Something Else

            I didn’t mean to hurt you. That time I said he was my favorite. Brother. It’s not that . . .  What I meant was . . . Well, you’re different. You’re something else.

            I will give you this: you never came at me with stealth, a certain anarchy oozing from your pores. And not once did you approach me hands choke hold ready and cheeks stoplight red but forging through anyway. You were different. A low tide. Quiet, steady.

~~~

        
            I like to look at your senior picture and consider how your hair was like the bunny slope at Canaan Valley when I went there in eighth grade with the Beverly Hills Presbyterian Church youth group. Not white, but a smooth, nut brown arc with one perfect dip in the middle. 
            That first morning I hurtled down the hill over and over, winter’s edge both thrilling and terrifying me. Right before lunch, the ski patrol gal advised me that falling down in a six-point star formation at the bottom of the slope was not a safe way to stop. She demonstrated the snow plow a couple times. Recommended lessons. I never skied again. Ever.

            In your portrait your eyes seemed serious even as they smiled. Did you already know you had healing (and therefore much responsibility) in your hands? Your irises matched the widest stripe in your chubby tie—fall-morning blue-gray sky.

~~~

            Remember all the stuff we dabbled in? I do, because I made a list. That’s how I write a story. I jot down everything I can remember then comb away all the stuff that’s not so hot. Here, I’ll show you:

Stuff We Did Together

Yoga (living room): For a whole summer we copied the moves of Lillias as she did Hatha Yoga on public television. We wore Marshall green gym shorts and gray Thundering Herd t-shirts. I was way more flexible than you.

Weight Lifting (basement): You lifted. I watched. Because you’d read somewhere my bones wouldn’t be ready for resistance work until at least fourth grade. I wept, but you insisted.

Archery (back yard): We set up a range behind the house, crammed the target into the tangle of honeysuckle that concealed the chain link fence. We were evenly matched until our flimsy green bow broke and you replaced it with a red, white, and blue compound model. I couldn’t budge the string so I became the designated arrow fetcher.

Church (Ohio): You invited me to come along when you started attending church across the river. We’d hold our breath as we drove over the bridge. Make a wish when we got to the other side. You suggested we start a gospel group since I was taking piano lessons. We practiced a few times but then you went off to college. I was sad to see you go but also relieved that I wouldn't have to inform you that your pitch was less than perfect.

~~~

            Did you know that writers are supposed to show instead of tell? You never told me, “I like spending time with you,” but you didn't have to. The stuff we did together showed it. Proved that you were in fact something else, something better than “favorite.” I might go as far as to say you were the best. Brother.

Yes, No, Maybe So--Part III

Every night after supper, Dad camped out in the living room. Over the course of each evening he’d nurse two bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and polish off an entire can of salted peanuts, the Spanish ones with the skins on them. I never got why he liked those kind. The skins made for a tooth flossing nightmare. Dad didn’t mind though. He wasn’t much for dental hygiene. Come to think of it, he didn’t care much about personal hygiene at all beyond combing his hair and Abraham Lincoln beard. I knew for a fact he rarely used deodorant and Mom and I had to beg him to wear aftershave whenever he treated us to supper at Shoney’s.

            So while Dad would fold himself into the floral Ethan Allen wing chair under the picture window and devour peanuts and guzzle beer, Mom would arrange herself and her muumuu-looking housecoat, usually a pastel blue floral, on the couch. She’d puff on her cigs—Benson and Hedges Light—and sip Tab diet cola from a glass she got in a box of Tide laundry detergent. I’m fairly certain she washed it first. Maybe. She wasn’t Suzy Homemaker or anything. In fact, one of her favorite sayings was, “You’ve got to eat a peck of dirt before you die.”

            Most nights my parents watched television or read. Dad was a big time reader. Mom too, but she usually went for paperback romances. Dad read smart stuff because he was that kind of guy. He had three degrees including one from Harvard. Yep, my daddy was smart, but he sure didn’t know everything.

            More often than not at night, some or all four of us kids would be in the basement glued to the tube. Sometimes we had friends over, not because Mom was the Kool-Aid mom or anything. Just because.

            If communication was necessary between us and the folks, we yelled up or they stood at the top of the stairs and hollered down. If Dad was worn out, he just roared from his wing chair.

            “You kids pipe down!” Or, “Stop horsing around! Don’t make me come down there. I swear. I'll tan your hide.”

            Only when we got really loud would he stomp down the stairs. It was never Mom. She didn’t scare us. That particular night, the one with the Rolling Rock, Jude made sure we didn’t make too much noise. He was good at that.

           

After two minutes of whispering in the kitchen, Katie Lynn and I tiptoed back down the painted gray steps. Tried to keep from creaking the stairs. All three of Charlie’s pistol-packing Angels darted hither and yon across the TV screen but the boys didn’t pay any mind. They were too busy hawking loogies at the fireplace. Without opening the screen. Viscous, pale green gobs stuck and slid. Smeared and clung. Left shiny trails in the charred mesh.

            “Ga-ross,” I said.

            Both guys whipped around at the same time, swiping their wrists across their lips. I saw Robbie puff into his hand and sniff. A corner of my mouth lifted. He was cuter than I remembered.

            Jude patted the couch. “Why don’t you all come down,’ he said. “Sit a spell.”

            I started back up the stairs. “I don’t think—”

            Katie Lynn gripped my wrist and tugged. “Okay,” she said. “We should sit boy girl, boy girl.”

            I grumbled under my breath as I wedged myself into the space between the sofa arm and Robbie’s leg. Katie made herself at home between the guys. Robbie reached into the styrofoam cooler and lifted out a green bottle. Wiped the wet off with his t-shirt. Jude tossed him the bottle opener. The cap catapulted across the room with a sucky sound. Robbie grinned and handed the icy beer to me. Repeated the process for Katie.

            I hovered my nose over the bottle top. “Smells like hamster pee.”

            Robbie chuckled “Try it,” he said. “You’ll like it.”

            I sipped then wrinkled my nose. “Tastes like it too,” I said. “Jiminy Christmas! How do you all drink so much of this stuff?”

            Jude leaned forward. “See?” he said. “I told you we shoulda bought Boone’s Farm.”

            Robbie huffed. “Who doesn’t like beer?”

            Jude stood. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Be right back.” He took the stairs three at a time. Returned with two straws. “Try these,” he said as he tore their wrappers away. “And hold your nose.”

            Katie Lynn juggled the tasks. “Seems complicated,” she said.

            “The good thing about straws,” Robbie told me, “is they get you drunk quicker. That’s what my science teacher says.”

            I think Robbie was onto something. After my first two sips, I felt very confident and way braver. Was that what being intoxicated was like? Wasn’t too bad. In fact, I figured if I had one more gulp, Imight just  jump up and perform a lively rendition of Dancing Queen. I squinted at the fireplace tools and considered how I might use the fireplace poker as my microphone. No sooner did the idea form in my brain than it was shot all to heck. By ham salad.

Wonder Woman Was My Best Friend

So there we were. Me and my best friend, Katie Lynn. Waiting in line to get into Spanky’s, the fancy new dance bar on Fourth Avenue. Per usual, we were decked out. In  mini skirts and high heels. Kent had done our hair that day. Mine was so short it looked like a baby bird’s. Katie Lynn’s hair resembled Billy Idol’s in the front, except it was almost black, not white. But in the back it hung in waves almost to her bra strap. Guess that means she had a mullet, but back then it was cool.

            I wiggled out of my shoes. “These heels have to go,” I said. “Least ‘til we get to the front of the line.” I sighed. “Looks like it’s gonna be awhile.”

            All of a sudden, Katie Lynn whipped around to face the building. She grabbed my arm, taking me with her.

            “Don’t look now, but your brother, Judas, and his pothead pals are headed this way.”

            I cringed. “Aw, man!  Maybe they won’t see us.”

            Unfortunately, Katie Lynn is pretty hard to miss since she’s six foot one in heels and kind of looks like Wonder Woman. Judas paused next to us on the sidewalk. Slid between us and the wall. We brushed our fronts off. In case some of him got on us.

            “Evening, lady,” he said to Katie Lynn. He sneered at me. “And girl.”

            I glared. He curled his lip. I stuck my tongue out. He wobbled. His eyelids were flying at half mast. I knew what that meant. He fished a roll of Certs out of the front pocket of his Levi’s and unpeeled the wrapper. Bit off the top mint and held the rest out to Katie Lynn. She shook her head and opened her mouth to display her Bubble Yum.

            He raised his eyebrows a couple times. “Lucky gum.”

            I snorted and crossed my arms. “Ga-ross!” 

            Judas put one hand on the wall and leaned. A moment later he dropped his arm and straightened, probably because he figured out leaning made him a whole lot shorter than Katie Lynn.

            “So, Katie,” he said. “I see you’re wearing your Western bra.”

            Katie Lynn squinted. “My what?”

            “Your girls,” he said, pointing at her chest. “The bra’s hitchin’ ‘em up and movin’ ‘em out.”

            I smacked him with one of my pumps. “You stink, Judas,” I said. “You’ve got so much beer on you, I can’t even smell your Old Spice.”

            Judas rubbed his arm and scowled.

            I flicked his chin. “Haven’t you figured out yet that when you get high, you develop a mysterious hole in your lip?”

            Judas burped and blew in my face. Dangled his pointer finger an inch from my nose. His eyes began to cross as he tried to focus on me and his finger.

            “I’ll get you for this tomorrow, you know.”

            “Hey, Jude,” Katie Lynn said. “Why don’t you do us a favor and get lost. And while you’re at it, take your Muppet Pals with you.” She flipped her long dark hair in the direction of his friends. “Go find some girls who actually want your company.”

            I huffed. “Yeah, if there are any!”

            In a second, something changed in Judas’s eyes. The ornery glint got mean. I heard his molars clack together. He took a step toward Katie. And another. I watched her lashes hit her brows.

            “You know what I want, Katie Lynn?” he said. “I’ll tell you what I want.”

            And he did. I thought I would die. Right there, in front of all those people waiting to get in Spanky’s. He said stuff so nasty my ears curled in on themselves.

            Katie Lynn didn’t speak. Didn’t even twitch. I gulped. Nibbled a fingernail.  After a minute of silence, Judas started jacking his jaws again.

            “And if you were real nice,” he said as his eyes narrowed to slits, “You’d let my buddies watch.”              

            My mouth fell open and it was like I blinked in slow motion, because when I opened my eyes, Katie Lynn had Judas pinned to the brick wall. His arm was twisted behind him, and she was forcing his fist toward his copper curls. Judas screamed like a ninny and cussed a blue streak, all at the same time.

            Everyone around me started clapping. “Woo hoo!” they yelled. “Get him, girl! Kick his butt!”

            I couldn't make out what Judas was saying because his mouth was crammed into the bricks. I leaned closer but was careful to stay out of punching range.

            “Uncle!  Uncle!” he mumbled. He tried to turn his head but Katie increased the pressure on his arm. A whimpery grunt escaped him. “Guys!  Help me out here!”

            I searched the area. Spied his buddies across the street. They huddled together and kept their eyes on Katie Lynn, ready to bolt if she decided to turn her superpowers on them. Finally, she let go of Judas’s arm. Gave him a shove. He flung his hands out to keep from busting his knees, but his right arm didn’t seem to work quite right and he hit hard. From the ground he threw Katie Lynn one more super dirty look before he scrambled across the street.

            I put my fists on my hips and squinted  at the pack as they made their way down the sidewalk.

            “Run, ‘fraidy cats, run!”

            I stepped back in line and adjusted my skirt. High fived the girls who gathered around, giggling and congratulating. 

            “Those goobers remind me of sand crabs at Myrtle Beach,” I said. “They come out at night, but when you shine a light on ‘em, they skitter back in their holes.”         

            Katie Lynn pointed down the block. My gaze followed her finger. One of the flannel-shirted guys had fallen off the curb into the street. Judas and the others gathered him up. I took a dozen steps toward them. Cupped my hands around my mouth.

            “Losers!”  

            Judas flipped me off without turning around. I smirked and headed back to Katie Lynn. There she was. In conversation with a tall, good looking guy in a dress shirt with a skinny purple tie. I smooshed my lips together to redistribute my gloss and held out my hand.

            “Well, hello," I said. "I’m Dana, and you are?”

            He took one of my hands and one of Katie's. “I'm Jonathan,” he told us. “I’m the manager here. I want to personally thank you ladies for dealing with the riffraff. May I escort you inside? Get you a cocktail?”

            I bumped Katie Lynn with my hip and let my shoes drop. Stepped back into them and ran my fingers through my hair to re-spike it.

            “Why yes, Jonathan. That would be lovely.”

Playing Favorites

I follow Mom out to our car.  When we're both in and buckled, she glances at me in the rearview mirror.

            “We’re not going to stay long,” she says. “Maybe five minutes. He’s bound to be exhausted.”

            I nod, blow on the window, and draw a smiley face in the condensation. Then I sit back and consider how the five minute visit might play out.

            I want to show him how much I love him. How much I miss him, even though it’s only been a week. A void happens when seven days pass without someone you're used to seeing every day. Feels like there’s an empty bucket in my belly. And it’s blue.

            My plan is to show him my fingernails. How I stopped biting them. Just for him. I haven’t nibbled all week. They don’t yet touch the tips of my fingers, but I painted them anyway. Borrowed Mom’s Avon polish—Peppy Poppy—without asking her. The color reminds me of the cherry hardshell coating you can get on your twisty cone at the Dairy King on Route 60. I lick them. To see if maybe they taste like-- Naw. They're bitter. Chemically. Shiny though.

            Hopefully, Mom'll leave us alone. In the hospital room. So I can hiss to John, “I hate them.” The boys who did this. Because of them, I’ll never sit behind him on his motorbike again. My arms strapped around his midsection. My cheek flush with his shoulder blade. I never really felt safe there and where I hadn’t had a tangible excuse before (besides I’m chicken), now I do.

            ~~~

A week ago, a whole car, a Lincoln Continental, had slammed into John and his Honda. Tossed them both into the air—him left, the bike right. When I picture it in my mind’s eye, I imagine he bounces, then falls back to earth. The black top receives him none too gently.

            The Lincoln was stolen. The driver ignored the red light. All the guys in the car were drunk. High too.

~~~

I change my mind. I'm not going to hiss. I intend to yell.

            “I hate those boys!” Maybe even, “I wish they were dead!”

            My mad words'll ricochet off the almost pistachio green walls (or will they be make-you-squint-bright-white?) and he’ll be satisfied. John will. That I'm on his side. When ninety per cent of the time, I'm nothing but a pain in his butt. That’s how he always introduces me. Never, “This is my little sister.” Instead he usually says, "Her? She's just a pain in my butt. That’s all.”

            After “I hate them,” I 'll say, “It’s too bad.” That he won’t get to do his Steve Martin imitation at his high school's talent show. Not too long ago I’d stood outside his bedroom door, my face smooshed to the wall just out of sight, while he practiced in the mirror. I peeked in and saw him flop a pillow case on his head. He watched himself sing. “King Tut, Tut. Funky Tut, Tut.” I stole another look. Giggled into my hand as he shimmied and crowed. “I’m just one wild and crazy guy.”

            When he finished, I pounced through the doorway with a grin. “You’re the funniest guy ever! For real! They’re gonna love you.”

            That earned me a beating. For being a spy.

            Maybe I’ll apologize too. For the whipping he’d taken that night on account of me. And for all the other times. More than once I’d lied. To my dad. I told the truth that night, but I didn’t always. Sometimes I squealed just because. Truth or no, it didn’t matter. Daddy believed me without fail. For no other reason than I was the only daughter, the youngest child.

            Dad’s face would get super red, especially his nose, and his eyes would go all squinty.

             “How could you do that? She’s just a little girl for crying out loud.”

            John would glare at me. Mouth two words. “Spoiled brat.” That was his favorite thing to throw at me. Besides a fist.

            Whenever I tattled, Dad would grab John in a Vulcan nerve pinch and steer him to another room. In the minute before I heard the siss of Dad’s belt speeding out of its constraints, I’d grin. Snicker. Enjoy a certain satisfaction. But when the thwack sounded--cow skin on boy butt--I winced. Regretted. Power didn’t seem so cool then.

            ~~~

John isn't my only brother, but for some reason, I like him best. I have no idea why. He did, after all, try to kill me once. On the chocolate milk-colored sofa in the basement. After I told him no way he was going to my ninth grade prom. He was too old (two years and three months my senior) and besides, it was my school dance, not his. And did he not know what Tammy Carter did with Joey Howard behind the Convenient Mart? Did he really want to go out with a girl like that?

            He launched at me, hands all T-rex clawed, his metal mouth gleaming through a froth. Crammed my head into the arm of the couch. Choked me until I saw stars, then nothing.

            “Mom,” I yelled after I came to. “John tried to murder me. I blacked out. I’m serious.”

            She didn’t answer. Turned out, she was out back picking zinnias and cherry tomatoes.

            ~~~

I think maybe John and I are like Dad and our cat, Ginger. Dad's forever grouching about what a nuisance she is. All the time honking into the handkerchief he keeps in his front pant's pocket.

            “That blankety blank cat is single-handedly making Benadryl rich.”

            Whenever Ginger perches on the sill outside the living room window, I take the screen off and let her in. Not Dad. He talks to her real nice so she thinks maybe—Then schwing! He cranks the window open super fast and she goes flying into the yard with a yowl.

             And when she sits by the front door, daintily grooming her pumpkin paws, Dad'll stroll up to her and point to his Hush Puppy oxford.

            “Here, kitty, kitty. Let me introduce you to the number nine shoe. I don’t believe you all have met.”

            Once again, she goes flying. With a yowl.

            Ginger loves Daddy anyway. She arches her back under his hand whenever he falls asleep in his Ethan Allen wing chair during the nightly news. She's not stupid though. When he's awake, she holes up under his chair, her twitching tail the only evidence of her presence.
            I think he must like her a tiny bit because one time I saw him give her an empty tuna can to lick. When he thought no one was looking.

            So, yeah. Ginger's just like me. Wants to be around the person who likes her least. Is okay with getting one pat on the back for every hundred times she goes flying with a yowl. Doesn’t make a lick of sense, but she doesn’t care and neither do I.

            I pull out the picture I brought of Ginger. To show John. In case he misses her.

            ~~~

On the elevator Mom tells me John's right arm will be in a sling and his left leg will be casted and in a pulley gizmo over his bed. I roll my eyes. I know, Mom. You’ve said that  a hundred times this week.

            “He may be out of it,” she says. “What with the pain meds and all.”

            My lower lip pushes forward. “I sure hope not.” I glance at my hands. “I want him to see my manicure.” Want him to hear me say, I hate them. And, I’m sorry. And maybe if Mom leaves the room, I’ll grip the side rail of his bed and lean close. "Don't tell anybody," I'll whisper. “But you’re my favorite brother.” Then I'll watch his face, especially his mouth. To see if maybe, just maybe, he'll say . . .