“He didn’t hurt me!” Mama shouted from the hall. “If you’d listened, I told you he didn’t know what he was doing. He grabbed me in his sleep. He wasn’t awake.”
Daddy rubbed his jaw, his breath coming hard with anger, but I could tell he’d heard her and was reining himself in. He couldn’t back down and had to save face. He looked around the room with disgust.
“Look at this place. It stinks in here! And you’re a Marine? An officer? I wouldn’t tolerate this kind of slovenliness on my boat, and I’m sure as hell not going to tolerate it in my home. What the hell’s wrong with you, boy? You’re making your mother cry, did you know that?”
Taylor flinched but he didn’t respond.
“As long as you’re living in my house, I want you up and showered and dressed like any decent person, got it? Then your mama’s going to clean this pigsty. You’ll help her. And you’ll stop smoking in the house. After the holidays I expect you to start looking for a job, too. Not just for the money but the direction. You need direction, boy.”
Taylor didn’t move, but his eyes shifted and bore into our father’s. “I’ve taken my last order. I’ll pack up and leave by the end of the day.”
I heard Mama gasp. “No!” she cried, stepping into the room. “It’s Christmas!” She turned to Daddy. “Stop this fighting, hear? I won’t have it!” To Taylor she pleaded, “Taylor, honey, you can’t leave now. Please, you just got here.”
Taylor frowned but said nothing.
Mama looked at Daddy again, her eyes begging him to say something.
Daddy adjusted his pants, stepped closer, and said, the anger gone from his voice, “We just want you to get out of this slump, Son. What you’re doin’ here just ain’t healthy.”
“You think I don’t know it’s not healthy?” Taylor responded with heat. “I’m not healthy.” He took a breath. “I have PTSD.”
I didn’t know what it meant. I looked at Mama.
She had a puzzled look on her face that matched mine. “I’ve heard of it,” she said. “It’s a brain injury, right?”
Taylor squinted, then said simply, “Yes. It’s a complicated disorder. It’s different things to different people.”
Daddy’s eyes narrowed slightly and he said bluntly, “It’s a mental illness.”
“A mental illness?” Mama said, shaken by the term.
“I’m not nuts, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Taylor said, unruffled. “But I’ve got issues. Clearly. Nightmares being one of them. They may improve in time, but they won’t ever go away. Not completely.”
“Uncle Tommy, Grandma’s brother, came back from Nam with something like that,” Daddy said. “He became paranoid and suffered headaches. He’d isolate himself in his woodshed. Days on end. We tried to help him. To get him to see a doctor but . . .” Daddy cleared his throat. “We lost him. . . .”
Mama gasped and her hand reached for Daddy’s arm. “Don’t say things like that. That’s not going to happen to our son.”
“Just sayin’. Better to know the devil you’re dealing with. Thing is, nobody called it PTSD.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mama snapped at him. “Taylor’s depressed, I can see that. But suicide? It’s cruel to throw that ugly word out.”
“Truth is,” Taylor intervened in a dull voice, “some guys with PTSD do commit suicide.”
Daddy waved his hand in arrogant dismissal. “Those doctors are handing that PTSD diagnosis out to anyone with a complaint because it’s easy. Just a wastebasket diagnosis. I know what you’ve got. It’s called shell shock.”
“That’s enough!” Mama said.
Taylor said nothing but his lips tightened.
“You’re saying all this”—Daddy swung out his arm, indicating the disheveled room—“is on account’a your PTSD?” His doubt rang in his voice.
Taylor didn’t answer but rubbed his forehead with his palm.
“PTSD is for sissies,” Daddy said with bluster. “None of those namby-pamby excuses for you. You’re better than that. You knew when you went to war you were going to dance with the devil. But you leave the devil there. You don’t carry him home with you.”
Taylor dropped his hand and glared at our father. “It’s not like I have a choice,” he ground out.
Daddy pointed at my brother. “You do! You’re a McClellan. We get knocked around three times before breakfast out on the boat, then stand up for the next bout. We’re made of sterner stuff. And you’re my son. You can do it. I know you can.”
I could see Taylor shrink into himself. When Daddy pulls that McClellan card on me, it leaves me feeling like a loser, too.
“You know what we say on the boat—what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Right? Remember?” Daddy was gaining steam, thinking he was winning the argument. He pulled his pants higher and shifted his weight. “Well, tell me it doesn’t fit this situation we got right here, too.” He jerked his head in a nod, then put his hands on his hips and released a long sigh, letting loose the tension he’d held in his chest. “Now do us all a solid, Son,” he said, a marked change in his voice. The anger was gone now, replaced by concern and a bit of conciliation. “Go on and take a shower, shave, and make yourself presentable. It’d do you good to take a walk to the docks. Get some fresh air. Check out the trawler. Tell you what. Let’s walk out together and take stock. You and me. Same as we always done. Deal?”
Daddy held out his hand.
Taylor stared at the outstretched hand for a minute. Then he surprised us. He didn’t take the hand—instead he walked into Daddy’s arms and hugged him. Daddy stood still for a second like he didn’t know what to do. Then he wrapped his arms around Taylor in a tight bear hug, the kind that squeezes the breath right out of me. That’s when Taylor began to cry. I’ve never seen my big brother cry, not even when he fell from a tree and broke his leg.
My mama pushed me back and closed the door, giving the men their privacy. She had tears in her eyes, too. And to be honest, I shed a few myself.
When Taylor came out of his room again, he’d done as Daddy asked. He was shaved, showered, and dressed. He looked handsome and Mama told him so, several times. She and I stood on the porch and watched as they took off for the dock, matching long strides down the narrow road. Oaks bordered both sides of the road beneath a gray sky with low-lying clouds. Leafless shrubs and yellowed grass clustered in their scrubby, wiry winter garb. It was a crisp December day. Two weeks until Christmas. We stood side by side and watched until they disappeared from view at the bend of the road.
Mama lifted her chin and sniffed the air. “Smells like rain,” she announced, then looked at me to see if I agreed.
“Yep.”
“All right, then.” She tapped the railing. “I’ll open up those windows and give that room a good airing out.” Her eyes gleamed with anticipation.
Mama approached Taylor’s room with the relish of a starving man before a feast. She donned her apron and rubber gloves, tied back her hair, and turned up the music. My mother is a force of nature when it comes to housecleaning. She put me to work carrying out baskets of dirty laundry, dirty dishes to the sink, and bags of garbage to the curb. She opened the curtains and windows wide and brought in buckets of hot soapy water. The wind whistled as it carried away the stench of depression from the room. I heard my mama hum as she scrubbed the floor, then sprayed the windows and washed them inside and out till they gleamed. By the time she was done, my brother’s bedroom smelled like the great pine woods—and was about as cold. Finally she closed the windows again.
She removed the rubber gloves and held them dripping at her sides while she surveyed her handiwork. I knew that all that backbreaking work she’d done for Taylor was her gift to him. I reckoned Taylor might not see it that way now. But someday he would and be thankful. I was right proud of all she’d done. I turned to look at her face and saw hope shining in her eyes that the spotlessness of the room would somehow help to clean out whatever was mucking up Taylor�
��s mind. She sighed, went out, and returned a moment later with a glass vase filled with clove-studded oranges, pinecones, and sprigs of fresh pine. “The finishing touch,” she said, and smiled at me. Her face was so pretty, wreathed in all that hope and joy and love.
I had to smile back. Because that’s what happens when the spirit of Christmas hits you. It’s contagious.
The next day the rain that my mother had predicted fell in torrents. And Taylor’s door was closed again.
I came home early from school because we were on exam schedule before the Christmas break. Even though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon, the sky was dark gray and a rare winter thunder rolled ominously in the clouds. I ran from the bus into the house, but I still got drenched. I took off my shoes and coat and dumped them in the front hall, then hurried to the kitchen, where the smell of fresh-baked cookies warmed the air.
“Cookies!” I exclaimed as I followed my nose to the kitchen table, where rows of them cooled on waxed paper. My mother’s almond crescent cookies. My favorites.
“Those are for the cookie swap,” she warned me.
“I don’t want those other ladies’ cookies,” I whined. “I only want yours. You make the best.”
She smiled smugly and shook her head. “You ought to go into politics.” She tossed me a dish towel. “Dry your hair.”
I smirked as I watched her make me a plate. She served it to me with a glass of milk.
“Take this to your brother, will you?”
My brother? She’d said it so casually, but I heard the tension in her voice. She was asking me to do what she was either afraid or unable to do herself. No amount of coaxing . . . or cookies . . . would lure him out.
“What about my cookies?” I felt ignored. I was tired of Taylor getting all the attention.
“Come back and I’ll have your plate ready.”
My mama ran a hard deal. “Is his door open?”
“No,” she said lightly, looking into the oven at the cookies baking. “But it’s a good excuse to get him out again.” She rose and turned to look at me with a smile. “Don’t you think?” she asked brightly.
I pretended that I bought it. “If your cookies don’t do the trick, nothing will. But what a Grinch,” I added under my breath as I slid off my chair. Grabbing the plate, I headed upstairs. He was just my brother, I told myself. A grumpy, lazy, kind-of-crazy brother, but my brother nonetheless. So why did I feel so nervous?
At his closed door, I thought of the chapter in A Christmas Carol where Scrooge saw his door knocker morph into the face of his old, and dead, business partner, Marley. Kind of gave me the shivers. To be honest, I was angry at my brother because I hoped that after Daddy and he went out to the boat together things would change. They’d get back to normal around here. But Taylor was back behind his closed door and we were all acting weird again. He might have been hurt by a bomb, but he made this house like a minefield for the rest of us.
I shifted the cookies and knocked. There was no answer. I tried again, harder this time. Still no answer. Now I was mad. I was getting bored with his act. I looked at the plate of my mother’s famous almond cookies and, angry, stuffed one in my mouth.
“I got some cookies for you,” I called out, taunting him with my mouth full. “And they’re real good. If you don’t open the door, I’m gonna eat them all.”
“Go away.”
What a jerk, I thought. If Daddy could barge in, so could I. I pushed open the door and walked in. It smelled bad again, cigarettes and stale food and body odor. He had his bedside lamp turned on so I saw him sitting on the side of his bed, with his back to me. His arm jerked when I walked in as he hid something under the blanket. I immediately felt weird, like I was barging in on something private.
“Uh, sorry,” I blurted out. “I just wanted to bring you your cookies.”
Taylor raised one hand to wipe his brow. He was sweating and I couldn’t figure out why. He had the window cracked open and it was chilly in his room.
Taylor cleared his throat. “I told you I didn’t want any cookies.” His voice sounded tight and shaken.
Was he crying? I wondered. Again? I stood, frozen and embarrassed for him. I couldn’t bear to see my older brother cry. He was the strongest, bravest man I knew. I didn’t know what else to say so I simply walked to his nightstand and set the plate down beside the bottle of liquor. It was another bottle; barely any of the amber liquid was left. I was surprised to see a copy of A Christmas Carol there as well. I looked around nervously, trying to catch a glimpse of what Taylor was hiding under his blanket.
“I set the plate right here, okay? You can eat them when you want.”
“Just go.”
I felt a panic rise up inside me, the uh-oh feeling my mama used to tell me about. Something wasn’t right. I didn’t know what, so I kept talking.
“You’re reading A Christmas Carol, too?”
Taylor didn’t respond. He sat at an angle so I couldn’t see what was in his hands.
“I’m almost done,” I chatted on, looking over his shoulder. “I’m at the part where the Ghost of Christmas Future is showing him his grave. It’s kinda scary.”
No response.
“Are you coming to the Christmas play? It’s A Christmas Carol.”
Taylor shook his head wearily. “No.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s not going to be that good. But Mama’s all excited. She’s baking the cookies for the intermission.”
Taylor deigned to look at me. His eyes were red-rimmed and sunken. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
I shook my head. “Exams.”
He sighed and his shoulders slumped.
“Whatcha got there?” I lamely pointed to what he was holding.
“Nothing.”
I took a step closer, my eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “Let me see.” When Taylor moved to block my view with his shoulder, I said, “I’m just going to keep pestering till you let me see.”
“Get out of here.” He swung his arm indicating the door.
In that flash of movement the blanket lifted just enough that I caught sight of black metal in his left hand. “Hey, is that a gun?”
“What if it is?” Taylor snapped back.
“Can I see it?”
“No. Go on, get outta here.”
“What is it? A pistol?” I stepped closer. “What are you doing with it?”
“I’m cleaning it.”
I took a quick scan of the bed and floor and didn’t see any cleaning equipment. Taylor had already left for the Marines before Daddy taught me to hunt. But I knew all about cleaning guns and I knew he was lying. He wasn’t cleaning any gun. Now I was really scared.
“Can I hold it?”
“Don’t be an idiot. No. It’s loaded.”
“It is?” I swallowed thickly. “You’d better unload it! Daddy says you shouldn’t hold a loaded gun in the house.”
Taylor laughed shortly at that, only I couldn’t see what he thought was funny. Nonetheless he brought the pistol to his lap. I watched as he used his thumb to push the release, and a black magazine dropped into his hand. Then with his palm he swiftly pulled the slide back on the top of the gun and a single bullet went flying through the air to land on the floor. I immediately clambered after it.
“Leave it be,” Taylor commanded. “Don’t touch it.”
I froze, then straightened and nervously crossed my arms across my chest. “I’ve never seen a magazine up close before. That’s cool.”
“Cool?” Taylor asked, flicking me an assessing glance. “It’s not cool. It’s a killing machine.”
“So why do you have it here? You’re not at war anymore.”
He laughed shortly. “Aren’t I?” Taylor picked up the magazine and stared at it a minute. “You’re a good kid.” Taylor was still looking at the gun. “A good brother. But you should go.” He looked up, and though we didn’t speak, I felt a surge of love in his gaze. And a farewell.
I took a few
steps back, suddenly terrified for my brother. “I forgot your milk for those cookies,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t come back.”
“I’m coming right back!” I shouted as I ran from the room, purposefully leaving the door open.
I took off for the kitchen, my heart beating like a wild thing in my chest. I prayed Mama would still be in there, and mercifully she was standing at the table moving cookies from the baking sheet with a big spatula.
“Did you . . .” She stopped when she saw my face.
I ran into her arms, tears filling my eyes. I was so scared I could barely talk.
“Miller, what is it?” She dropped the spatula and put her arms around me.
“Mama. Taylor . . .”
Her voice went cold. “What about Taylor?”
I straightened and looked in her eyes. “He’s got a gun.”
Her face paled, and with a gasp, she grabbed my shoulders. “You stay right here,” she ordered. “Call your father. But if you hear a gunshot, call 911.”
Without another word, she ran out of the kitchen. I hurried to the phone across the kitchen. My hand was shaking so much I could hardly dial. Hearing my father’s voice at the end of the line, I wanted to weep with relief.
“Daddy!” I choked out. My voice was raspy, like I’d been running.
“What’s the matter?” He was instantly alert.
“Mama said to call you. Taylor’s got a gun.”
“I’m on my way.”
The phone went dead. I hung it up and waited by the kitchen entry, staring up the long flight of stairs for several minutes. Those were the longest minutes of my life. There was no way I could stay in the kitchen. I was compelled closer, climbing up the stairs one by one, cringing at each creak, holding my breath. When I reached the top of the stairs, I stopped and clutched the wood post, clinging to it, real tight, like I was adrift in a stormy sea and if I let go, I’d drown. It was an angry day, spitting and whirling in a fury of wind and rain. There would be flooding, I thought. I hoped it wouldn’t slow Daddy down, that he would make it home fast. I listened to the wind wail and craned my neck to hear the occasional voice from behind the closed door. Sometimes Mama’s. Sometimes Taylor’s. Just when I thought I couldn’t wait a minute longer, I heard the front door burst open. My father rushed in, rain dripping from his hair down his face, his clothes soaked.
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