Summer Brother

by Jaap Robben

  Two parked wheelchairs with ripped seats. White kitchen cupboards with timetables in plastic sleeves stuck to the doors. A big bag of nappies on top, torn open. A green trickle from a block hooked under the rim of the toilet bowl. Selma turns the lock with both hands and tries the handle twice to make sure the door doesn’t open.

  She yanks up her top. “You too.”

  I whip off my T-shirt. Selma bends forward, the neck of her top keeps catching on her ponytail. Her backbone is a valley down the middle of her back. “Help.” Before I can touch it, her top falls to the floor with a clumsy shake of her shoulders.

  Static strands of hair dance around her head. I don’t know if I’m allowed to look. Her breasts are heavy in her bra. Red dots on her arms. Uneven white stripes score the bulge of her belly, like rips in her skin that have grown back together. Her navel is a secret tunnel.

  “We’re nearly bare,” Selma giggles. “You’re Brian.”

  “And you’re Selma.”

  “That’s not allowed,” she whispers, suddenly serious as she runs a finger down the zip on her jeans. “That way you get in trouble.”

  “But I thought you wanted to do it?”

  Her hand reaches for the light switch.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Come here,” she says and points to a spot in front of her on the tiled floor. “Here.”

  I do as I’m told.

  Click. The light hums and ticks, and it’s a few moments before the blue fog in the tube fades to black. A strip of light seeps under the door. To my right an alarm button glows red. A fluorescent cable runs around us to a second alarm button on the other wall.

  “Tell me where you are,” Selma commands.

  “Over here.” I stick out my hands, reach up, feel hair. And one ear. “Here I am.”

  “I am, too,” Selma says.

  Now that I can’t see her, it feels like this is not quite happening. “Belly-belly.” Her fingers climb to my shoulders and force me to bend my knees. “You’re tall,” she complains.

  Suddenly, she presses her belly to mine. A pillow of soft skin shifts from side to side, so slowly it dizzies me. Something on her bra scratches my nipples. I move with her. To and fro, to and fro. A caress as soft as Mum’s bathrobe, the one I put on as a kid. Way softer than the velvety red insides of the box she kept her specs in. Or the fur of that dead baby rabbit I found, so soft it almost hurt.

  I can no longer feel where my belly ends and Selma’s begins. Her breath merges with mine.

  My tongue swims restlessly through my mouth, I want to bite into something. My dick tingles, my fingertips are all pins and needles. I think of candle wax, warm and squidgy, of sinking my nails in. Of tonguing tepid cream against the roof of my mouth. I stick out my belly, but softer feels better as it rubs against hers. I gulp at her warm breath but my kiss misses. The next kiss grazes her nose.

  I stop trying and drift to the bottom of a pool that is thicker than water, pulsing me gently from head to toe. I feel close to somewhere no one in the world has ever been.

  Then it’s gone.

  “Selma?” I follow the sound of her in the darkness, my hands reaching for her hips. The tube light flickers, hums, floods the room with light. We both stand there blinking.

  “Why did you stop?” I ask. “Did I do something wrong?” Selma yawns without putting her hand to her mouth, her pupils dark and wide. Her fingers brush her hair behind her ears and, without a word, she bends to pick up her top, stepping her feet a little further apart to keep her balance. Our bellies are our own again.

  “Just a bit longer,” I plead, and try to press my hips to hers. Selma fends me off.

  “Have you got something to do? Work or something?”

  She shakes her head all the way to the left and all the way to the right.

  “Then why stop?”

  I hold up the key to my scooter.

  “I still have a present for you.”

  “Present?”

  I pull on my T-shirt. “You can ride on the back of my scooter.”

  Selma squeals so loud we both jump.

  “You can wear my helmet, but you can’t tell anyone you’re going for a ride.”

  “Can’t tell anyone,” she cheers and throws her arms in the air.

  I turn the lock. “Quiet now. Maybe we can ride all the way to see Lucien.”

  “Lucien?” Her eyes widen. “Where is he?”

  “At home. With us.”

  A boy is standing outside the toilet, glaring.

  “Nino!” Selma guides his hand to her shoulder, takes his face in her hands and begins to stroke it. His eyes look away, but he brings his high forehead close to mine. A threat. His breath smells of liver pâté.

  “Is this Nino?” His haircut is like tufts from different brushes stuck to his scalp. He must be a lifelong teeth grinder. Even his front teeth are slanted and worn.

  “Is he angry?”

  “Nino is kind.”

  “He smells of pâté.”

  Suddenly, all the anger seems to melt from Nino’s face and he gazes toward the far end of the corridor. There’s nothing there but an empty bed. Before I can ask what he’s looking at, he starts shaking his head.

  “Can he talk?”

  “Come on,” Selma says. “To my room.”

  “Can’t he stay here?”

  His shins are scratched, the sole of his left shoe is at least an inch thick.

  “Come on,” Selma says. Nino follows her and she gives an awkward hop-skip.

  “But I thought you were coming with me. To see Lucien.”

  “Lucien?”

  “On the back of my scooter.”

  “Coot-aah!” She turns and heads for the main entrance.

  “Wait! I know another way.”

  “Door’s that way.”

  “Yes, but there’s one here, too.” I take her hand.

  When I arrived, the woman at reception stopped me and asked me who I was visiting. Before I could even think of an answer, I was out on my ear. But at the other side of the building, it was easy. The third door I tried was unlocked and opened into a room strewn with rubble and grit. Out in the corridor, all I had to do was peel away a big sheet of plastic and there I was, at the bottom of the stairs.

  The helmet is so tight it makes her pout. “Ow.” Selma shakes and jerks her head, then fiddles with the buckle that’s digging into her neck.

  “Stay still and you’ll get used to it. Or do you want me to loosen it for you? Then it won’t hurt anymore.” Her throat is the same kind of soft as her belly. I slide the buckle along a notch. “Better?”

  She tries to stick her whole hand under the helmet to scratch her ear.

  “You can take it off as soon as we’re through the gates.” I show her the footrests. “Put your feet on those. And hold on to me, nice and tight.”

  “Look,” she says, pointing to our upside-down reflection in the headlight. Spindly little bodies with massive heads.

  Nino gawps and glares. He looks down the drive and shakes his head. “Nino,” I say. “You stay here and keep a lookout.” Nothing about him shows he understands. I can’t stand it that he’s followed us all the way down here. “NINO!”

  “Dafty,” Selma says. “He’s got no ears.”

  “Is he deaf?”

  “He’s nearly got no eyes.”

  “Does he understand that he can’t come too?”

  Selma nods.

  “Okay … This is the exhaust pipe, it can get very hot,” I warn her. “Understand?”

  Her nod is a headbutt in thin air.

  “You mustn’t touch it. Not ever.”

  I’m already in the saddle. “Come on then.”

  Selma leans heavily on my shoulders, pulls at the side of my neck. The springs by the back whe
el groan. I strain to keep the scooter upright. She’s in place, her breasts and belly a firm cushion against my back.

  “Now put your arms around me.”

  “Don’t hurt me,” she mumbles.

  “Of course I won’t hurt you.”

  Her fingers settle once they’re clasped around my navel. We sit like this for a moment.

  “We’re my poster,” she says softly. I nod but I’m scared to look back in case she lets go when I move.

  “Ready?”

  To keep the scooter under control, I have to lean forward. Selma moves with me and the visor of the helmet scratches my neck.

  “No need to be afraid. I’m going to start the engine.” I press the button next to the horn and turn the throttle. Selma hugs me tighter. I try to rev in short bursts, so she can get used to it. “Hold on tight.”

  The first stretch among the bushes is strewn with twigs, and steering is tricky. We reach the asphalt driveway without falling and head for the gate—even riskier, because someone might spot us. The pointer on the speedometer nudges twenty.

  “Don’t squeeze so tight!” I shout over my shoulder. I take one hand off the handlebars for a second to loosen her grip and we wobble.

  We can stop for a swim when we reach the stream, strip down to our underpants. They’ll dry in no time when we drive on. Maybe Dad will let her sleep over because she’s Lucien’s girl. I can sleep in the outdoor bed, and once Dad starts snoring, I can sneak in to see her. She’ll lift up the covers and I’ll slip in beside her. Her belly already bare. And in the morning, before anyone’s missed her, I can take her back to the home.

  We skirt past the bins. Almost at the gates.

  Suddenly Selma’s hands fly loose. She paws my face and tries to turn me round in the saddle. “Don’t!” I brake but Selma falls back and the scooter shoots out from under me. I aim for the grass and jump clear. The scooter rides on for a few yards before the front wheel swivels and it hits the ground.

  “Are you okay?”

  Selma is sitting on the ground just as she was sitting behind me—arms in front of her, knees bent. “I’m not allowed,” she says, pointing at the gates. “I’m not allowed.”

  I unfasten the helmet. Her palm-tree ponytail droops limply over her head. Nino is still propped up against the tree at the start of the drive, exactly the way we left him.

  “But didn’t you want to see Lucien? On the scooter? It’s my present for your birthday.”

  “I’m not allowed,” she sobs.

  “Easy now, take it easy. You don’t have to.” I want to help her to her feet, but sadness makes her heavy and feeble.

  “Not allowed,” she stammers.

  “Will I take you back to Nino?” Now Selma lets me pull her up. I brush blades of grass, pine needles, and twigs from her back and her bum. She wipes her nose on her sleeve.

  “You don’t have to come,” I reassure her. “I thought you wanted to, that’s all.”

  I take hold of her warm, clammy little fist to stop her crying again. Our arms swing awkwardly as we walk back, like we’re singing the same song but in a different time.

  “Belly-belly with you was nice,” I say.

  Selma smiles again.

  -

  40

  Shit. Shit! Dad’s back already.

  I let my scooter fall in the grass and pull the helmet off my head. Clicks and buzzing from under the bonnet of the pickup. He can’t have been home long. “I’m back.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Dad snorts. “Where the hell’s your brother?”

  “In bed. I just …”

  “Fucking hell, Bry.”

  “Isn’t he there?” I rush inside. The bed is empty.

  “What do you think you’re playing at, leaving your brother alone?”

  “I wasn’t gone long,” I say, looking behind every door. I can hardly say Rico was supposed to look after him. Dad yanks open cupboards. Shelves collapse. He dashes outside.

  “Lucien, Lucien!” he calls in all directions. Emile’s curtains look as closed as they were this morning. His car doesn’t seem to have moved either. Dad catches me looking. “Does that scumbag have anything to do with this?”

  “No,” I burst out. “No way.”

  “So your brother the cripple climbed out of bed all by himself?” He grabs my cheeks and pinches viciously. “Well?”

  “He can do more than you think.”

  Dad shoves me away.

  “Lucien!” he screams, so loud that everyone must have heard. “Lucien!” His trot turns into a gallop, heading straight for Emile’s. “Lucien!”

  “What about Rico?” I call. Dad isn’t listening.

  I stick two fingers in my mouth and whistle. Rico answers straight away. The barking is coming from behind our caravan. I run over.

  “He’s here!”

  Lucien is caught between the pallets and our freezer. Arms and legs splayed like tent poles after a storm. “Here!” I shout. “He’s here!” Thank God he’s still breathing. Burst blood vessels in his right eye. Camouflage stripes on his face—green mould from the side of the freezer. My brother looks smaller than ever, but somehow huge at the same time. Rico stands with one paw on Lucien’s calf, as if he has cornered a runaway shoplifter for us.

  The insides of Lucien’s elbows are flecked red with nettle stings. There’s one on his neck, too. And they’re all over his calves. “Sorry. I went to see Selma.” He doesn’t seem to hear. “Selma!”

  “Where is he?” Dad yells.

  “Here. He’s okay.”

  “How could you leave your brother?” Dad pushes me aside. “Bloody hell, look at his arms!”

  “You were away all day. And you told me you were going to look after him.”

  Dad plucks a few dock leaves from beside the freezer and crushes them. He kneels down beside Lucien and dabs the red welts. They turn white when the leaves touch his skin, then flare up again.

  “Where were you all day?” I ask, and kick his knee. “Well?”

  I flinch when he stretches his arm. But it’s only to pull more leaves from the ground. He rubs them between his hands until his palms are green with sap, and smooths the mush over the nettle stings. “Poor sod.”

  “What do you care if it hurts?”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “You only brought him here for the money.” I want to kick his stupid head in. “This is your fault!” I spit. “Rita, too. She’s dead because of you. You fuck it all up, leave everything to me.” If he looks up at me now, I’ll break his nose with one jerk of my knee. “I hate you!”

  He lifts Lucien off the ground.

  “And Mum hates you too. She never wanted you back. And I don’t want anything to do with you either!”

  “Then fuck off back to your mother,” he says, calm enough to scare me. His elbow knocks me to one side. “Oh no, wait. Your mother didn’t want you. She chose your brother.”

  Lucien scratches Dad’s face.

  “Keep those claws of his out of my face,” Dad commands.

  “Do it yourself.”

  “Bry!”

  “Then you’ll see what it’s like to be alone with him all day!”

  Dad kicks Rico out of the way and boots the door open. He tries to switch on the light in my room, but the power’s off again. “Jean and Henri are right. You’re useless.” Dad puts Lucien down on the indoor bed. “If you’re out working all the time, how come we’ve got no money? How come we can’t even live in a normal house?”

  “That fuck-ing does it!”

  His explosion makes my blood run cold. Lucien screams and hits himself hard on the back of the head.

  “Who makes sure you two get fed of an evening?” There are sparks in his eyes. “You miserable little traitor.”

  Rico stands outside barking but doesn�
�t dare to come in.

  Dad grabs me by the neck. “Come here, you.” He marches me out of the bedroom. “So your father’s a sad old bastard, is he?”

  “Let go of me.”

  “Shut your mouth!” He throws me into the leather chair by the television and digs deep in his pocket. “What do you call this?”

  He pulls out two fifties. I don’t know what to say.

  “How much is this? Cause maybe I’m not seeing straight.”

  “Hundred euros,” I stammer. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were really working.”

  He crumples them in his fist. “Why is our tenant paying twenty euros extra all of a sudden?” His voice is quieter now. “Where do you get the fucking nerve? I’m out there busting a gut every day of the week and meanwhile my own flesh and blood is stealing from under my nose.”

  “I knew you’d never give me anything.”

  “How dare you call me a fuck-up?”

  “I didn’t mean it.” I take all the money I have left out of my pocket. “Here.”

  Dad slaps my hand and it all falls to the floor.

  “I’ll earn it back, I promise.”

  I try to stand up but he pushes me down so hard that the heavy chair scrapes across the floor. Without another word, he storms out and drives off.

  -

  41

  It’s a deep, dark night outside. I pull my pillow under the covers and rub it gently against my belly. It feels good for a while but then it starts to burn. My fingertips feel best, stroking around my navel, skating across my skin. I see Selma’s face. The little brown fleck in her eye. She whispers in my ear. “Belly-belly?” A tingle courses through my dick and down into my legs.

  A smack of the lips tells me Lucien has woken up. Selma’s face is gone, the tingle too.

  “I went to see Selma.” He rocks gently from side to side. “We danced. Belly to belly.”

  “Selma,” I whisper her name again, taste it. Saying it out loud feels good, as if she’s in here with us. “Selma is so sweet.” Lucien wobbles wildly and the whole room seems to shake. “Sorry I was so pissed off with you this morning. Sorry I left you alone.”

  Dad is asleep on the other side of the wall. No idea where he was all night. By the time he got back, we were in bed. I pretended to be sleeping but I needn’t have bothered. He stumbled into his own room and kicked off his boots without looking in on us.