And worst of all, Jamison and his father were going to his grandfather’s house, two states over, for a whole week. When I found that out, my thinking was, after the humungous pity party I held for myself, that if I couldn’t make a happy Christmas for myself, then I could at least try to make it happy for someone else. In the past, whenever I saw my brother’s eyes light up, that confirmed in me that that was the right thing for me to do. Besides, they’d be back for New Year’s, and I was going to spend that holiday at Jamison’s house. Woo-hoo.
So I bought Wendell the bike, and stayed up Christmas Eve putting it together.
Christmas wasn’t much fun in our house. It’s probably what goes on in many homes, but Dad is usually a complete asshole and ruins the day, even before he starts drinking. This year, as usual, he brought some guy home from the bar the night before—while Mom was at church. The guy slept on the couch and frankly, he stunk. My brother’s toys never got put together—or they hadn’t until I sat down and started in on them, with Dad and his pal drinking beer and watching some old John Wayne movie on TV. They were both passed out by the time I was done, and I had to take the lit cigarettes out of their hands and stub them out, so the house wouldn’t burn down.
The minute my brother saw his new toys and Lego building set, however, the next morning at zero dark holy shit thirty, it was all worthwhile. It should be; I’d bought them for him with my own money this year too. He looked up at me; he was only eight on the inside of his mind, but he knew who Santa was. And when he saw the bike, the way his eyes lit up and then found mine, it made me want to cry. As many troubles as I thought I had; well, it all paled next to what he was missing.
I knew what I was getting, from my uncle, there was a special shirt I’d been wanting for months. Behind me I heard my dad arguing quietly with my mom; she said, “Fine,” in a tight voice and stalked back into the kitchen. My dad—well, he was actually my brother’s dad, not really mine, which I’d only found out about this past year, said to his new friend, “Here, this is for you.” And I knew. I smiled at my brother, and walked back into my room.
I stood there in the semidarkness and stared at the snow outside. I knew if my brother was going to ride his bike today, it was up to me to shovel the sidewalk. And that I had to conquer my feelings about that fucking shirt, and what it all represented. That made me laugh a little, bitterly, but it was better than crying. And I thought I had problems. As I stood there I could see straight into Goth Girl’s window—I hadn’t realized she was standing there staring out too. I saw her wipe her eyes on her sleeve. I waved a little, and I think she smiled back. At least I wasn’t hung up on the roof, even though the lights had never been fixed up the way they should have been. I’d refused to go back up.
I could hear Mom fixing breakfast and my brother’s happy chatter. My dad was showing off for his new best friend, pretending he had put the bike together himself. Maybe he really thought he had; a lot of what he said was true was only the truth as he wished it might have been. I prefaced everything he said with, “I wish,” or, “Maybe.” Sure, and some fine day pigs will fly out of my ass.
That Goth Girl left her window, and I dug out my gloves and jacket to go shovel the sidewalk.
The snow was still falling, no longer hard enough to pile up, but just enough to make it Christmassy and clean and pretty. I could feel it landing on my hair, and then after a while melting and running down the back of my neck. Some landed on my face and when it melted, ran down; it felt like I was crying on the outside. My brother brought his bike out onto the front porch, almost jumping up and down. “Hurry up,” he called. I threw a snowball at him, and started shoveling, aware of my dad watching me out the window. He’d been silent when I’d left the house, well, silent all morning actually, except to talk to his new best friend. Mom always tried to make a happy day of it, but I often heard her go into the bathroom and cry. I heard Dad say, as I went out the door, “He’s a bit of a sissy. I’m worried about him, Frank, I really am. His side of the family, well, shit.” I could see him shaking his head. I was terrified. I shivered, then swallowed down my fear and set to shoveling, determined that Wendell would get to ride his bike.
The next time I looked up from shoveling I saw my neighbor shoveling his—no, wait, that was the girl, the Goth Girl, Carla, across from my room—her sidewalk too. She looked up at me, almost defiantly. Her eyes cast toward our porch, where my brother was sticking out his tongue to catch snowflakes. Then, as if she caught herself, she called over, “My dad made me,” but I already knew she was doing it so my brother would have more room to ride his bike.
A bit about my brother Wendell; he has Down syndrome. He’s actually older than I am, but he’s shorter and chubby and well, you know. He wants to be called Zelda the Magnificent but he can’t pronounce it himself, and cried when Dad sneered and told him Zelda was a girl’s name. He’s big hearted and full of love for all mankind. I am probably the only person who knows he only pretends to love our dad. This one time when Dad was being particularly clueless and mean, saying Wen was not his son, no fucking way, Wen got into Dad’s matches and started playing with them. Dad got scared, more scared than angry. And for a split second Wen’s mask broke and I saw he understood completely what he was doing, and was enjoying himself thoroughly. I didn’t know if he was capable of not starting a fire, or entirely capable of doing so on purpose. I had no idea, either way. I was a little scared myself, but then he tried to wink at me. He knew that too.
Later, while Wen got on that bike and rode up and down half the block, kicking his legs out to the side and screeching happily, Carla and I got into a giant snowball fight. It ended up with us getting closer and closer until we were standing eye to eye, toe to toe, both threatening to wash the other’s face with snow. Instead, she leaned toward me, and I kissed her. Or she kissed me. Or both. Which is kind of funny because I’m gay, and apparently so is she.
Nevertheless, it was very pleasant, which surprised me, and her too, she told me later. At least it thawed the bus stop misery a bit, though we didn’t talk a lot after that day, we did speak, and soon everyone would smile or nod or say something, even if it was only to complain about how cold it was. It didn’t make us all happy campers who hugged and smooched and went to each other’s birthday parties, in fact, I came to blows with one of the guys the following summer, breaking his nose and making Dad proud. So you never know. But we stood there in the falling snow smooching away, hamming it up, our faces getting red, stifling our laughter, and putting on a good show. Wendell clapped his hands, almost falling off his bike, but inadvertently learning how to ride no-handed. He was thrilled.
As much as I’d rather have been kissing Jamison, and she her girlfriend back home, it was fun, and good practice, and I could hardly wait to tell Jamison and teach him whatever I had learned.
Another surprise awaited me back in the house. Dad’s friend was leaving, and he pressed a fifty dollar bill into my hand with a wink. And my dad said, “I gave him that shirt cuz I thought you were queer and that’s why you liked it. Then I saw you kiss that girl and I thought to myself, man, you are one dumb fucker. That kid is already working that girl. I don’t say this often, but you know what? I was wrong, and I’m sorry about the damn shirt. Get me a beer, will ya?”
And I did. The next day I spent half that fifty on a new feathered purse for Carla, and a nice camera case for Jamison. I could hardly wait for New Year’s. I had great expectations of that night and day, believe me.
Chapter 6: It’s a New Year
Jamison and his dad were due back on New Year’s Eve. I knew he’d call me as soon as they got home. I’d planned on going over there as soon as he called. This made me happy all week. Plus I was spending time with Carla, and she was very quick witted. She always got my jokes and made me feel bright and intelligent. When I told her what my stepdad had said she laughed so hard she fell off the couch. When I gave her the feathered purse, she cried. She had thought the other one had been lost or stol
en, but when I told her who had it, she didn’t know what to think. “It doesn’t matter, this one’s nicer anyhow,” I soothed her. “And I’m so grateful to you, besides that fun smooching session, for shoveling the sidewalk. Wendell’s been out there every day riding that bike. I’ve never seen him so happy.”
“I didn’t see him today though.”
“He’s got a cough going, probably only a cold, but Mom doesn’t want him to be outside until he feels better. Luckily he’s a Lego addict and he’s been up in his room building a town with them. Hey, you doing anything New Year’s Eve? You could go to Jamison’s with me.”
“My folks are going out and I’m staying in to babysit my uncle. So he’s the one who took my old purse? I’d have bought him one of his own if I’d thought of it. I wonder what he made of the birth control pills.”
Now it was my turn to be confused. “But if you and your girlfriend, I mean, don’t tell me. But why would you need birth control?”
Carla smiled at my stumbling question and face that I could feel reddening.
She didn’t answer right away, smirked at me. “You know all that kissing? I think I’m maybe bi. No seriously, it’s possible, right? That’s what my folks say. You don’t know what you like because you’ve never done it. Ha-ha. Yes, I have.”
“With a boy?” I whispered, shocked.
“Well, you did.”
“Only once, but I’m gay and I liked it. But you’re a girl. I mean…oh hell. Now you’ve really lost me. Now don’t steal my boyfriend.”
“I wouldn’t. I’d steal you but I know it’s hopeless. He loves you so much, you know that, don’t you?”
All I could do was smile from deep within my heart. “New Year’s Eve can’t come quick enough.”
“You said come,” she teased.
As it turned out, I didn’t get to go to Jamison’s house, or at least, not the way I’d thought. My parents told me they were going out to a party and that I was staying home to babysit Wendell, who was still sick. I admit I threw a tantrum, so bad that my stepdad slapped me across the face. I made it to my room to cry, though. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Once I calmed down I called Carla and told her, and then I messaged Jamison and told him. They both said the same thing; it’s only one night, and you’ll be there the day after. Yeah, after they sober up around noon maybe. But I thought of Wendell and knew I had to do it. Wendell came first, and to be honest, my parents were getting along for a change, and that was pretty neat, so what the hell. But I had such a mix of feelings, it was almost impossible to eat dinner that night.
No party for me then. My parents really wanted desperately to go out and you know, I didn’t blame them. Dad works hard—when he has a job—and this party was being thrown by his boss; so they really should go. Somebody had to lose out, and as usual, I thought, it had to be me. Then I felt ashamed for feeling that way.
So there we were. I made Wendell’s favorite after dinner snack and put his favorite movies on the TV in the living room. I read him his favorite stories and put him to bed. He seemed a little fatigued, but happy, even though he was still coughing. In hindsight I wondered if I should have taken his temperature, or called Mom and Dad. But I didn’t. I’d already let him stay up way past his bedtime, and had told him it was midnight around 10:30. He didn’t know any better, and he was so excited to stay up like a grown-up, he said. I sat with him until he fell asleep, hearing music that Carla or her uncle was playing next door.
Right after I turned out the light and was starting down the stairs, I heard a noise from his room, from him, that I had never heard before. I froze, God help me, but I did. I froze right there and wasted valuable time, time I could never get back.
The least worst part was that Wendell loved horror stories, so that’s what I had read him. Creepy, monkey-faced clowns, kids’ scary stuff, but still…I had to look over my shoulder before I was brave enough to head back to his room, and as I opened the door, I looked for monsters, of both the human and monkey kind. There was nobody there but Wendell, still tucked up in his bed with the Lego printed sheets he loved so much.
I guess I thought I knew everything about him. What I didn’t know, however, was that he had a weak heart, as many like him do. I had to grab onto every shred of courage and confidence I had to walk across the room to his bed. I thought maybe he’d thrown up or had cramps from eating my cooking. I had no idea. Then again, I thought, maybe his monsters were real and they’re in the room with him, with us, right now. Maybe it was a monster that had made him make that awful noise. I took a deep breath, and touched his shoulder. He was sound asleep; no, he wasn’t asleep. I was suddenly overtaken by a cold chill like I’d never felt before. It started deep in my gut and rose up to my face, searing everything on its way. I was shaking. And suddenly I needed the bathroom. Yeah, that scared, because, maybe, I knew what I would find.
Did I find a monster? Just one, but he was this old guy with a long white beard, carrying a scythe. The old year was dying, and it had taken my brother with it.
It was his heart.
I did CPR and all that shit, I knew it by heart, and I called 911 and I have no recollection of how I managed both at the same time, so I’ve second guessed myself ever since. I knew he was gone before I even started, after that last noise he’d made had died out…I knew he was gone. But I did what I was supposed to do anyhow, because you have to. And I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t.
The hardest thing I have ever done was call my parents on their one night out, to tell them to rush to the hospital. The EMTs were keeping him alive until they got there, not that I told them that because after all nobody had really said that. All the people cleared out in a rush, putting him on the gurney, beating his chest as I collapsed with fatigue (how could they keep on going like that?), and as soon as they were all out of the room, I started to cry, even as I reached for my phone to make that call.
As it was ringing in my shaking hand, someone reached down and took it from me, and told my dad what he needed to know when he picked up. Then he bent down and put the phone back in my hand, holding out a large handkerchief to me with the other.
It was Carla’s Uncle Tom, the first person who had come in the door after everyone had left. How had I gotten the front door unlocked? I have no idea. I wiped my face and tried to calm myself. He said, “Breathe, son, just breathe, in, out. You did the best you could.”
Oh, how I hate that phrase. My best wasn’t anywhere near good enough. He was dead, wasn’t he? What kind of good enough was that? What the fuck? That almost hidden anger I had was rising once again. I reached out and tried to punch the old man, who was really trying to help me, but I didn’t care. I had to hurt someone and he was handy and easier to reach than myself. Really I’d never felt this strong or angry or physical, like I was fighting for my life—even when I’d been in fights at school—it wasn’t like this—my heart was really into damaging something, hurting what I could reach, and this time it wasn’t just my mind but my body that was revolting as well.
If her uncle hadn’t restrained me’ I’d have run right through the wall. I know it. As it was, he deflected my hand and held my arm, not hurting me, just steadying. It was my second undoing. I had a shot of wondering if they—he, Carla, the police or my parents—would put Wendell’s death up to my cooking or letting him have too many snacks. Maybe they’d blame me; why wouldn’t they, I did. Maybe it was my fault; I should have saved him. I should have noticed something was wrong, his color was off or something, I shouldn’t have let Mom and Dad go out.
I felt so guilty for not saving him, not that I understood that at the time in so many words, but both Carla and her uncle did, and the old man put both arms around me and held me, gently but firmly, as I knelt there, trying to kill him or myself or run away or die, I don’t know. I was breathing as hard as if I’d run ten miles full out. Finally everything ran its course through me, and I was starting to feel like a human being again. When I opened my eyes the firs
t thing I saw over his shoulder was Wendell’s teddy bear, tossed on the floor in the middle of a square of Legos, where it lay like it too was dead. I rose, reduced to chest-wrenching sobs now, stumbled over and picked it up and held it to my face. It smelled like him, like spring flowers after a long cold winter. Flowers he would not be here to see.
Mom and Dad had gone straight to the hospital. When they called I could hear how buzzed my dad already was, and how belligerent. When Carla asked what they could do, take me to the hospital or whatever, I asked to be taken to Jamison’s. Carla even picked up the gift I had for him, and her uncle called a cab for me. I’d had no idea he was so nice, so intelligent, what with his dressing up, his prancing around in a boa and heels, but his heart was working overtime for me that night. Carla called Jamison and said I was on my way over. And then she told him why.
I was standing on the porch waiting for the taxi when my dad came careening up in our old car. He threw it sideways into the driveway, leapt out and came at me, screaming curses and tossing blame in my face. He started slapping me and hitting me and I took a couple hard punches on my arm before he landed one on my face. I didn’t realize how loud it all was until Carla’s uncle stepped in, spun my dad right around, and knocked him to the ground. He was dressed, of course, boa and high heels and all, and really passed well as a woman. He stood over Dad and snarled, “You’re some righteous bully, aren’t you, beating up a kid. And now look at you, on the ground and spitting out teeth because a woman hit you back. Bet you’re really proud, aren’t you?”
My dad sat up and held his knees, then threw up all over himself. “You’re trying to dump your own feelings of guilt on the boy, aren’t you? Well, maybe it’s not your fault either. Maybe it’s nobody’s fault at all.”
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