[the story for which Eva won first prize in the "It's All Right!" Short-Story contest held by the Ann Arbor District Library]
My older brother died and my parents didn't care. I think it was because they genuinely didn't like him. This seemed like a disgrace to me. I had a strong bond with my brother. He was the one who taught me how to fish, to jump rope, to tie my shoes. He told me scary stories under the covers at night and when I was truly scared he would hug me. He taught me how to fight, what to do or say when someone teased me. He protected me. He would take me out to breakfast, lunch, dinner, and order food for me. I was eating calamari and escargot at the age of four; I knew what pie-a-la-mode was. By six I had tried more food and was more cultured than some of my teachers.
I have this problem. I can think very well. Better than most, I'm told. My problem is, I can't talk. I have a voice box; I know 15 letter words and can use them in sentences. But for some reason I can't talk or function around people. Nothing comes out. Not even around my parents. My brother was different; I could talk around him. My words came out a whisper, and I had a small lisp. He said it gave me character.
I got out of school at 1:25 and he got out at 2:24. Every weekday I would patiently wait on his bed, reading and re-reading his books and the posters on his wall. He would come in at 2:36 and look tired and run down. Then he would see me, a huge dictionary perched on my lap, and he would smile. I could hear the love sing out from his pores and I would look up and smile back. A few of my teeth were missing and had not yet decided to grow back in. My brother said it gave me character. He would lazily drop his backpack on the floor and slowly walk over to me as I whisper-spoke a word to him: demerit, despondent, diligent. Every day was a new letter. He would give me a hug and he smelled like spring rain. "I missed you, Button." He'd say, and I would just breathe the smell of coat in.
We followed daily rituals. I couldn't stand when a ritual was broken; I would cry and cry, terrified. Part of our ritual was homework. Every day after school I would drag his backpack over to his desk. He would do French and English, history and biology and I would do his math. If he had a question I could answer it; it didn't matter if I'd studied it or not. I just knew. He would tell me in detail about his day: what kid said what, silly things he'd overheard, and I would hide my face in his sleeve and giggle. He never got mad at me. He never got upset or annoyed. If a ritual were broken he would apologize and hold me, rocking me back and forth until I knew that everything was OK again.
I don't know how he didn't hate me. Outside of school I was his entire social life. He would take me everywhere, every day there was a new thing to teach me: how to make a paper-bag puppet, how to bring a snowman to life. Oreos were to be dipped in milk exactly seven seconds for the perfect texture. If I got teased at school, he would come up with the perfect examples and proof of why I was not a butthead or retarded.
"Look at your face, K," he'd say. "Does it look like a butt to you?"
"How many nine year olds can do algebra? I bet Johnny Smith can't. Could you do that if you were 'retarded'?" He said the next time people fooled around with me I should beat them up. "Remember what I taught you," he'd say, "Eyes, stomach, and throat. Use your nails to your advantage."
He'd take me to zoos, to pet stores. He liked the puppies. I liked the birds. "Look at this one, K, it's blue." And I would nod and stare, transfixed. My brother was magic. One glance at a shopkeeper and within a matter of seconds the bird was in my hand or on my head or shoulder. This one looks like a Joseph, a Mary, a Philip. Each bird had its own name. He would take my hand and we would walk over to the puppies. They would press their noses against the glass and smear it with their breath, wrestling over each other. Another glance at the shopkeeper and the puppy would be licking our faces, stepping on our hands.
At zoos he would mimic the lions and bears. His laugh was like the sun. It came from his stomach and grew tone at his throat. He smiled like a little boy. We would find a secret corner, and under the screams of excited little children and cries of caged animals I would ask the same questions I already knew the answers to. Maybe just to see if they changed. They never did. "Color?" I would say, and each time, without fail, he would answer "Blue." Letter? "S." Word? "Katie!" he would shout, and mess up my hair and laugh his belly laugh. His smile made his face. He would argue with anyone for me.
He was constantly getting into fights with our parents. I never listened. I would bury my head under the pillow and sob a choked cry. I could hear my brother bash my parents with his words. As soon as he heard my cry, his voice would stop abruptly. Soon I could hear him walk slowly up the stairs. Everything he did with or for me was slow, purposeful. The door to my room would slowly open and he was there in a second, stroking my hair and whispering in my ear, "Come on, Button. It's okay, I'm not mad. Would the birds want you to cry? Would the puppies let you? No way. Come on Katie, it's okay" until everything felt normal again.
In the corner of my eye I would see my mother standing at the door. Immediately I would cling closer to my brother. He knew she was there when I did, and I could feel his grip soften, letting me know it was okay. I was scared of my parents. I didn't like them; I hated when they looked at me. They made me feel stupid, worthless. Their eyes were cold, like the kids at school who made fun of me for not talking, for finishing my work faster than them. Almost like frozen hatred, ice-cold resentment, or maybe that was my fear projecting on to their faces. All I knew for sure was that my brother's eyes were a blanket, a fireplace. Deep brown, looking at me, warming me with his love. They spoke care to me; they contradicted everything else all the other people said about me.
He would walk me to school each morning. I would hear shouts of other kids my age, "Look! It's the retard!" and my brothers grip on my hand would tighten. He would stop me, crouch down in front of the little kids who called me names and his eyes would go solid. He said something to them in a low voice and you could see the fear fill up their eyes. That didn't stop the teasing. But it was lessened for a while. I would walk home by myself at a snails pace. I stared at the ground. My hair covered my face and I ignored everything. It was all scary without my brother. As soon as I got home I would hurry straight to his room.
On his 16th birthday I found 'S' words I thought he might like and painted them on his wall in blue.
Saboteur
Sabulous
Sacerdotal
Sacrilegious
Sacrosanct
Sail
Satire
Savoir-faire
Scamper
Scaphoid
Schism
Seborrhea
Seguidilla
Seigneur
Shade
Siccative
Snow
Szmikite
"Szmikite" was the last word of the S's. I went over to his desk and sat on the chair, perfectly still. 2:36 came and went. 3:00 ran past. Soon it was 3:47 and I was frozen to the seat. I thought he was dead. I thought he hated me. A whirlwind of thoughts passed but didn't really stick. Just the fear. I couldn't cry. I couldn't do anything. At 4:44 he stumbled through the door. His eyes were red and blurry, like he'd been crying. He saw me and dropped his backpack. I was scared. My hero, the one person I admired and trusted, was run down, weak. I stared at the ground. I couldn't hear his smile.
He looked at the wall. Siccative was dripping onto Snow. Snow was bleeding into Szmikite, which was leaking down the wall and onto his bed frame.
The words were crying.
He looked over at them. He turned towards me and his face shattered. "You're such a character," he said. His voice cracked, and the words clumsily tipped out of his mouth. "Happy birthday" I whispered. He smiled a broken down smile and walked over to me. Slowly, purposefully. He draped his arms around me. "I'm tired," he mumbled.
I slept in his room that night. When I woke up he was sitting at his desk. His eyes were blankets again. His hair clung wet to his head. He smelled like morning shower. He smiled at me. It sounded normal. He came over to me and kissed my head.
We spent the whole day making snowmen, snowpets, snowhouses, snowcars. We threw snowballs at each other. His laugh made the sun shine. He stayed up all night reading me his favorite book, Atlas Shrugged. I listened to every word.
When the day officially began we went out past our half-melted snow creations from the day before. All day he took me to places we loved. He gave me piggyback rides and mimicked the animals. Color? Blue. Letter? S. Word? KATIE! I loved him.
I slept in his room again that night. "I love you more than anything," I whispered.
"I love you too."
He put his arm around me. His room smelled like blue paint. He smelled like seasons, like love.
I woke up at 4:00 in the morning.
I knew.
Before I even saw the note, I knew.
Richard was dead.
--
I cried.
For weeks.
No tears.
No noise. The pain was beyond salt-water screams.
My parents did nothing.
I became more closed off than ever.
One day at school, a boy came up to me. "Your brother died?" he said. I punched him in the nose and walked away. The next day the boy came back. "I'm Max," he said. I couldn't even gather the strength to hit him. He sat next to me on the bench. His feet couldn't reach the ground and instead hovered playfully above it. He was wearing a blue striped shirt and tan pants that stopped at his ankles. He had hair like fire and green eyes warm like my brother's. One more sentence fell from his mouth. "My brother's dead, too." We were both quiet.
The next day he came back. "You're Katelyn, right?" he asked one day. I wanted to tell him yes, that he could even call me Katie. But I couldn't. He nodded like he knew. He was wearing the same clothes he always did. Dirt lined his fingernails.
The next day was Friday. I was getting used to Max. I hated weekends. Max sat next to me. His hair lit the bench. The bell rang and he got up slowly.
"His name was Richard," I said. Whispered. Max turned around. His hair played with the wind and he nodded slowly. Then he turned back around and walked inside.
I went home. I spent my time in my brother's room. I slept there. I read there. In every book I read I crossed out the letter "S". I wrote only in blue pen.
On Saturday there was a knock on his door. I opened it. Max stood there, hands in his pockets, his bony elbows sticking out awkwardly. "I looked you up in the phone book," he said, answering my unspoken question. I stared.
"Want to go for a walk?" It was cold. He wasn't wearing a coat.
I didn't either.
He led me to the park but I wouldn't follow. The park was Richard's. We walked the sidewalk instead. The cold was biting. I walked hunched over slightly, hands wrapped around my body. He stood up straight with his hands still in his pockets. His hair waved to the sky. I wished I could be that composed. Max took a hat from his back pocket and held it out to me. My teeth clashed together and I stood up straight and took it. It was blue. When I put it on it covered my eyes, and I sat down and started crying. Real tears. I couldn't stop. I felt the hat drag over my eyes and off my head. Max stood above me, gently holding it in his hands. I didn't look at him.
Then he threw a snowball at me. It hit my cheek and bit through my skin. It stung. I screamed; I didn't mean to. Then I pushed him into the snow. I scratched and hit him, took icy snow and burned it in his face. Blood dripped from his nose. I rolled on my back into the snow. I wasn't crying anymore. He stood up, his hair matted on to his face on one side. His eyes danced happily. He wiped the blood dripping from his nose and it smeared across his cheek, which were bright pink. Crystals of snow clung to his eyelashes. He held out his hand to me, and I spoke. Normal volume. "I miss him." He crouched down, and simply said "Duh." Then rolled into the snow next to me and took my hand.
That's when Max became my friend.
