“Is Shawn okay?” I hear Tim ask. He’s still not looking at me as I put back my rebound for an easy layin.
“What?” I holler.
“Your brother—is he supposed to be like that?”
I look over at the porch and see that Shawn is in the middle of a monster seizure. It’s a huge, bad one, saliva pouring out of his mouth, his body shaking all over; he looks terrible. In fact, he’s slipped down in his wheelchair, and I can’t tell if the purple color of his face is the seizure or his chest strap, which is not around his chest anymore, but around his neck.
He’s going to choke to death!
CHAPTER EIGHT
I run over and lift Shawn up in his wheelchair so that the strap isn’t around his throat. His color doesn’t change, so maybe it’s his seizure that’s making his face so purple. Whatever it is, he looks awful. Even though Shawn is super skinny and real light, when he’s in a seizure like now, it’s hard to get control of him. He gets totally stiff and jerks around a lot. But this seizure is even worse than normal. The drool on the front of his shirt is much more than usual, disgusting, slimy, and smelly.
Tim, standing a little behind me asks, “Can I help?”
I yell, “Get Mom!”
Tim hurries through the front door, and I hear him call out, “Lindy!”
Two seconds later she comes running out to the porch, followed by Tim and Cindy.
I keep holding Shawn up so the strap won’t get around his neck again. Mom rolls the wheelchair back into the house.
I say, “I guess he slipped down in his chair when his seizure hit, and his strap slipped under his chin.”
“What do you mean, the strap ‘slipped’?” Mom snaps at me, like I’m to blame.
“Just what I said!” I yell.
Mom always gets like this when Shawn has a seizure, crazy from worry. But I’m mad; I’m still holding Shawn up, and his disgusting drool is all over my neck and shoulder.
Mom raises her voice. “Calm down....”
“YOU calm down!” I yell back.
Cindy bursts into tears. Big deal—she bawls at the drop of a hat.
Mom asks, “Can you tell if he was choking before you got to him?”
I think, That’d be a real tragedy, old Shawn getting brain damaged, but the second I think this, I feel guilty and even madder.
I answer Mom. “I don’t know.”
Finally, Shawn takes a deep breath. He collapses in my arms; all the rigidity and stiffness disappear, like one of those bounce-back inflatable toys when all the air leaks out. Shawn melts into his wheelchair and passes out or goes to sleep—I’m never sure exactly what happens to him after a seizure, but he always gets real quiet.
“Is he all right?” Cindy asks.
Mom checks Shawn’s pulse by feeling his neck and looking closely at his face.
“Is he okay?” Cindy asks again, scared. She leans against Tim and buries her face against his chest. He puts his arms around her.
Mom says, “I think he’s all right.”
Cindy asks, “Mom, how come his seizures are getting worse?”
Although I’ve also noticed this lately, I haven’t wanted to ask about it—maybe I’ve been afraid of the answer.
Mom says to Cindy, “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, honey.” Mom’s voice sounds incredibly sad, like all her hope is being ripped away from her.
I think, Would it really be all that terrible if Shawn … I try to stop these thoughts, but I can’t control my selfish brain: What’s the point of Shawn’s life? Why should he have to suffer like this? Why should we? What the hell does a life like his even matter anyway?
I hate myself when I feel like this!
I run out of the house and back out to the driveway. My basketball lies in the yard, and I pick it up. I throw it as hard as I can against the metal backboard. It crashes and bounces straight back to me. I throw it again and again, crash … crash … crash.
After a while I look up and see Tim standing, staring at me.
“You got a problem?” I yell.
Tim doesn’t say anything.
I square up toward him and take a couple steps in his direction, and I yell again, “You got a problem?!”
Tim turns and walks away from me, not even looking back.
I holler, “Don’t turn your back on me, asshole!”
Tim pauses, turns around, and says, his voice low and calm, “I gotta split, man.”
Even though Tim-bo is almost always calm and cool and doesn’t like to fight, we went at it once before when we were in eighth grade. He was strong and tough. It took my best effort to beat him, and in the end I didn’t really kick his ass—he just quit first. He’s much bigger and stronger now. But so am I.
I’d love to deck him! I’d love to hit him as hard as I could, even if I got hit back—especially if I got hit back.
Tim starts to walk away again. I think about yelling something more as I watch him moving down the sidewalk. I’m still holding the basketball. It takes all my willpower not to bounce it off the back of his head. I’d give anything to force him to come back and fight.
The thing is, though, somewhere in the back of my mind I already know that I’m not angry with Tim. If he hadn’t noticed and said something, maybe Shawn would have choked to death. I’m not mad at Tim—I’m just mad, period. I bounce the basketball hard into the ground and it snaps back up into my hands. I throw it one last time, as hard as I can, at the backboard. CRASH!
The ball bounces back toward me, but I don’t even grab it; I just let it sail over my shoulder, out into the street. I take a couple deep breaths, then look back at Tim walking away. Finally I go out and grab the ball.
I yell to Tim, “Hey, loser boy, hold up, I’ll give you a lift.”
Tim turns around and looks back at me.
I say, “Come on, man, I’ll take you home, really—I’m chilled.”
Half smiling, he walks back toward me.
Man, I feel like I’m going to explode.
CHAPTER NINE
Tim lives only about three quarters of a mile from our place, but since he doesn’t have a car, most times after we’ve had a decent workout, I drive him home.
We’re cruising down Fifteenth, a busy street where people normally drive about ten to fifteen miles over the speed limit. I’m taking it easy, though, just driving slowly, when I notice this little girl standing on the street corner with her dog, an ugly little black-and-white mutt on a leash. The girl is maybe a fifth or sixth grader. Anyway, she’s standing, waiting to cross, and there’s a sign I just passed that reads PEDESTRIAN CROSSING, so I brake. The girl looks up and smiles at me.
She starts to walk out, crossing the street, kind of hurrying so that she can get out of my way and I can get going. I glance in my rearview mirror and I see a bright red Camaro, very hot, nice wax job, dark windows. It’s roaring toward the intersection on my left in the passing lane. I mean it’s really hauling ass. In a split second I see that the girl isn’t looking at the outside lane, she hasn’t seen the other car—she’s actually being pulled by her ugly dog, running toward the path of the Camaro.
It’s like time speeds up and slows down both at once. I can see what’s going to happen, like it’s slow motion, but what can I do? My adrenaline kicks in and I do the only thing I can think of—I lay on my horn.
Tim jumps in his seat. “Shit!”
The little girl jumps too and gives a violent tug on the leash so that her dog jerks backward. A second later, with my horn still blasting, the Camaro roars through where the little girl and the dog would have been if I hadn’t startled them. My adrenaline is through the roof, so even after the danger is done, I don’t take my hand off the horn right away.
Tim says, “That kid almost bought it.”
I stupidly say, “Her dog, too.”
But now there’s an incredibly loud screeching as the Camaro whips over to the side of the road. Blue smoke pours off the rear tires as his brakes lock. When he comes
to a stop, suddenly this arm comes out of the window and he flips me off. He just sits there, giving me the middle finger salute.
Tim says, “Take it easy, Paul.”
But it’s too late.
The little girl and her lucky mutt jog away down the street as I stick my hand out the window and return the gesture to the Camaro driver. I ease my Honda over to the sidewalk. It’s only been about ten minutes since I wanted to fight Tim; this moment is like a dream come true.
The Camaro driver’s door opens, and out steps this really big, buff guy, about mid-twenties and tall, maybe six four or six five. He’s wearing a tight T-shirt and sweatpants, like he’s fresh out of a yuppie gym somewhere. He’s blond and smirking with a silly-ass muscleman walk.
Tim, seeing how big he is, says, “Uh-oh.”
I glance over at Tim and smile. I feel great.
I open my car door and bound out, like a coiled spring unwinding.
The Camaro guy and I walk toward each other. He outweighs me by probably thirty or forty pounds. He has the kind of physique that you get only from wanting to look like that, sculpted and perfect. His clothes make me sick, his face makes me sick, he’s the kind of guy who always stares at Shawn whenever our family goes anyplace, stares and smirks and thinks he’s better.
He yells, “You got a problem?”
I smile at him. “Were you tryin’ to kill that girl and her dog?”
He says sarcastically, “She’s not gonna live much longer anyway if she doesn’t start watchin’ where she’s going.”
I smile and say, “That’s a pedestrian crossing, and you almost killed her, dickhead.”
We’re pretty close to each other by now. We’ve both stepped out of the street, up onto a little green band between the cement sidewalk and the curb, just enough room for a nice fight.
“Screw yourself,” he says.
I answer, “Screw myself? How would I do that? Tell me, ’cause you look like you’ve had some practice.”
He gets a funny look in his eyes, not fear, more like surprise. I can see by his expression that people never stand up to him. He’s a bully and he likes it, just like every bully in the world.
“What’d you say?” he asks, sticking his big chest out and clenching his fists like that’s going to scare me.
I burst out laughing and answer, “You heard me, sweetie.” Man, I’m looking forward to this. “I said that you probably screw yourself every chance you get.”
His face flushes bright red, another good sign—nobody ever fights decent when they’re running on pure anger. He spits and stammers. “You … I …”
I laugh again.
Now we’re standing right in front of each other. He’s a full head taller than me, which annoys me. I hate big guys who think they’re big men.
I say, “You know what, asshole? I can tell you work out real hard to look like you do. You must be proud of yourself. You’re so cute that I’m not even gonna hit you in the face. I’m not even gonna mark you up. I want you to stay pretty and sweet for—”
Suddenly he takes an awkward swing at me and lets out a loud grunt. Probably half his energy just went into this one punch. He misses me by a foot even though I barely move. He’d have missed me anyway.
I feel good, totally ready. This guy is everything wrong with the world … everything wrong with my world.
I say, “Is that all you got? Do I need to stand a little more still for you?”
He cocks back his left hand and telegraphs his swing from about a mile away. Just before the punch arrives, I move a little so that I can take it high up, on the side of my head. I hear his fingers crack on contact and watch him wince. I’ve got a really hard skull, and besides, when I’m in a fight, I never feel a punch anyway; in fact, this feels like he just brushed me with a feather duster. I always need to get hit, though; it’s always the final piece for me.
I launch a combination of punches into his gut. The first is a hard right that pretty much takes all his wind. The next two, a left and another right, are even harder than the first. He drops to his knees, wheezing for breath, but before he can recover, I kick him in his right kidney. I’m still wearing soft-toed basketball shoes, so I bend my foot like I’m kicking a soccer ball and it really digs in; he’ll be pissing blood for a week. He rolls over onto his back, gasping for air, covering his head. I stomp his chest, then I bend over and lay three hard, straight rights into his ribs.
He rolls onto his side and vomits. I circle around behind him and pause. It’s like I don’t even see him anymore—what I see is my brother’s seizure, wanting to fight Tim, my piece-of-slime dad.
I get ready to kick him in his lower back. This kick will bruise his spine and finish him off—
Suddenly arms wrap around me and pull me down from behind. As I’m falling, I look over at the guy on the ground and see the fear in his eyes.
I hear a voice. “That’s it, man, he’s had enough.”
At first I don’t even know who’s talking to me or what he’s talking about. I struggle to break loose, but whoever is holding me has a good grip.
“Stop it, Paul, he’s had it.”
My head clears and I start to notice the grass, the street, the sounds of cars passing by. Tim has grabbed me. I feel the rage rise up again, ready to fight him too.
But Tim says, “Come on, please, stop, before you go too far.”
His voice sounds afraid, and as fast as I’ve slid into my combat mode, I slide back out again.
I notice more of everything around me—the back of the Camaro, the wires overhead, a scrap of paper blowing along the sidewalk.
Finally I say, “Okay,” real softly. I hardly even recognize the sound of my own voice.
“I’m okay,” I say again.
Tim says, “You sure?” still holding me back.
I say, “Yeah, I’m sure.”
Tim lets me go.
The guy on the ground lies there holding his side, half leaning up on one elbow.
“Who …” he starts to ask, then winces. His eyes have that beaten look, scared and hurt and even though I never touched his face, it’s red and scraped-up from rubbing on the ground.
“Who … are … you?” he mutters.
I stare at him and don’t say anything for a couple seconds; then I answer him, real smart-ass: “I’m my brother’s keeper.” I pause a second, then say, deadpan, “And I’m an excellent driver.” This last line is from the movie Rain Man, about these two brothers, Tom Cruise and that Dustin guy who’s autistic.
I say, “You got any other questions, ass wipe?” hoping he’ll say something stupid, hoping he’ll say anything.
Tim grabs my arm, but I jerk it loose.
“Sorry,” Tim says quickly, but then, “Let’s get out of here, okay, before the cops come.”
I look once more at Mr. Red Camaro Buff Boy. He doesn’t say anything, but I notice that there’s a big wet spot on the front of his sweatpants. For half a second I actually feel sorry for him.
In the car again Tim stares out the front and is real quiet.
“What?” I ask him, already knowing what he’s going to say.
Tim answers, “You coulda killed that guy. One day you’re going to go too far.”
I know he’s right. A sick feeling rushes through me and I know he’s right. I just don’t know how to stop it.
I say, “You don’t understand.”
Tim stares at me for a few seconds without saying anything, then finally answers real softly, “Yeah I do.”
I’m not sure what he means, and I’d like to say something back, but I can’t think what else to say, so we just drive in silence.
CHAPTER TEN
I pull up to Tim’s house to drop him off. To be honest, his place is kind of a dump. On Queen Anne Hill the view houses like ours are really expensive, high-end cribs, but some of the old, old houses like Tim’s are actually run-down, cruddy-looking rentals. I’ve noticed that Tim never looks over at me when we pull up in front of his
place. He always hops out of the car real quick, like now. I think he’s embarrassed not only by what a cracker box he lives in, but by the crap that happens inside too, like with his stepdad.
“Peace,” Tim says, not looking at me, as he closes the car door.
I answer, “Later.”
Back home, as I come through the front door, Mom calls, “Paul?”
I answer, “Yeah.”
“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asks, walking up to me from the kitchen and hugging me.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
Mom feels guilty for acting nutty when Shawn was having his seizure. This happens all the time.
I say, “Really, Mom, I’m fine. How’s Shawn?”
Cindy walks in and answers my question. “He’s asleep. But his seizure was really bad.”
I say, “I know.”
I notice that my knuckles are bright red from hitting the Camaro guy. I kind of hide them behind my back.
Mom’s forehead gets all wrinkled and her face suddenly looks about a thousand years old. “His seizures are getting worse.”
I don’t say anything. The truth is I feel numb. This is why fighting feels so good to me: After I’ve let out all my anger, there’s always this numbness, a calm feeling—I don’t know how to describe it.
Cindy says, “Mom and Dad are going to take Shawn to the doctor.”
I say, “Yeah? Good.”
I don’t even know if I mean it. The doctors have never helped Shawn, never helped any of us. What’s the point? But of course I don’t say this. I just stand here and try not to worry. I don’t know what else to do, so I let the numbness take me away.
This is my life, our lives. This is what being around Shawn means. No matter what else happens outside, there’s always Shawn, always his seizures, always another useless doctor, always … everything about him. At times I even get why Dad left. Of course, getting it doesn’t mean forgiving.
It’s been three days since Shawn’s seizure on the porch.
Mom and Dad took Shawn to see his neurologist (brain doctor), and I guess the doc adjusted Shawn’s drugs. Maybe that’s helped a little bit. Shawn’s still having a lot of seizures, but they aren’t quite so intense. They definitely aren’t as bad as that one he had on the porch. A lot of the time I try not to think about Shawn at all, try not to worry about him or feel sorry for him or feel sorry for myself because of him. Most times my feelings about Shawn are so confused, I wish that he’d just … I don’t know … that he would just go ahead and … I don’t know …
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