The Things a Brother Knows

by Dana Reinhardt

  If it weren’t for the fact that the cups he poured our water into have bright purple flowers on them, I might just hightail it out of here leaving nothing but a cloud of dust in my wake.

  Instead I say, “Sorry to turn up like this, I know it’s kinda weird, but, you see, there’s this map … well, lots of maps, and your address was in the ocean, and there were some e-mails, and I thought I knew—even though he wouldn’t tell me anything, I was pretty sure I knew, at least I knew this, that he’d be here—but I guess I was wrong.”

  Loren takes a long drink of his beer.

  Pearl sits forward. “What Levi’s trying to say, and forgive him, he can get a little tongue-tied, is that he thought Boaz was here and he’s a little surprised to find that he’s not.”

  Loren begins to peel the label off his sweating beer bottle.

  “Nope. He’s not here.” He gestures around the living area as if we need some physical proof. Then he sits back deeper into his chair and cracks a smile. “But I didn’t say he wasn’t here before.”

  “He was?” I jump up from the sofa like I’ve got someplace to go and quick. Like maybe if I start running fast enough I might be able to catch him.

  “Sit down, junior,” Loren says.

  I sit.

  “So, whaddya want with Bo?”

  I stare at him and his marine haircut. I know Dov has plenty to say when it comes to my hair and what sort of signal it sends about me, but that’s different. Nobody with hair like Loren’s could ever be anything but a marine. His haircut announces, without any room for misunderstanding, exactly who he is.

  “I want him to come home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he needs to. It’s time.”

  “Levi,” Loren asks me, “what do you know about the Marines?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Exactly.”

  He leans back in his chair, like Abba does when he’s just put me in checkmate. He rolls his beer bottle slowly back and forth over the vast plain of his forehead.

  “You see,” he continues, “you don’t know. You never will know. Whoever this guy Boaz was, this brother you thought you knew, he’s a marine now. He’ll always be a marine. Even if he wishes it weren’t so, he can’t undo it. It’s in his blood. Nobody can undo it.”

  When Boaz left for training in California, he sent home a shirt for me, athletic gray with the letters USMC across the front. He must have bought the smallest size he could, but still, I swam in that shirt. I only wore it to sleep in, and by the time I grew big enough that I didn’t look absurd in it, I still wore it only to sleep in. I never once wore it out in public. That U and S and M and C—those letters were blue, but to me, for reasons I couldn’t quite understand, they felt scarlet.

  “How long was he here?” I ask.

  “Not too long.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Why would I tell you that?”

  “Because I want to help him. I want him to come home. I want everything to be normal again.”

  Loren laughs. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  He stands up and goes into the kitchen for another beer and I go perfectly still until the sound of the bottle cap separating from the bottle, that small clink and the whoosh coming from a room away, rattles me like the loudest clap of thunder.

  Loren returns and resumes his seat.

  “That your girlfriend?”

  He nods in Pearl’s direction. I’ve practically forgotten she’s here.

  “No, I’m not,” she answers. “And my name is Pearl.”

  “That’s good news, Pearl. Because girlfriends, at least the ones I know, are nothing but bitches.”

  I stand up. “Okay. I think it’s time for us to get going.”

  Loren doesn’t take his eyes from Pearl. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Pearl. Really. You seem like a very nice person. It’s just that once you become someone’s girlfriend, you become a liar. It’s just a fact. You become someone who can no longer be trusted.”

  “What makes you so sure you can trust me now?” She smiles at him. Flirting, almost. He smiles back.

  I stood up with such confidence, such conviction, but now I sit back down on the sofa with something closer to feebleness. Pearl doesn’t need me to stand up for her. She’s perfectly capable of doing that herself while remaining fully seated.

  “Bo had a girlfriend, didn’t he? What was her name again?”

  “Christina.”

  “Right, Christina,” Loren says. “Another first-rate, world-class bitch.”

  I take to my feet again. Pearl might not need me to stand up for her. But Christina? Christina needs me.

  I fix Loren with the meanest look I can muster. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure I do. They’re all the same. None of them can handle waiting around for their men to come home. Christina was no different.”

  “Can you blame her? She was eighteen. She thought he was making a mistake. And he was so far away. None of that could’ve been easy for her.”

  “It’s all a sack of lies.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “I know girlfriends. She found someone else. You can count on that. That’s why she dumped him. Not because of some bullshit reason about being far away. She jumped in bed with the first chickenshit loser who came along. They all do.”

  “Oh, right,” Pearl says. “And I’m sure you military men are the kinds of boyfriends we girls dream about.”

  Beyond the haircut, I can’t see anything in Loren that reminds me of my brother. Or at least what I know of him. I don’t understand how Boaz and this thick-thighed person before me possibly could have been close enough that Boaz would choose to walk to this house, to sleep on this uncomfortable sofa.

  Why would he let this person in on his plans, his secrets, when he has a family who loves him, who misses him, who wants to be let in but instead gets the closed bedroom door?

  “So.” My throat catches and I clear it. “Where’s he headed next? New Jersey?”

  Loren slowly shifts his gaze from Pearl to me, with effort, like he’s got weights on his eyelids. “What makes you think that?”

  “The next address is in New Jersey.” Off his look I add, “It’s written in the ocean.”

  “I see.”

  It’s time to get out of here. It’s been time to get out of here since Pearl took a pee. Every minute since has been a total waste of time.

  I want nothing in this entire world but to be free of this apartment and its hot-as-hell, claustrophobic rooms.

  Who is this person, anyway?

  “Let’s go, Pearl,” I say.

  She sighs dramatically. She puts her palms flat on either side of her and makes like she’s about to push herself up. “It was so nice to meet you, Loren. An absolute pleasure.”

  “He’s not going to come home with you,” he says, sinking deeper into his chair, stretching his legs out so far in front of him his bare feet almost touch my shins.

  “Maybe he will.”

  “Maybe.” He nods. He makes a show of thinking it over. “But not before he’s completed his mission.”

  “What mission?”

  Loren puts his empty beer bottle on the side table. “Look, Levi, you seem like a decent kid. And I know you care about your brother. But there isn’t all that much you can do for him now. He’s got some idea in his head, something he needs to do. I’m guessing you know him well enough by now to know that when he puts his mind to something, he follows through.”

  I feel my face go hot with shame. Loren is right. I’m not going to be able to convince my brother to come home, but it isn’t this realization that brings the heat to my cheeks. It’s the other realization: that this angry stranger knows my brother better than I do.

  My shame morphs into rage.

  I hate Loren.

  I hate that Loren knows more than I do, and I hate the way Loren uses this knowledge to make me feel like a stupid child.
But there’s no escaping that what Loren has, I need—a different understanding of Boaz.

  So instead of blowing up or storming out or any other of a variety of steps I could take at this moment, I ask him, “Does he seem okay to you? I mean really. Do you think he’s okay?”

  “I can tell you I’ve seen guys in a lot worse shape, and I’ve seen guys who are doing better.”

  I rub my fingers into my eyes. For just that brief minute I’m able to block out the world. There’s nothing but a psychedelic blackness. I open my eyes again and watch the blackness begin its slow retreat.

  “If I found him I’m not sure what I’d say. I don’t know how to talk to him.”

  “Listen.” Loren pulls in his legs and leans forward a little. “If you’re going to keep on looking for him, I suggest you ditch the flip-flops and maybe pick up some camping gear, because the best you can hope for if you find him is that he lets you tag along. He’s not going to turn around and drive home with you and your adorable non-girlfriend Pearl.”

  He gives my leg a friendly slap that stings more than it should. I know how weak it makes me look, but I rub the spot anyway. “Thanks for the advice.”

  “No problem.”

  We shake hands and I hold on for an extra beat.

  “I mean it,” I say.

  “I know,” Loren answers.

  He walks us to the door. We start the climb down the narrow staircase.

  “Hey, Levi,” Loren calls after us.

  “Yeah?”

  “He likes to play cards.”

  “So?”

  “Get him to play some cards. Do that, and you might get him talking.”

  ELEVEN

  I TELL MY PARENTS I’m meeting Boaz on the trail. That he called from a small town in Vermont. That he asked me to join him. That he thought it would make for a good bonding experience. That he begged, pleaded: please would I bring along a batch of Mom’s butterscotch brownies?

  Mom responds by rushing out to buy me the same pair of boots Boaz settled on, then delivers a long lecture on the thickness of socks. How to avoid corns. Blisters. Rot.

  Abba’s response, not surprisingly, is to ask me what I plan to do about my job.

  “You made a commitment to these people,” he says. “You promised you’d work through the summer.”

  “Abba, the industry of in-home movie watching won’t grind to a halt if I’m not behind the counter at Videorama. Everyone wants that job. Bob will find someone else.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  “This is about commitment.”

  “Commitment,” I say.

  Abba’s face softens. “Motek.” He reaches for me. He puts a hand on my chin. Tilts my face so he looks me in the eye. “Is this what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean, is this what you want?” He places his palm flat on the center of my chest. “You? Levi?”

  “Yes, Abba.”

  “Then you should go. Meet your brother. Walk with your brother. But make sure you apologize to the people at work. Let them know the circumstances are … extenuating.”

  “I’ll do that, Abba. I promise.”

  And then: there’s Dov.

  “Bullshit,” he says.

  “Whaddya mean, Dov?” My face reddens. Among all the things I’m no good at, I’m a spectacularly lousy liar.

  “This isn’t right. Something’s not right.” Dov rubs the patch of wispy hair on his left cheek. He probably hasn’t shaved in a week, but it makes little difference. There has never been a Katznelson man in the history of Katznelsondom who could grow a proper beard.

  “What do you know from backpacking?”

  He has me there. I’ve never been much of a nature lover. I was never a Boy Scout like Boaz. I am decidedly indoorsy.

  I shrug.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on,” Dov says.

  I start out by trying to dodge, but then it all comes rushing out of me like air from a little hole in a balloon. Faster and faster and faster.

  Dov may be old, but he’s quick, and he stays with me all through the tales of the maps and the Web sites and my suspicions and Loren with the scar on his forehead.

  He nods wisely.

  “When I was seventeen,” he says, “I’d already met your grandmother. I’d have married her then if she’d have had me. Right then.” Dov reaches over and takes my hand. He squeezes it. There’s a decent chance he’s shattering one of its lesser bones. “The thing is, Levi, I knew what I wanted.”

  “I don’t think Mom and Abba would let me go if they had any idea what was really going on. Not that I know what’s really going on, but you know what I mean.”

  “Levi, a few short weeks from now you could join the military. You could be walking headfirst into this godforsaken war. You’re a man. If you want to do this for your brother, do this. Find him. Help him. Protect him. No apologies. No permission.”

  And with that we make a pact. Even though we don’t say anything else to each other, Dov has just agreed to keep the truth from Mom and Abba. I’ve agreed to call Dov if somehow, somewhere I need the guidance of a real adult.

  After I shower and run my toothbrush over my teeth with less effort than they deserve, I grab my bag and tiptoe down the stairs, careful not to wake my parents—it’s early on a Saturday. But there stands Mom, in a long and wispy white nightgown, looking both ethereal, like a ghost, and impenetrable, like a linebacker.

  Her back is to the front door.

  “Don’t go, baby. Please.” Her eyes are damp. “I know you’re not a child, I know. I know you can make your own decisions. I know I am … powerless over you. I know you have your reasons. But I’m begging you. I’m standing here begging you: please. Please don’t go. Levi. Please.”

  Now she’s sobbing.

  I walk right up to her and put my arms around her. She feels like a collection of sticks inside a bag made from wispy cotton.

  “Shhhhh,” I say. “I’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.”

  “No. Not you. Not you, baby. You. You are my baby.” She weeps into the collar of my sweatshirt.

  This time, the way she says that word, that baby—it doesn’t annoy me, it doesn’t make me cringe. Instead it turns my heart into an impossibly heavy brick. I almost have to sit down for the weight of it all.

  “Shhhh,” I say.

  “No,” she whispers. “No.”

  I take a step away from her. I adjust my backpack. I look down at my shiny new boots. My very first pair.

  “I’m going hiking. I’m going to live in nature. Remember? Remember how great you said that was for you? Maybe it’ll be the same for me.”

  “No,” she says.

  “I’ll be okay,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to do but to lie to her. “We’ll all be okay.”

  I slide her gently out of my way and walk out the front door.

  Once again I’ve engaged the driving services of Miss Pearl Goldblatt. She’s waiting for me, in her running car, outside my still dark house.

  This time to New Jersey. This time to leave me behind.

  It isn’t until I reach the door that I see there’s someone in the backseat.

  Zim.

  And he’s pissed.

  He’s pissed that I started this adventure with Pearl. That I didn’t ask him to come with us to track down Loren. That she had to call him and invite him along today. I didn’t invite him, Pearl did. That’s the real kicker.

  He doesn’t care that I came looking for him, that there’s the missing skateboard to prove it. And he doesn’t care that I’m going to recommend him for my job at Videorama. Zim hangs around all day anyway, I figure Bob might as well throw the guy a few shekels for his troubles.

  But no. Zim is still pissed.

  He won’t even share his do-nuts with me.

  Pearl gets on the highway, even though we don’t know exactly where we’re going. We don’t know much oth
er than where Boaz spent last night and where he’s due to arrive in two days.

  But at least, finally, we have some direction.

  Turns out Loren is an ally. Despite first impressions, he’s not this story’s nefarious villain. He decided, after one or maybe ten more beers, that finding my brother maybe wasn’t the worst idea in the world.

  So he tracked down our home number, and luckily I answered, and he told me that things have changed. That the next address I had is no longer in play. The guy Boaz was planning on visiting, under pressure from his wife to cut ties with anyone and everyone having anything to do with the Marines, told him he couldn’t stay there.

  I erased that address right out of the Atlantic.

  He told me that Boaz had camped in Harriman State Park and then last night he slept in a Motel 9 near Ridgewood, and from there he’s headed to the home of a friend of Loren’s landlord, someone with a kid in the Army, who wants to help Boaz out on his journey.

  She lives in Edison, about two days’ walk away.

  I know it’s a fool’s errand searching for him now. It makes more sense to go looking tomorrow. But the need to get to my brother is whipping around inside me, and I don’t really care if I do nothing but wander. It’s better than sitting on the floor of my room doing nothing. So here I am, in a car full of fools.

  Plus, we have the maps. Right now Zim is poring over them from his spot in the backseat. I’ve researched the most direct route that doesn’t involve any major highway between where Boaz stayed in Ridgewood and the address of this friend of Loren’s landlord in Edison. I have a list of every cheap motel and campground in between.

  My brother is out there somewhere.

  “I’m not only stronger than the two of you combined,” Zim says as he shuffles through the stack of papers, “I’m also way smarter. And the only one without gainful employment. So it really does boggle the mind why it is that I didn’t come with you to Poughkeepsie.”

  Pearl has been given a two-day reprieve. Mama Goldblatt thinks she’s driving me to Vermont to meet Boaz on the Appalachian Trail and that she’ll stay and camp with us overnight before returning home. Zim told his parents something similar.