The Brother Years

by Shannon Burke

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m sure.”

  He knew if he tried to force me to take his help I’d go the other way on purpose, even if it meant disaster for me.

  “If you change your mind let me know.”

  “Thanks,” I said again.

  And that was that. I think he saw that I was never going to ask him for help. It would just be too humiliating for me. But I always remembered that he offered.

  A few more days went by. I didn’t write my theme. I lied to my parents about what I was doing and they were distracted by Coyle, who stayed out all night with Jacqueline, and there was a three a.m. call from Jacqueline’s parents, asking where the two of them were, which mortified Mom. She hated even the appearance of being permissive. Dad got in a yelling match with Coyle in the front yard, and then spent the rest of the night digging holes in the backyard for a batting cage, hacking into the frozen soil, making grunting noises, pretty much out of his mind with frustration.

  This was the situation, six days before my paper was due, which also happened to be my father’s forty-second birthday.

  * * *

  —

  “I tripped.”

  “You tripped with Coyle’s fist in your face,” Fergus said. “I’ve tripped that way myself a few times.”

  We were at the dining room table, gathered for a board game. We always played a board game on Dad’s birthday. We were waiting for Mom to come in from the kitchen and in the meantime were talking about the boxing match that Dad and Coyle had gotten into earlier that afternoon.

  “He hit you and then you just happened to ‘trip’?” Fergus said.

  “His hit was incidental,” Dad said.

  Fergus laughed loudly. Coyle threw an arm over the back of his chair.

  “You ‘tripped’ after I hit you in the face.”

  “I was backing up as you hit,” Dad said. “Your weak punches had nothing to do with me falling.”

  Coyle and Fergus both laughed. Dad laughed, too, in a pressured, unpleasant way. For his birthday Dad had jokingly said he wanted to box Coyle, which was one of the few sports he could still potentially beat Coyle in. Mom had forbidden the bout, knowing it would spiral out of control, but as soon as Mom left to go to the grocery, Coyle and Dad put the gloves on and went out to the backyard. Mom had forgotten her wallet and come back to find them bashing away at each other. She ran out to stop the bout, but Dad had already been knocked down.

  “It was a tie,” Dad said.

  “You were on your knees in the grass. How is that a tie?” Coyle said.

  “It was incidental,” Fergus said.

  Dad ignored them and turned to the kitchen, yelling, “You coming or what, Mag? What’re you doing? Eating the chocolates? I can feel you stomping around in there, trembling the earth. Stop eating the chocolates.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” Mom said in her precise, displeased tone of voice. “Remember, all of you, make it a pleasant evening. It’s your father’s birthday.”

  “Yeah, it’s my birthday. Don’t aggravate me,” Dad said to Fergus. Then, to me, “Whatta you think, Willie? Who won?”

  “You won,” I said.

  I knew he hadn’t won. I’d heard the yelling and walked to the back window to see Dad crawling around in the wet grass while Coyle stood over him, red boxing gloves on, stunned at what he’d done.

  “Yes!” Dad gloated. “Champion.”

  Coyle turned on me.

  “You know he didn’t win.”

  I shrugged. It was just habit to go against Coyle. I didn’t even know why I’d said it.

  Dad stood from the table and started a derisive dance of glee, saying, “Victory is mine! Winner!”

  “God,” Coyle said. “Do you want to go out there again?”

  “You think I won’t?” Dad said. “We can make a little wager. If I win you stay in and study for the rest of the year.”

  “And if I win?” Coyle said.

  “You can do whatever you want until school’s out.”

  “He does whatever he wants anyway,” Fergus said.

  “If I was doing whatever I want, do you think I’d be here right now?” Coyle said.

  “Good point,” Fergus said.

  “Coyle,” Mom said, walking in. “Be nice to your father. It’s his birthday.”

  Dad pumped his fist slowly a few times.

  “The champion,” he said.

  “Al,” Mom said. “Do not instigate any more than you already have.”

  “I’m not instigating. I’m stating a fact,” Dad said. “I am champion.”

  Maddy pushed her chair back, stood, and walked out of the room. She was eleven that year, lanky and matter-of-fact. She’d started to let her hair grow longer and to dress “like a girl.” Her timid phase was over. She had started spending a lot of time at friends’ houses and was determined to be “normal,” despite our upbringing. Whenever a fight was brewing she just walked away.

  Mom turned to Dad.

  “You have now driven away one member of the family.”

  “I didn’t drive her away,” Dad said. “She left. Wasn’t me who did it.”

  “And you.” Mom turned on Coyle. “Stop aggravating your father.”

  “How am I aggravating him? He’s sitting there holding a fist in my face saying ‘Champion.’ If he wants to challenge me to a boxing match, lose, then act like he won, and then jeer about it, what am I supposed to do? It’s maddening.”

  “Control your emotions.”

  “Do I look like I’m out of control?” Coyle said.

  He was sitting with an arm casually draped over the back of his chair. He did look relaxed. Coyle turned to our father.

  “Let’s go back out and really see who’s better.”

  “No problem. I’ll do it,” Dad said.

  “Good,” Coyle said. “Let’s go.”

  Without a word Mom stood from the table and walked out of the room and came back with the cake. It had four candles in a square and two in the middle.

  “If you go out there and fight with your son in the middle of your birthday celebration I am dumping this cake in the garbage. And that will just be the beginning of the consequences. Don’t test me.”

  “Come on, Mag,” Dad said. “It’s my birthday.”

  “I am aware of that,” she said icily. “And we will already be having a discussion about this later. Boxing is fighting. And there is no fighting in this house. We will enjoy our board game and cake and have a pleasant, argument-free time. I will not have your birthday marred by this backbiting. Coyle, if you have to ruin your relationship with your father, do it some other time.”

  “Like it’s been perfect up till now,” Coyle said. “Sorry to ruin my relationship with you, Dad.”

  “Thanks for realizing your error,” Dad said.

  Mom took a deep breath, and in a weary, disapproving tone said to Coyle, “Your father has had extra work caused by Willie’s lack of preparation and by your newfound cavalier attitude. Despite all that, we are here together as a family and we are going to have a pleasant, argument-free evening.”

  Mom was determined to have at least one argument-free evening. Coyle and Dad pulled their chairs back to the table and folded their hands in a mocking manner and pretended that the bickering had ended.

  “Maddy!” Mom called. “You can come back. The natives have settled. There will be no more fighting. Right?”

  “I was never fighting,” Dad said. “I was crushing!”

  Maddy shuffled in, her long blond hair held back with Walkman headphones. She looked around to make sure no one was arguing. Then she took the headphones off.

  “Let me know if you’re going to be idiots,” she said. “Because if you are I’m going to listen to music inste
ad.”

  “Better keep those on,” Fergus said.

  “There is no need for the headphones,” Mom said. “We are going to enjoy playing this board game on your father’s birthday. And then we will have cake.”

  Dad had cleared a space in the middle of the table and was setting up the pieces for a board game called Recognition. Dad had spent weeks before his birthday going over the rules for the game and memorizing the answers to the questions, which pretty much meant he was the inevitable winner. He did it every year. It was like his birthday present to himself. He got wound up and nervy on his birthdays and he used the games as a way of establishing his supremacy over us, gloating and needling us as he won.

  “Does anyone want to make a wager before we start?” Dad said.

  “You mean on who’s going to be champion,” Fergus said.

  “Victor in boxing and now in intellect,” Dad said. “Let the games begin.”

  The rules to Recognition were this: You were shown a picture of a famous or historical figure, and given a question about this figure, and if you got the question right you got to roll again. If you landed on someone else you could send them back to the beginning. The first one to the end was the winner. As it was his birthday, Dad got to start.

  His first question was about Plato.

  “What is The Republic?” Dad said. “I even said it in question form. Yes!”

  He’d pretty much answered before the question was even asked.

  “You’ve memorized the cards,” Fergus said.

  “Might have glanced at them,” Dad said. “And if you didn’t shuffle the cards, whose fault is that?”

  “Pure torture,” Coyle said to the rest of us. “I’m glad it’s only once a year.”

  Dad went on and answered three questions correctly, then missed his fourth question, which was about Harriet Tubman. Then it was Mom’s turn. She answered one question on George Eliot then missed one on Andrew Jackson. Then Coyle rolled and answered a question about Theodore Roosevelt. He rolled again and answered a question about Caesar. By the time Coyle finished he was only two spaces behind Dad.

  There was the normal roiling, bickering competition that always accompanied any game in our family. Coyle had a good memory. He read history books and biographies in his spare time. He always did well in those games. Dad needled Coyle, trying to rattle him.

  “You all go to those good schools, but look who’s winning,” Dad gloated.

  “Just get it over with,” Maddy said.

  The game wenr on with everyone bickering and bantering, except me. I had hardly spoken for months. I sat silently, head down.

  Half an hour later Dad was four spaces from the end. Coyle was seven spaces from the end. Mom was nine spaces away. The rest of us were way behind.

  Dad put the dice in his fist and held the fist in Coyle’s face. “Champion!” he intoned. Coyle knocked the fist away.

  “Coyle!” Mom said sharply.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Coyle said.

  “Do not take the bait,” she said.

  “He’s putting his fist in my face.”

  “What?” Dad said. “I can’t play a board game in my own house?”

  “Yeah, that’s what we’re all complaining about. That you’re playing a board game,” Fergus said. “Not that you’re being an idiot.”

  “Champion,” Dad gloated. “That’s what I’m being.”

  Dad pushed his chair back, stood, and began dancing around, waving his fist in Coyle’s face. Coyle had adopted an apparently casual attitude, which is what he usually looked like just before he snapped.

  Dad sat back down. He had to roll a four or greater and answer one question to win. As it turned out, Dad rolled a three and it was a question about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Coyle took the card. He read, “What is the name of the theater where this political figure was assassinated?”

  We all waited. By the way Dad sat there I could tell he didn’t know the answer.

  “The Grand Theater?” he guessed.

  Coyle made a derisive, hissing noise.

  “The kind of car you drive,” Coyle said without looking at the card. “If you’d known that, you’d have won. But you didn’t. So maybe I get to be…The Champion.”

  Coyle picked up the dice. He was six spaces behind Dad and seven from the winner’s circle. Coyle could win with a good roll and a question answered correctly. Dad watched intently. He desperately wanted to win. We could all feel it. Dad worked too hard. His life was basically a series of humbling moments. But he was still king in the house. Or he had been. But now Coyle was challenging him. Coyle had been baiting my father for months with his new offhand manner. Now he could stick it to my father by winning the birthday board game.

  Coyle shook the dice for a long time, taunting. Then he rolled and the dice came up a six and a one. That meant either Coyle could go seven spaces to the final spot and answer a question right to win the game or he could move six spaces, the number on one die, land on Dad, lose his turn, but send Dad back to the beginning. Basically, he could benefit himself or screw Dad. Coyle didn’t say which he would do. He simply reached for his piece and counted out the spaces slowly, raising the piece really high as it jumped from space to space—one, two, three, four, five, six—then, instead of moving the seventh space, to win, Coyle pulled his hand away, and said, “Back to square one, Dad, where you’re most comfortable.”

  “Those aren’t the rules,” Dad said, flustered. “Where does it say you can send someone back?”

  “I got sent back earlier in the game,” Fergus said, laughing. “By you.”

  “This is my house. I do what I want,” Dad said. “I’m not going back.”

  We were all silent. Bantering and baiting was one thing. But he was refusing to obey the rules.

  “That’s a total cheat,” I murmured.

  Everyone turned and looked at me. I’d said little for the entire game. I’d hardly spoken unless I had to for months.

  “The mute speaks,” Fergus said.

  “You can’t cheat like that,” I said, louder this time. Probably for the first time in my life I was sticking up for Coyle. “You have to go back to the beginning. Those are the rules.”

  “You be quiet. You didn’t even write your paper,” Dad said.

  I didn’t bother responding. I just leaned forward, pulled my finger back, and tweaked Dad’s piece so it sailed across the room and pinged against a glass lampshade.

  “Back to the beginning,” I said.

  Fergus began to laugh mockingly when Dad raised a fist high and smashed it on the table, sending the pieces flying.

  “Poor sportsmanship!” Dad bellowed. He grabbed my shirt in his fist and dragged me over the table. “If you weren’t my son I’d pound you.”

  “Like that stopped you before,” Fergus said.

  Dad’s eyes had gone crazy. He had me in his arms. Coyle grabbed my legs and was pulling back, like it was a tug-of-war with me as the rope. Maddy got up and walked out of the room, holding her hands over her ears. “Stop stop stop!” she was shouting.

  Suddenly I felt Dad’s hands loosen. I was sprawled halfway across the table. I looked up at my father. He was pale and still. He sat back down. He opened his mouth. Then his eyes went flat and his face turned ashen. Coyle jumped up at the same time Dad slumped and fell straight forward. He smacked the tabletop with his face. Blood splattered across the board. Coyle pushed the table away and Dad flopped and thumped the floor. He was lying there, ashen-blue, vomit oozing from his lips.

  “Call an ambulance,” Mom said to Fergus.

  Fergus didn’t do anything. He just stood there, looking at our father.

  “Do you hear me? Call nine-one-one.”

  Coyle was already kneeling to Dad, feeling for a pulse, but it was awhile before the rest o
f us took it in. Our lives would never be the same.

  * * *

  —

  Three days later Coyle, Fergus, Maddy, and I were sitting on the couch in the living room eating Neapolitan ice cream from the carton, each of us holding our own spoon. Clean laundry was dumped in a pile in the middle of the floor. We’d just been taking clothes from the pile when we needed them. I could see the vomit and bloodstain on the carpet where Dad had slumped. No one had cleaned it. The sink was full of dishes. There were dirty plates and fast-food bags lying on all the surfaces. Mom, who was normally a vigorous housekeeper, had basically stopped cleaning. For three days Mom had been in the hospital. At first the doctors had told Mom that Dad had a heart attack, then that he hadn’t had a heart attack but had an arrhythmia that made him pass out. Then they told her that he was totally fine and it had simply been fatigue. They said he needed a bypass, that he didn’t need a bypass but an angiogram and a stent, then that he didn’t need either of those but a pacemaker. There were about four different doctors, all with different diagnoses. It was bewildering. The only thing that everyone agreed on was that he’d passed out and had woken up in the ambulance. No one knew why.

  Now, on the third night after his collapse, Coyle, Fergus, Maddy, and I were passing the ice cream back and forth, arguing about who got the last of the chocolate, when a black Mercedes pulled up in front of the house.

  “Who’s that?” Fergus said. “The undertaker?”

  But it wasn’t an undertaker. It was Mr. Dainty, and Robert was in the backseat. Mr. Dainty waved for Robert to stay in the car, then started up our driveway, past our rusting station wagon and the broken handrail of the porch that was lying in the shrubs.

  “What’s this suckass want?” Coyle said.

  “Probably here to evict us,” Fergus said.

  “Mom,” I called.

  “What is it?”

  “Someone’s here for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Dainty.”

  “Who?” she asked again.

  “The little weasel Robert Dainty’s father,” Fergus said.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “No idea,” I said.