The Things a Brother Knows

by Dana Reinhardt

  Dov starts a rant about the economy. The price of chocolate bars at the Stop & Shop has gone up twice in the past six months. Not that Dov even eats chocolate, but he notices these things, and this is his proof that the economy is on the fast track to hell.

  Mom used to call Boaz the Human Hoover, and he’s living up to his old name. It’s good to see him eating like that again, even if it’s only because he’s been starving himself for days. And it’s easy to explain away his silence when his mouth is full of food.

  He approaches his plate with absolute concentration. Dividing the chicken from the vegetables from the potatoes. He eats them separately, and completely. He leaves nothing behind.

  “Boaz. Nu?” Abba says because he can’t help himself. He can’t let it be enough that Boaz is sitting at the table, that he’s eating, that he’s finally come downstairs.

  Boaz looks up from his plate and meets Abba’s eyes but doesn’t say a thing.

  “What’s next, son?”

  Silence. Only the sound of forks clinking china.

  Finally Boaz shrugs. “Back to sleep.”

  He stands and takes his plate into the kitchen. Mom shoots Abba a why can’t you lay off him look. Like if Abba had just let Dov rattle on about his chocolate bars all night, everything would be right with the world.

  He comes back into the dining room, wiping his hands on his jeans.

  “Well,” he says. “Good night.”

  It’s seven-thirty.

  He turns to leave.

  “Bo, honey,” Mom pleads. “Sit awhile. I’ll get you a cup of tea. Some nice, hot tea.”

  He shakes his head, then walks slowly over to her and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek before going back upstairs. She beams, electrified.

  I’m pretty sure it means nothing. It’s what we always do before going to bed. It’s a reflex. It doesn’t mean Boaz is anywhere closer to acting like himself.

  Nobody says anything for a long time.

  Maybe I should be sitting here thinking about Boaz. But I’m not. I’m plotting how to make my exit.

  I’m supposed to be going to a party at Chad Post’s house. I worry about how it looks going off to a party when my brother has just returned from the desert, but I also worry about Zim and Pearl killing me if I bail.

  And anyway, if I stayed in tonight, Boaz wouldn’t come out of his room. So what’s the difference?

  It’s not like we ever spent our Friday nights hanging out.

  We weren’t like those brothers who confide in each other, or seek out each other’s approval, or commiserate about their parents. We weren’t even like those brothers who wrestle or shove each other or pin each other to the floor, laughing so hard they almost puke, hiding their deep affection under a layer of physicality. We were more or less strangers.

  Or maybe that’s not really fair. I guess I’m talking mostly about what happened when he got to high school. Before that, before he got his driver’s license and a girlfriend, there were times I was the only game in town. On vacations we’d build elaborate sand castles or take borrowed bikes and go exploring. One regular Saturday night we watched the whole Godfather trilogy and we didn’t even start until ten.

  As he got older he sort of gave up on me. He dove into a new world and shut me out. And then he went off to Israel for a summer and came back with the idea that he needed to join the Marines and then all hell broke loose around here.

  If he talked to me more, I’d have some idea about why. But I never really understood all that much about him other than that he was stronger, faster, bigger, smarter and way better-looking than me. He had a confidence I marveled at and a girlfriend I fantasized about. Boaz knew what he wanted and he went out and got it. I’ve never really wanted much of anything.

  I’m not so sure how much has changed in the years since he’s been gone. I’ve grown taller and I’m grateful for every quarter inch, but I still don’t know what it is I’d give up everything for the way he did, or if such a thing even exists for me.

  When I was younger, I used to sneak into his room. I’d run my fingers over his trophies, his collection of rocks, the spines of his books. I thought of myself as somehow stepping into my future. I was catching a glimpse of who I’d become four years down the road.

  But in the end that room taught me nothing.

  “Levi,” Dov turns to me. “Why do you smell so pretty?”

  “Because I showered?”

  “No. It’s more than that.”

  Dov’s right. I put on some cologne. It’s been in the medicine cabinet since Boaz’s high school days, and I’m taking a leap it hasn’t turned toxic. Once I’m bothering with this party I might as well make an effort.

  Pearl is tagging along with Zim and me, as per usual.

  “It’s one of the only benefits of having you as a friend,” she says. “They don’t know how to throw a party at Convent of the Holy Child Jesus. All those stereotypes about wild Catholic girls aren’t true.”

  “I’m going to a party,” I say finally. “I won’t be back too late.”

  I’m not sure why I hesitated. I mean, I can pretty much do as I please. One benefit of having a brother who chooses a life in a combat zone is that my parents never get all knotted up about where I’m going, or what I’m doing, or who I’m with, or if I’m getting good grades, or how I’ll spend my summer vacation, or where I’m applying to college.

  They used to bug Boaz about those things and look where that got them.

  Dov puts his hand on mine. “Have a good time, beautiful,” he says. “And whatever you do, don’t forget your handbag.”

  Pearl is sporting some serious cleavage.

  “Mama Goldblatt let you out of the house in that?”

  She holds up a gray cardigan. “There’s a reason God invented sweaters.”

  She climbs into the back of Zim’s car, leans forward and buries her nose in my neck. “You smell yummy.”

  Zim puts his hand up like he’s shielding his eyes from the blinding blaze of a too-close sun. “Gross. Get a room.”

  She breathes in deeper. “You smell like Boaz used to smell.”

  I push her away. “Are you for real?”

  “I’m a girl. I have a strong olfactory sense. Or maybe it’s a Chinese thing. Either way, I remember how he used to smell.” She takes one final whiff of me and then falls back into her seat. “Mmmmmmmmm. The scent of falling in love.”

  It never occurred to me Pearl might have had a crush on my brother. That was stupid.

  I scratch at my neck. Maybe I overdid it with the cologne.

  “Okay, you two, remind me why we’re going to this party?” I ask. “Chad Post is kind of a tool.”

  “Because you need to loosen up, Levi,” Pearl says. “Get your mind off things. Maybe you can even get somebody to touch your winkle.”

  “Like you’re not all over that daily,” Zim snorts.

  “Don’t call it my winkle,” I tell Pearl.

  “Don’t get bogged down in semantics when we should be working on strategy.”

  “The girl does have a point,” Zim says.

  Okay, my experience with the opposite sex is pitiful when you stack it up next to Pearl’s or Zim’s. But like I said, the last year or so has been good to me physically. Things should get better from here on out.

  “What sort of strategy do you suggest?” I ask.

  “Well, you could just get some poor girl rip-roaring drunk,” Pearl says. “But that’s cliché. And morally questionable.” She rolls down her window and lights up a cigarette in flagrant violation of Zim’s rules for his car. “We’ll have to come up with something.”

  At Chad’s Pearl flirts with a guy way out of her league. She loses interest and begins all over again with a science fiction nerd.

  Zim disappears with Maddie Green, which is something he does at roughly four out of every five parties, but he swears she’s not his girlfriend.

  I wander around, skirting the fringes of conversations. Keeping one ey
e open for Rebecca Walsh, even though she never goes anywhere without Dylan Fredricks.

  Chad Post grabs my shoulder.

  “Dude,” he says. “I heard about your brother.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Then I cringe. Why’d I say thanks?

  “You must be so psyched to have him home.”

  He doesn’t leave his room and he can’t put together a sentence of more than three words.

  “Yeah. I am.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  Did I mention that he doesn’t leave his room and can’t put together a sentence of more than three words?

  “Great.”

  “Cool,” Chad says. “Wanna beer?”

  “Sure.”

  As Chad heads for the keg, I feel guilt creeping up. I called Chad Post a tool, but maybe he’s not so bad.

  He returns with a blue plastic cup. He stands next to me, checking out the scene.

  “Boaz is so badass,” he says, and then he leans in a little closer. He smells like Doritos. “Do you think he killed anybody over there?”

  “I don’t really know, Chad.”

  “Well, I think it’s awesome what he did. I’m not saying I’d do it myself, ’cause I don’t wanna, like, wake up before the sun and eat crappy food and sleep in a tent and get blown up, but I totally respect the guys who do.”

  “I’ll pass that on.”

  “Awesome. Tell him thanks for keeping our country safe from terrorists and shit.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Chad wanders off, and I look around for a place to sit. I’m hoping for a spot where nobody will bother me, unless, of course, that person is Rebecca Walsh. Or Sophie Olsen.

  I settle into one half of a love seat.

  I pick up a back issue of Time magazine and try to look interested. There’s a soldier on the cover. Helmet. Desert fatigues. Tired, dusty face. Deep tan.

  Pearl squeezes in next to me.

  “Way to go. Reading. That’ll woo the ladies.”

  She takes a long sip of my lukewarm beer. “Where’s Richard?”

  “Where do you think?”

  “Maddie Green? So predictable.”

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound jealous.”

  “Please. What about you? How’s Project Winkle coming along?”

  I gesture to the empty space around me.

  “You need to work on strategy,” she says.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of hitting on people?” I ask her. “It looks like an awful lot of work.”

  “I don’t get this opportunity every day, you know. Mama Goldblatt robbed me of my God-given right to flirt by sending me to the Convent.”

  Mama Goldblatt adopted Pearl when she was eleven months old, and since the day she stepped off the plane as a single mother with that baby in her arms, Mama Goldblatt has been wildly overprotective—there’s no other way to account for her sending a Chinese Jew to an all-girls Catholic school. She claims it’s because she believes in single-sex education, but I think if she knew Pearl would go ahead and lose her virginity at sixteen anyway, she might have saved herself the tuition and sent her to the public school like everybody else.

  “Where’d you tell your mom you were going tonight?”

  “I just said I was hanging out with you.” Pearl throws her arm around my neck. “Mama Goldblatt never worries when I’m with you. You’re safe.”

  “Great. Safe.”

  “What? You’d rather be dangerous?”

  I put the magazine on the coffee table. Right back where I found it.

  I sink deeper into the love seat.

  “I’m not sure what I want to be.”

  THREE

  I’M STARTING TO WONDER if he ever sleeps at all.

  His radio’s on all the time, the dial just a hair off, so there’s constant static. And over that static I hear the click-clacking of his computer keys.

  A few times, in the middle of the night when I’ve gotten up for a piss, I can hear him screaming. I know this sounds weird, but he screams softly. He hoarse whisper–yells. That’s even worse somehow than if he just let it rip.

  I can’t make out the words but there they are. Word after word after word. Deep in the phantom hours, when the rest of the world is sleeping, Boaz is lost someplace where he’s forgotten he doesn’t talk much anymore.

  When I knock, he never opens the door. He asks, “What do you need?”

  What I need. That’s a laugh. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” Three words.

  “All right,” I say. “Just checking.”

  Christina Crowley stops by to see him.

  She’s sitting at the kitchen table, facing Mom, hands around a glass of iced tea. She’s more beautiful, more perfect, than I even remembered.

  I’ve just come in from a run. I figure it beats smoking for clearing my head. Turns out I’m not half bad at it.

  Sports were Boaz’s thing. Soccer. Baseball. He was a pretty decent basketballer for a guy his height. After his games I’d head home with Mom and Abba and watch him go off to a party with his teammates. Maybe someday, I’d think.

  Today I took a morning run. A Saturday. Wicked hot. The air is thick and apparently it’s National Mow Your Lawn Day. I feel like I’ve inhaled a small patch of grass.

  Christina stands up. “Oh my God! Levi! Look at you!”

  There’s an awkward moment when I think maybe I’m supposed to hug her. One thing I’m pretty sure of is you don’t shake hands with a girl. I’m also pretty sure you don’t hug a girl with a sweat-soaked T-shirt.

  I settle for a wave and busy myself getting water.

  “I can’t believe how you’ve grown up.” She sits and pulls out the chair next to her. “Come have a seat and tell me what’s new with you.”

  I haven’t seen her in three years. That’s a pretty decent chunk of my life.

  “Not much, really.”

  “That’s not true.” Mom wipes the table where I’ve dripped a bit of sweat. “Levi has started running. And he’s finishing up his junior year. And he … um …” She searches my face. “Come on, baby. Tell Christina about yourself.”

  I shrug. “I’ve got Hardwicke for English.”

  “Oh yeah. I had her too. Does she still have a mustache?”

  I remember Christina complaining about Ms. Hardwicke to Boaz. That’s why I mention it. I remember everything about Christina.

  “It’s pretty much a full-on goatee now.”

  “Ha.” She puts a hand over mine. An electric jolt shoots through my weary body.

  Mom clears our empty glasses. She backs her way out of the kitchen with a smile and returns to her laundry.

  “I came to see Boaz.” Christina leans in close. I can feel her breath on my face. “But I’m getting the message that maybe that’s not such a great idea.”

  God, she’s lovely, I think.

  Lovely: not a word a guy should ever say out loud, unless he’s in the market for a good dope slap, but it sure applies to Christina Crowley.

  She’s cut her blond hair to just below her chin, revealing the world’s most beautiful neck, and she wears no makeup. I hate when girls wear makeup. I mean, you’re a girl, right? You’ve got all this soft skin and eyelashes and stuff. Why would you go and slap paint over those amazing natural resources?

  Once I walked in on them in Boaz’s bedroom.

  If I was sneaking into my brother’s room all those times in some sort of attempt to learn about him, or myself, or what might happen to me in four years, I hit the jackpot that rainy December afternoon.

  Boaz, tangled in her arms and legs. Their bodies moving slowly. The butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder.

  I stood there for longer than I should have. They didn’t see me. I backed my way out of the room.

  For ages I couldn’t look Christina in the eye without my face going hot.

  So, now she’s here. That’s gotta mean something. Maybe he was writing her, calling her, visiting her at Dar
tmouth, all those times he wasn’t writing, calling or visiting us.

  I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed looking at her.

  “He’s not …” I’m searching for the right words. “I don’t know … what you’d call social, I guess.”

  She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, reaches around and grabs the back of that beautiful neck and begins to massage it with her hand.

  She was there the night he made his announcement.

  Right after he’d finished his salad. It was a regular dinner. A Sunday night with Dov. It was April. The day had been long and lazy. Unseasonably warm. We’d been talking about the shade of pink our neighbors had painted their house. There was nothing about the evening that would have signaled to anybody that this night would become that night.

  Boaz had been accepted to Cornell, Columbia, Tufts and Berkeley. Everyone was awaiting his decision, Mom with a sort of giddy anticipation that meant she pestered him constantly.

  “So?” she asked for the hundredth time. “Anything you’d like to share with the group?”

  “Yes, actually.” He put down his fork. Pushed back his chair just a little. “I’m joining the Marines. I’ll enlist right after graduation.”

  There was a silence. A pause during which we all considered whether this was some sort of joke. Boaz could be funny. He wasn’t always such a serious person. But it was clear he’d meant what he’d said.

  He might as well have said he was going to become a ballerina. That would have come as an equal shock. I know that sounds strange when you consider how our father, our grandfather and even our grandmother were soldiers, but that was Israel. This is America.

  “But … but … that’s not what people like us do,” Christina said, her lip quivering. When I remember it now, I wonder if maybe it hurt her that he didn’t include her in this decision. That he’d gone ahead and made it, and announced it to her along with everyone else.