I knew I should’ve been thrilled to see him again after so many years – my kidbrother, Neil, standing in the open doorway on that blistering August afternoon, grinning like a jackal, arms outstretched to welcome me home, and I guess maybe I would’ve been if not for the immediate sense that something about it, something about him, wasn’t quite right.
A strange woman crept up behind me in the supermarket recently, tapped me on the shoulder, and asked if I thought my brother was the devil. Though the woman’s mouth was smiling, her eyes were not. They were wide and hungry. My wife Val gave her a cutting look. I just laughed her off, told her I didn’t believe in the devil, but Karma? Maybe. Not to mention an entire year’s worth of bad luck. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. A year and several surgeries later, and here I am whittling away the hours once again in this goddamn room, obsessing over all of the little events that ultimately led to the big event of one unforgettable summer, one that changed us forever, myself most of all.
I’ve been told the columnist from The Northridge News who wrote those early pieces about us is no longer with the paper. He won some sort of an award and moved on to a more lively market. Ours was the biggest story to make headlines in this town since some young stud killed a man one night down at Teddy’s Tavern with a pool ball to the temple in a dispute over a woman’s honor back in the late nineties. As it turns out, the woman was married, the daughter of some hotshot prosecutor from downstate, no less. The paper made a bigger deal of that fact than the incident itself, and then shamelessly milked it for all they could. Why would a woman like that be all alone way up north on a Friday night in some cheap roadside bar anyway? A fair question, sure, though I’m not sure they ever found whatever it was they were digging for, not for lack of probing. I don’t know much about it, really, only what the articles claimed to know and the same stale rumours that have been circulating around town for the better part of two decades. Since the tavern is still in the business, the tragedy has never strayed too far from the minds of locals. The subject resurfaces at the mere mention of the place. Wild stories ensue from those who swear to have been there that night and witnessed the whole thing.
In our case, awards or not, the paper mostly got it wrong. Still, I clipped out the articles and saved them at the bottom of a bureau drawer that I didn’t think Val would go snooping around in. If she were to find them I have no doubt she’d make them disappear rather quickly. Sometimes I take them out to reread them. I’m not sure why. I guess it’s become a sort of sick obsession with me.
“You really need to get out of this house once in a while, Benny. You know I’ll help. All you have to do is ask. Seriously, look at yourself, you’re so fucking pale.” Sometimes I swear I can hear Val pleading her case even when she isn’t physically here. “And do what exactly?” I respond to an empty room. And even though she doesn’t answer I can sense the raised eyebrows and almost feel the heat of her dark eyes boring holes into the back of my skull. It’s an invitation to a dance of sorts, a dirty little fight I’m in no condition to win. With that in mind, I usually slink away from her challenges like a wounded dog, ears pinned back, tail to the floor, a pathetic silent retreat. The truth is I don’t like going out much anymore. It’s a lot of steps from my room to the front porch for one thing, and with or without my wife’s help, I feel every one of them from my shoulder blades to the tips of my toes. I used to spend hours out there, morning, afternoon, and night, especially when the weather was good, sitting in my deck chair, coffee in hand, waiting in anticipation of whatever might cross my field of vision, scanning for the finest details, the tiniest brushstrokes etched upon my sickly canvas of sun-scorched grass and silver street beyond.
I’d study the lazy sway of branches, the wisp of a breeze rushing through them in the early mornings. I’d listen to the tired drone of nearby traffic noise on humdrum afternoons, watch weaving posses of teenagers passing to and from school, shouting and grab assing at one another, stray mutts squatting to take a shit on the lawn before tottering off without as much as a bark of recognition. I used to wave to a spandex-clad young woman, always strung up to earbuds, who jogged by each morning while pushing a baby stroller. She seldom returned the gesture. I used to wave to the ruddy-faced old man who still shuffles down my street each afternoon, shoving along an old grocery cart overflowing with sacks and duffel bags and god knows what else – the sum total of all his worldly belongings through the sticky summer heat. He never once returned the gesture. What’s left to see out there but more of the same?
When my mother stops by I almost don’t answer the door. It’s a chore getting out there, and I don’t feel much like talking. I’m not up to the usual barrage of questions she’s sure to fire at me. My answers will be the same as they were last week and the week before that. Her drawn-out face, the wise, all-knowing look in her eyes, the despair just beneath the surface always unsettles me, but who’s the asshole who doesn’t answer the door for their own mother?
“Cold bean salad, Benny, your favorite.” Never my favorite, but I’m not about to go there again. Not today. She smiles as I open the door and brushes past me toward the kitchen. She lays the bowl on the table before doubling back to wrap her arms around me. You’ve gotten so thin, Benny. She feeding you enough?
“Yes, mom, I eat plenty.”
“Can I fix you up a plate?”
“Sure,” I say, even though I’m not particularly hungry. She puts on a pot of water for tea, grabs two plates from the cupboard, and sets them on the table.
“Val and the kids are down at the dam for the afternoon. Swimming and a cookout. You should stop down there. They’d love to see you.”
“Bet they’re havin a blast. Good day to be by the water. It’s hotter than blazes out there. Too hot for an old woman like me to be out there working on a tan, don’t you think? Lord knows I haven’t donned a bathing suit in years. Not a pretty sight, sure tell ya that.”
Using the cane, I hobble to the table to sit down. The tea kettle begins to whistle. She lifts it off the burner and pours hot water into a mug over a tea bag before pulling out a chair across from me. Wearing a smile as big as Texas, she watches me take my first bite.
“What about you, Benny? Didn’t you want to go with them? Val’s probably grillin’ up some of her famous burgers about now. I’ll sure bet the kiddos are wishing you were there, splashin and hollerin and raisin hell with them. Val’s a good girl, but she’s never been much for that sort of thing, has she?”
I take another forkful of salad to avoid answering, even though I know better than to think she’ll let me off the hook that easily. Sooner or later, she’ll circle back around to it after more small talk about the weather or the big, beautiful radishes she plucked earlier from the garden. And sure enough, before I’ve taken my last bite, she cleverly repeats the question as if I’d answered the first time and she simply forgot. “So why again did you say you didn’t go?”
I lay down my fork and push the plate out in front of me.
“I don’t know, mom. Just having one of my bad days, I guess. Besides, like I’ve said before, I can’t really do that sort of thing anymore. Some days I can barely manage walking to the front door without having to stop for a breather. It would only be a nuisance having me there to bog them down.”
She sighs heavily and touches my arm.
“Hurting again?”
“A little.”
“ls it time for your meds yet?”
“Nope. Not even close.
“I’m so sorry, Benny. I wish I could offer you something more than a crummy old salad. Sometimes as a mother you feel so damn useless.”
Her eyes begin tearing up and a pained expression washes over the face that had been beaming only seconds before.
I have no appropriate response. I’ve never had an appropriate response to tears, no matter who they’re coming from, but I can certainly relate to feeling useless. I clumsily place a hand over hers.
“It’s a good salad, mom. Thank you.”
She wipes her eyes on a napkin, clears her throat, and begins busying herself with the gathering of plates and silverware and carrying them off to the sink.
“You should try to get out for a while, get a little sun at least,” she says, sniffling, regaining her composure.
“Yeah, that’s what everyone keeps telling me.”
“What exactly do you do in here alone all day, Benny?”
“As little as possible.”
Her smile returns.
“Just like your father. Stubborn and incorrigible.”
“I guess.”
“Well, I suppose I ought to get going. I really wish you and Val and the kids would drop by sometime. You’d make an old woman and her labradoodle pretty damn happy.”
“We will mom, as soon as I’m feeling up to it. I promise.”
She nods.
“Take care of yourself, Benny. If you need anything, don’t forget to call your mother.” She chuckles one last time before stepping through the door. I watch her slowly walk away, stopping once to admire the day lilies Val planted near the front porch. She waves at me as she opens the door and climbs into her little Prius. She pauses a minute before starting it, and I fear she might come back to try and address weightier issues. Then I hear the click of the transmission, and she begins to back away. With a toot of the horn, she’s gone. I let out a sigh of relief. Mother, I love you dearly, but I just can’t. Not today.
I never thought I’d be reduced to this, assuming I ever thought of such things at all: frailty, mortality, karma, that a life, any life, much less my own could implode in a flashbulb second. Until it did. If I’d only known when I stepped out of the house to go to my truck that morning that it would be an entirely different man who’d return to take my place several weeks later, maybe I would’ve lingered a bit longer, stopped to consider all of the things I’d managed to squander so well for so long.
My intuition has always been strong, the last remaining part of me that is. I knew from the moment I woke up that dark Friday morning last July that something didn’t feel quite right. I’m not sure how to articulate it other than to say that I felt off. Very much so. Sort of like trying to stand in the middle of a teeter-totter. Unbalanced. Disoriented. I passed it off, figured I was probably coming down with a head cold or the flu or… God knew what. I went about all of my usual routines. Showered and dressed by six. Out the door by six-thirty, lugging my Coleman thermos full to the rim with strong black coffee, a trusty pack of smokes bulging from my breast pocket. I stepped up into the cab of my truck like any other day, only this wasn’t going to be any ordinary day. As usual, half a million things were weighing on my mind and whipping me in all directions that morning – the daily gamut of anxieties, the extensive list of chores and repairs that needed to be done on the house. Bills. So many damn bills to catch up. Let’s not forget all those big weekend plans of mine, which usually consisted of drinking, bullshitting, and puttering around in the garage without actually accomplishing much of anything. Ah, those lofty plans – they’ve blown away gracelessly, a cluster of dead, decaying leaves crumbling in the wind. What was unusual was my inability to think clearly, organize my thoughts into any kind of sensible pattern. That fuzzy off-kilter feeling I was experiencing in waves intensified as I drove, and still, I surged on toward Northern Stone where I sold my sweat, rain or shine, hot or cold like a dumb plow horse for what had been, as of that morning, a few months shy of twenty-six years. I arrived at my normal time with a good ten minutes to spare. Not that it mattered. I didn’t punch in that day, and wouldn’t, in fact, see that antique time clock ever again. Most people who saw me walk in that morning said they hadn’t detected anything different in my general demeanor. I was my usual jovial self, greeting each of them in passing, a goofy smile on my face, a cigarette dangling from the corner of my lips. I don’t recall any of that. My memory sinks into an empty abyss somewhere during that walk between my truck and the time clock. It was my old pal Denny Winchell who was the first to see me go down. He said I began twitching and writhing like a livewire. The next thing I remember I was laying in the back of an ambulance, a scruffy paramedic breathing over me, feeling disoriented and sore like I’d just been dealt a world-class ass beating.
At the hospital, I was treated to a full workup of tests including an MRI and CT scan. It wasn’t until some time later that I was dealt the full brunt of the news. Val squeezed my hand tightly, her expression grave, her eyes squinting behind her designer frames as if someone might be about to haul off and hit her. I felt a nauseating pang in the pit of my gut as the doctor closed the door of the examination room. He then pulled up the monitor to reveal the damning verdict; X-ray images of the left side of my brain. He sighed, pulled out a large pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket and put them on. Mercifully, he wasted little time cutting to the chase. His first words were paralyzing.
“So, we’re dealing with a sizable mass here, Mr. Blackburn.” He pointed to a silvery object on the left side of my brain where no doubt the term sizable mass still resonates in that tall doctor’s baritone voice. Sometimes I think I still hear it. Waking up out of some hazy nonsensical dream, it will be there, chanting in my head, pulsating with those same ominous two words over and over, similar to those that might haunt a condemned man awaiting execution on death row – the resonating voice of the judge who’d handed down his fate: mass, cancer, lethal injection; just words, perhaps, (horrific terminology) which carry the weight, violence, and sudden trauma of a blunt hammer strike. The doctor further explained that further testing was the only way to be sure if the tumor was malignant or not. The good news was that it did appear operable. I was referred to a neurosurgeon for a consult. His official diagnosis was a grade 2 atypical meningioma. When I looked up at him with a blank expression he was kind enough to dumb it down for me – in other words, a progressive brain tumor. I would need the surgery, of course, a surgery that would come with considerable risks. It was then explained to us in perfect medical monotone diction that because of the location of the tumor, or sizable mass if you prefer, and due to its sheer size, there were likely to be neurological repercussions. Damage that could in time be reversible, though some may not be. To what extent, either way, wouldn’t be known until the procedure was over. I would then need to undergo extensive post-op rehabilitation. So there I was, sitting on the examining table, crumpling the fine white covering paper in my moist clenched fist, trying to take it all in and digest what I’d just been told, scared senseless and trying my damndest not to show it in front of the doctor, and most of all, my wife. I had nothing to compare it to at the time. Looking back on it now, I’m inclined to compare it to a car wreck, or for that matter, any kind of sudden trauma, those first surreal moments, as if I were sitting beside myself watching the whole thing unravel from a safer place. The reality didn’t take long to sink in, however. For the first time in my life, I was going under the knife. Not for a routine procedure such as an appendectomy or gallbladder removal. No sir. They were going to spread my skull like a bag of fucking potato chips and slice out a nodule growing on my brain. If one little thing were to go awry I could die right there on the operating table, or worse, wake up as anything other than myself. I didn’t have the luxury of alternatives so I signed the consent forms as best I could with trembling fingers.
Val and I made an appointment with a lawyer the following week and we each drafted a living will. It was something we’d intended to do years earlier but had never actually gotten around to, amongst so many other things. Suddenly mortality was no longer some distant, almost mythical luminary hovering over a vast stretch of the horizon, a thing that happened to other people, much older people, I’d always imagined, with mussed white hair living in retirement homes, wearing hearing aids and pajamas and plaid bedroom slippers. But no, it was now the snarling wolf at the door. Speaking of doors, I think I just heard someone knocking on mine. Yes. There it is again, the rapid pinging staccato of a ringed finger, a distant echo from down the hall. Who the hell could it be? Not UPS, that’s for damn sure. Not on a holiday. Could be another Jehovah’s Witness, I suppose, with their nifty little bible tracts promising paradise on earth, or it could be my knobby-kneed nosy ass neighbor Herb from next door. In either case, I have no intention of answering. Let them knock all they want. There is nobody home.
Before going out to the fireworks Val and the kids will stop home to bring me back leftovers. They always do whenever they go on an outing and I stay behind, which is most often the case these days. The food will be cold and need to be reheated. Then Val will curl up on the couch beside me in her little bare feet while I pick away at it and she recalls the events of the afternoon. I’ve always liked listening to her talk. She has a soft, steady, beautiful voice, even when she’s angry. More than that, she has her own unique way of painting detailed pictures in my head as if I’d been there. I don’t usually say much in response. I let her go on until she reaches the point where she can no longer tolerate my silence and so puts an end to it with some sort of direct questioning. It’s a shitty thing for me to do, to not hold up my end, but these days I find it beyond difficult to match her energy level and enthusiasm. It’s not as If I don’t want to. I simply can’t.
I guess there are certain things only years on this earth can teach you. For me, it has been this: the blind corners are what will wipe you out, probably when you’re least expecting it, seldom is it the things you lie awake at night fretting about. It’s those flashbulb seconds that change everything you thought you knew about your comfy little world in an instant. Those revelations can occasionally be magical while others are heartbreaking, and some can just be goddamned horrific.
The tumor (sizable mass) turned out to be non-malignant by the way. This, however, did not mean that it was benign. It was explained to me that these particular kinds of tumors from the outset are neither malignant nor benign but can often become malignant, if that makes any sense. It didn’t to me at the time. There was certainly nothing benign about the aftermath of my surgery, I assure you. The doctors warned me the chances of it returning were relatively high. I would need vigilant monitoring from that point forward. In hindsight, I know I should have felt lucky. Instead, I felt an increasing sense of dread that it was still another step toward becoming a prisoner inside of my own traitorous body.
Shortly before returning home from a hard month in the Valley View – and I do mean a hard month of grueling physical therapy that my body resisted every inch of the way – my younger brother Neil contacted Val and offered to assist in my home care until I recouped and got back on my feet, not that I ever would, at least not the way I’d naively hoped from the beginning. I had no say in this. Clandestine arrangements had already been set in motion without my knowledge long before the day of my release. They had even gone so far as to draw up schedules ensuring that I never be left alone. Twenty-four-hour supervision. That was the plan. Extreme overkill if you were to ask me, but as I’ve said, no one did. I guess I thought I’d taught Val better, but then again I, she never really knew Neil, and perhaps she’d only half-believed, half-listened to, or had simply forgotten the stories I’d told her about my transient brother over the years. I prefer to think it was none of those, but rather the obstinate optimist in her that took over. Maybe she’d trusted him for no better reason than that he was my own flesh and blood, not to mention a suave talker who could make a hell of a first impression when he set his mind to it. I could have saved us a world of trouble if she’d only told me from the start. I don’t doubt her intentions. I’m sure she meant well. For him, it was a gold-plated opportunity for free room and board, and as it would turn out something quite a lot more, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Val said she had a little surprise waiting for me at home. She wasn’t joking. Pulling into the driveway that afternoon I remember thinking that I’d never been happier to see our modest little house, our blue gravel driveway, our little red door. It may not sound like much but after a month in a rehab facility you begin to question whether or not you’ll ever leave. During that time I was mostly surrounded by the elderly, many of whom were never going home, some who were not even aware of it. Those surroundings day after day can really fuck with you and send your thoughts hurdling in all the wrong directions. Those long days of tedium and exhaustion plant the seeds of doubt in you, cause you to lose faith in whatever people tell you, however well-intended, and cause you to wonder whether you’ll ever make it beyond those doors. In my case, it made me more determined to work harder, even if it killed me. There were days when it actually felt like it might.
When I saw him there, standing in the doorway, looking incredibly thin, almost to the point of emaciation, and inked up with some of the strangest tattoos I’d ever seen, I was floored, not necessarily by his overall appearance, but something else, something in his eyes, a cocky demeanor, an air of entitlement, as if he owned the place, as if he’d been living there for years and it was I who was the guest coming to roost for a while. It unsettled me to my core. I knew even as I was having those thoughts that they were irrational, bordering on paranoia, perhaps a side effect of the Keppra, but I couldn’t seem to shut them off. I guess to everyone else he’d been hamming it up well, an Oscar-worthy performance. He had them all convinced that he’d turned over a new leaf during those years when we hadn’t seen or heard more than a peep out of him. My mother suggested he might have been living in South Carolina during that time, or at least squatting there. She’d received a few short letters, all but one of which had been postmarked Greenville. Unsurprisingly, all had contained pleas for money – a simple P.O. Box as a return address.
“Welcome home bro,” his first words to me as Val held open the door. He extended his scrawny arms as if he meant to wrap me up in a big old brotherly hug. Instead, his nicotine-stained fingers drew inward. The next thing I knew he was cradling my face in his hands like you might an infant or a pet or a lover and then… he kissed me gently on the forehead. That’s right, the son of a bitch kissed me. I just stood there, trusting the bulk of my weight to the cane. What else could I do? At that moment I was not only rendered speechless but weak and powerless in a way I’d never known before. I stared up at him stupidly, my face singed by a sudden surge of heat. That was when it first hit me. I mean really hit me, the full force impact of what was taking place. It was a game, one he was intending to enjoy at my expense by making a mockery of me in my own home, in front of my family. Something was very wrong here. I knew it. As if things hadn’t been bad enough already; the risky surgery, the grueling months in a rehabilitation facility, only to return home to this. Years ago, as corny as it sounds (because it truly was) one of my favorite things to say to people used to be anyone got a problem with me take a number and stand in line, pal. A tired cliche, yes, but one that Neil seemed to have taken to heart. Over the many long weeks I’d been rehabilitating the right half of my body he’d spent marking his place at the front of the line, meticulously drawing up battle plans. His number was up. The day had finally arrived when he’d gained the upper hand. I was at his mercy. What would a vindictive, jaded mind like his conjure up for a big bad bullying brother such as I myself? The possibilities made me feel queasy. From someone who’s never been known to pray, I’d later make a point of asking the man upstairs why he hadn’t just taken me when He had the chance. Of course, there was no answer. Maybe because I already knew. He was saving the best for last. I bet even God, maybe especially God, is a morbidly curious spectator at times who can’t look away when Karma comes around to balance the scales.
That first night home I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned and was up and down continuously. Somewhere in the middle of that night – as slowly and quietly as possible while still getting used to the cane – I slipped out of the room and made my way out to the garage. At the time I didn’t know why I felt so compelled to go out there. Later on, as the meds tapered off and I began to think more clearly, I remembered it as the place I always went whenever I couldn’t sleep or something was weighing on my mind. It was where I’d go to figure shit out, or at least try to. I flicked on the lights, and with them the old radio on the workbench blared to life – the voice of John Fogerty filled the room, belting out the chorus to Proud Mary. I breathed in all of the old familiar smells. Stale cigarettes. Gas and primer. My old car was still there as I’d left it. Did I think it wouldn’t be? It seemed to say welcome home buddy, I’ve missed you. “I’ve missed you too old girl,” I said, rapping on the hood. It still looked like shit and yet somehow beautiful at the same time. I found it a few years back out on route 32 rusting away at the edge of a farmers field. It was a 65 Pontiac Catalina with a 389 big block engine. What memories. Shortly after graduating from high school, I had one almost exactly like it, only that one had been a 67 and indigo instead of black. Originally it had belonged to my old man who’d sold it to me in exchange for summer-long ten-hour days in the blistering sun. All in all, the car hadn’t been worth it, with the exception of a few fond memories, most of which had been in the backseat with my sweetheart of the day whose name I can no longer remember. It was one expense after another just keeping the damn thing on the road. It had run its ground long before I ever got my hands on it. Compared to that one, this one wasn’t in bad shape. Aside from the rust spots, it ran like a top, though it had a leaky radiator and the upholstery looked like a wild animal, or at least a stray dog, got inside and chewed the hell out of it. Still, it was restorable. I knew right away that I wanted it. Enough so that I pulled out my checkbook and bought it on the spot. Val gave me hell and the third degree later for not consulting with her first, but after a while she let it go and even seemed pleased that I had a project to keep me out of her hair once in a while. My buddy Denny Winchell and I made some serious plans for the beast. We were going to repaint, reupholster, and rebuild it inch by inch into pristine condition. Then we’d take it out cruising on weekends during the summers and maybe even go tear assing through a car show or two. Winch and I used to smoke and drink out in the garage after work for hours at a stretch and rattle on about how badass it was going to be, but up until the day my life took its wicked turn we’d yet to actually do much with it. As I see it now, it was an excuse to fart around and bullshit mostly. We’d sanded down the rust spots, patched the radiator, changed the oil, and given it a nice little tune-up, but that was about the extent of it. That night it seemed like nothing but another unrealized pipe dream. I ran my fingers across the smooth sanded hood. It was then while glancing down that I noticed what looked like dried mud splash on the front driver’s side fender. It hadn’t been there before, I was sure. Or was I? I remember thinking at the time how strange it was, but I didn’t dwell on it much. In fact, by the time I’d hobbled back to bed that night I’d already dismissed it. I was tired, too tired to think about much of anything but putting my head on the pillow and melting into oblivion. The short trek out there and back had drained me. The last thought I remember having before drifting away that night was you got a looong way to go Benny boy.
Val and I don’t discuss it much anymore. Those first few weeks after I came home. It’s ancient history, but trust me, I’ve replayed it all in my head countless times, and each plays out just a little differently than the one before, though they are all intertwined renditions of the same story. I was on a whole lot of meds back then and I’m on a lot of meds now, but to be fair, back then they were fluctuating my dosages, trying to find the right levels. There were times when I was pretty out of it. Entire days elude me. Trying to visualize memories of some of those days is like trying to see through a thick fog; there are only ghostly, vaporous images with no real definition. Many of the things I do remember clearly though are things I now wish I could cast back into that dense vapor.
I never thought something as simple as visiting the bathroom could become such a dreaded task. It’s not going to the bathroom itself that’s hard. It’s the mirror I have to face each and every time I go in there, especially while I strip down for a shower as I’m attempting to do now. I want nothing more than to rip the goddamn thing off the wall and dance all over the broken glass. Instead, I struggle to get out my clothes single-handedly because I don’t dare let go of the cane. I have no sense of balance anymore, and that entire side of my body is practically useless anyway. Once I manage it, and finally, I have, well… that’s when shit gets real. There is no running from this. You see, there I am. Over there. In the door mirror, standing in the raw fluorescent light of the bathroom. I hate to look. It hurts me to look, but I’ve always had a morbid curiosity, a desire, a need to look at things I don’t necessarily want to see. And so I do, and let me tell you something, I’ve really come to hate fucking mirrors.
Ever since the age of eight my son has been in love with airplanes. That was the year Val took both of the kids with her to Melbourne Florida to visit her mother who was in the early stages of dementia. Val wanted the kids to see her at least one more time before she slipped too far away from herself and her memories. I thought it was a good idea for them to go, but of course being the old crank son of a bitch I was, I declined to join them. On the way home their flight had to land in Philadelphia where they were stranded for hours due to a snowstorm. During the time they spent on the tarmac waiting to get off the plane, Justin stared out the window, mesmerized by all of the grounded jets. Now he has multiple shelves in his room that I built for him that are filled with model miniatures, most of which he assembled with little or no help from anyone.
Shortly after I returned home that summer Neil bought Justin a showy gift for his eleventh birthday, playing the part of the beloved uncle despite the fact that only weeks before my son could barely remember who he was. It was a radio-controlled model Cessna. He winked at me as Justin opened the package. I had no idea where he got the money to buy it and didn’t ask. Since moving in with us he had no job or desire to find one. Neil, free of spirit, responsibility, and most of all, ambition had somehow always found a way to get what he needed.
After the cake and ice cream were over I sat in my lawn chair in the backyard and watched the two of them fly it in clumsy swooping arcs while little Kayla was lost in her own idyllic world rocking in the hammock and sucking on a dribbling popsicle, untying balloon strings one by one, letting the colorful array drift off into the grey evening sky. Justin caught a glimpse of me sitting alone and began running toward me excitedly, remote in hand.
“Dad, dad! You’ve gotta try this. It’s so cool!”
Neil came jogging up behind him and before Justin could hand me the remote he quickly snatched it away.
“Oh wait now. Whoa there. Not lookin where you’re flyin that thing Justy. A good pilot never takes his eyes off the controls. You don’t want to lose it over there in the Hendricks yard, do ya? Shit, little man, knowin that old bastard we’ll never get it back. He cocked his head in my direction and smirked. I glared back at him. He held a styrofoam cup in one hand, a makeshift receptacle to spit tobacco juice in from the bulging wad protruding between his lower lip and jaw.
“I think your dad may be in need of some flyin lessons first anyhow. Maybe tomorrow. Right now lets you and I have some fun with this thing before it starts to rain. Think I just felt a sprinkle. What do you say?”
Justin nodded his head meekly. He did not look back in my direction, afraid he’d disappointed me. About twenty minutes later, Neil’s filthy fingers on the controls, the little model Cessna suspiciously banked sharply and took a hard nose dive into the Hendricks bird feeder, shearing off the front propeller and a chunk of the right wingtip. There would be no more flying that day, or any day afterward. Neil giveth and Neil tooketh away. My son’s joy. And I watched him do it. I hated myself for being so powerless. All I wanted to do at that moment was get out of that goddamned chair and knock him into next week. At least I knew enough not to try. It was what he wanted. I would be the one who’d wind up looking foolish and he would revel in every second of my humiliation.
Okay, full disclosure. Time to fess up no matter how ugly it is. There were motives behind my brother’s return. He had a reason for hating me. Let’s just say I wasn’t the perfect older brother. I admit that. I was a mean prick of a brother to tell you the truth. I get that now. Loud and clear. I guess I never gave it a whole lot of consideration until it was so violently brought to my attention. As it turned out, I’d forgotten a lot about our younger years. Maybe that was no accident. Maybe I blocked out some of those memories for fear of having to confront them. There is something a little tragic about growing up, I think. Somewhere along the way without ever knowing it, you trade a sense of wonder and innocence for cynicism and anger. You become cruel and do things you will one day regret. It’s all so much clearer to me now that I’ve had nothing but time to reconsider, remember, and dissect a multitude of things I cannot change. Anyway, what I guess I’m trying to say is, late as it may be, I’ve come to realize that I’d unwittingly stamped my own ticket to Neil’s little shit show. That said, only a gutless coward would wait to exact his revenge on a person when they are at their absolute weakest, wouldn’t you say?
At first, Val didn’t understand my reservations about being left in my brother’s care once she had to return to work. Dr. Giles at the dental office where she’s worked for the past twelve years had been understanding of the situation and told her to take all the time she needed, but the bills were piling up. We had heated discussions about it. She insisted that my brother was a changed man and I needed to open my mind to at least that possibility.
“C’mon Benny, give him a chance to prove that,” she said.
“You don’t know him,” I told her. “Not really. I know you think you do, but I’m telling you, you don’t. I don’t even know him anymore. It’s been years since we’ve been alone in a room together, much less an entire day, and Val, I’m telling you, there is something off about him. We need to get him out of here. ASAP! Besides, I don’t need someone here around the clock. It’s summer vacation – the kids will be here. I can manage just fine without him. The only reason he’s here at all is that he’s burned all his bridges and he has nowhere else to go, can’t you understand that?” He’s run out of people to mooch off of.”
I knew there was another reason too, but coming right out and saying it would have sounded ridiculous to her, paranoid even. She reminded me that the kids wouldn’t be home, at least not during that first week because they would still be at camp. I hadn’t thought of that. I’d forgotten all about it actually.
“Well, I’m sure mom wouldn’t mind checking in on me once in a while. Really, Val, it’s not going to be a problem.”
She looked at me long and hard, clearly exasperated.
“Look, you’re his brother, the only one he’s got. From all he’s told me, he wants to change things. This weird relationship between you two. He feels like this is his chance to do it. You may not believe that, and yes, I know you don’t want him here, but we can’t just toss him to the curb for trying to do the right thing for – who knows, maybe the first time in this life.”
I scoffed at that.
“The right thing, yeah. And by the way, it’s not as if we’d be throwing him out into the street. I’m sure mom will take him in the same way she has every other time.”
She folded her arms and looked at me severely as if I were one of the kids, being stubborn and insolent, which I was, but I didn’t care.
“Benny,” she began after a deep breath, “at least give him the benefit of the doubt, why can’t you do that?”
I shook my head no. I had no intention of giving him the benefit of anything. She threw up her arms in disgust, but before leaving the room she couldn’t resist pleading her case one last time.
“Okay, wanna be a prick, be a stubborn prick then, but if you want him gone you’re the one who’s going to have to tell him. He’s your brother.”
To her, I was being unreasonable. How could she be expected to understand when she knew next to nothing about our history. I had no one to blame but myself for that. The bits and pieces I’d told her in the past she’d mostly shrugged off as typical sibling spats. She didn’t understand the full scope of the unrest between us. I never told her just how cruel I’d been. How could I? When I looked at my brother now I didn’t see any of what she saw. I saw only blood in his eyes and thoughts of revenge lurking behind them. Our argument that night was soon forgotten, or at least, set aside. Val was abundantly patient with me in the early aftermath of my surgery, and she still is. Many of our disagreements these days cool quickly before they are abandoned altogether, in some cases without even being fully resolved. Whether this is a good or bad thing, I can’t say for certain, only that it’s something that would rarely, if ever, have happened in the past. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if this is simply because she doesn’t trust my state of mind anymore, or worse because she pities me. We had no more words on the subject that night. The ball had been placed firmly in my court. If I wanted to put an end to the thing for once and for all, it was up to me to do it. A fair enough resolution given that he was my brother, my own flesh and blood. Still, I hadn’t been the one who’d invited him into our home in the first place, and even though I was sure Val had done so with the best of intentions, it took me longer than it probably should have to forgive her for it. Not that there was anything to forgive. Not really. She’d done nothing wrong, and I don’t think she ever knew that I felt that way. I hope to god she didn’t. I buried those ugly thoughts as deeply as I could, mostly out of shame.
After some weeks had passed and we’d driven the kids off to summer camp up in the Adirondacks I began getting used to the idea of Neil being around, though he kept mostly to himself upstairs in the loft that we’d intended to one day convert into a guest bedroom. Good old intentions again. He joined us for meals and chatted it up with Val, shooting me an occasional glance or two. Sometimes I had trouble following their conversations about movies and television shows and rock bands I wasn’t all that familiar with. I thought I was beginning to sense something more than obligatory hospitality from Val towards Neil. In fact, I thought they seemed to be getting quite chummy and comfortable with one another. Maybe a bit too much for my liking. It didn’t really make sense and I hoped that I was wrong, but jealousy can be sort of like a rabid animal void of any and all rationale. He did nothing overtly threatening during that time but we kept our distance from one other and the looks we exchanged were far from the warm and fuzzy kind. We’d yet to be alone in a room together. We’d yet to have any sort of meaningful conversation beyond idle chit-chat. My mother stopped in occasionally
and treated Neil out to dinner once or twice a week. She surreptitiously whispered in my ear once before leaving that she thought he might need an intervention, she didn’t specify what kind. It was the look she gave me before leaving that seemed to say tread lightly as if I were in any position to do much else.
On the eve of the event which I guess my entire life had been leading up to, I’d just removed my ankle brace and settled into bed like any other night, listening to the sounds of Neil padding around up above my head (doing god knew what) and running water, Val in the bathroom brushing her teeth before scuffing down the hallway in her bare feet turning off light switches and finally entering the room. She walked to my side of the bed, lightly brushing a finger across my arm to see if I was still awake. I was. I opened my eyes. Through the dim night light I could see she was wearing a certain silky red nightgown I’d given her a couple of Christmases back. It was my favorite. She wore it only when she was in a frisky mood. I reached out to her but she brushed my hand aside.
“Ugh, ugh, ugh, not so fast, mister. She strutted around to the other side of the bed, sexily teasing me, wiggling her hips, slipping the lacy gown up and down her right thigh, flashing me revealing glimpses that she was pantiless underneath. She turned on the radio next to her side of the bed and scrolled the dial, stopping at the first slow song she came to. Then she began dancing slowly, still moving those hips in gentle rhythm, stripping off the nightgown as she did. Once it was completely off she eased back the coverlet and slipped into bed beside me. She hadn’t treated me to a show like that in a very long time. It was, in fact, our first attempt at passion since my surgery. That sexy little foreplay dance, not to mention the feel of her warm bare skin lying next to me should’ve been more than enough to arouse me. But nothing immediately happened. I reminded myself that it had been a long time. Perhaps a slow launch was to be expected. She gingerly climbed on top of me then and began nibbling at my ear before rubbing and kissing my chest. These things in the past had never failed to inspire me, surely they’d prevail yet again. Liftoff seemed imminent. All systems go. But then – the trader below suddenly shifted course and retreated south from whence it came. I wanted her. There was no doubt about that, but something was wrong. There was no cooperation from below – a defiant decline to rise to the occasion. She tried again. She desperately wanted it too, needed it perhaps more than I, not just for pleasure but for peace of mind. We both needed that. It wasn’t to be. Still, she persisted. After a few minutes, she resorted to the hail mary tactic of talking dirty to me. This was something I couldn’t remember her having ever done before. Instead of turning me on, however, I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. It sounded comically absurd coming from her. So out of character. I was immediately sorry I’d done this. She’d been trying so hard. She gave up then, laid her head on my chest, and sighed heavily, her disappointment and frustration evident. She kissed me once more, this time on the cheek, stroked my hair, and in a few minutes fell asleep. I didn’t sleep for a long time, myself, that night. Instead, I nearly wept.
And wouldn’t you know, seven twelve a.m. the following morning, the once limp, sheepish traitor was now a thoroughbred steed, alive and practically bursting out of the stall, ready for business, standing as tall as a bowling pin on a Saturday night – ah, that ever-elusive spare. The coverlet on Val’s side of the bed lay flipped back, a heap of wrinkled sheets, her abandoned pillow hung half off the mattress. Hazy bluish light flooded the room. She was long gone. I didn’t intend to get up just yet. I was more of the mind to drift back asleep and maybe just lie there all day. Then I heard something. Urgent, high pitched beeps coming from the smoke detector in the hall. I used every ounce of energy I had to pull my indolent body up and out of bed. Shouting my brother’s name, I bolted from the room so fast that I forgot to grab my cane. I hobbled down the hallway using only the walls for support. By the time I reached the living room, I could see Neil fumbling around through the door of the kitchen.
“I got this, I got this, bud, don’t have a heart attack.”
He cracked a window and propped a fan on the table in front of the stove waving his hands like a tribal witch doctor. It might have been hysterical had it been anyone other than Neil just then and had I not started coughing uncontrollably. I was far from amused.
“What the fuck, Neil?” I managed to say through a coughing fit.”
He raised his palm in the air.
“Whoa, whoa, just step back and take a chill pill there slow bro, forgot I still had eggs on the burner, that’s all.”
For a second I just stared at him through watery eyes before looking down to discover my fist was clenched. What did I think I was going to do, attack him right there in the kitchen as the house was filling up with smoke? He glared back at me with a stupid half-grin on his face, as if waiting for me to make a move and hoping to god I would. His eyes were not grinning though. They were emotionless cold grey marbles.
“ I was makin some for you too, you know,” he hissed through pursed lips as he ran back to the sink to run his hand under the faucet. Burned my finger too. Not that you’d care. Fuckin ingrate.”
I turned away, hobbled back down the hall to the bedroom, and clumsily dressed. Then I grabbed the cane and hobbled out onto the porch for some fresh air, intending to stay there until the smoke cleared. The thermometer by the door was already reading 80 degrees. I had to look at it again to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. We were in for another scorcher. What else was new. I’d heard on the news the night before that we’d already broken the record for the hottest August in history and the month was still nearly two weeks from being over. I plopped into a chair and stared out into the empty morning street, the only sound was the insect-like hum of the lawn sprinklers. Neil soon followed and before long we were sitting at opposite ends of the porch saying nothing, breathing in the warm humid air of mid-morning. He brought his plate of burnt food with him. Something resembling french toast and scrambled eggs. I sat and listened to his loud open-mouthed cow chewing; a sound that made me want to vomit. Finally, at the point where I could take no more of it, I spoke up.
“ Look, this isn’t going to work, Neil,” I said. For a minute at least he stopped chewing long enough to consider this. He looked up at me, a quizzical expression on his face.
“Say what? What’s not going to work?” He mocked my speech pattern as he said this, slow and careful, concentrating hard for the clear enunciation of every word. No matter how hard I tried I still sounded a little punch drunk, even after the speech therapy. He thought he was being clever, I suppose, though he did a lousy impression of me.
“You being here,” I answered, “That’s what.” It’s time you pick up and go back to – whatever hole in the ground you crawled out of. You don’t need to be here, Neil. I’m fine. I can manage well enough on my own, and despite whatever Val may have told you, that’s how I prefer it.”
He looked offended, even a little surprised as if he thought I was so soft in the head as to have believed his little charade all along – that he’d come with only the best of intentions. He set down his plate, sat up a little straighter in his chair, and gave me a severe look.
“Well, you sure haven’t changed a bit have you? You’re still the same arrogant, ungrateful son of a bitch you’ve always been. Even after they sliced out a chunk of your sorry-ass brain. I kind of figured you would be, but I guess I thought there was a chance -”
“A chance of what? Moving in here and taking over? Just cut the bullshit! Val and the kids might not be on to why you’re here but I am. A fuckin free ride, and whatever else you can get your filthy paws on. Me, right? That’s what you really want, isn’t it? To humiliate me in front of my family? Make me look useless and dumb?”
Suddenly I noticed that I was shaking. He just continued to stare at me, his expression unchanged. He took another forkful of scrambled eggs and shoveled them into his mouth. Christ, that slobbery chewing again. His smile widened.
“You know me, Benny, just here for my big brother in his time of need, just like I know you’d be for me. Isn’t that right?”
I said nothing, just slowly eased back in my chair and took another big swig of coffee which tasted a little like diesel fuel.
“All these years, you’ve been lookin out for my best interests, always had my back, didn’t you Benny boy? Why wouldn’t I want to pay you back now?”
He looked at me slyly.
“So tell me, does pretty little Valerie and those poor sweet kids of yours know how you tried to kill me once, how you tried to drown your own little brother? Bet they don’t, do they?”
“What the fuck are you talkin about, Neil? If I’d have wanted to drown your scrawny good for nothin ass I would’ve.”
He loudly cleared his throat, smacked his lips, and with a flick of the wrist fired the half-empty plate across the lawn like a frisbee.”
Was I supposed to be impressed by this, or better yet, intimidated? I was neither, though I was a little jealous of his rapid-fire movements and range of motion. Reflexes I’d aspired to regain, but probably never would. He cracked his knuckles. Now here it comes, I thought, this is where he gets up and pounds the living shit out of me. Instead, he sucked in a deep breath and struggled to compose himself. He fumbled clumsily into the pockets of his baggy cargo shorts and brought out a crumpled pack of generic cigarettes. He lit one and offered the pack over to me as if he hadn’t known that I’d quit.
“Yes, you sure would’ve, I bet, without as much as a second thought or regret,” he said, much too calmly following that little eruption.
“Aw, cut the crap, Neil, seriously,” I said.
He kept his composure, took a deep drag, turned the chair in my direction, and blew a big puff of smoke directly into my face.
“Now that smells good, doesn’t it? You want one, I know you do.”
“No, I fucking don’t”
“Oh yes, you do. I think you want one pretty damn bad right about now. Shit, it’s written all over your face, man.”
“Fuck you.”
Beads of sweat were popping out above his curling upper lip.
“I knew you’d start some kind of shit as soon as we were alone together. This is just what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?”
He put up both hands.
“Whoa, whoa, now hold the phone there slow bro, you’re the one who -”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Or what?”
He bent over me, his face in mine, so close that I could not only smell but feel his fetid smoky breath against my turned cheek. He put both hands on the side of my chair and peered down at me.
“You wanna know what I think, Benny? I think those doctors might’ve short-circuited some wiring in that fat ugly melon of yours. Oh, you’re still mean as hell, but not nearly as quick as you used to be, are ya?”
He paused for another deep drag.
“You wanna get up out of this chair and kill me right now, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes, man, except you know you don’t stand a chance. This is my show fucker, and you know it.”
I stared up at him defiantly, but said nothing. Then he lowered his voice to a near whisper.
“Bet you must remember that other time too, don’t ya?”
I froze in place. Took a moment to consider what he could possibly be referring to. Then I said, “So that’s your plan, Neil? Huh? Is that what you’re going to do? Force me to smoke the whole pack?”
He stood up straight again and snorted laughter.
“Shit no. Are you fuckin serious? Do you really think I’m going to waste a perfectly good pack of smokes just to watch you puke all over yourself? Naw, think I’m gonna be needing these.”
Back when we were kids he’d lifted a pack out of my sock drawer and later that night I caught him smoking it up with two older kids in front of Harrington’s Corner Store at the end of Depot Street. To teach him a lesson, and out of pure big brother bullying nastiness ( mostly the latter) I did what my father had once done to me after he’d caught wind that I’d been smoking down under the old railroad trestle with the McMaster brothers and my older cousin Dave. I made him smoke the whole pack while I watched his face turn paler and paler until he began puking his guts out the same as I had done on that earlier occasion while my father occasionally peered up from the want ads to grimace at me.
“I think today should be a special day, Benny boy, but shit, we’ve had a few of those together now haven’t we? Why I bet if my put my mind to it I could come up with… shoot, at least a -”
“Shut up! Just shut the fuck up,” I said. “Look, I played my part. I promised Val I’d let you stay for a while, give you the benefit of the doubt even though I knew damn fucking well it was a mistake.”
By this time I was visibly shaking all over, out of anger, sure, but beneath that there was something else, and that something, I was horrified to discover, was fear. For the first time in my life, I actually feared him. I knew he had intentions for me, none of them good. I’d known it from the first time we locked eyes again as he stood in my living room on the afternoon I came home, smiling a smile that only I could have interpreted the true meaning of. Val, god bless her, liked to think the best of everyone. I set my coffee cup down, sloshing some over the rim in the process. He began moving back toward me, his eyes fixed on something above my head. It was my cane, leaning beside an empty chair near the screen door. Before I could make a move for it he picked it up and held it firmly out in front of him, looking it up and down, studying the symmetry, the way one might admire a fine golf club or a baseball bat, perhaps a more sinister object, such as I remember thinking at the time, a sledgehammer or a pickaxe. That was when I became reasonably sure that this was how he was going to do it, use my own cane to beat me into a lifeless bloody pulp. But his face, full of raw anger only seconds before, relaxed yet again and drew into a sly smirk.
“Do you think you need this, Benny? I mean, really? You didn’t seem to need it a few minutes ago when you thought I was about to burn your precious pissin quarters down here, so let me ask you again, real nice and slow so you can understand. Do – you – really – need – this?”
“Give it to me,’’ I hissed, trying to sound threatening, but I suppose the sorry sight of me slumped in the chair like a raggedy andy doll didn’t do much for the effect. Then he began to slowly lower it as if he intended to set it back down. This is where I made a critical mistake. I reached for it to try and pull it from his hand. When I did he suddenly brought the handle down hard on my right forearm. I cried out. I cursed him over and over through clenched teeth as intense waves of pain shot up my arm.
“Get up,” he demanded.
“What the -”
Before I could form my next word he was raising the cane again.
“Okay, okay,” I pleaded, holding up my good arm to signify surrender. He took a few steps back and just when I thought he was going to set the cane back down against the screen door he brought it down on me a second time with lightning quickness. This blow landed on my left shoulder blade. I cried out in agony, I could hear the echoes of my own voice in the still morning air. If any of my neighbors heard there were no heroes amongst them.
“Now,” he said, I’ll say it again real nice and fuckin slow. Get – the – fuck – up!”
The pain in my left shoulder was so intense that I’d already forgotten the previous blow. I put all my strength into my right arm to raise myself up into a semi-standing position, my ass hovering warily above the patio chair. For an eerie moment, he stood there quietly staring at me without offering assistance. When he finally realized there was no chance of me getting any further on my own he held the leg of the cane out for me to grab. Very slowly I reached for it, and once I nearly had purchase he quickly yanked it back and began laughing hysterically as I fell on my face slamming my forehead into the porch floor. He hawked back and spat a lunger that landed just inches from my forehead. I knew I was in trouble. My only hope rested on a neighbor or passerby calling the police. Where was everyone when you needed them? Where was the jogging woman with the baby stroller? Where was the old man with the grocery cart? Where was nosy ass Herb? Probably hiding behind his blinds, I imagined, enjoying the show. He wasn’t particularly a fan of mine either. Hell, he was probably hunkered down with a snack and a pair of binoculars. No one was coming. Not today. We were alone, just Neil and I, and our jaded history.
“You know I’ve been lookin forward to bonding with my big brother again for a loooong time. I think today’s the day, Benny, you know to really reconnect and shit. How’s about it? Shoot, I can even record it if you’d like. Bet it would make a hell of a melodrama. Pure lifetime shit. C’mon, what do ya say, slow bro?”
I say I should’ve killed you back when I’d had the chance seeing how you’re so hell-bent on believing that’s what I tried to do. As much as I might’ve liked to have said that, I felt it wise to keep my mouth shut. I needed to try and think which was hard enough through the waves of pain shooting up and down both arms.
Next, he ordered me to follow him, but he didn’t offer the cane to me this time. Not that I would have reached for it if he had. Instead, he reached for my aching arm and began pulling me behind him like an incorrigible child. He led me across the lawn that way, forcing me to try and keep up with him. When I stumbled over my lazy uncooperative right foot I nearly dragged us both to the ground which pissed him off all the more.
“Don’t make me carry your sorry ass,” he spat.
He was leading me toward the garage which sent all manner of dark scenario’s darting across my mind. Of course, it was one I hadn’t considered that he would choose as his final instrument of my demise.
The shower felt good. Damn good. Now, if only I can get out without slipping. How pathetic might that be, If I were to fall right here in the tub and not be able to pull myself out? It’s a real possibility. Then they would come home and find me sprawled out in my birthday suit, all wet and shriveled up like a prune. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight, I assure you. I’m okay though. I’ve made it out. We had a safety rail installed next to the shower a while back that I can grab onto for support. It’s no guarantee, but it’s better than nothing. It definitely helps me feel better about the task, though I’m usually hanging onto it with one hand while Val has hold of my other. I scarcely ever do it alone. With the aid of it I am out now and standing on the bath mat, toweling off. I do feel better. I still hurt of course, and I always feel stiff – the water is no cure for that. Nonetheless, I feel refreshed. I do my best to wrap the towel around me and now I’m ready to begin the journey back to my room for some fresh clothes. After that, I can either lay back into bed and wait for them to come back or, since I’m still up, maybe, just maybe, I’ll attempt to go outside and sit for a while. It feels like a long slog getting there but I guess I should at least try. I do have a motorized chair I can use if need be but I really don’t like to. Especially around the house. I’m scared of becoming too dependent on it. Just because I own the chair doesn’t mean the chair has to own me. Not yet anyway. Besides, I’m afraid that once I come to rely too heavily on it I’ll be left with no other choice but to face the finality of certain things head-on, things I’m already aware of but have yet to stare directly in the face, if you know what I mean. I’m stubborn that way. Always have been. This is who I am now. Like it or not. My condition is never going to greatly improve. At best, I have to try and keep it from declining further. I know this and yet I still find it hard to accept. Once I make that final concession there will be no turning back, will there?
Neil opened the garage door. It was unlocked. He’d been in there before, who’s to say how many times. He retrieved the crumpled pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his shorts and lit one. Once again, he offered the pack over to me. Once again, I declined, though I must admit I nearly caught myself reaching for them that time and wondered if he’d actually meant to give me one or if it was just another part of his cruel game. It didn’t matter. As much as I wanted one just then I had no intention of granting him the satisfaction. He smiled widely, revealing all those crooked nicotine-stained teeth again.
“Why the hell not? Can’t hurt you now, Benny boy, he said, and followed with what I can only describe as not a laugh but a sort of cackle. A sick feeling washed over me. Suddenly I understood.
“Saweet ride, Benny. Wherever did you find one of these? Never did get around to askin you that. Why it’s almost the spitting image of the car you used to drive back in the day, isn’t it? I seem to remember you and me taking what was let’s just say an interesting ride in it once. Does any of that ring a bell with you, Benny, or was that particular part of your memory lost in that slice of your brain they snipped out?”
I didn’t answer.
“Well, either way, it doesn’t much matter to me cause I remember for the both of us. Hell yes.”
As soon as I had my license and a car of my own Neil would nag me incessantly to take him for rides in it. He didn’t care where. Anywhere out of the house was fine with him. Our parents seldom took us with them when they went out, even if it was only to the grocery store. I always told him, no, and besides, our mother had actually forbidden me to drive with him in the car. She knew I was a little wild behind the wheel. I think I scared the hell out of her every time I ripped rubber out of the driveway. But one day he nagged me to a point where I finally gave in, went against her wishes, and took him anyway. I must have been in one preciously pissy mood that day. I don’t know. My memory of it is a little patchy. Perhaps because there were parts of it I’d just as soon forget. All I know is that I succeeded in scaring the living shit out of him. That, of course, had been my plan so that I could put an end to constant pestering once and for all. “When do I get to go, Benny? The kid was like a stuck record. I was only seventeen at the time and the last thing I wanted was some ten-year-old brat cramping my style. I mean how badass could you be with your pee wee brother riding shotgun. How was one supposed to pick up chicks like that?
Neil wrapped on the hood with his knuckles and said “What say we go for a little ride bro?” I stretched out my hand and leaned against the hood, resting all my weight on the throbbing shoulder. It still hurt like hell.
“Neil. listen to me,” I said, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible.
“Time to grow up. It was years ago. We were both just a couple of stupid kids. I was an asshole, okay. There you go, I admit it. I’m sorry. What will any of this prove? Maybe get us both killed, that’s about all. Time to bag up your marbles and go home, Neil.”
He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.
“Nope. Don’t think so, Benny. Not today. My life’s shit. Pretty sure you’d agree with that, wouldn’t you? Why not end it on a high note.” He cackled again.
“I have a family,” I said.
“Oh well now, that’s a good one, isn’t it? What about your family? A wife and two kids you can’t even take care of anymore. I bet she took a nice fat life insurance policy out on your crippled ass while you were away in that hospital. Don’t you think they’d be better off not having to look after you, Benny? I sure do. Nice try, though. Now, let’s go. Get in! I owe you this. Have for a long long time and we both know it. And contrary to what you might’ve heard I do get around to paying my debts eventually. Now get in and lock the door. Let’s have ourselves a little fun, shall we?”
The key was already in the ignition which confirmed my earlier suspicions. This wouldn’t be his first time behind the wheel. He’d driven the car before, god only knew how many times. He turned the key and the old Pontiac groaned to life, a sweet sound under other circumstances, only now it was a sound of impending doom. He let out the clutch skillfully as we rolled out of the garage and down the gravel driveway. As soon as we got out into the street he hit the accelerator hard. We screamed away leaving a pretty black patch behind us. The smell of scorched rubber filled the car. It occurred to me then that I had nothing on me. No wallet. No cellphone. I could only cower helplessly in the passenger seat right where Neil wanted me, clutching the dashboard for dear life as the yellow lines on the road snaked out in front of us in a jaundice blur. Suddenly, I, who’d never considered myself the praying type, and who could count on the fingers of one coarse hand the number of times I’d seen the inside of a church, was praying like the pope.
As we took the first bend at breakneck speed I was sure it would be our last. The speedometer was inching toward sixty by then and the tires of the Catalina shrieked as she leaned into it. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see what lay ahead, certain I’d experienced the last of a great many things: the last tired reruns of Law and Order, the last good cup of Rose Donnely’s coffee at the Riverview Cafe, the last time I’d ever wave Justin and Kayla off to school as they boarded the morning bus, the last time I’d watch Val dress for work, methodically applying her makeup in the soft light of the dresser lamp. These were just some of the frantic thoughts that raced through my mind in those tense moments I figured to be my last.
My stomach churned. Neil had lost his goddamned mind. And yes, I suppose maybe I’d helped that along a little. He may have prolonged my torture as patiently as he could stand to if I hadn’t so thoroughly provoked him that morning. Things I’ll never know for certain now, but he’d been patient already. It was his idea of poetic justice, I imagine. In many ways, I had only myself to thank for that. Seeds I’d sown long ago. By the time he reached fourth gear, I thought my bladder might let go. Wouldn’t he have loved that? Behind closed eyelids, flashbulb memories began to flicker before my irises like scenes from an old movie.
It was sometime in October, I think. A wet grey afternoon. The bright fall scenery a runny watercolor through the rain-streaked kitchen windowpane. School had been out for an hour or two already and little Neil had just finished up his homework. He was becoming restless and bored. Our parents were still at work and would be for another hour or so, our father probably longer than that. He did a lot of overtime back then at the old Carbide battery plant. What was so special to him about a little joyride in that piece of junk car anyway? I couldn’t understand it at the time. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t ridden in it before with our parents. What tricks did he think I was going to turn? He’d seen me burn rubber a few times out of the driveway but so what. I guess when you’re ten years old things like that mean everything to a kid, but I sure wasn’t thinking like that at the time. I decided there were a few ways I could handle his incessant nagging. I could give him a bone-numbing charlie horse, (always a personal favorite) put him in a headlock and twist his nose until his watery eyes soaked through my shirt, or there was a third and more interesting option than either of those old tried and true standby’s. That way was to simply give him what he wanted and put an end to the whole business for once and for all. I chose number three.
“Okay, you wanna ride,” I said, “get your ass in the car. We’re going for a ride you little shit.” His eyes lit up. He knew I was angry, sure, but he’d waited so long for me to finally give in I suppose he didn’t consider the possibility that he might have pushed me too far. Not to mention the fact that he trusted me. I was his older brother, his own flesh and blood, after all, and for all of the dirty little deeds in the world when push came to shove I wouldn’t let any real harm come to him, or so he believed.
We spun out of the driveway in a dust cloud and a haze of grey smoke. Bright wet leaves stuck to the road in front of us. We sped over them toward route 196, a road I’d always favored for its vast number of dips and turns, and then about a half-mile into it there was a short stretch of open flat where I could really lean into that four-barrel carb and let her holler to the wind. It used to be a popular drag racing strip back in those days, often used to settle trivial pissing contests between over-testosteroned gearheads, such as myself, maybe to impress a girl or two. Back when that sort of thing was considered cool. Of course what we didn’t have back then were video game systems or chat rooms or social media platforms to amuse ourselves with. We had souped-up cars and dirt bikes. Kids who couldn’t afford either of those usually had at least a pretty mean tricked out bicycle. I gave little Neil the ride he’d been asking for that afternoon. A ride he’d never forget. One I’ve never forgotten either. I drove like a rebel demon who’d just busted through the gates of hell, launching us airborne over gravelly bumps, taking corners at absurd speeds as if inspired to do by some hot rodders pact with the devil. By the time it was over poor little Neil wasn’t feeling so thrilled anymore. To the contrary, he looked smaller than usual crouched low beside me, deathly pale. At some point he pissed his pants, soaking the passenger side seat before vomiting on the floor. I was never fully able to get the stink out. Back then that was mostly all I cared about. I had no other immediate regrets. What does that tell you about who I was back then? Still, that little fiasco was extreme, even for me. I don’t know what came over me that day. Truly, I don’t. I could’ve gotten us both killed. Just one minor miscalculation or mechanical failure and I wouldn’t be recalling any of this, nor would I have been cowering there, fretting my own demise so many years later, my brother’s hands on the wheel this time. If that wasn’t karma I didn’t know what was. It was beautiful in the most absurd and terrifying way imaginable. After all, few things in real life ever come back full circle. To Neil, however, I wasn’t at all sure this was meant as only a game to scare the piss and shit and vomit out of me. I had a sick feeling he was looking to do more than that. Another horrifying thought occurred to me then. Had I meant it as a game? Where exactly was I that day in my own head? What were my true intentions? The ride I took us on had little effect on me at the time, or even much later for that matter. Most of it, I barely remember, such as the thoughts that were raging through my head at the time. All I can remember are those feverish images of the world rushing by, the road a dark spool unraveling in front of us with blinding speed. When it was all over I don’t remember any feelings of shame or remorse for what I’d done. Nor any sense of vindication either. Just numbness, a listless indifference to everything but the subsequent punishment I’d receive, and of course the horrible stench that would linger in my car for months afterward.
Neil took one hand off the wheel to dig into his shirt pocket. He withdrew a small cylinder of chewing tobacco and plugged a pinch between his lower front teeth and his bottom lip. That was when I noticed there was already one of those white styrofoam cups on the dashboard. He’d known exactly what he was intending to do before that morning ever came.
“Where are we going, Neil?”
I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know the answer, but I had to attempt to break the tension somehow and it was the only way I could think of. Maybe there was still a chance I could talk my way out of this. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Thought we might check out a few back roads, that’s all. You know, the way we used to. Some real sidewinders.”
He whooped and laughed until he began to cough. Then he grabbed the cup off the dash and spit some brownish gook into it. Some dribbled down his chin into the wiry tuft of his soul patch.
“Neil, goddammit! Slow the fuck down and pull over. Let’s talk about this. Man to man for christ’s sake.”
He laughed again, this time ejecting a squirt of tobacco juice onto the steering column while some splattered onto his shorts.
“Man to man! That what we are now, slow bro? Men?”
He pounded the wheel sending the car into a momentary fishtail as if I’d told him the most hysterical joke he’d ever heard. He quickly regained control of it, though he was still laughing like an absolute madman. Once he finally began to compose himself he said “So tell me now, when I did become a man to you, Benny, huh? Just when? Was it, hmmm… just about five minutes ago here when I hijacked your piece of shit car and your piece of shit life. That what it took? Does that make me a real man to you now, huh? Does it? Do I have your attention? Do I have your precious respect now?”
I didn’t answer. He didn’t give me a chance. He just kept prattling on. Thoroughly unhinged.
“You’ve been blowin me off your whole life, bro, like I never stopped being some dirtbag kid to you. And that’s just how you’ve treated me. Like a piece of fucking dirt. Still a piece of dirt, right? The only difference now is that I’m the piece of dirt that’s in control for once. We ain’t goin far, Benny, don’t you worry about that. And by the way, there is no more need for words so keep your fuckin mouth shut and enjoy the ride. You’ve got nothing to say that I need to hear anymore, understand? Don’t you think I know that anything you say now is just to try and bargain your way out of this? Well, I’ve got news for ya, brother, you can’t bargain with me because you have no chips to bargain with. I have them all. Understand? All! Oh, and one last thing, try not to piss yourself.”
He began laughing again hysterically until tears were rolling down his cheeks.
I watched in horror from the passenger side seat. My mind and my stomach spinning to a point where I thought I might blackout. My throat was tight and my mouth was as dry as sandpaper. I bit down on my lip until I could feel a trickle of blood running down my chin. I think the pain was the only thing that renewed my senses and kept me in the fight as we sped through town doing nearly seventy in a thirty mile an hour zone. It didn’t take long for us to catch the attention of a police cruiser lurking in a hiding spot on Littner Avenue between the municipal building and the new Sunoco. We were on the outskirts of town now heading toward some loopy country roads. I was pretty certain I knew the one Neil had in mind – route 194, sidewinder as some old drag racing buddies and I used to call it back in the day. It was then, and still is, a sparsely populated rural road that snakes and bobs and dips for a good five miles before flattening out just beyond the junction of route 23. Hammering it out on that road was always worth a thrill, to say the least, assuming you were lucky, and for even highly skilled drivers if you weren’t careful, or unlucky, it could end badly for you before you got anywhere near the junction.
With the blue and red flashing lights drawing closer and closer in the rearview Neil continued to drive as if he hadn’t even noticed, his foot still heavy on the accelerator. The elderly Catalina could still haul ass, and in other circumstances, I suppose I would’ve been curious to see how it might fare against a police cruiser, but I wasn’t entertaining any such thoughts at that moment. I was too busy trying to keep my head on straight, what was left of it. We were a healthy two or three-car links ahead of the cruiser, but for how long? A high-speed chase on that road, I knew, was a recipe for disaster. I was beginning to see what I imagined to be the brief remainder of my life unfolding in a series of sinister snapshots.
It was sweltering in the car, even with the windows open. Neil was sweating profusely, further enhancing his already crazed appearance. I slunk further into my
seat, knowing there would be no bargaining with him. So many things sped through my head at once it was dizzying. So much noise. Neil skidded the Catalina sharply into a turn and for a few uneasy seconds I thought we were headed through the guard rails and down the embankment, but the old girl fishtailed and righted itself. Before I knew it we were gaining speed again, the cruiser still hot behind and gaining. Neil didn’t flinch. He seemed to be somewhere else entirely. He reached for the styrofoam cup again and quickly spat before tossing it back, sloshing some of its nasty contents over the rim. His eyes were glazed as if he might be struggling to hold back tears, though at the same time he seemed eerily calm and focused. No shakes or trembling. No indication of fear whatsoever.
“Neil!” I shouted again, in an attempt to win back his attention, knowing it might be our last shot, aside from that I needed to hear him say something. Anything. He ignored me. I glanced over to see the speedometer needle and gasped when I saw it fluttering above ninety. I vaguely remember thinking at the time god help anyone or anything unfortunate enough to get crossed up in our path. We were lethal. It was then that I made a snap decision. It was a crazy idea, almost sure to fail in which case we’d both be killed, but since I was certain it would end that way anyway if I didn’t act, I decided there was nothing left to lose. Speed and agility were things I no longer possessed, if I ever had, and without them, I held out little hope for success. Nonetheless, I’d made up my mind, and once I’d done that there was no turning back.
“Neil, Neil!” I shouted as loud as I could, again attempting to win his attention, anything to lighten his foot off the pedal. But it still had no effect. He acted as if he hadn’t even heard me. I shifted across the seat a little, ever so slowly, then I glanced back at my door just to be sure that the lock was in the up position. I sucked in a deep breath and prepared to make a move. I clenched both of my hands together in order to make one large fist. My shoulder and forearm were still throbbing. This was going to hurt, hopefully for both of us. I tried to wait for the right moment, not knowing when that might be, just trusting I’d know when it came. Looking back, it’s clear I was only stalling, summoning up the courage to actually go through with it.
Once we got about a half-mile or so further up the road I could see the mouth of a very sharp bend approaching in the distance. The decision had been made for me. The time had come. This bend in the road was infamous in local lore, a killer that had claimed at least a half dozen lives over the past ten years alone. God only knew how many before that. On our current course, we were about to increase that number by a pair unless my attempt succeeded, or unless this wasn’t a suicide mission after all and Neil had been bluffing all along. He showed no signs of slowing down, however. There would be no raising of the white flag. He was on a mission, and he intended to see it through. He continued staring straight ahead with that vacant look in his eyes, his jawbones tightly clenched. I’d driven that stretch of road enough times to know that there was absolutely no chance of us clearing that bend at our current speed, instead, in a matter of minutes we’d be embedded into the bark of a very large weeping willow tree like some others who’d met their end in that same spot. The tree was old and ominous-looking against the darkening sky, bloated with purple storm clouds. Our time was about to be up. With all the strength I could summon I brought my locked fist down as hard as I could into his right thigh about three inches above the knee cap – the good old charlie horse. I’d mastered it in my youth, but I was well out of practice and not nearly as strong as I was back then. Back when we were kids a blow like that would have brought him to his knees, hissing, and cursing every time. I had no idea, especially in my weakened condition, if I could produce a similar result so many years later. He yelped like a dog, half out of pain, and half out of surprise. Before he had time to react I hit him again. As I did a lightning bolt of pain knifed through my shoulder. As unbearable as that was I managed to grab hold of his leg and dig in with my fingernails and yank his foot off the pedal briefly. We fought for control of the wheel. It took only an instant to realize it was a battle I stood no chance of winning. The car weaved and fishtailed, tires screaming as he struggled to regain control. The cup containing the tobacco juice flew off the dash and splattered my face. Taking one hand off the wheel he cocked his right elbow and hammered me squarely in the jaw with it. The blow sent me flailing across the seat. Dazed, I was sure I could feel a tooth rolling along the corner of my tongue, but when I spat onto the seat I could see only a bright red string of blood dribbling down from my lips. Neil cursed like a mad sailor as he pulled the car back under his control. Our scuffle slowed us a little but we were already picking up speed again. Behind us sirens wailed, sharper, louder, closer. The police cruiser had friends now and they were bearing down on us. Visceral survival instinct kicked in and I went to work on executing the second part of my plan by reaching for the door handle. If it was time to leave this world I was determined to have the last bit of control over my fate. I closed my eyes and leaned into it. The next few seconds are a still blur.
When I stopped rolling in the grass and my senses began to clear I could feel an incredible proliferation of soon-to-be intolerable pain pulsing through my body in locations too numerous to count. I was alive, that was the only thing I knew for certain, whether in one piece or not I had no idea. I heard the shrill squealing of tires and waited for the sound of a terrific impact, a crash, a loud cinematic explosion, but it never came.
The Sheriff’s department had headed us off, I’d later learn, and spike strips were laid across the road bringing Neil’s ride of terror to an abrupt and anticlimactic conclusion in a ditch just short of the bend. If I’d held out for a few seconds longer I could’ve saved this wretched body a whole world of hurt, not to mention a few more years to my life, maybe. Of course, I wasn’t aware of how it all ended until much later. The last thing I remember was waiting for the sound of a crash that never came before passing out in the warm summer grass.
I woke up in entirely different surroundings. A hospital room. The hum of monitors. The commotion of doctors and nurses talking and shuffling around my bed. And then… the lights went out again. It was like that for a few days. I was in and out of consciousness, out of it when the pain began to return and back into oblivion as soon as I got another fresh hit from the iv. I was aware of precious little. My memories of those days are vague at best. What I eventually came to discover as days wore on to weeks and they began cutting back my dosages, was that Neil was unhurt and being held in county jail awaiting a hearing. He was back in familiar surroundings. I learned he’d built up quite a record over the years, misdemeanors mostly: petty theft, assault, and battery, not to mention drug possession. Now, he was headed for the big time if the prosecutors did their job. It was better than winding up dead, I suppose, although I doubt Neil saw it that way. He was placed on suicide watch right up until his trial which wrapped up about two months ago. The jury found him guilty on all counts. He is currently serving the first of a ten-year sentence in Attica State Prison. I had to testify against him of course and that was no easy matter. Seeing him in court again months later all cleaned up in a snazzy suit was surreal. I tried to see him as someone else. What he might have become. I tried to see him as a villain, someone intent on killing me. I tried to hate him. I tried to be angry. But all I kept seeing was that same scared kid I remembered from childhood, the way he looked that day just before I let him out of the car and he ran to the house shaking and crying. I was the one who felt ashamed and vulnerable up there on the witness stand and I think he knew it. Maybe he even felt vindicated for all I know. I felt as if the roles could have easily been reversed. I felt as if I’d deserved what he’d done to me. At one point I even wanted to tell him I was sorry, but at the time I had no words for that. I stuck to answering the lawyer’s questions as best I could remember and tried to detach myself from all of it. I just wanted it to be over. And soon it was. The trial only lasted a week. The jury returned their verdict in a matter of hours. And that was that. In many ways, it’s almost as if we’re back to where we started except my body will never be the same. This life will never be the same. Neither of which I’ll ever be able to put back together, at least not as they were. Maybe that’s for the best. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, even though everyone is always getting on my case about that, trying to fill me up with hope and positive reinforcement and all that shit. I still see a therapist once a week. I’m not sure how much it’s helping but he tells me the fact that I keep showing up speaks for itself. It’s hard, even for me, to argue with that.
Anyway, that’s how it was. How it really happened. Of course, there will always be someone trying to shift the angles, the kind of people I was telling you about earlier over at the good old award-winning Falls Gazette for instance, who are more in the business of writing fiction than fact. In our case, they were short on facts to begin with. They knew nothing about us, nothing of our history, nothing of the events that led up to that morning, so they made up what they didn’t know. I myself, know little to nothing about the writing profession, but it’s not all that difficult to imagine how a beat writer for a small-town paper might take whatever scraps he or she could get and run with it, not knowing when another big story might come along. It makes sense, I guess, even though it still seems pretty shitty to sacrifice the truth because of it. Then again, I suppose there are some subscribers who don’t care much about the truth anyway as long as the reading is good. Some people are desperate for lies.
Just because I’m alive doesn’t mean I fared well. But if you’ve come this far you already know that by now. Amongst my injuries were two broken ribs, a broken pelvis, broken collar bone, sprained right arm, and severe concussion, not to mention internal bleeding. Need I go on? You get the picture. I was seriously fucked up. I still am and, I probably always be, but I’m still here, for better or worse. There is a reason for that. That much is clear. Now, as the afternoon turns toward evening I expect them to be home any minute, busting through the door with sunburns and stories to tell. I should have gone with them. It wouldn’t have killed me. It’s shutting myself up in here that’s doing that. You’d think knowing that would make it easier to get out of my own way. Strangely, it doesn’t.
Maybe the evening will bring with it a bit of cooler air, a respite from this damned heat. One can only hope. I think I just heard a dry snap from somewhere down the street – the night’s first firecracker? I think maybe so. I might just feel up to taking that walk out to the front porch now. I can just as easily wait for them there, can’t I? Sixty-five steps to the porch swing, give or take a few. I’ve got this. One careful step leads to the next. Easy does it. Getting there slowly is a hell of a lot better than not getting there at all.
Haunted Avenues 