light the dismal vacant fields. The guilt had gone. Gratitude remained.

She carefully arranged the flowers at the foot of the grave — a tiny spot of color in the dreary landscape. Then she picked herself up, walked over to her aging car, and drove away, leaving her brother's grave to the silence and the wind.

Surprisingly, she left whispering prayers of thanks.

* * *

Want to get more from the story? There are questions for thought and reflection on Part 4 of "No Good Deed" at writingbygeorge.com.