The Little Brother

by Victoria Patterson

He lifted a roll from the basket, split it with his thumbs, and inserted a knifed hunk of butter. “That’s what Limbaugh calls him since he caught that scumbag,” he said. “Look it up.” (I did: America’s hero, not America’s favorite sheriff. National attention for the quick capture of the kidnapper of a six-year-old blond girl from Tustin.) He stared at the bread for a second and then took a bite. Chewed, swallowed, added, “A good man. My friend. A family-values guy. He’s going far, just you watch.”

  Dad claimed to be “a family-values Christian,” but he avoided church. He didn’t really want to think about religion, God and spirituality, death and the afterlife. But he did believe in the sacrifice story line of Jesus Christ, and that Christ not only approved of his wealth, but also considered Dad’s striving and possession of riches in this world evidence that he deserved a good place in the next.

  Dad offered his own story as proof that radical transformation was possible. A high school dropout, he rose above poverty, neglect, and an abusive father and by his early teens was already working menial jobs and saving money to build his first business. What was your excuse?

  Sometimes he would look at me for a moment, after a particular indulgence purchased with cash from his thick-wadded money clip—he kept the hundreds visible on the outside, the smaller denominations moving inward to the dollar bills—and then ask, “Happy, Even?”

  I knew it was a rhetorical question.

  When we were at home watching television together, his cocktail glass clinked with ice. He held the glass by the rim with his fingertips, let it dangle, a cigarette in his other hand and an ashtray nearby.

  I’d get a warm sensation under my sternum, watching him get choked up during some movie or documentary, or even something I read to him, a Raymond Carver poem or a passage from a book that I liked.

  “Isn’t that something?” he might mutter, turning his head until he redirected his emotions.

  He’d signal that he was going to bed by taking off his glasses, folding them, putting them in their case, and setting them on the table next to the remote.

  “Good night, Even,” he’d say, stretching, scratching his scalp, squinting at me—he could barely see me without his glasses—the corners of his mouth downturned. “Sweet dreams.”

  The rim of his glasses left a soft pink imprint in the flesh where they sat on his nose. Sometimes he pinched and rubbed this area with his forefinger and thumb.

  He’d put his hand on the top of my head and smooth my hair.

  “Night, Dad.”

  No rules. I could stay up and watch TV until morning if I wanted, another reason that I preferred my dad’s. Many nights I did, making microwave popcorn, letting the kernels drop to the floor as I watched mindless TV—the cleaning lady came twice a week, no need to worry—pulling a blanket over myself, and then waking on the couch the next morning to a muted TV and the bubbling sound of Dad brewing coffee in the kitchen.

  No espresso machine for him. No lattes or cappuccinos or frothed milk. Those were for wimps, fags, and the French, he once told me straight-faced, and when I laughed, he looked confused, and then more serious. But then we both laughed. We had no idea what was to come.

  2.

  AN OLD-SCHOOL, HEAVY-BREATHING, stethoscope-wearing dermatologist liberated me from the worst of my acne with a tetracycline prescription, so that through eighth grade and high school, I was able to blend into my environment. As in Cucamonga, I found peers who were prone to conformity, swayed by popular culture, and entitled. But they were also higher-income families and were apt to begin trends rather than just follow them. They manifested a confidence mixed with boredom and a willingness to wear blinders in order to create and maintain their insularity, knowing that their pasts, presents, and futures were anchored in the security of money. Every other family in Newport Beach seemed to own a golden retriever named Delilah or Charles, along with a second home in either Mammoth or Palm Desert.

  Despite my camouflage abilities, I remained, in some aspects, alienated, heightened by hormones and a deep understanding that my exterior was a deception. But the way I looked allowed me to remain in the background like a chameleon: invisible, observant, protective. Teachers liked me. I made some friends in the eighth grade, and we ate our lunches together under an awning by the commons, rode our skateboards after school, surfed, and played Xbox and PlayStation.

  Fortunately, a popular kid named Mike, an athlete who didn’t like the company of jocks, took a shine to me, saving me from much social misery. Big, good-natured, kind, and funny, Mike went on to play and star in varsity football and basketball in high school, and we remained best friends.

  Gabe visited Dad and me on the weekends. According to the custody agreement, our mom was supposed to have visitation rights with me. But she banished me from my childhood home since I had chosen to live with Dad. Not that I wanted to visit her or Cucamonga anyway. Every other Tuesday, we had strained phone conversations, and one month she sent me three rambling letters, hoping to induce guilt for my “ultimate betrayal.”

  During Gabe’s visits, we pretended that nothing had changed. We went to the movies, ate, watched TV, slept, and acted like everything was all right.

  Dad didn’t normally spend time with us. But now he took us miniature golfing and go-kart racing, making an effort to be with us—to be with Gabe. These short bursts of entertainment-fueled activities were meant to be for our benefit but also appeased Dad’s conscience.

  Gabe, still a head shorter than me and twenty pounds lighter, wore his jeans low with untucked, baggy T-shirts, and he often smelled of marijuana.

  He’s always been funny, good at imitating people, and those days he liked to call me his “genetic replicate by one half.”

  Mom used to say that I came out of the womb glum and pondering—“Sort of like you are now”—and that she’d put me in my high chair and tried all sorts of things to get me to laugh: jumping into view with a banana in her ear, pretending to answer her shoe like a phone, acting like a monkey. I’d just stare at her—“That same stare you always have, like you’re just putting up with me.” Then when Gabe would simply toddle into the room, my face would light up. He didn’t have to do anything. Just seeing him made me happy. No one could make me laugh like Gabe did.

  His diminutive stature helped his skateboarding, and he’d gained a reputation by this time. He was good, really good, far better than me. He specialized in a move called the boneless, where he grabbed the board near the wheels, took his front foot off the board, then planted the board on the ground and jumped. While in the air, his front foot would drop back onto the board and he’d land with his knees bent. He could do the boneless anywhere, with variations and exaggerations, and people would gather to watch. Skateboarding, he was in his element. But he couldn’t skateboard all the time.

  I didn’t realize how angry he’d become—about the divorce, my leaving—but I got my first hint on a Saturday night when we spent the weekend together at Dad’s house.

  There’d been a strain between Dad and Gabe, but things seemed to be going better, especially without our mom’s presence to stoke Gabe’s animosity. We had dinner at Banditos Steakhouse that night and everyone seemed to be in good enough moods, though no one talked much. We chewed and drank and half smiled at each other for most of the meal. Dad thumbed his wad of cash and then decided to slap his credit card on the table before the check came. Our server picked it up, brought it back, he signed, and we were done.

  At Dad’s house, we positioned ourselves in front of the TV screen, and after some discussion settled on an old James Bond movie (Live and Let Die). Despite the noisy, violent, plot-laden film, my eyelids kept shutting, so I excused myself and went to bed. A cumulative three-night battle with insomnia (a recurring problem, to this day) had left me excited about what I forecasted—from my nodding head, full stomach, and heavy eyelids—as certain sleep. I turned one last time, and the light from the screen shone on their similarly engrossed profiles, our dad’s chin and nose w
eightier with age.

  In bed, a current of unconsciousness was just about to pull me deeper in when I heard a thudding noise. I allowed the thud to come from my sleep world, but soon—after another thud—I had to acknowledge its reality. I sat up in bed and listened for more.

  At first nothing, but then a crash sounded, and Dad yelled, “Listen: Calm down!”

  I switched on the light. Then I heard Gabe scream. This was followed by another crash.

  “Don’t touch me,” Gabe said. “Get away”—a scraping noise. A sound like furniture being turned over, scuffed against the floor.

  “I’m not trying to hurt you”—Dad.

  “Don’t, I swear to god, you fucking faggot.”

  “Gabe, c’mon,” said Dad. More shuffling.

  “I’ll do it!”

  “Gabe, no.”

  “I hate you!”

  “Gabe”—a scuffling, a shriek, and then a whistling pause, and it was as if I knew what was going to happen before I heard the unmistakable sound of shattering glass as the big TV screen exploded.

  I came down the hallway, and in the half light, the house had an eerie feel. My bare feet made soft pats on the wood flooring. After the screaming, the lack of noise sounded hollow, like how it might be to fall into a void.

  Pausing before the living room, I saw Dad and Gabe standing over a heap of broken glass. Both were breathing heavily. Two recliners lay overturned on their sides, the coffee table was perched at an angle, the base and frame of the TV had shards of glass at their perimeter, and the couch had shifted a few feet. A thick metal ashtray leaned sideways against a wall among a scattering of butts and ashes.

  I made an involuntary cough noise, and their faces lifted in unison, turning to me with a stunned blankness, as if they expected me to tell them how to feel about what had just happened.

  A wave of nausea and fatigue came over me. “Put on your shoes,” I said, “so you don’t step on glass.”

  They both nodded.

  I went to my room and slipped on my Vans, and then I went to the closet in the kitchen, gathered a broom, a dustpan, and a Dustbuster, and closed the door behind me. Before going back into the living room, I put the items down and filled a glass with water from the sink. By the miniclock on the oven, I saw that it was 10:13 PM. I drank two glasses of water, standing at the sink.

  I took my time, and I thought about how a door from the kitchen led to the backyard, and beyond that there was a gate. I had a powerful urge to leave. I could walk away, or take our dad’s Porsche. He kept the keys in the ignition. How hard would it be to learn how to drive? Who were these people? Where could I go? But the water steadied me, and by the last glassful, which I drank slowly, I knew that I had to stay.

  I went back to the living room to help them clean. We did so mechanically and quietly, exhausted and cooperative, a somber repentance to our actions, avoiding eye contact.

  When we were done—after filling two large kitchen bags with debris and setting them outside by the trash cans, along with the TV frame and its base, and returning the furniture to its place—we went to our separate bedrooms without saying good night.

  Back in my bedroom, I lay down, prepared for another night of restlessness, of contemplation and anxiety. But within minutes, I fell asleep.

  I would have continued sleeping had someone not awakened me.

  I rubbed my eyes and lifted myself to sitting. Half-asleep and disoriented, I must have looked scared, because Gabe said, “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

  He sat on the bed next to me. His shoulders bent down so I couldn’t see his face and I wondered if he was crying. He used to cry a lot when we were kids—only in private.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Took one of Dad’s sleeping pills but it’s not working for shit. Should’ve taken more.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me to go fishing in Dad’s medicine cabinet. Immediately, I wanted some. Even, I thought.

  After a long pause, he said, “I don’t know what happened”—he shook his head. Then he looked at me, and I saw that he hadn’t been crying, and he said, “It was the weirdest thing, Even. We were watching the movie, it was such a cool scene, in New Orleans, one of those funeral bands going down the street, and a man comes up and he asks this guy, ‘Whose funeral?’ and the man says to him, ‘Yours,’ and stabs him, and he goes down, and then the people put him in a casket, lift him up and take him, and it’s his funeral, and Dad says, ‘That’s bullshit,’ and I say, ‘Shut up,’ and he says, ‘You shut up,’ and I couldn’t take it, you know. He’d been grumbling the whole movie; you know the way that he does. Like he knows everything. Fuck, I hate that. You know what I’m talking about. I saw a blast of red, and the next thing I know”—his eyes went big.

  We looked at each other for a long time, letting his telling of what happened diffuse some. His cowlick bloomed, making it look like a squirrel was crawling up his head. Instinctively, I ran my hand over my hair in the same spot to smooth it, as if looking in a mirror.

  “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  “I know,” I said. We sat quietly for a moment, and then I said, “Why don’t you apologize to Dad?”

  “No way.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” he repeated.

  I said nothing.

  “I don’t want to be that person.”

  “I know,” I said, which visibly appeased him.

  “It’s weird,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “How is it that I can feel so bad just looking at him?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Sometimes when I lose my temper like that,” he said, looking right at me, “I mean like I did tonight, I feel like I’m most like him.”

  “That makes no sense,” I said. Our dad got mad sometimes, but he wasn’t a brute.

  “Okay, maybe not like him, but that’s when I feel most connected to him.” He continued to stare at me. It seemed important to him that I understand. After a long pause, he added, “It’s like how I can get through to him or something.”

  I shook my head. “He’s not that bad,” I said.

  “Tell that to Uncle Frank,” he said. Uncle Frank was Dad’s former business partner, not really our uncle, but we just called him that. After a bitter feud over the formula for their drywall—and who had invented it—Uncle Frank threatened to sue Dad. But Dad had the patent: He bought Uncle Frank out and changed the name to Hyde Drywall.

  “He’s not a bad guy,” I repeated. “You don’t know what happened with Uncle Frank. We were just kids. He’s probably doing fine, with all that money that Dad gave to him.”

  “He’s probably living in a trailer park.”

  I didn’t say anything. I could barely remember Uncle Frank.

  “You’re the one that’s just like him,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “I’m not. I’m like you.”

  “If you’re not careful,” he said, “you’re going to end up like him.”

  This didn’t strike me as an awful thing, but I didn’t tell him that. Instead I said, “He’s your dad, too.”

  “You two are soul mates,” he said. “Your lives run parallel.”

  “Shut up,” I said, and I shoved him a little in the shoulder.

  He smiled.

  We got up after that, and we ate toasted strawberry Pop-Tarts, staring at the space where the television used to be.

  3.

  THE WEEKEND PASSED, and no one mentioned the fight. Like it had never happened. Gabe and Dad seemed more careful, considerate, and at ease, as if they’d released the pressure on a valve. The following Monday, as I left for school, I watched three men unloading a large box from their truck. By the time I got home that afternoon, we had a TV again, with an even more sophisticated remote and sound system.

  THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY afternoon, Dad took Gabe and me to Rose Hills cemetery in Whittier to visit our relatives’ graves. “They’re all buried at Rose Hills,�
� he told us, as we crammed into his red Porsche 911 Carrera. “We got a discount on family burial sites a long time ago, before it got so expensive. You’ll be buried there, me, all of us together. It’s about time we go visit.” I wondered what could have prompted this from him, possibly the show that we’d watched on the History Channel a few nights before about the genealogy of the Vikings. He’d been really into it.

  Once we were in the car, he lit a cigarette. He smoked Newports, which I found funny, about a pack a day, and he claimed the menthol didn’t give him as bad breath as regular cigarettes. He told us that our ancestors were German, Irish, and English, hard workers and devout churchgoers. That was where he’d gotten his work ethic, he said. “Your great-great-granddaddy,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone, “the patriarch of our clan, he might’ve owned a few slaves. We’re not sure.”

  We drove all the way there with the top down, the three of us crammed into only two seats, me in the middle with my ass lodged uncomfortably between the two seats, his golf clubs taking up the space in the back where I might’ve otherwise sat.

  Dad stopped at a little hut selling flowers and bought a dozen white carnations with a rainbow-colored pinwheel stuck in the middle. We drove around Sunshine Terrace looking for gravesites for close to an hour. The cemetery is huge, with nothing but tiny numbered placement markings on the curbs, and all Dad remembered was that ours were somewhere on Sunshine Terrace.

  We found a tiny shack at the base of the hill, thinking that it might be an information booth. An old man inside created a makeshift map on the back of a McDonald’s cheeseburger wrapper. He coughed, and then said that he was about to close up.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  The sun, low in the sky, cast an amber glow over the grass and trees. The map didn’t help much, and Dad put it on the floorboard. We drove one last time to the top of Sunshine Terrace and slowly down, scoping the curbs for their tiny numbers, L.A. glimmering in the distance, swathed in a smoggy sunset.

  “We’re close,” Dad said. “I know it.”