by K. M. Walton
“What are you two pricks doing back here?” Joey shouted. He hated when we goofed off. He was a bartender for life, and he took his job very, very seriously.
I was bent in half, laughing my ass off at the pitch of my brother’s scream. My father was right. He did sound like a girl.
Oscar was pink in the face, and I could tell he was pissed. Whatever. It was a joke.
“We’re just messing around, Joey. No big deal,” I said.
Bill shook his head and walked away. He never got as mad as Joey, but he probably just didn’t give a rat’s ass. Bill had only worked at the Blue Mountain Lounge for two years. He was always telling me how much he wanted to go to law school and that this job was strictly for putting money into his college fund. In other words, he was the polar opposite of Joey, who, I was pretty sure had never worked as anything else in his fifty-three years.
Joey yanked the white bar towel through his belt loop and shook his head. “You two act like a couple of kindergartners. No wonder your old man drinks so much.”
Oscar’s eyes bulged, and he went as red as a sports car. The way my dad partied made him all ragey, so Joey blaming him, even if he was just saying it offhandedly, was making Oscar furious. I could tell he was seconds from running away, like he always did. He never fought back. He never stood up for himself. His whole “run away and hide in my room” shit pissed me off.
“Did you finish unloading the beer, Vance?” Joey asked, his eyes squinted.
“Yeah.”
“And you stacked it like I told you?”
“Yeah,” I repeated with just as much annoyance.
“Why you gotta be such a prick?” he said.
I shrugged when I turned to leave. Oscar was gone. He was probably sulking in the alley behind the bar as usual. He would sit back there on that cruddy bench and do his homework. Or draw his stupid shit in that sketchbook. He was probably drawing sunsets and kittens. Or maybe the book was full of untalented chicken scratch. Who the eff knew what he had in there? He was so secretive about it, which was annoying.
I’d tried to get my hands on his book a few times, but he’d either be clutching it or it was in some hiding place I didn’t know about. Yet.
Oscar
Marnie escorts Jacque out. I overhear her greeting Vance. “Hey, Irving. That’s your dad in there, right?” My brother must nod, because she says, “I’m really sorry. Let me know if I can do anything. I’m volunteering here for senior project, and today I’ll be here till nine. So, if, like, your dad needs a blanket or if you want a soda…let me know.”
“Thanks, Beaufort. This whole thing blows,” he says.
She exhales loudly. “I can’t even imagine. But everyone at school is thinking about you guys, even the teachers.”
Their exchange is so natural, so easy. There are no bumpy parts, no uncomfortable silences. Confidence talking to Confidence. I’m jealous of how easy Vance’s world is. Maybe emotionally skating above the surface simplifies things.
Regardless, Vance is still Vance, and I can tell he doesn’t want to continue talking to her. She must not be on his hottie list. This part of his personality is so transparent to me, so crystal clear, the way he instantly compartmentalizes people into his predetermined categories. And if you don’t fit into “buddy” or “someone he wants to have sex with,” well, you are completely out of luck. You pretty much don’t matter at all.
Brothers should matter to each other. Sons should matter to fathers. It’s just how it’s supposed to be. Even animals protect their young. I can’t say that my mother truly understood me, but I knew she loved me and that was enough. She looked me in the eye and tried to figure out what was going on inside my heart. I always showed her my drawings, and she’d tell me I had a gift, that I should never stop capturing what I see on paper. Her words of encouragement never felt forced or fake. They were genuine and loving. They were music to my ears.
I sketched her the day before the accident. She was on the phone complaining about my dad to my aunt Renee. She had no idea I was drawing her. She cried when I showed it to her and hugged me for the longest time. She said I’d somehow managed to show her broken heart through her eyes. I’d only drawn what I saw. I had no idea that I’d done something so profound, so important for an artist.
I’d captured loneliness.
Long after her death, I concluded that loneliness was what connected me to my mother. We shared that hollow feeling, and she knew it.
My father linked on a guttural level with Vance. They spoke the same language, liked doing the same things, laughed at each other’s jokes. I remember being on the baseball field, playing outfield, while my family sat just on the other side of the fence, watching. The ball was hit in my direction, but I didn’t realize it because I was picking the grass and throwing it in the air and watching it cascade to the ground, so happy, so free. I wasn’t paying attention. My head was not in the game, despite the countless catcalls coming from my father and brother.
Apparently, if I had caught that ball, my team wouldn’t have lost. But I didn’t catch the ball. It hit me on the forehead, so hard that I was knocked unconscious. I awoke to my father’s voice. He was asking if I was all right, but it sounded more like he had to ask than like he really cared. There were people watching—the benches had emptied, and now everyone was huddled around me.
The look on my father’s face, the not-so-hidden scorn, was so crystal clear to the eight-year-old me.
I couldn’t control my tears, which repulsed my brother. He said in front of everyone, “Stop crying, Oscar! It’s your fault anyway.” I knew he was trying to impress Dad. As usual.
My Little League career ended that season. So did me ever having a chance of receiving respect from my father and brother.
I think my fear of happiness sprouted during this time. Everything that brought me enjoyment made Dad and Vance angry. Being me seemed to irk them. So I did the only thing that felt normal: I retreated.
A little kid can only be scrutinized so many times by the two most important males in his life before things register in his brain, before he stops looking for acceptance. Before he stops expecting love and happiness.
Isolating myself obviously followed me into school. I know what people think about me there, people like Jacque. They think I’m quiet and weird and all wonder how I’m related to superstar Vance. No one messes with me, but no one makes an effort to hang out with me either. It’s handy that I like being alone.
It didn’t used to always be like this, the solitary thing. In elementary school, my brother’s best friend, Stephen, used to include me whenever he was over at our house playing. Vance would eventually stop complaining and just let me play. He was never nice about it. It was more like he tolerated me to shut Stephen up. But when the three of us were laughing or racing or playing catch, I knew my brother and I were having fun. Together. I’d allow myself snippets of believing that Vance really wanted to play with me, that he did love me.
Everything changed once Vance and Stephen started middle school. It was like a switch got flipped. Vance nicknamed Stephen “Growler” because of some noise he made when he took his lacrosse shot. Growler wasn’t mean to me or anything, but he stopped bugging Vance to include me.
It was the perfect recipe for me to duck and cover. I’ve been in that stance ever since.
Anyway, Jacque’s popular. Her name is always mentioned on the announcements when they talk about softball. She obviously knows my brother, and she probably likes him. All the popular girls do. I wish I could warn them, tell them that he doesn’t flush the toilet after using it, just so I’ll find what he left. That he used to cry when he lost lacrosse games when he was little. That his room smells like rotten eggs and feet.
That he doesn’t care, nor will he ever care, for anyone but himself.
But I don’t because that’s just not the kind of human being I am.<
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Vance enters my father’s room. “Still four breaths?”
I look back to my father. “Yes.” The sun is nearly down now, filling the room with streaks of marigold. “They did that radical change while we were out. I hate watching it, so I’m glad we weren’t in here.” I don’t like the rag doll–ness of my father’s body, the way his arms flap, the way his head has to be held so it doesn’t roll around. He is everything he hated. My father is helpless.
Deep down, I feel a sudden spark of “serves him right.” I turn away and try to squash it. It’s too evil.
Vance
Two years ago
The clip-on bow tie was a great decision. I quickly adjusted it and ran my hand through my hair. I looked like a penguin, but when a hot junior girl asks you to prom and you’re only a sophomore, you wore a tux whether you wanted to or not. WCHS did the combo prom thing—juniors and seniors. The whole lax team was going tonight, even Collin, and he was only a freshman. But he was a freshman who plays varsity, and lacrosse at our school was equal to football. If you were on either team you were at the top of the social pile. Like, the top-top.
Even though I was on top, I couldn’t wait till it was over and we could party our faces off at the after-party. Dancing was stupid, and I hated smiling for pictures. Gwen kept saying that was the whole purpose of the prom. Since she had the best boobs, I figured I could take one for the team and slow dance a few times.
I pounded on the bathroom door. “I gotta pee. Get the hell out, Oscar!”
The door opened slowly, and I was face-to-face with my brother. He was almost taller than me, which pissed me off. His eyes swept up and down the length of me, ending with raised eyebrows. “Where’s your boutonniere?”
“She hasn’t given it to me yet, duh.”
Oscar nodded and exhaled. “You look good, Vance.” His eyes were locked onto mine. Whatever. I didn’t need his approval.
Dad shouted from the base of the stairs, “Growler’s here.”
Oscar stepped aside and swept his arm out like he was allowing me into the bathroom. I wanted to smack the smart-ass grin from his face. I pushed past him and gave him a little shove.
Some nerdy chick from my gym class asked Oscar to this prom, but he turned her down. He didn’t tell me. I overheard her telling her dork friend while we stretched our hammies on the mats. I could tell she was saying it kind of loud so that I’d hear. Everyone knows Oscar’s my brother. Unfortunately.
I acted like I didn’t hear anything and continued reaching for my toes. Why he turned her down is unclear to me. Even though she wasn’t someone I’d go for, she wasn’t that bad. Pretty good body and nerd-genius smart, just like Oscar.
Well, I was glad he wasn’t going. It would’ve ruined the night for me. He would’ve just sat in a corner and sucked the fun out of the entire room. Having him around was annoying, but mostly it was embarrassing. It would’ve been great if I had a brother who liked me and was into the same stuff. What did I get? Uh, not that.
I barreled down the steps. My dad, Oscar, and Growler stood near the door. “Don’t get too plowed, buddy,” my dad said. He grabbed my shoulder and squeezed.
“We won’t, Mr. Irving,” Growler said. “Just a good buzz.”
Oscar crossed his arms and dropped his eyes.
“Too bad you’re not coming, Oscar. You could’ve increased the IQ in our limo by a thousand percent,” Growler said.
I squinted. What was Growler doing? Tonight wasn’t about Oscar. Growler hadn’t tried to rope him in with us for a long time.
Oscar’s cheeks flushed. “I doubt it.”
We had to leave before Growler made some stupid plea for Oscar to come.
My dad took a long swig of his beer. “The limo’s at your date’s house, Vance?”
I looked at the clock on the wall behind my brother. “Aw, man. We’re gonna be late. And yes, the limo’s at Gwen’s. Waiting. They’re gonna be pissed.”
“Who cares? What, you think they’d leave without you two?” My dad shook his head and snorted. “You’re the life of the party.”
Oscar
Growler stands in the open doorway. I refuse to call him Growler, mostly to annoy my brother. In my opinion, Stephen suits him much better.
He knocks on the open door. “Is this a bad time, guys?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Vance smirks. “That’s the dumbest question ever, Growler. Seriously? Yeah, this whole thing is a bad time. In fact, it’s the worst fucking time I’ve ever had in my whole fucking life.”
My mouth hangs open, probably wider than my father’s. Doesn’t Vance know that people have no clue what to do with suffering? With death? I’m not saying I’m, like, an expert on dying, but impending doom definitely increases insecurity. “He was just trying to be thoughtful, Vance. Relax.” I stand and offer my seat to Stephen. I can tell he’s wildly uncomfortable about taking it. My chair is directly next to my father’s head.
“No, no, dude. Sit down. I can’t stay very long,” Stephen says.
I nod and resume my position. “Well, thank you for coming.”
“Are you kidding me? Visiting is the least I could do.” Stephen smiles and shifts his stance. “My mom said that you guys are welcome to stay at our house, you know, if you need to.”
Vance and I stare at him. My wheels are turning. So Stephen’s mom is inviting us to live with them? I don’t want to do that. Will we have to live with them when Dad dies? What if we can’t stay in our house? I’m faced with a vast sea of overwhelming questions. My palms get moist.
Growler clears his throat. “So, how’s he doing?”
Vance huffs. “He’s dying. That’s how he’s doing.”
I stand and say to Stephen, “Wanna come with me to get a soda?”
Stephen bobs his head.
I whisper to my brother, “He’s here because he cares about you and Dad. Why can’t you see that?”
“Shut the hell up! Don’t tell me how I should feel. Isn’t that what you’re always shouting to me and Dad? Take a big friggin’ dose of your own medicine.” Vance leans back in his chair, drops his head, and says, “Sorry, Growler.”
“Stop, dude. No apology necessary.” Stephen stands up. “It’s all right. I know you’re stressed out. I get it. Seriously, don’t sweat it.”
I motion Stephen out into the hall.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” Stephen says to me. His eyes search mine for reassurance.
“He’s been attacking everyone. He’s even rude to the nurses. It’s not you.” I take in a huge breath, wipe my palms on my jeans, and look away. That’s all I’ve got in me to let him know that coming was a really kind thing to do.
“It’s okay. I’d probably be the same way.”
My brow pinches. He’d never be the same way. Stephen’s support was one of the main reasons I made it through my mother’s wake and burial. He’d repeatedly checked on me, Vance, and my father. Besides the funeral home people, he was the only one who did. “You’re not the same, Stephen.”
He grins at hearing his real name, locks eyes with me, and nods. Maybe I’ve said too much. Stephen-Growler is Vance’s friend, not mine.
Vance
Two years ago
We all passed the entry Breathalyzer test with flying colors. As soon as Growler and I walked into the gym, we ditched our dates and beelined to the bleachers. Being the genius best friend that he was, Growler had the idea to hide a water bottle filled with vodka that day after school. We made sure we used the same water brand the school used. Friggin’ brilliant. We drained that sucker in three huge chugs each. I only gagged once. Then we popped two pieces of gum and went to get sodas.
By the time I found Gwen, I was totally buzzed. When I went to wrap my arms around her awesome bod, she shoved me away. “Ew. Really, Vance? You’re drunk? How are you drunk?”
I couldn’t explain because, yeah.
She glared at me like I’d killed her puppy and then stomped off with a bunch of her friends. I needed to sit down for a second. Just a second. My stomach was filled with booze. I could feel it sloshing around in there. Did I ever eat dinner? Shit. I should’ve eaten. I stumbled backward and plopped into a folding chair. Gwen was over in the corner surrounded by girls, like every girl in the world. They all kept looking at me. Where did Growler go? I squinted and scanned the dance floor. Fresh air. It was really hot in here. Fresh air. I wiped the back of my sweaty neck. I wanted to hang with my best friend. We planned this. Where was he? Maybe I should go splash my face with cold water. My eyes wouldn’t stay open. What the hell? I only did four or five shots.
A couple lacrosse buddies were suddenly in front of me. Darren and Lucas. “Dude, you didn’t share?” Darren asked. “Lame.”
“Where’s Growler?” I asked. My voice sounded far away. What the hell?
Lucas snorted. “What did you say?”
“Where’s Growler?” I repeated.
“Are you stoned too? I can’t understand you, dude,” Lucas said.
Without warning, I had a guy underneath each arm and I was being told to “walk normal!”
“Where are we going?” I said.
“Don’t talk, Vance. You’re wasted. You’re not making sense,” Darren said in my ear. “Just shut up until we get to the bathroom.”
My eyes refused to stay open, but I felt myself being sat down. Was I on the toilet?
Lucas grabbed my face and told me to open my eyes. “Just stay in here until you sober up. You’ll get tossed out if a teacher sees you like this.”
“Maybe we should take him outside,” Darren said.
“What, so he can hurl all over a teacher on the way? Bad idea.”