Their mother woke them early, like she did on all weekdays, and handed them each their clean clothes. Jay’s jeans and t-shirt were hand-me-downs from his father who was at least a size bigger than him in the waist and several inches shorter in the cuff. The twins got his hand-me-downs and Indie wound up with theirs. Only the youngest, the unexpected one, got his own, brand new clothes. After several stillborn babies their mother stopped getting pregnant altogether and she had given away all their clothes. When she had surprisingly conceived their last brother, she had to resort to making or buying new clothes for the baby. Jay sighed as he tightened his belt and tucked in his shirt.

“Where do you think you’ll be today?” their mother asked cheerily as she poured juice into five small plastic cups on the table. Next to each scratched cup was a chipped plate with a perfect pancake directly in the centre. In the place setting nearest to her sat the littlest brother, enormous eyes shining with excitement. Pancake day was always the best day for all of them.

Jay shook his head and shrugged one shoulder.

“Don’t know ‘til I get there. I hope I won’t be at the bakery, too fuckin’ hot.” A hand swatted him on the back of his head.

“Watch your mouth around your mother, boy,” his father said, coming up behind him. Jay bristled privately. How long did he have to be a grown man before his father stopped calling him that? He sat and leaned to the side to make room for his mother to reach down and place a plate laden with more pancakes in the center of the table.

“But, Jay,” said the smallest one with his mouth full of buttery pancake, syrup dribbling down his chin. “If you work the bakery today that means we can have bread with dinner tonight maybe. If they have any day-olds that don’t sell or whatever. And donuts! What if they have donuts!”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, dear one,” his mother reprimanded mildly. She stroked his tiny hand and smiled down at him. Jay remembered getting smacked for talking with his mouth full, not gently patted. He rolled his eyes and sat in his spot at the table.

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The twins filed in dressed the same in their uniforms. Their shirts, once Jay’s own, were tight across their broad shoulders. Their curly black hair, a trait they all shared, was combed out in short halos around their heads.

“Haircuts soon, looks like,” the maternal figure said, rubbing each of the boy’s heads fondly as she directed them to their seats. The boys grunted and set to their pancakes with a gusto that only teenage boys have. “Where’s Indie?” she asked, starting toward the hallway.

“He’s thinking about pretending to be sick to stay home today. He’s afraid of being taken. Oh, now he’s finished brushing his teeth,” said the tiny boy at the table, his mouth still full. A second later they all heard the bathroom door open and Indie’s footsteps in the hall. Their mother shot a quick glance at her husband’s back and then looked at her youngest son, putting a finger to her lips. He nodded and repeated the gesture, apologetically. Jay was relieved. He didn’t want a scene with their father, either.

The rest of the brothers looked at their father, too. He seemed to be preoccupied with getting his coffee, pouring it slowly and then stirring in one spoonful of sugar unhurriedly. Finally, he turned around and looked directly at his youngest son across the small kitchen.

“You do that shit around other people, boy?” he asked quietly. Jay could tell that his little brother felt the panic rising just by how colorless his face became. He flicked his eyes to Jay’s face who was glaring at him.

“I only do it to make the kids at school smile, sometimes. Just one time, maybe two times.” Jay’s face softened the longer the boy talked. He could feel a beating headed his way if his brother ran his mouth off. If their father found out about him showing the boy off for money it would be the end of him. The little brother’s honesty got Jay more slaps than Jay’s own behavior did.

“If you don’t stop, boy, you’re gonna be real sorry,” their father threatened. He sounded nonchalant and he peered into his coffee before taking a long drink. “Real sorry,” he repeated, swallowing. He was scarier when he was calm than when he was raging. At least when he was angry there was a way for their mother to calm him down. When he was cold and calm, she had no sway over him.

“Yes, daddy,” the tiny boy said contritely as he shrank down in his chair. “I’m sorry.” Their father dumped the rest of his still steaming coffee down the sink, left the discolored and cracked mug on the counter and stomped out of the room. When he slammed the backdoor behind him, the glass pane in the door rattled, threatening to shatter. The brothers ate the rest of their breakfast in silence, the only sound being the scrape of their dented and bent forks on the chipped blue and white tableware.