The Redeeming Power of Brain Surgery

by Paul Flower

  ****

  What was the word? Phosphor... phosphorescence. That was it. The moonlight on the field was like that, like phosphorescence, to Donnel. Out there in the open field, out beyond the battered hood of his truck, he imagined deer were moving, silent and invisible as ghosts, flitting through the shadows, grazing. In his beer-muddled head, Donnel could see them in the phosphorescence of the moon’s glow: deer and other animals scurrying, rooting for food and hunting for each other. He shifted his gaze to Lavern. “So you still want to keep this quiet, huh?” He took a hard swallow from his can and swept a couple empties from the seat between them, aiming them toward a hole in the floor.

  “I said I just don’t know,” Lavern said carefully. There was a tiredness to her voice that worried Donnel. He shifted his big frame into a position facing her. The truck rocked a little.

  “Listen lady, maybe you just nodded off and didn’t catch what’s been happening around here. A couple months ago, this guy shows up at your house in a big ol’ Mercedes, looking kind of like your husband, only this guy’s all dressed up with his hair cut fancy? Says him and Elvis are twins, they was separated when we all was kids before we even got a chance to know him? That’s pretty weird, don’t you think? Seems like we woulda knowed he had a brother. And now that we supposedly do, seems like something we might want to ask around about, doesn’t it?” Donnel stopped and took a long drink. “Wait, wait,” he continued, gesturing with the can. “There’s more. This twin brother from hell says he’s been raised in Iowa by some aunt and uncle. Only now s’posebly he’s a brain doctor from Chicago who’s been working part-time at the special new nervo... neurogo...”

  “Neurology,” Lavern said quietly.

  “Yeah, yeah, this new special place where they’ve been taking brain patients at the hospital the last little while—working back in ‘his old hometown’ as a ‘visiting specialist on a special, small-town project,’ he says. Hoo boy, that’s one huge mother of a story, you ask me.”

  Donnel took another quick swig and kept going, on a roll now. “Oh, and here’s the cool part. He says something awful happened in the family when we all was younger. We’re s’pose to believe that, even though Elvis don’t seem to remember none of it. He don’t even remember he’s got a twin brother. He ... he ... what’cha call it?”

  “Repressed the memory.”

  “That’s it. Recessed it. You buy all that?” Donnel snorted at the thought.

  “I believe him,” Lavern said in a whisper. “I believed him the first time he come to the door; I believed him tonight still.”

  Donnel thought again about deer. Hunting season was only a couple weeks away. “Why don’t no other black dudes hunt ‘sides me? Ever wonder that?” He looked at Lavern. She was biting on her lower lip—one pretty, white tooth clutching the pink of her mouth. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

  “Scared?” She looked out the window. “Scared of what?”

  “You’re scared of what the brain man, this Jesse Tieter, M.D., said tonight.”

  She sighed, her breath coming out in a long, shaky rasp. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “He didn’t do it and you know it. Elvis didn’t shoot nobody as a boy,” Donnel said softly, trying to convince her with each word. “Elvis wouldn’t hurt a fly. He couldn’t hurt a fly. I can’t even get the guy mad; I tried before. He just ain’t the type.”

  For several minutes, the only sounds were the old pickup’s engine idling and the music low, leaking out of the one battered speaker that worked. With a sigh, Donnel leaned his head back.

  “And another thing—what Jesse says about Elvis turning dangerous now that he’s middle aged,” he continued, “well that’s just crap. That’s what that is.” Donnel tightened his grip on the beer can, then raised it to his lips. He saw Elvis in his head and tried to swallow the vision with the beer. “I got half a mind to tell Elvis everything—see what he remembers.”

  “You can’t Donnel. You can’t,” Lavern murmured. “He couldn’t take it. He’d go nuts if he isn’t half there already.”

  “Well, then, maybe I’m gonna talk to the police.”

  She hesitated, then: “Donnel, no. No. Don’t.”

  “I know some guys that know some guys that are state cops. State cops would maybe have some records or something of stuff that happened long time ago.”

  “There aren’t any records of this. That’s the point.”

  “Maybe there’s records you don’t know about. Maybe they got something on this brain doctor-brother dude.”

  “Please, please don’t. It would just make everything, I don’t know, all messy.”

  Donnel thought about it for a second. “Look, we been friends a long time,” he said, lowering his voice, choosing each word carefully. “We all love each other, me and you and Elvis, like family you know? But what we ain’t told Elvis, keeping him in the dark about this brother thing and all that, well, that’s pretty sick. I’m talking serious sick.”

  “We only just found out ourselves.”

  “Exactly. But Elvis’ got every right to want to be mad. Was me, I’d want to kill us, know what I’m saying? The man’s fifty-something years old and he don’t know he’s got a twin brother, and we ain’t telling him. That’s sick for sure.”

  “I just don’t think blasting this story all over town’s going to do anybody any good.”

  Donnel stared at her. Lavern’s dyed-red hair shone in the green light of the dashboard and her bottom lip stuck out now in a pout. She was a cute little gal; she always had been. A pain kicked his heart. He’d loved her as long as Elvis had, maybe even longer, and she knew it. But Donnel and Elvis’d been buds since they were kids and well… Donnel took a swig. He thought he should shut up, but the beer had really loosened his tongue. “You’re getting sweet on him, aren’t you?”

  “On who?”

  “On this twin brother. He been coming over to your house, talking nice to you when no one else is around?”

  “I’m not sweet on him. I just...” Lavern stopped herself and looked at the floor.

  “Right. You ain’t sweet on him and he’s not up to nothing, is he?” he continued sarcastically, his voice getting louder. “Tonight, he finally tells us what s’posebly happened—gives us this big old story about what Elvis and his momma done, then he says, Oh, by the way, turns out he, this long lost doctor-brother dude, has a nice new house here. He says there’s no sense going to the cops, but you’re welcome to move in to his house—even if he’s not around—if Elvis turns all violent again and things get rough for you. That’s pretty unreal, you ask me. You’re going to go along with it? Why is that, Lavern? You like this guy or you afraid of your own husband, the most easy-going dude anybody’s ever known?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wonderful.” Donnel drained the last of the beer and tossed it toward the hole in the floor. He took a moment to catch his breath as the can clinked softly on the gravel under the truck. “So I’m s’pose to just haul you away from under Elvis’ nose tomorrow, tell him we got a surprise we’re planning, just so we can meet Mister Big Shot Doctor at his house. Just so he can show you where the key is and where you can come and hide.”

  No answer.

  Donnel slammed his open palm against the steering wheel. “I got half a mind to put an end to this right here. I got half a mind to, I tell you that,” Donnel said.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Donnel didn’t know what she was thinking, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to know. “He’s a bad man, honey,” he finally said, his voice husky from fatigue and emotion and alcohol. “He’s a bad one for sure.”

  “Take me home, Donnel. I want to go home,” she said.

  ****

  He looked at his watch. It had been forty-five minutes since he’d left the truck stop, thirty minutes since he’d arrived at the house. For a second, he w
asn’t sure what he’d done with the time.

  He clawed at a hand and picked up the cordless phone, hoping the call would divert him from another trip down memory lane. Jesse dialed a number he’d memorized, heard the line connect. As it rang, he stared at his reflection in the kitchen window. He was trying to think of the name of the guy he was calling. It was Larry or Gerry or Barry—Harry, maybe? In his head, the word game jumped to Frankie Vallee and the Four Seasons singing “Sherry.”

  Jesse waited impatiently for the guy to answer, a dull, aching spot taunting him in the center of his forehead. He wanted desperately to put down the phone, have a couple drinks, maybe smoke some of the dope he’d bought that afternoon—a treat he figured he deserved—then walk upstairs and take a long hot shower. He needed to scrub the nagging filth from his body and go to bed. Turning impatiently from the window, he pulled first his wallet then his keys out of his pockets and tossed them on the kitchen counter. He pinned the phone against his shoulder with his ear and scratched the back of his left hand.

  “Yeah?” The voice jumped on the line and Jesse gripped the phone but didn’t speak.

  “I said, ‘Yeah?’” the voice repeated. A hick with an attitude, Jesse thought. He bit his tongue, counting the seconds in his head: one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three.

  “Anybody there?” the voice asked, the attitude changing from rude to lost.

  Jesse smiled and kept counting: one thousand eight, one thousand nine.

  “Hello?”

  One thousand eleven.

  “HELLO?” The guy was sounding really nervous.

  “Hello.” Jesse said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact.

  “Yeah. Um..”

  “This the guy? The guy who can ahh… help me?” Jesse said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You in a place you can talk?”

  “Of course. Sure. Yeah.”

  Jesse chuckled. “You think talking like this sounds stupid—like we’re in some kind of spy movie?”

  “What?”

  “Talking like this.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. You do what I want?”

  “Ah, yeah, yeah, sure I did. I mean, I’m gonna. I’m gonna do it.” the voice stammered.

  “What?”

  There was a pause. The guy was lost. “What do you mean, what?”

  “What are you going to do for me?”

  “I... I’ve got it set up that this guy has some problems, you know, like you wanted.”

  “You make sure the wife finds out and gets good and agitated?” Jesse closed his eyes. His head throbbed.

  “Oh, she’ll find out.” The guy snorted a goofy laugh.

  “How?”

  “Well, I’ll have someone call her. I know people who know them.”

  “No, idiot, I mean how are you going to, ahh, cause problems for him?”

  “What’s it matter to you how I did it?” The voice had an edge again.

  Jesse paused, letting the rudeness echo back at the guy.

  “Hello?” The guy said.

  “Maybe I have the wrong man,” Jesse said.

  “Whoa, buddy. Hold on. Hold on. Hold on there,” the guy said, now obviously shaken.

  Jesse said nothing.

  “You still there?”

  “Yeah,” Jesse finally responded. “I’m here.”

  “Look. I work with him, right? I mean, actually, he works for me. I’ve got it all figured out. He’ll get framed-up good. You’re going to have to trust me a little. Don’t worry, man. I mean, you’re gonna hear. Lots of people are gonna hear about this.”

  Jesse was silent again.

  “Let’s put it this way,” the guy went on, searching for words. “My... my friend—the guy that told me about you? Well, he said you was talking five thousand, right?”

  “I said three—four tops.”

  “Well,” the laugh again, a donkey laugh through his nose. “You’re going to want to pay me ten grand now, for what I’m planning.”

  Jesse couldn’t help himself. His interest was piqued. “What is it?”

  “Let’s just say something real real serious is going to happen to somebody and he’s gonna get blamed for that. That work for you?”

  Jesse paused to think this through. “You talking about something violent? He’d have to be accused of something violent.”

  “Heck yes,” the guy answered with enthusiasm. “Violence is no problem.”

  Jesse felt a quiver in his chest. He closed his eyes and smiled. This was going more smoothly than he’d planned. The phone still clamped to his ear, he clawed at the back of his hand.

  “What do you think?” The hick voice was whining a little.

  “Can you keep tabs on him?”

  “Keep tabs on him?”

  “Yeah. Afterwards.”

  “What’cha mean, watch him like?”

  Jesse sighed. The pain in his head throbbed. “Yeah, watch him like. Keep an eye on him; let me know where he goes and stuff.”

  The guy paused. Then, “How much altogether?”

  “Four grand.”

  “Five—what about five? This is huge.”

  Jesse took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll find someone else.”

  “Whoa, four’s good. I’ll keep on him. Or, um, I’ll get someone to follow him too. I’ll do it all, man.”

  “Okay, mannnn,” Jesse said, mocking him. “And one more thing.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take down my numbers.” Jesse recited the house number for him, then his cell phone number. “Only don’t call me directly unless he does something really weird that I should know about. Then, and only then, can you call me, you understand me?”

  “Got it. How do I get my money?”

  “You’ll get it. Don’t worry,” Jesse said with a sigh. “I’m an honest man. You can trust me. If this works out, you’ll get your stupid money.”

  Chapter Five

  The boys waited out the storm in the pine grove, Elvis in a ball on the ground and Jesse pacing over him. When the rain and wind finally moved on, Jesse gave Elvis another good kick to the ribs. “C’mon,” he said.

  They walked back to the house in a crooked single file, Jesse leading, weaving between the trees and underbrush, Elvis trailing by a few yards. Occasionally, Jesse glanced back over his shoulder. He smiled at the sorry-looking mess shuffling behind him.

  At the backyard, Jesse stopped, uncertain about breaking through the tree line. He couldn’t yet see the entire yard. He imagined the body still there, lying in the wet grass, now soaked by the rain. Elvis didn’t wait. He brushed past his twin and broke through the trees. But what was this? He angled not in the direction of the house but toward the road that ran in front of it.

  Jesse fought the urge to panic. “Hey,” he barked. “Hey, come back here.” But Elvis didn’t stop. Through the trees, Jesse could see him walking, stalking quickly away from the house. “Hold it right there,” he wanted to say. He wanted to run like a crazy man, to grab his brother and stop him, stop him, stop him. But no, Jesse thought. No. He couldn’t hold him here. Could he? No. Yes. No. No. No way. That wouldn’t work, would it? Jesse remembered the look in Elvis’ eyes, the look of fear when they’d been back in the pine grove. “Don’t forget what I said, brother,” he yelled, trying to sound as tough as Sheriff Matt Dillon. “Don’t forget a thing. You do anything stupid and you’ll go where he went, you hear?” Through the trees, Jesse saw Elvis stop. “You hear me?”

  Elvis continued on. But Jesse decided then that he wouldn’t talk. He wouldn’t because he was too scared and weak. Yeah, yeah, he might see one of his friends. He might whimper and cry. But he wouldn’t spill his guts. No, he wouldn’t. He’d been warned. Forget him, Jesse told himself. Forget your brother; you took care of h
im.

  Jesse took a deep breath and started toward the house. He tripped over something and went down hard. Angry, he stumbled to his feet, wildly kicking at the root or rock his foot had found in the weeds. He slipped on the wet footing and nearly went down again. Jesse dropped his hands to his knees and lowered his head. Eyes clenched, he ordered the world to stop spinning. “Please, no,” the man’s words swam in his head. He could see the face coming around, the eyes turning to look at him. Why had the man done that? How had he known? It was like he’d bent over the lawnmower and waited for the slap of the door and the sounds of Jesse getting ready. He had turned, wanting to stop him, then he’d shrugged and gone right back to work. Why fight it? Maybe that’s what Dad had thought. Why fight it? Why? He couldn’t erase the image of his father’s eyes. No matter how he tried, no matter how hard he controlled every other stupid thing, he couldn’t get rid of the blue-grayness of those eyes. To Jesse, that just wasn’t fair.

  He bit hard on his lower lip. The tears started and just kept coming. He bit till he tasted blood. With shaking hands, he wiped his eyes and mouth with the hem of his shirt and took a long, good look at the blood on the cloth. Mom would be mad at him for getting blood on his shirt. He wondered how he was going to explain it. He pictured her in the house baking a blueberry pie, humming to herself and waiting for him to come home to clean up the mess in the yard. Jesse shuddered at the thought of the body still lying there with those eyes gazing at the sky. The eyes would be locked open, staring, pleading.

  Please, no.

  ****

  The backyard was empty. There was no body, no Mom or shotgun. Even the lawnmower was gone.

  Jesse walked toward the back door, feeling her eyes on him. She wasn’t baking a pie, he decided. Most likely, she was just in there, sitting at the kitchen table with a cold Pepsi, an overflowing ashtray and a pack of cigarettes. The radio was playing, tuned to a country radio station. She was tapping her foot and chain-smoking while she twitched and waited.

  Without thinking about it, he crossed to the place where the body had been. The grass was matted, wet and dark but the blood was pretty much gone. Mom had either done something to soak it up or the rain had washed it away. Jesse stared at the muddy place where the man’s feet had dug into the sod.