Brothers and Keepers

by John Edgar Wideman

  I’m the one made her tired, John. And that’s my greatest sorrow. All the love that’s in me she created. Then I went and let her down.

  When you in prison you got plenty of time to think, that’s for damned sure. Too much time. I’ve gone over and over my life. Every moment. Every little thing again and again. I lay down on my bed and watch it happening over and over. Like a movie. I get it all broke down in pieces then I break up the pieces then I take the pieces of the pieces and run them through my hands so I remember every word a person said to me or what I said to them and I weigh the words till I think I know what each and every one meant. Then I try to put it back together. Try to understand where I been. Why I did what I did. You got time for that in here. Time’s all you got in here.

  Going over and over things sometimes you can make sense. You know. Like the chinky-chinky Chinaman sittin’ on the fence. You put it together and you think, yes. That’s why I did thus and so. Yeah. That’s why I lost that job or lost that woman or broke that one’s heart. You stop thinking in terms of something being good or being evil, you just try to say this happened because that happened because something else came first. You can spend days trying to figure out just one little thing you did. People out there in the world walk around in a daze cause they ain’t got time to think. When I was out there, I wasn’t no different. Had this Superfly thing and that was the whole bit. Nobody could tell me nothing.

  Seems like I should start the story back in Shadyside. In the house on Copeland Street. Nothing but white kids around. Them little white kids had everything, too. That’s what I thought, anyway. Nice houses, nice clothes. They could buy pop and comic books and candy when they wanted to. We wasn’t that bad off, but compared to what them little white kids had I always felt like I didn’t have nothing. It made me kinda quiet and shy around them. Me knowing all the time I wanted what they had. Wanted it bad. There was them white kids with everything and there was the black world Mommy and them was holding back from me. No place to turn, in a way. I guess you could say I was stuck in the middle. Couldn’t have what the white kids in Shadyside had, and I wasn’t allowed to look around the corner for something else. So I’d start the story with Shadyside, the house on Copeland.

  * * *

  Another place to start could be December 29, 1950—the date of Robby’s birth. For some reason—maybe my mother and father were feuding, maybe we just happened to be visiting my grandmother’s house when my mother’s time came—the trip to the hospital to have Robby began from Finance Street, from the house beside the railroad tracks in Homewood. What I remember is the bustle, people rushing around, yelling up and down the stairwell, doors slammed, drawers being opened and shut. A cold winter day so lots of coats and scarves and galoshes. My mother’s face was very pale above the dark cloth coat that made her look even bigger than she was, carrying Robby the ninth month. On the way out the front door she stopped and stared back over her shoulder like she’d forgotten something. People just about shoving her out the house. Lots of bustle and noise getting her through the crowded hallway into the vestibule. Somebody opened the front door and December rattled the glass panes. Wind gusting and whistling, everybody calling out last-minute instructions, arrangements, good-byes, blessings, prayers. My mother’s white face calm, hovering a moment above it all as she turned back toward the hall, the stairs where I was planted, halfway to the top. She didn’t find me, wasn’t looking for me. A thought had crossed her mind and carried her far away. She didn’t know why so many hands were rushing her out the door. She didn’t hear the swirl of words, the icy blast of wind. Wrapped in a navy-blue coat, either Aunt Aida’s or an old one of my grandmother’s, which didn’t have all its black buttons but stretched double over her big belly, my mother was wondering whether or not she’d turned off the water in the bathroom sink and deciding whether or not she should return up the stairs to check. Something like that crossing her mind, freeing her an instant before she got down to the business of pushing my brother into the world.

  Both my grandfathers died on December 28. My grandmother died just after dawn on December 29. My sister lost a baby early in January. The end of the year has become associated with mournings, funerals; New Year’s Day arrives burdened by a sense of loss, bereavement. Robby’s birthday became tainted. To be born close to Christmas is bad enough in and of itself. Your birthday celebration gets upstaged by the orgy of gift giving on Christmas Day. No matter how many presents you receive on December 29, they seem a trickle after the Christmas flood. Plus there’s too much excitement in too brief a period. Parents and relatives are exhausted, broke, still hung over from the Christmas rush, so there just isn’t very much left to work with if your birthday comes four short days after Jesus’. Almost like not having a birthday. Or even worse, like sharing it with your brothers and sister instead of having the private oasis of your very own special day. So Robby cried a lot on his birthdays. And it certainly wasn’t a happy time for my mother. Her father, John French, died the year after Robby was born, one day before Robby’s birthday. Fifteen years and a day later Mom would lose her mother. The death of the baby my sister was carrying was a final, cruel blow, scaring my mother, jinxing the end of the year eternally. She dreaded the holiday season, expected it to bring dire tidings. She had attempted at one point to consecrate the sad days, employ them as a period of reflection, quietly, privately memorialize the passing of the two people who’d loved her most in the world. But the death of my father’s father, then the miscarriage within this jinxed span of days burst the fragile truce my mother had effected with the year’s end. She withdraws into herself, anticipates the worst as soon as Christmas decorations begin appearing. In 1975, the year of the robbery and murder, Robby was on the run when his birthday fell. My mother was sure he wouldn’t survive the deadly close of the year.

  Robby’s birthday is smack dab in the middle of the hard time. Planted like a flag to let you know the bad time’s arrived. His adult life, the manhood of my mother’s last child, begins as she is orphaned, as she starts to become nobody’s child.

  I named Robby. Before the women hustled my mother out the door into a taxi, I jumped down the stairs, tugged on her coattail and reminded her she’d promised it’d be Robby. No doubt in my mind she’d bring me home a baby brother. Don’t ask me why I was certain. I just was. I hadn’t even considered names for a girl. Robby it would be. Robert Douglas. Where the Douglas came from is another story, but the Robert came from me because I liked the sound. Robert was formal, dignified, important. Robert. And that was nearly as nice as the chance I’d have to call my little brother Rob and Robby.

  He weighed seven pounds, fourteen ounces. He was born in Allegheny Hospital at 6:30 in the evening, December 29, 1950. His fingers and toes were intact and quite long. He was a plump baby. My grandfather, high on Dago Red, tramped into the maternity ward just minutes after Robby was delivered. John French was delighted with the new baby. Called him Red. A big fat little red nigger.

  * * *

  December always been a bad month for me. One the worst days of my life was in December. It’s still one the worst days in my life even after all this other mess. Jail. Running. The whole bit. Been waiting to tell you this a long time. Ain’t no reason to hold it back no longer. We into this telling-the-truth thing so mize well tell it all. I’m still shamed, but here it is. You know that TV of youall’s got stolen from Mommy’s. Well, I did it. Was me and Henry took youall’s TV that time and set the house up to look like a robbery. We did it. Took my own brother’s TV. Couldn’t hardly look you in the face for a long time after we done it. Was pretty sure youall never knowed it was me, but I felt real bad round youns anyway. No way I was gon confess though. Too shamed. A junkie stealing from his own family. See. Used to bullshit myself. Say I ain’t like them other guys. They stone junkies, they hooked. Do anything for a hit. But me, I’m Robby. I’m cool. I be believing that shit, too. Fooling myself. You got to bullshit yourself when you falling. Got to do it to live wit y
ourself. See but where it’s at is you be doing any goddamn thing for dope. You hooked and that’s all’s to it. You a stone junkie just like the rest.

  Always wondered if you knew I took it.

  Mom was suspicious. She knew more than we did then. About the dope. The seriousness of it. Money disappearing from her purse when nobody in the house but the two of you. Finding a syringe on the third floor. Stuff like that she hadn’t talked about to us yet. So your stealing the TV was a possibility that came up. But to me it was just one of many. One of the things that could have happened along with a whole lot of other possibilities we sat around talking about. An unlikely possibility as far as I was concerned. Nobody wanted to believe it was you. Mom tried to tell us how it could be but in my mind you weren’t the one. Haven’t thought about it much since then. Except as one of those things that make me worry about Mom living in the house alone. One of those things making Homewood dangerous, tearing it down.

  I’m glad I’m finally getting to tell you. I never could get it out. Didn’t want you to think I’d steal from my own brother. Specially since all youall done to help me out. You and Judy and the kids. Stealing youall’s TV. Don’t make no sense, does it? But if we gon get the story down mize well get it all down.

  It was a while ago. Do you remember the year?

  Nineteen seventy-one was Greens. When we robbed Greens and got in big trouble so it had to be the year before that, 1970. That’s when it had to be. Youns was home for Christmas. Mommy and them was having a big party. A reunion kinda cause all the family was together. Everybody home for the first time in a long time. Tish in from Detroit. David back from Philly. Youns in town. My birthday, too. Party spozed to celebrate my birthday too, since it came right along in there after Christmas. Maybe that’s why I was feeling so bad. Knowing I had a birthday coming and knowing at the same time how fucked up I was.

  Sat in a chair all day. I was hooked for the first time. Good and hooked. Didn’t know how low you could feel till that day. Cold and snowing outside. And I got the stone miseries inside. Couldn’t move. Weak and sick. Henry too. He was wit me in the house feeling bad as I was. We was two desperate dudes. Didn’t have no money and that Jones down on us.

  Mommy kept asking, What’s wrong with you two? She was on my case all day. What ails you, Robby? Got to be about three o’clock. She come in the room again: You better get up and get some decent clothes on. We’re leaving for Geral’s soon. See cause it was the day of the big Christmas party. Geral had baked a cake for me. Everybody was together and they’d be singing Happy Birthday Robby and do. The whole bit and I’m spozed to be guest of honor and can’t even move out the chair. Here I go again disappointing everybody. Everybody be at Geral’s looking for me and Geral had a cake and everything. Where’s Robby? He’s home dying cause he can’t get no dope.

  Feeling real sorry for myself but I’m hating me too. Wrapped up in a blanket like some damned Indin. Shivering and wondering how the hell Ima go out in this cold and hustle up some money. Wind be howling. Snow pitching a bitch. There we is. Stuck in the house. Two pitiful junkies. Scheming how we gon get over. Some sorry-assed dudes. But it’s comical in a way too, when you look back. To get well we need to get money. And no way we gon get money less we go outside and get sicker than we already is. Mom peeking in the room, getting on my case. Get up out that chair, boy. What are you waiting for? We’re leaving in two minutes.

  So I says, Go on. I ain’t ready. Youns go on. I’ll catch up with youns at Geral’s.

  Mommy standing in the doorway. She can’t say too much, cause youns is home and you ain’t hip to what’s happening. C’mon now. We can’t wait any longer for you. Please get up. Geral baked a cake for you. Everybody’s looking forward to seeing you.

  Seem like she stands there a hour begging me to come. She ain’t mad no more. She’s begging. Just about ready to cry. Youall in the other room. You can hear what she’s saying but you can’t see her eyes and they tearing me up. Her eyes begging me to get out the chair and it’s tearing me up to see her hurting so bad, but ain’t nothing I can do. Jones sitting on my chest and ain’t no getup in me.

  Youns go head, Mommy. I’ll be over in a little while. Be there to blow them candles out and cut the cake.

  She knew better. Knew if I didn’t come right then, chances was I wasn’t coming at all. She knew but wasn’t nothing she could do. Guess I knew I was lying too. Nothing in my mind cept copping that dope. Yeah, Mom. Be there to light them candles. I’m grinning but she ain’t smiling back. She knows I’m in trouble, deep trouble. I can see her today standing in the doorway begging me to come with youns.

  But it ain’t meant to be. Me and Henry thought we come up with a idea. Henry’s old man had some pistols. We was gon steal em and hock em. Take the money and score. Then we be better. Wouldn’t be no big thing to hustle some money, get the guns outa hock. Sneak the pistols back in Henry’s house, everything be alright. Wouldn’t even exactly be stealing from his old man. Like we just borrowing the pistols till we score and take care business. Henry’s old man wouldn’t even know his pistols missing. Slick. Sick as we was, thinking we slick.

  A hundred times. Mom musta poked her head in the room a hundred times.

  What’s wrong with you?

  Like a drum beating in my head. What’s wrong with you? But the other thing is stronger. The dope talking to me louder. It says get you some. It says you ain’t never gon get better less you cop.

  We waited long as we could but it didn’t turn no better outside. Still snowing. Wind shaking the whole house. How we gon walk to Henry’s and steal them pistols? Henry live way up on the hill. All the way up Tokay then you still got a long way to go over into the projects. Can’t make it. No way we gon climb Tokay. So then what? Everybody’s left for Geral’s. Then I remembers the TV youns brought. A little portable Sony black-and-white, right? You and Judy sleeping in Mom’s room and she has her TV already in there, so the Sony ain’t unpacked. Saw it sitting with youall’s suitcases over by the dresser. On top the dresser in a box. Remembered it and soon’s I did I knew we had to have it. Sick as I was that TV had to go. Wouldn’t really be stealing. Borrow it instead of borrowing the pistols. Pawn it. Get straight. Steal some money and buy it back. Just borrowing youall’s TV.

  Won’t take me and Henry no time to rob something and buy back the TV. We stone thieves. Just had to get well first so we could operate. So we took youns TV and set the house up to look like a robbery.

  * * *

  I’m remembering the day. Wondering why it had slipped completely from my mind. I feel like a stranger. Yet as Robby talks, my memory confirms details of his recollection. I admit, yes. I was there. That’s the way it was. But where was I? Who was I? How did I miss so much?

  His confessions make me uncomfortable. Instead of concentrating on what he’s revealing, I’m pushed into considering all the things I could be confessing, should be confessing but haven’t and probably won’t ever. I feel hypocritical. Why should I allow my brother to repose a confidence in me when it’s beyond my power to reciprocate? Shouldn’t I confess that first? My embarrassment, my uneasiness, the clinical, analytic coldness settling over me when I catch on to what’s about to happen.

  I have a lot to hide. Places inside myself where truth hurts, where incriminating secrets are hidden, places I avoid, or deny most of the time. Pulling one piece of that debris to the surface, airing it in the light of day doesn’t accomplish much, doesn’t clarify the rest of what’s buried down there. What I feel when I delve deeply into myself is chaos. Chaos and contradiction. So how up front can I get? I’m moved by Robby’s secrets. The heart I have is breaking. But what that heart is and where it is I can’t say. I can’t depend on it, so he shouldn’t. Part of me goes out to him. Heartbreak is the sound of ice cracking. Deep. Layers and layers muffling the sound.

  I listen but I can’t trust myself. I have no desire to tell everything about myself so I resist his attempt to be up front with me. The chaos at my co
re must be in his. His confession pushes me to think of all the stuff I should lay on him. And that scares the shit out of me. I don’t like to feel dirty, but that’s how I feel when people try to come clean with me.

  Very complicated and very simple too. The fact is I don’t believe in clean. What I know best is myself and, knowing what I know about myself, clean seems impossible. A dream. One of those better selves occasionally in the driver’s seat but nothing more. Nothing to be depended upon. A self no more or less in control than the countless other selves who each, for a time, seem to be running things.

  Chaos is what he’s addressing. What his candor, his frankness, his confession echo against. Chaos and time and circumstance and the old news, the bad news that we still walk in circles, each of us trapped in his own little world. Behind bars. Locked in our cells.

  But my heart can break, does break listening to my brother’s pain. I just remember differently. Different parts of the incident he’s describing come back. Strange thing is my recollections return through the door he opened. My memories needed his. Maybe the fact that we recall different things is crucial. Maybe they are foreground and background, propping each other up. He holds on to this or that scrap of the past and I listen to what he’s saved and it’s not mine, not what I saw or heard or felt. The pressure’s on me then. If his version of the past is real, then what’s mine? Where does it fit? As he stitches his memories together they bridge a vast emptiness. The time lost enveloping us all. Everything. And hearing him talk, listening to him try to make something of the nothing, challenges me. My sense of the emptiness playing around his words, any words, is intensified. Words are nothing and everything. If I don’t speak I have no past. Except the nothing, the emptiness. My brother’s memories are not mine, so I have to break into the silence with my own version of the past. My words. My whistling in the dark. His story freeing me, because it forces me to tell my own.