The Brother Years

by Shannon Burke

  “Kid’s a smartass,” Tom said to Robert. “He’s trying to pretend he’s like Jay Ellison.” Then, to me, “You’re not even close to being as cool as Jay. He was totally classic, that guy.”

  “I’m just wearing the jacket,” I said.

  “Don’t think it means you’re as cool as Jay. That’s all I’m saying,” Tom said.

  “And all I’m saying is it’s just a jacket.”

  Robert raised his eyebrows and looked at Tom. I could see he agreed with me. It wasn’t a big deal.

  Robert turned right on Church, which was not the way home for me.

  “Where’re we going?” I said.

  “He already told you,” Tom said. “On patrol. And I told you not to ask questions. What’re you, like, Mr. Interrogator?”

  “We’ll drop you off later,” Robert said.

  “After we’re done with you,” Tom said ominously. “You can’t get away now.”

  My eyes went to Robert’s in the mirror. He looked away, embarrassed, and I knew something unpleasant was about to happen. I’d thought they’d picked me up to hang out, because I’d helped Robert, and maybe even because we were becoming friends, but now I understood it was for casual tormenting because I was a freshman and I’d put my name on the list for the tennis group.

  Tom was rattling through the tapes in the glove compartment. He found a cassette and slid it into the deck. The sound of a saxophone blasted out.

  “Do you know this?” Robert said, glancing at me in the mirror.

  “It’s Madness,” I said. “I love this song.”

  “I knew that band sucked,” Tom said. “It’s for freshman losers.”

  Tom ejected the tape and tossed it out the window.

  “Asshole,” Robert said, laughing.

  “I was sick of that tape,” Tom said.

  Tom adjusted the radio, finding WXRT. Then turned back, and, with a haughty look, said, “What’re you, Helen Keller? Join in the conversation.”

  “You weren’t talking, either,” I said.

  “He’s got a point,” Robert said. “None of us were talking, including you.”

  “I was listening to the radio,” Tom said.

  “I was listening to it, too,” I said.

  “Don’t talk back,” Tom said.

  “You just said I was Helen Keller. Now you’re saying not to talk.”

  Robert laughed and Tom gave Robert an exasperated look, as if to say, “Whose side are you on?” Then, to me, “You got a big mouth for a freshman. Lean forward.”

  “What?”

  “Just lean forward. I gotta tell you a secret.”

  Robert watched in the mirror. Something was about to happen. I could feel that it was, and I was pretty sure it was something bad.

  “Come on,” Tom said. “Just for a second. Lean forward. What? Are you afraid?”

  “No.”

  “Then do it. Lean forward.”

  I leaned forward just a little. Tom grabbed my head. I jerked to get away. We knocked into Robert and the car swerved, hit the curb, and jolted. Tom stretched something over my head.

  “Jock head!” he said, laughing loudly. “Jock head! Jock head! Look at him!”

  I tore the elastic band off my head. Robert swerved back to the street.

  “Idiots,” he said.

  Tom reached back and grabbed me again and got the jockstrap on my head.

  “Oh my God! Jock head!”

  “Don’t knock into me while I’m driving,” Robert said. “If I crash this car my dad will kill me.”

  I got the jockstrap off my head. Tom’s leather backpack was at my feet. I rolled my window down, lifted the backpack, and shoved it out the window. The backpack hit the pavement and tumbled. A flurry of papers spread behind us.

  “Stop the car!” Tom yelled.

  Robert screeched to a halt. Tom turned to me.

  “You are so fucking dead.”

  Tom tried to grab my backpack but I jerked it from him. He reached out to hit me and I punched him, hard, in the chin. I’d been in so many fights with Coyle that it just came naturally. I didn’t even know I was going to do it. After a moment I leaned forward and punched Tom in the throat. He made a gargling sound. I moved forward to hit a third time but Tom opened the car door and fell out, trying to get away from me. I got out to go after him but Tom was scrambling from the car.

  “Dead,” Tom croaked. “You are so dead.”

  But I could see he was afraid. He ran off to where his backpack and papers were spread across the street. His hand kept going to his neck. Cars were stopped and waiting while he picked up the papers. He was crying a little, turning his head so we wouldn’t see. I got in the front seat.

  “Drive,” I said.

  “What?”

  “We’ll just keep fighting if we’re both here. Drive.”

  Robert and Tom were good friends. I’d just thrown Tom’s backpack out the window and punched Tom in the throat. There was no reason to think Robert would do anything except resent me. But Robert was a cocky kid who appreciated a bold gesture, particularly if it had an element of casual malevolence.

  Robert hit the gas, leaving Tom behind.

  “I thought you were supposed to be the nice Brennan,” he said.

  “I am the nice one, comparatively,” I said. “Tom started it.”

  “Sort of,” Robert said. Then, “Is that how you fought with Coyle?”

  “Are you kidding? If I did that to Coyle I’d be getting skewered right now.”

  “I believe that,” he said. “Your brother’s a total beast. I had a bruise for three weeks after I fought with him.”

  “I don’t think I’ve been without a bruise since I was like three years old.”

  Robert punched his hand into his fist.

  “That’s a good older brother, teaching you how to act.”

  He paused, and seemed to consider how to tell me something.

  “You know we do that to everyone,” he said.

  “Do what?”

  “Put a jock on their head. It’s like an initiation. I had it done to me last year. I was so annoying they did it a few times, actually. We hang out third period. And we play tennis after school. I saw you’d signed up. I know people say I’m an asshole, but I know how to be grateful. You helped me. I was going to invite you to play. That’s the normal initiation. It’s Chip Bazinski’s jock from like eight years ago when they didn’t lose a match all year. It’s a tradition.”

  I was quiet, considering this.

  “So, everyone has that done to them?”

  “Everyone who plays in the tennis group. Yeah.”

  “What do the other kids do when you put the jock on them?”

  “Most kids are glad when it happens. They know what it means. They’re being invited to play. But typical Brennan. Just like your brother. We try to invite you and be nice and just treat you like anyone else and you get all touchy and crazy.”

  “I didn’t get crazy.”

  “You punched Tom in the throat. How much more crazy could you get?”

  “He was attacking me.”

  “He was trying to invite you to our club!” Robert said, laughing. “But typical Brennan. You guys are all so fucking wild.”

  Robert actually seemed to consider this a compliment.

  We arrived at my house. He put the car in park.

  “Listen, I’ll straighten it out with Corley. Come by the student lounge third period. You can meet everyone else. And you should bring your racket to school. We play at the Nielsen courts on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. You still want to play?”

  “Definitely,” I said. “But what about Tom?”

  “Are you kidding? Tom sucks in tennis. He just picks on kids who want to be in our group because he knows
they’ll beat him. He’s going to be scared of you.”

  “Tell him I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not telling him that. I’ll tell him if he’s not cool about it you’re going to kick his ass again.” Then, “I can’t wait to tell Liam and Doug about this. They are going to flip when they hear you beat up Corley for trying to put Bazinski’s jock on your head. Total Brennan move. High five, Willie.”

  Bewildered, I gave Robert a high five.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said.

  “Thanks for beating up my friend,” Robert said.

  I got out of the car and as soon as I shut the door Robert made a U-turn and pulled away, accelerating. I could see him laughing inside the car.

  I turned to the house. Coyle was sitting in the window. He’d seen who dropped me off. I walked inside. I waited for him to say something about Robert Dainty so I could tell him I would be playing tennis on Robert’s court. He didn’t ask, and I was thinking I might just have to bring it up myself, but then there were footsteps on the stairs and Dad came clomping down. He’d seen that someone in a BMW had dropped me off. To Coyle’s annoyance, Dad had an exultant expression.

  “What are you standing there for?” Dad said. “You think you get to be lazy because you have a friend with a BMW? You keep hanging out with kids like that, you’ll have your own BMW someday. Time for studying. Start up!”

  I smiled in a way meant to irritate Coyle. I walked on up the stairs.

  * * *

  —

  All that fall and into the winter I played tennis in Robert Dainty’s after-school tennis group. The other kids in that group were country-club players with expensive sweat suits and special tennis duffels and multiple rackets, but I found out soon enough that they weren’t any better at tennis than I was. In a lot of cases they were worse. A few of the kids—Tom Corley in particular—made fun of my gray sweatpants or that I filled a tennis-ball can with water instead of getting a water bottle, but I’d been living in Seneca all my life with kids like Tom Corley and I knew how to act with them. By that I mean I knew not to make a big deal about his snarky comments or appear shamed by my relative poverty. I just laughed and said, “Who cares what kind of sweatpants I wear? Let’s see who wins.” I knew that if I played well and held myself steady against the kids like Tom that I’d have a chance of making the team. I understood quickly enough that Robert didn’t care how I looked. He just wanted to win. And I tried to be accommodating when we were partners. I let Robert take the forehand side. I let him hit the overheads. I always acted as if he had played better than me, even when he hadn’t. And my consistent play complimented his more aggressive style. Bit by bit Robert and I started playing together and hanging out not just after tennis, but sometimes on the weekends, too. I was a freshman, but suddenly I was riding around in Robert’s car, getting invited to upperclassmen parties with the cool kids. I didn’t ditch my old friends. I knew they were my real friends. But I started spending a lot of time in that world of big houses with game rooms and large backyards with pools, and all the while, as I was settling into Robert’s group, I could feel Coyle watching, and I was sure at the time that he was envious, though later I considered the possibility that I thought Coyle was envious only because I couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to be in Robert’s crowd. The social world at New Trier was complex, hermetic, and nuanced, and even now I’m not sure if Coyle thought I was a suckass or wished he could join me.

  * * *

  —

  Mid-January, and Coyle and I were at an office building on Sherman Street in Evanston. Along with the paper route, and work as a janitor, our father had the contract to renovate a four-story office building. It literally took years for us to do the whole job. We moved through the building, floor by floor, room by room. Our job that day was to tear up the linoleum from a four-room office.

  Coyle and I spent the morning gouging and pulling at the linoleum and tearing it up, and tossing the scraps onto a tarp in the corner. Later, Coyle and I dragged the pile of torn linoleum down the third-floor hallway to a large garbage can at the back near the stairway. Normally we would have brought that linoleum straight out to the Dumpster, but there was a girl named Nettie Plumb in the backseat of a car in the parking lot. Nettie’s father had an office in that building and neither of us wanted her to see us hauling trash. It would just be an embarrassment. So we’d carried the garbage can up to the third floor and we were back there, tossing the linoleum into the can, when Coyle paused in his work and asked a strange question.

  “Do you pick up the balls for Robert when you play after school with him?”

  “Who told you that?” I asked.

  “I just…I heard you did.”

  “I help to pick up the balls,” I said. “But I don’t pick up all of them and I don’t do it like I’m a slave and I have to do it.”

  “Does everyone help?”

  “Not always,” I said after a moment.

  “But you always do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I do it cause the balls are just sitting there. Someone has to pick them up. You would do the same thing.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Coyle said.

  “Yeah, you would,” I said. “It just makes sense. There are six spots on the team. Those last two spots are a doubles team. Robert will probably be the fifth man. If he picks me as his partner, I’ll be the sixth man.”

  “So you think he’ll choose you because you pick up balls?”

  “No. He’ll choose me because I win. But it doesn’t hurt to get along. Even you know that’s true. Robert’s father pays for the court. I don’t put in any money. What’s it hurt to help pick up a few balls?”

  “If you pick up after them they’ll treat you like you’re their servant.”

  “If I don’t I’ll look like I’m getting all weird about it. And I don’t care. It’s just a few balls. And I’m not the only one who picks up.”

  Coyle looked skeptical.

  “Do other people put in money for the court?”

  “I don’t think so. But no one cares. The only reason you heard about the ball thing is that Tom Corley’s been saying I get chosen to play because I’m Robert’s suckass. But that’s crap. Do you really think that Robert would choose me because I pick up? Tom’s just jealous because we keep beating him.”

  “And because you punched him in the face.”

  I looked away and bit my lip. I didn’t know he knew about that.

  “I punched him in the throat, not the face,” I said.

  “Well, I’m sure he deserved it,” Coyle said. “That guy’s a bigger weasel than Robert. He’s even a bigger weasel than you.”

  “And that’s saying something,” I said jauntily.

  Coyle reached down and picked up a stray scrap of linoleum. He tapped me with the pointy end of it.

  “Just don’t be a suckass,” he said.

  “I’m not,” I said. “I pick up because there’s work to be done and why not do it. And, anyway, when we played tennis you made me pick up after you.”

  This was true. When we played tennis together Coyle always made me pick up after him. He said the loser picked up. I always lost.

  Coyle was quiet for a moment. I don’t think he’d ever considered this.

  “It’s different,” he said finally.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m your brother. I was trying to help you learn.”

  “Maybe Robert’s trying to help me learn, too.”

  Coyle gave a derisive laugh.

  “Robert’s the greediest person I’ve ever met. He’s not trying to help anyone but himself. Just don’t be a suckass. Because if you are, they’ll know it, and it won’t help.”

  And that was the end of the conversation, but in the days afterward I mulled it over and I decided Coyle thou
ght one of two things: Either he didn’t believe I wasn’t sucking ass or he didn’t believe it was possible to be in that subordinate position and not suck ass. I wasn’t sure which.

  * * *

  —

  Winter in northern Illinois—dark and bleak and cold, the wind whistling outside frosted windows, snow piled high along driveways and carved into strange, graceful shapes at the corners of houses. Sometimes the wind blew from the northeast, blasting off the lake, and when it did the snow gathered in the divots of the dunes along the lake and narrowed to a point on crests, like windblown foam on a wave. Ice built up over the lake, and enormous chunks, translucent and hulking, blew in to shore and piled up like icebergs in a great, jumbled, icy maze on shore. I liked to go down to the beach in winter and wander through the eerie, arctic landscape, and feel like I was miles from civilization.

  One afternoon in February I was on the bluff over Dyson’s Beach when I saw three figures moving along the lakeshore below. That stretch of waterfront to the south was lined with magnificent houses with rolling, snow-covered lawns going down to sandy dunes where blond strands of sea grass showed above the white snow. As the three figures moved on I realized one of them was Coyle. I also noticed that they were approaching a second group of kids on a sloping lawn, huddled around a barbeque. These kids were cooking hotdogs and roasting marshmallows on the grill in the frigid dusk. They were drinking canned beers.

  From that distance I could recognize a few of those kids. It was Ronny Chesil and Dennis Fink, kids from Robert’s group, though I did not see Robert himself.

  As Coyle and his three friends passed the barbeque area, Dennis Fink picked up a hotdog from the grill and flung it out toward Coyle and his friends, who stopped walking. After a moment Coyle walked over and reached into the snow with his bare hand and picked up the hotdog in two fingers and walked back up the beach toward the barbeque, holding that steaming hotdog in front of him. There was a moment where Coyle was on one side, a solitary figure, and there were about seven guys on the other side, faced off against him. Then Coyle flung the hotdog at Dennis and there was a moment where no one did anything and then the whole scrum collapsed on Coyle and he waded into a chaos of swinging arms, bodies thrashing, one against seven, and then Coyle broke away, and the three friends all ran off, jogging down the snowy beach, stopping to gesture defiantly, then going on, weaving among the monoliths of ice in the purple dusk.