*All in the Family*

My oldest brother rested his hand on my shoulder. “Want my paper route? Since I leave for college in August? The tips are great.”

            I nibbled a fingernail. Regular spending money? Something to do besides watch Gilligan’s Island every afternoon, Monday through Friday?

            I grinned. “Sure.”

~~~

The next day, my brother stood so close our shoulders touched.
           “Fold the left side of the paper over two to three inches,” he said, “crease it, then roll the right side toward it a couple times and tuck it inside.”

            Mike stopped in front of our next door neighbor’s house, squinted his right eye, and arced the paper roll onto Mr. Waugh’s porch. I whistled in admiration.

            He gave me a thumbs up. “Rubber bands and plastic bags are for sissies.”

            He heaved the big canvas bag with the wide, bright orange strap off his shoulder and held it out. 

            “You carry it, so you get used to it.”

            Two weeks later he left for Concord College. 

~~~

I perched on the arm of Dad’s recliner as he made his usual Sunday night phone call.     

           “May I talk to Mike a minute?”

            Dad handed me the phone.

            “How often do you miss Ms. Thorn’s paper box?” I said.

            Mrs. Thorn lived on North Queens Court. She had at least eight dogs. Eight dogs and their poo piles, and the reek of their poo piles. There was a chain link fence all around her yard. So the dogs wouldn’t shred her newspaper, you had to lean against the fence and try to throw the paper into a two foot by two foot wooden crate on her porch. If you missed, you had to go into the yard and fetch it. The dogs weren’t mean, you just had to navigate your way through the poo-pile landmines and the gauntlet of wagging tails. I’d pet the pups with one hand and pinch my nose with the other.

~~~

“Can I speak to Mike again?” I said to Dad the next Sunday.

            He held out the phone.

            “Guess what, Mike? Mr. Perkins on Green Oak Drive said he’ll give me his antique Karmann Ghia, the robin’s egg blue one not the Atomic Fireball red one, when I grow up.”

            Mike huffed. “Don’t believe it for a second.”

            I pooched my lower lip out. “Really? 'Cause I love it. He says when I get my license—”

            “Does he hold your hand a super long time when he pays you?”

            My eyebrows flew up. “How’d you know?”

            “Be careful with him, okay?” my brother said. “Maybe take someone with you when you collect money. Promise?”

~~~

In the summertime, on really hot days, Mrs. Fitzgerald always let me spray myself with her garden hose. 
            “That’ll cool you off,” she’d say.
            When it was super muggy she’d offer me a glass of sweet tea and while I drank it, we’d chat in the breezeway between her house and garage. When I was done with my tea, I’d cut through her yard to make my way over to Locust Street. Four boys lived in the house behind hers.

            “Woo hoo!” the youngest one would say if he was out. “Wet t-shirt, I like it.”

            When his mom was on the porch with him, he wouldn’t make that remark. At least once I week I’d give her a free newspaper. She always tried to pay me for it. 

            I’d swat at the air between us. “Don’t worry about it. They always put an extra one in my bundle.”

            Sometimes in the fall she’d give me a brown paper Big Bear bag. 

            “Get you some chestnuts, honey. I know how you love them.”

~~~    

“Hey, Dad,” I said one Sunday, “let me tell Mike about the dogs that almost ate Holly last week.”

            Mike growled. “The black and white Great Danes over on Linden Circle?"

            "Yeah, how'd you know? The lady came outside to write her check but she didn't shut the screen door good. The dogs tore out of the house and they were on Holly like rice at a wedding." Holly was our Heinz-57-mostly-Beagle dog.

            I heard Mike inhale through his nose. “How’s Holly?”

            “Her tail might be broke, but she’s okay. I beat the tar out of 'em with my rolled up newspapers and they backed off. I think the lady felt bad 'cause she gave me a five dollar tip and a popsicle.”

            “Cool.”

~~~

“You calling Mike tonight?” I asked Dad.

            He dialed and pressed the receiver into my palm.

            “I busted my lip on the route on Friday,” I told Mike.

            “How?”

            “You know the last house on the route? The one at the bottom of Locust, before Norway Avenue? And how there’s that bent over fence in between it and the house next door?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I pretended like I was a horse jumping it, but my foot got hung up and I fell, really hard. I busted my knees to beat all, and both my hips are black and blue now."

            Mike groaned. “Bummer.”

            “Oh, that’s not the worst part,” I said. “My bottom teeth went all the way through my lower lip. Mom wanted to take me to the E.R. for stitches but I talked her out of it 'cause I hate needles.”

            “You’re doing a great job with my route, you know,” my big brother said. “I’m proud of you.”

            I handed the phone back to my dad, wrapped my arms around my waist and grinned.

~~~

I kept the paper route for years. Blew pretty much all my profits on Certs, candy cigarettes, and wax lips at the Convenient Mart in Gallaher Village. Mr. Perkins never did give me the cute blue Kharmann Ghia. His wife gave him a divorce though.

            Then one day John, another one of my big brothers, said, “Want my job at Tudor's Biscuit World? Since I’m starting Marshall soon? You can take over as the official sausage gravy taster.”

            I tapped at my front teeth with my fingernail. A weekly paycheck? Air conditioning? All the made-from-scratch-biscuits I can eat?

            I smiled. “Sure!”

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.

*I Shut My Eyes and Think of You*

I'm pretty sure you’re the reason I'm afraid of heights. If I shut my eyes tight, I picture you flinging me in the air. I clutch the collar of your white dress shirt to keep from going too high. My wispy, almost-white, baby hair brushes the ceiling and I whimper. Gentle and close you gather me, make my chest flush with yours. You indent your fingers into a spot near my heart. Your beard tickles my neck and I feel the bones beneath your skin.

            "There, there, honeypot," you say. "Everything'll be all right."

~~~

Most nights, you tucked me in and told me a tale. My favorites all  started with, "Once upon a time, many moons ago, there lived an Indian girl named Mini Haha.” I wanted to be her because I liked the way you spoke her name—with awe and tenderness. I wanted to be you because you made up the best bedtime stories ever.

~~~

Three years in a row, in the spring, we attended  the Campfire Girls' Father-Daughter Banquet at the Field House downtown. I wore my navy blue Campfire Girl get up and you'd still be in your suit from work. We'd stop at Kentucky Fried Chicken with eleven herbs and spices and buy two box dinners and Dr. Peppers. You ordered regular chicken. I requested extra crispy. You always asked the gal at the counter for an extra wet wipe. Because you knew how much I loved their Fruit Loop fragrance.
            Of all the daddies, you were usually the last to finish eating, but I didn't mind. It meant we had more time together. Alone.

   ~~~

Monday through Friday in the summertime, Mom and I went swimming at a hotel pool downtown. Sometimes you walked over from Marshall on your lunch hour and joined us.

            As I raced to hug your hips, Pat, the super tan lifeguard, would blast his whistle and bark, "No running!" 
             I'd perch on the smooth, red-tile edge of the pool, breathe deep the Coppertone and chlorine aromas, and witness your get-wet ritual. You proceeded gingerly down the steps until the water's reflection cast a wash of blue up your thighs. The minute the water licked the hem of your swim trunks, a tremor would skitter from the top of your body down. You'd scoop up water and skim your arms with it. Collect more coolness and pat it on your chest and fish belly-white tummy. I liked to imagine I had a magic marker. Then I could connect the dots of all your chocolate brown and strawberry-colored moles.
            You'd tread water near the rope between the shallow and deep ends and watch me go off the board.

            "Do a jackknife," you'd say. "Now a swan dive."
            You clapped when I attempted my first flip, even though it was more of a flop.

~~~ 

At the end of every summer you and I always cooked up a batch of homemade V-8 juice. First we plucked all the tomatoes off the vines in the backyard, even the ugly ones. Then we tucked them inside Mom's jumbo-sized pressure cooker. Added carrots and celery, salt and pepper. Simmered the concoction to death. After it cooled, we hooked Mom's foley mill onto her giant, baby poo-colored mixing bowl. You ladled the limp veggies into the mesh. I rotated the red-handled crank and watched the vegetables bleed out. You poured us each a glass, drizzled in some Worcestershire sauce, and stirred. You took a sip, smacked your lips, and grinned. I did the exact same thing because I knew it'd make you laugh.

~~~

You walked me to school every day—first through sixth grade. I was sure that meant you loved me more than the parents who put their kids on a bus. In between Green Oak Drive and Gallaher School, you addressed me like I was a grown up. Told me about B.F. Skinner and Pavlov's dog.
            "Remember how I taught you and your brothers to pee when I whistle? It's the same concept," you said.
            When it came time for seventh grade, I mourned . Beverly Hills Junior High wasn't on your way to work.

~~~

Year-round, school or no, most evenings I'd sit with you and Mom out in the living room. You'd nurse your Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and plow through half a can of Planters' Spanish red-skinned peanuts. I'd sneak some nuts when you weren't looking. Pinch 'em one at a time to make them slip out of their greasy, rosy little husks. Suck the salt off my fingers. Just like you.

            You devoured words while Mom and I laughed at the Carol Burnett Show or Sonny and Cher. You were especially fond of your Morse code magazine, Time and Newsweek, and books about the Civil War. You knew a little bit about a lot. I always thought that was cool. Still do. You reading all the time? More than likely, that's the reason I've adored books all my life. 
            And remember that spot near my heart? The one you pressed into me when I was wee tiny? The place where you both created and rescued me from my fear of falling? I can still locate it. Right here. Like my first chicken pock, it'll mark me forever.