My Brother's Keeper

by Patricia McCormick

  Eli shakes his head. “I think she got out. The window to the downstairs bathroom was open.”

  “Jake!” I yell. “Mr. Furry got out.”

  Now Eli looks really worried. “Jake went out,” he whispers.

  I slam my binder shut.

  Eli jumps. Then he pulls his blankie over his head. Little sniffling sounds come from under the blankie.

  I get up, squeeze the spot on the blankie that I think is his shoulder, and tell him I’ll go look for Mr. Furry.

  “Just so you know,” I say, “I’m not doing this for Mr. Furry. I’m doing it for you.”

  A tiny “thanks” comes from under the blankie.

  I walk up and down ye olde streets of Colonial Mews shaking a can of Liver Lovin’cat treats and calling out to Mr. Furry like she’s my long-lost best friend.

  “Mr. Fur-ree? Oh, Mr. Fur-ree,” I sing out, feeling like a complete idiot, not to mention a complete fake.

  It starts to rain again right about the time I’ve made my second lap around the neighborhood, but I keep going, shaking the liver treats and serenading a cat I don’t even like. I pull my jacket over my head and decide to make another sweep of the parking lot, when I finally spot her under a car in the last row. I creep over to the car, shake the can of Liver Lovin’treats like bait, then charge for her and grab her by the tail. She whips around and bites me, then darts across the grass and around the corner of a row of condos.

  I trot along after her, even though I’m pretty sure that chasing a stuck-up cat around in the rain is a good way of getting pneumonia. I find her a couple minutes later, hiding in a little kid’s plastic playhouse in somebody’s AstroTurf yard. Even though there are probably laws against trespassing in kids’playhouses, I tiptoe up to the playhouse, bend over, and sneak in. This time I don’t even try to use the liver treats; I make a lunge for her. She darts out the door between my legs; I give up and start walking home.

  Just as I reach for the doorknob, Mr. Furry shoots out from under the Dumpster, runs across the yard, and slips inside the door. She doesn’t even look wet, she just looks annoyed, like I’d been keeping her waiting.

  The next day at the end of school, I take the scenic route around the upstairs hall on the way to my locker, thinking that maybe I’ll see Martha MacDowell at her locker. But by the time I get there, she’s gone, which is probably good since I had no idea what I was going to do if she was there.

  After that, I skateboard over to Mr. D’s because I just feel like doing stuff for him, not for money even, just to hang around with somebody who’s the same every time you see them and not suddenly hanging out with people who smoke pot or suddenly start dating people who star in TV commercials dressed like a member of the Royal Family.

  “Toby,” he says as soon as I walk in. “How ya doin’?”

  Usually, when people ask you how you’re doing, they don’t really want to know actual details, like how you’re afraid to ask your mom for new cleats. But when Mr. D asks, you know he actually wants to know.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  Mr. D tosses me a pack of WarHeads. “You don’t sound so sure.”

  The WarHeads are the extra-hot kind that explode on the roof of your mouth, the kind that can make your eyes get watery if you’re not careful.

  “I miss my dog,” I tell him. “Harriet. Harriet the Horrible.” This isn’t what I meant to say, but it’s true. “I know it sounds dumb,” I said, “but I do.”

  Nobody else thought Harriet was so great, partly because she had really short legs and a pointy head that made her look sort of like a hyena, but mainly no one was too crazy about Harriet on account of her bad breath. But at least she was always the same. She was always glad to see you when you came home, and you could count on her to get up on the couch next to you and thump her stubby tail against your leg and smile her hyena-dog smile at you and breathe her bad breath on you no matter what.

  I tell all this to Mr. D, who just stands there nodding like what I’m saying makes perfect sense.

  “Son,” he says after I finally shut up about how great Harriet was. “Living is all about letting go.”

  I don’t know what he means, and to tell you the truth I’m not sure I agree, since we’re both card collectors, which, if you think about it, isn’t about letting go, it’s about getting and keeping stuff. But I say I do, making a mental note to tuck this little bit of Yoda-type philosophy away for future use, since Mr. D seems to be so serious about it, calling me son and all.

  “I know how you feel, though,” he says. “Most of the time, I can let go, but some days…” He sighs. “… Some days I really miss my wife.” He starts patting his back pants pocket for the old plaid handkerchief, and I realize that if I don’t do something quick, things could get emotional.

  “Yeah,” I say. “But I bet she didn’t have bad breath like Harriet.”

  I know, right as I’m saying it, that it’s kind of politically incorrect to compare a beloved dead wife to a dog with hyena breath, but it cracks Mr. D up. He claps me on the back, gives me another pack of WarHeads, and stuffs his handkerchief back in his pocket. And I stay there till closing time, tying up the recycling, reaching up to get stuff on the top shelves where Mr. D can’t reach, and feeling almost like I used to feel watching TV in the afternoons with old Harriet.

  That night after hanging up the phone, my mom announces that the Food King is taking us to a Pirates game tomorrow.

  I know without even checking the paper that Kip Wells is pitching, probably with Mike Williams as closer, and Pokey Reese is back in action at second base after a pulled groin—a game any kid in his right mind would want to see.

  “I have to work for Mr. D that day,” I say.

  She gives me the maternal eyebrow scrunch, which makes me wonder if I’m in my right mind.

  “Really,” I say.

  I think maybe she’s about to say something, but then she unscrunches her eyebrows. “Oh, well,” she says. “Okay.”

  Which, to tell you the truth, makes me feel worse than if she’d said “What do you mean you’re not going?” which I was expecting, maybe even hoping for. Because even though I’m not sure I want to go see the Pirates with someone who’s not my dad, I at least want her to ask me about not going, or maybe even try to talk me out of it and not just say okay.

  The next morning, Jake keeps humming the National Anthem and saying “Play ball,” the way our dad used to do; Eli keeps asking our mom if she thinks Stanley will buy him a Pirates jersey, and our mom keeps trying on different outfits, until the Food King finally pulls up in big black SUV and they all leave.

  The house is instantly empty and way too quiet. I open the fridge and poke around for something to eat. I grab a piece of my mom’s Weight Watchers cake, eat some of the frosting off the top, then shove it back in the fridge. I make a point of slamming the door, which feels lame and stupid and not at all impressive since there’s no one around to hear it except me.

  After a while, I wander into the den, turn the Implosion photo faceup, and nudge Mr. Furry out of my seat. She gives me a how-dare-you look, then saunters out of the room in her stuck-up cat way, while I turn on the TV. Which, since it’s pretty much always on ESPN, means I’m sitting there watching a pregame interview with Pokey Reese, who’s in the middle of saying how today’s game is going to be the turning point of the season, when I snap off the TV, leaving his voice hanging in mid-word, and wonder what I’m gonna do for the rest of the day.

  A couple of nights later, our mom comes home from work extra late and extra tired from having to do highlights on one of her regulars who showed up for her appointment late, and then only gave her a five-dollar tip. Jake’s not home yet, which she doesn’t seem to notice, the way she also doesn’t notice how he comes home later than me a lot of days—even though we’re both supposedly at baseball—and how there’s only one uniform in the laundry every week.

  “Did anyone call?” she says, meaning His Heinie.

  I shake my hea
d.

  She frowns.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure, I say.

  She nods, straightens her back a little, then puts on a smile.

  “I have an idea,” she says after checking in the refrigerator. “Let’s order pizza.”

  I’d been thinking of maybe asking her to make the orange meal, which is sort of like our family’s karaoke. It’s a meal Jake and I invented of all orange foods— macaroni and cheese, Cheetos, mandarin oranges, and Sunkist sodas—which we used to have on special occasions, like when one of us lost a tooth or learned how to ride a two-wheeler. It wasn’t a special occasion or anything, I just wanted to have something like we used to have, so maybe things would feel like they used to feel.

  But when I start to ask, I can see the terminal headache look on her face.

  “Pizza sounds good,” I say.

  She calls in the order then goes upstairs to take a shower. The Domino’s delivery guy rings the doorbell while she’s drying her hair.

  “Toby?” she calls out from upstairs. “Reach inside my tip jar and grab some money, will you?”

  I take the jar down off the top of the refrigerator and count out $7.12.

  “Ma,” I call up to her. “There’s not enough.”

  The Domino’s guy gives me a suspicious look and clutches his insulated red delivery pouch to his side. I’m standing there feeling like a criminal when I remember that there’s only $7.12 in the jar because Jake took the rest.

  “Count it again,” my mom calls out. “I know I put a twenty in there.”

  I give the Domino’s guy a just-a-minute look, then I dig around in my pocket for the money I earned at Mr. D’s other day. I give him enough for the pizza plus a tip in mostly nickels, which you can tell he doesn’t especially appreciate.

  My mom comes downstairs and we sit down to eat, finally, and the phone rings. She grabs the receiver, then stands there letting it ring one more time before she picks it up. “I don’t want to look like I was waiting for him,” she says.

  “No,” she says into the receiver. “You’re not interrupting.” Then she tucks the phone under her chin, goes up to her room, and closes the door.

  “Must be His Heinie,” says Eli, who’s wearing the Pokey Reese T-shirt “Stanley” bought him.

  “It was funny the first thousand times, Eli,” I say.

  Eli looks at me, then opens his mouth as wide as he can so I can see his predigested pizza.

  We sit there chewing, not saying anything for a couple of minutes. “Where’s Jake?” Eli says after a while.

  I smack my lips and rub my stomach, like I’ve just eaten him.

  Eli rolls his eyes. “It’s only funny when Jake does it,” he says.

  Our mom comes down wearing a dress and perfume.

  “Where’s Jake?” she says.

  I shrug.

  “Okay, Toby, you’re in charge till he gets home,” she says. “Make sure Eli does his homework.”

  Then she’s gone, and Eli goes up to do his homework. Which is sort of good, because I don’t have to bug him about it, but which is also sort of bad since, to tell you the truth, I could’ve gone for a game of Nintendo right about then.

  After Eli falls asleep, I sit at the front door playing the headlight game. The nobodies have twelve points when a car pulls up and drops Jake off. He weaves up the path then stops like he’s forgotten where he was going. I open the door, and he takes a step toward me, then trips, grabbing the air for something to hold on to.

  I reach for him. His chin crashes into my shoulder as he grabs hold of my arms. Then he starts slipping toward the ground, and for a minute, I think we’re both going to fall down. I yank him up from under his arms, and he grabs hold of me like we’re practically hugging, and I drag him into the house. I brace myself with my back foot so I can get my balance, and then lean Jake up against the wall. I let go for a second, and he starts slipping toward the floor, knocking my mom’s flower wreath off the wall.

  I try to get a good look at his face, thinking he’ll laugh, like knocking the wreath on the floor is the funniest thing in the world. But he doesn’t laugh; he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even notice. Because he’s there but not really there. And you can tell from the look in his eyes, he’s not coming back soon, either.

  By the time our mom gets home, Jake’s in bed and—in between getting up and putting my hand under his nose to make sure he’s still breathing—I’m lying in my bunk looking at the Stargell. My mom comes in and kisses me on the head, then stretches up on her toes to check on Jake.

  The car alarm starts blaring in my head. I want to tell her everything: about Jake not trying out for baseball, about driving around with Andy Timmons and almost getting killed by a bread truck, and about Mr. Miller and Coach Gillis saying things that make it sound like even they know what’s going on.

  Instead, I say that Jake wasn’t feeling too good.

  She puts her hand on his forehead, says “Hmrnm,” then turns out the light and leaves.

  The next morning after breakfast, I see Jake in the bathroom squirting Visine in his eyes. He blinks in my general direction a couple of times and I stop in the hall like I have something important to say. Something about last night, like how I’m not gonna cover up for him anymore. But he looks like he feels so rotten, that I can’t.

  “Wanna come to my game this afternoon?” I say.

  He just stares at me.

  “It’s a home game,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think so, Toby.”

  He walks past, socks me in the arm, and then calls out to me from our room. “Here,” he says. “Wear this for luck.”

  He throws me his lucky baseball jersey from the division championships. Even though I’m a total sucker for that sort of sentimental baseball stuff, it doesn’t make me feel at all elated or even grateful. But I still say thanks.

  I wear the jersey that day. Not because I’m the Miss Manners of baseball or anything, but because I figure it might be bad luck not to. Which means I have to wait around while the assistant-assistant coach scribbles out my old number on the clipboard and everyone else goes out on the field to warm up, which means I have a minute to check the stands and see if maybe Jake came after all.

  Which is when I see Andy Timmons’s car screeching through the parking lot, with Jake in the driver’s seat. Jake, who doesn’t even have a license. He swerves, then slams on the brakes, just barely missing a bunch of chess geeks. One kid spills all his chess pieces on the pavement. Jake yells something at him, then he speeds off, and I trudge out to Outer Mongolia trying to look like I didn’t see what everybody just saw.

  I sit on the bench for the whole game until the bottom of the eighth, when Sean, the usual catcher, keeps messing up and Coach Gillis subs me in. I put the catcher’s gear on in a hurry, wondering if a person having a heart attack at age thirteen would set some kind of Guinness World Record. I snap the face mask down and pray that Jake’s jersey brings me luck after all.

  The first pitch rolls between my legs. The second one sails over my head. And the third one pops out of my glove. I scrabble around in the dirt on my hands and knees, trying to find the ball and wishing for an earthquake or at least a hailstorm or some other act of God to put me out of my misery. Then when I finally find it, I throw it back to the pitcher, winging it so far off to his right that the shortstop has to toss it back to him.

  I get back into position and prepare to die a long, agonizing death of embarrassment. Then the ball is whizzing toward me again. There’s a tinny sound as the batter smacks the ball. I can see the ball arcing off into the air directly overhead. I throw my mask off, take a step forward, then a step back, then make a dive for it. I end up on my knees in a cloud of dust, staring at the ball in my mitt and wondering if I’m having a stress-induced hallucination.

  But people seem to be cheering. Then I see the batter kick the dust and walk back to the bench. I still don’t move, though, until the ump come
s over and tells me that I need to throw the ball back to the pitcher so we can continue the game. At which point I wonder if a person can die of relief.

  Which I don’t. I just catch. I don’t drop the ball, I don’t miss it, I just catch, like I’m in a zone where it’s just me and the pitcher playing catch. And then the inning’s somehow over.

  Before I can even recover from my near-death catching experience, I’m up at bat. I take a swing at the first pitch and then watch it cross the plate while my bat slices through the empty air. I swear not to do that again. Then I do it again. The pitcher winds up again and the ball comes hurtling toward me. Then I’m watching the bat connect, then watching the ball fly back across the field, then watching my legs pump as I run toward first. In my peripheral vision, I also see the shortstop miss the ball, and I keep running, rounding first, then taking second. When it’s all over, I’m standing there panting and thinking that if I do die, at least the school paper will say that it was after I got a hit.

  The next two batters strike out and Badowski hits a pop fly, so the game is over and my double didn’t really count for anything. But at least Coach Gillis comes up and gives me a “good game” smack on the back.

  Then he sort of does a double take at my jersey, like he’s just realizing that it’s the one he let Jake keep after last year’s championships. He shakes his head and walks away.

  On the bus on the way home, I’m sitting there wondering how a person can have a good game and still feel so rotten, when Arthur reaches over and gives me a Little Debbie.

  “Good game,” he says, nudging me in the ribs.

  I just nod.

  He tugs on my jersey.

  “Is this Jake’s old jersey?”

  I sort of nod.

  “What’s with your brother, anyhow?”

  “What do you mean, what’s with him?” I say.

  “I don’t know,” Arthur says. “You’re his brother.”

  I shrug.

  “I heard he got in-house suspension for cutting class,” he says.

  “I know,” I say, even though up till now I didn’t.

  “He hangs out with Andy Timmons all the time now.”