The Brothers K

by David James Duncan

“Looked like a fuckin’ beanball to me!” Irwin blurted.

  “You’re too noisy,” I whispered.

  “And too full of ‘fuckin’s,’” Everett said. “You don’t hear your older wiaer brothers talking that trash. What kind of Christian are you?”

  “Sorry!” said Winnie, looking surprised and abashed.

  “Fuckin’ forget it!” Everett snapped.

  Irwin laughed, but remembered to keep it quiet.

  We spread out a little, got as comfortable as we could, and for twenty or so pitches nobody but Everett said a word, and all he did was whisper the title of each pitch. I could barely see Irwin’s and Peter’s faces, but I could tell by their body language and sudden intakes or expulsions of breath that they got the picture right away. The Heaters, when they were accurate, would make you think Comeback! Then the Hangmen and Knucklebrains would float like turds down a toilet and you’d think Damn! Poor Papa! But then a Kamikaze would do its hissing nosedive from night into light and you wouldn’t know what to think: you’d just hope he threw another one soon. “He’s got more left than I thought,” Peter said after a while.

  “Wish we could see him,” Irwin whispered.

  “You can see a double shadow of him,” Pete said.

  “Yeah,” Irwin shivered. “And it’s givin’ me the creeps!”

  “Watch it closely, though,” Peter pointed out, “and you can tell whether he’s using the full windup or the stretch.”

  Again Everett nodded like we’d known this all along. And again we hadn’t. Ten minutes in the hedge and Pete had discovered two nuances we hadn’t noticed in months. And I’ll bet he’d seen others he hadn’t bothered to mention. That was a big difference between Everett and Peter. They both had good minds, and were both perceptive. But when Peter saw or thought of something interesting, he just took it in stride and moved on to the next thing, whereas when Everett saw or thought of something, he couldn’t wait to tell you all about it—and he’d try to kill you with laughter or shock or wonder when he did.

  Watching the eerie dual shadow, I could see that Papa was throwing out of the stretch now, tossing the three-quarter-speed straight balls that Everett called “free throws.” It was a worthless pitch from a professional standpoint, a batting practice pitch; but after a batch of Heaters and Kamikazes he apparently felt the need for something he could control. He was amazingly accurate with them tonight: alternating between the low inside and low outside corners, he never missed the intersecting lines of his painted strike zone by more than a hand’s breadth. It made me nervous after a while: made me think he might suspect he had an audience.

  “He’s got more control left than I thought too,” Peter said.

  “Which only makes it worse,” Everett muttered.

  Peter just shrugged. “In the Mahabharata,” he said, apropos of nothing that I was aware of, “there are five brothers, and—”

  “In the what?” Irwin interrupted.

  “The Mahabharata,” Peter said. “A Hindu scripture. Just think of it as the world’s second-best Bible, okay?”

  Irwin nodded obediently. But Everett snorted, and asked, “What’s the best?”

  “Ours of course!” Irwin gushed.

  “The Ramayana,” said Peter.

  “So there were five brothers,” I said, hoping for a story. “What about ’em?”

  “It’s too long a story to tell here,” Peter said. “I’m heading inside.”

  But just as he stood, a Kamikaze snapped down out of the blackness and whumped the strike zone dead center. Peter sat back down. “I’ve never seen a pitch move like that!” he whispered.

  “Wonder how he throws it,” Irwin said, as if we hadn’t just discussed this.

  “Spitter, probably,” said Everett, as if he’d thought of this possibility first.

  “What I wonder,” I put in, “is what those five brothers did.”

  “The Macabre Rotters,” said Everett.

  “World’s second-worst Bible!” Irwin blurted. “Tell us a story, Pete!”

  Peter still looked antsy, but he wanted to see another Kamikaze, so he decided what-the-heck. “They were called the Pandavas,” he said, keeping his voice low and his eyes on Papa’s shadows. “They were heirs to the throne of the greatest kingdom in India. And one day when they were about our ages, this priest—a Brahman named Drona—came to teach them the arts of weaponry and warfare.”

  “A priest who teaches warfare!” Everett snorted. “Nice.”

  “The Pandavas were Kshatriya caste warriors,” Peter said. “In that culture, it was a Kshatriya’s duty to protect his kingdom. If he didn’t, the warriors from some neighboring kingdom would come squash ’em like flies and plunder their wealth and women.”

  “Nice!” Everett repeated.

  “A weird setup, maybe,” Peter said with a shrug. “But the Pandavas didn’t make the world. They were just born in it, like us. And Drona was a military genius. So he was hired to teach them what they had to know.”

  “A mercenary priest!” Everett interrupted. “Nice.”

  “Drona was a professional, Everett. Like Papa used to be, and he—”

  “Papa played baseball, Petey. Warriors kill people.”

  “I’m just trying to tell the story the way it goes, okay? In the Pandavas’ day, the athletes didn’t play ball. They played war. With your permission, Everett, the world was different then.”

  “The preachers were the same,” Everett retorted. “Bunch o’ damned hypocrites.”

  “Drona wasn’t a preacher and he wasn’t a hypocrite,” Peter said in the slow, patient tone of one who has lost all patience. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Enlighten me,” Everett whined through his most insufferable smirk.

  “Enlighten yourself!” Peter snapped. “Which would you choose? A world where the warrior-athletes fight small battles and kill no one but each other? Or a world where the warrior-athletes are free to play baseball, but where, sooner or later, one or two warriors are probably going to set off an atomic barrage that will exterminate everybody—ballplayers, women, old people, children, animals, birds, trees, flo—?”

  “Don’t get huffy!” Everett huffed. “Let’s hear the story.”

  Peter turned to check on the pitching, but Papa had stepped out of the shed and gone to the wall with his buckets to pick up his baseballs. Peter turned back to Everett, thought for a moment, then went on in a whisper. “Drona was a poor man, but by choice. Even after he married and his wife bore a son, they remained poor as sannyasins—Indian monks. They were so poor that their little boy, Aswatthaman, had never tasted milk. But Drona and his wife knew how to make their simple life interesting, so the kid didn’t care. Then one day some older boys came to Drona’s yard, supposedly to play with his son. But when they thought no one was watching they stirred a bunch of powdered white chalk into a bowl of water, gave it to Aswatthaman, and the little boy downed it all and started dancing around like a baby goat, thinking he’d finally had some milk …”

  “Those bastards!” Irwin broke in.

  “When the older kids started to laugh at him, Aswatthaman stopped dancing, and realized he felt sick.”

  “I never liked powdered milk either,” Everett said, still trying to resist the story. But Irwin looked ready to either burst into tears or tear somebody apart.

  “On that day,” Peter said, “watching those older boys laugh while his son threw up, Drona decided to become a teacher. And he eventually won a kingdom through his skills. But even then he continued to live like a penniless monk. Which, if you ask me, Everett, is not the way a preacher or a hypocrite lives.”

  “Okay okay!” Everett said. “Drona’s sweet and wise and a hell of a provider, and cute and sexy and lethal, but nice! So can we hear the flipping story?”

  the suppertable

  The next night at grace time Beatrice tried her level best, in her plaintive soprano, to follow in the footsteps of the mighty Irwin. And she too brought down t
he house: “Lord JAYSUS!” she hollered, sounding like an ambitious baby quail trying to ape Elder Babcock. “Come ON! He’s still out there! And the thumb’s still wrecked! So fix it NOW, Jesus! Tonight! We know You can do it!”

  The facial spasms brought on by our impending hysteria distracted Bet for a moment. But, remembering Winnie’s tenacity, she sucked in air and piped, “Really, Jesus! We mean it! Don’t worry, Lord! You can do it! You just gotta try!”

  With that, we exploded. And when Bet started crying, like Freddy had done, even Mama only laughed harder. So Bet gave up and decided she might as well laugh too.

  Order was restored, and the mood was euphoric—that night. But a dangerous religious precedent had been set. Thanks to Papa’s abdication of his suppertime throne our graces had degenerated—in just one trip round the table—from the redundant but reliable supplications of the late Middle Ages to the wildly subjective salvos of the modern-day Bible Belt.

  the hedge

  “When it came time for Drona to teach the Pandavas the art of archery,” Peter said, “he led them all down to the edge of the forest, then told the eldest brother—the crown prince, Yudishthira—to follow him into the trees. I’d better explain that the brothers all had different sorts of godlike or miraculous fathers, sort of like some American Indians have different totem animals. Yudishthira’s father was Dharma, the God of Justice.”

  “Naturally,” said Everett, polishing his fingernails in the gloom.

  “Anyhow,” Peter continued, “Drona led the crown prince to a clearing in the woods. Then he pointed up into a tree, and Yudishthira looked, and saw a target there—a little bird made of straw and cloth.

  “‘Take your bow,’ Drona told him, ‘and aim an arrow as if to cut off the bird’s head. But don’t release the arrow.’

  “The crown prince did as he was told.

  “‘Now,’ said Drona. ‘Tell me exactly what you see.’

  “‘I see the tree,’ said Yudishthira, ‘and the bird, and my arm and bow and arrow. And you.’”

  “Great peripheral vision!” Everett said approvingly.

  “‘Stand aside,’ Drona told the prince.”

  “You mean he didn’t even get to shoot?” Everett protested.

  Peter shook his head, and turned to Irwin. “Next Drona called Bhima, the strongest of the brothers.”

  Irwin’s teeth shone like moons in the dark. Peter turned to check on Papa. He was throwing “free-throws” again—low and inside, low and outside—as if keeping a kind of time to the story …

  “Bhima was the Son of the Wind, and he had his father’s strength, and his windy disposition. Bhima also loved his brothers more than his life, which was great for them, but could get sort of dangerous for other people. When, for instance, Bhima entered the clearing and saw the bow in Yudishthira’s hand and the target bird up in the tree, he guessed his brother had shot at it, and missed, and might be feeling bad about it. So he forgot all about his own bow and Drona and everything else, and told Yudishthira if he wanted that dumb bird, he’d fetch it for him right then and there by yanking the tree clean out by the roots …”

  Everett got a hand over Winnie’s mouth a split second before he let out a delighted roar. Peter waited a moment to see if Papa had heard, then carried on as though nothing had happened: “‘Just take aim at the bird,’ Drona said to Bhima, ‘and shoot when I tell you.’

  “The Son of the Wind heard his teacher, but he didn’t move till Yudishthira had nodded to him. ‘Now,’ Drona said. ‘Keep aiming, but tell us exactly what you see.’

  “‘I see that bird,’ said Bhima, ‘and the green leaves, and Drona’s shining white hair. I see my own brown muscles, and my arrow and bow, and more muscles, and my big brother, and more muscles yet, and—’”

  “I can’t help it!” Irwin laughed, slouching down in a hopeless attempt to hide his epic physique.

  “‘Stand aside,’ Drona told him. And next he called the twins, Nakula and Sahadeva.”

  Irwin was thunderstruck. “Bhima and Yudawhoozits had twins too?”

  “Well,” Peter said. “Their parents did.”

  “Jeezle peezle, Pete! It’s like they’re us! It’s like this story is about Everett and me and Freddy and …”

  “Just let him tell it,” Everett growled.

  “Sorry.”

  “Nakula and Sahadeva strung their arrows and took aim. Then Drona asked them the same question: what, exactly, do you see? And their answers were the same as their brothers’, except that they also saw each other.

  “‘Stand aside,’ Drona told the twins. And last of all, he called for Arjuna …”

  At that very moment a wild pitch, maybe a Kamikaze, slammed the bare wood wall, but I don’t think that’s what made the chill shoot through me: I think it was the last Pandava’s name. Because right as the chill was peaking, Everett too said, “Arjuna …” then smacked his lips as though yak butter were melting on his tongue. “Why do I feel as though I’ve heard of him?”

  “Me too!” Irwin cried. “And I never heard of nothin’, usually.”

  “‘String your bow,’ Drona told Arjuna, ‘and take aim as if to sever the bird’s head from its body. But shoot only when I tell you.’

  “Arjuna nodded, just once. He planted his feet firmly. He took a deep breath, and began to draw his heavy bow. The Son of the Wind was standing right next to Arjuna, watching and smiling. But when the bow grew so taut that it made a perfect half circle, Bhima’s left eye started to twitch, and he laughed and stepped back a little. ‘What do you see?’ Drona asked Arjuna.

  “‘A bird,’ he answered.

  “‘Describe it.’

  “‘I cannot,’ Arjuna said.

  “‘Why?’ his teacher asked.

  “‘I see only the neck.’

  “‘Release the arrow!’ Drona said, and when the bowstring sang the arrow flew so fast that the brothers couldn’t follow it. All they saw was the target bird’s head, drifting like a leaf to earth.”

  Irwin and Everett and I heaved identical sighs. Papa threw another Kamikaze, this time for a strike. Peter knew how to tell a story.

  “Drona faced Arjuna, and gripped his shoulders in his hands. ‘I will make you the greatest archer the world has ever seen,’ he said, ‘if you will make me one promise in return.’

  “Arjuna said, ‘It is made.’”

  My brothers and I waited. But Peter said nothing more. He looked distracted. Distracted and sad. “So?” Irwin asked. “What was it?”

  Papa threw another blazing strike. And when Peter continued, his voice was reluctant, perhaps even frightened.

  “‘What have I promised?’ Arjuna asked.

  “‘Only this,’ Drona said. ‘That if ever I come against you in battle, whether alone or with an army, you must fight to win.’

  “The Pandavas had all been smiling. They were no longer. ‘You’re our teacher,’ Arjuna said. ‘You’re our friend. You’re like a father to us.’

  “‘And you have given your word,’ said Drona.

  “Arjuna bowed his head and said, ‘I am bound.’”

  Our smiles had gone the way of the Pandavas’. A fastball hit the canvas. Again the dent was in the center of the strike zone. “Did they?” Everett asked.

  Peter said nothing.

  “Did who?” Irwin asked. “Did who what?”

  “Peter knows what I’m asking,” Everett said.

  Maybe he did, but he didn’t answer.

  “What I don’t get,” Irwin said, “is if Everett’s the crown prince, an’ I’m the Son of the Wind, an’ the twins are the twins, who the heck’s Arjuna? Is it you, Pete? Or Kade? And by the way, who’s Drona?”

  “This story is about the Pandavas,” Peter said quietly. “Not the Chances.”

  Another pitch hit the target dead center. Irwin grinned and said, “Yeah. Sure.”

  Then Everett scowled and said, “They did.”

  “Huh?” went Irwin.

  “They did meet in battle
,” Everett repeated. “For Arjuna to become the greatest archer, he had to kill Drona, didn’t he? Didn’t he, Peter?”

  Peter said nothing, but Irwin burst out, “Aw come on! Arjuna wouldn’t do that!”

  Everett snorted. “I guess you know all about it, Mahatma Irwin.”

  I expected Irwin to laugh at himself, or to back off in some way. But he was vehement. “The Son of the Wind knows!” he insisted. “Arjuna wouldn’t! Right, Pete? Because how could you be the world’s greatest anything and kill your friend and teacher?”

  For once, Irwin had silenced Everett. Another fastball hit the target, right in the dent left by the one before it. Papa was on a roll.

  Peter said, “Drona died at the Battle of Kurekshetra. They say it was the greatest battle ever fought. Meaning it was filled with the greatest heroics and strategies and performances, I suppose, but also the greatest treachery, the most blood, the most death. And grandsons fought their grandfathers, cousins their cousins, friends fought friends, and pupils fought their teachers. And yes, the Pandavas and Drona did turn out to be on opposite sides. But Arjuna didn’t kill him.”

  “I told you!” Irwin gloated.

  “Who did?” Everett asked, violently shoving away the elbow Irwin kept gouging into his shoulder.

  “The brothers all knew,” Peter said, “that Drona could never be defeated as long as he held a weapon in his hand. He would have killed them all. But remember the little boy who drank the fake milk? Drona’s son, Aswatthaman? He became a great warrior too, and fought with Drona against the Pandavas. And Bhima knew that Aswatthaman meant everything to his father. The Son of the Wind understood this perfectly, because his own brothers were dearer than life, or honor, or women, or anything else, to him.”

  Irwin began to look distressed.

  “So during one of the battles,” Peter went on, “when a king allied to the Pandavas was about to attack Drona, Bhima had a terrible idea. This king wasn’t much of a warrior. Drona would have made short work of him. But Bhima waited till the king launched his doomed attack. Then he disguised his voice, and threw it, as only the Son of the Wind could do, so that from his own camp Drona suddenly heard one of his own generals shout, ‘Aswatthaman is dead!’ And Drona’s weapons just fell out of his hands. His heart broke. He just sat down in his chariot on a little grass prayer mat, and the king, Bhima’s ally, rode up and cut off his head. So it was no one, really. Or it was grief—grief and the Son of the Wind’s lie—that killed Drona.”