Summer Brother

by Jaap Robben

  “Indeed we do,” Dad says. “Arrived yesterday.”

  “Haven’t seen him out in the yard,” Jean says. “What’s he like?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Had to pack up and leave, sharpish like.” Dad rakes his front teeth over the stubble below his bottom lip. “Bust up with the missus is my guess.”

  Jean leans back on his chair to get a view of the caravan.

  Rico is snuffling around the table with the ferret cage. “Maurice, get that dog away from there,” says Henri.

  “Here!” Dad whistles Rico to his side, points at a spot under his chair, and presses the dog’s head to the concrete floor until he whimpers. Rita looks up, but only stretches and settles back down in a stripe of sunlight.

  “Can I feed the ferrets?” I ask.

  “There’s still some of … that dried chicken.”

  The two ferrets are up on their back legs, quivering, sniffing, and shoving each other aside as if there’s only one spot in the mesh they can poke their pink noses through.

  I find a dirty knife, slice off a few strips of meat, and drop them into the cage. The ferrets go from restless stoles to furry whirlwinds.

  “Careful with that knife,” Brown Henri calls over as he’s about to slide back under the Mercedes. “It’s hard to count to ten when you’re down to nine fingers.” He holds up both hands—the right one is a pinkie short. If I stare too long at his missing finger, Henri always issues some kind of warning. “Never grab the wrong end of your angle grinder, son … Never fall behind with your payments … Never think of a woman when you’re working at the saw bench.” A new one every time. They could be the ten commandments of our old scrapyard. Dad’s commandments always start with “never” too, and usually end with “your mum.” But he still has all his fingers.

  “Hey, Maurice …” Jean nudges Dad. “When were you thinking … of paying the rent?”

  “Oh right,” says Dad, and tosses a bunch of Emile’s banknotes onto the table. “There you go.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” Jean starts counting.

  “How much is it?” Brown Henri asks and goes on tinkering with the car.

  “A hundred and ten!” Jean shouts.

  “Is that all?” Henri asks.

  “If my money’s not good enough for you, I’d just as soon take it back.”

  “It means you’re still four hundred euros behind.”

  “And the tenant?” Jean asks.

  “What about him?”

  “Is he living here rent free?”

  “All in good time, all in good time.”

  “And what time’s that then?”

  Dad’s tongue flashes across his lips.

  “End of the week.”

  “End of the week,” Jean echoes.

  “Tenants have been damn slow at paying since you started collecting the rent,” Brown Henri says.

  “He’s a little low on cash at the minute. No need to play hardball just yet.”

  Dad turns to look at the shelf units that line the wall. One is home to a bunch of shiny exhaust pipes. He shakes his head disapprovingly, as if he’s an expert and everything he sees is a pile of junk.

  “Leave the new guy alone for a while,” Dad says.

  “How come?”

  “The gentleman needs a little privacy. Nothing wrong with that now, is there?”

  “As long as he’s no trouble,” Henri says. “On the run from God knows what. I don’t want this place swarming with coppers.”

  “A loner like that,” Jean raises his eyebrows knowingly. “Curtains closed all day. I mean …”

  “Got any spark plugs?” I ask, to steer the conversation away from Emile.

  “Spark plugs?”

  “For my scooter.”

  “Long or short socket?”

  “Short.” Dad says it for me.

  “I can take a look … out the back in a sec.”

  “Hundred and ten,” says Henri, shaking his head. “And the rest?”

  “I told you—soon.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “It’s been the same story for the past two months.”

  From the way his cheek is trembling, I can tell Dad’s trying really hard to keep something inside.

  “Or should we cut off the electric again? That sometimes jogs your memory.”

  “Lucien might be coming home soon,” I say to change the subject.

  Now all eyes are on me.

  “Who’s Lucien?”

  “Nobody …” Dad tries to gloss it over with a slight shake of his head.

  “My brother.”

  “And he’s coming here?”

  “Maybe. Just for a bit.”

  “And how long is a bit?”

  Before I can answer, Dad cuts me off at the pass.

  “A week, max. Two at a pinch.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Maurice. This is no place for kids.”

  “The boy’s got nowhere to go. And his mum won’t take him. It’s only temporary.”

  “Bry here was supposed to be temporary, too.” Henri slides out from under the Mercedes.

  “What do you mean I was temporary?”

  “Stay out of this!” Dad bellows. Rico and Rita spring to attention, hackles up, ears pointed.

  “You’re a good lad, Brian … But this is no place for you. And now your dad’s … bringing in another one.”

  “You’re not bringing in anyone, Maurice!” Henri snorts.

  “Then screw the lot of you!” Dad grabs his tool bag from the concrete floor and storms off. The dogs scamper after him, panting with excitement.

  The rent lies crumpled on the table.

  Jean levers himself out of his garden chair, steers his oxygen tank carefully around the stacks of boxes. He beckons me through to the back of the garage.

  “Short socket …” Those few steps leave Jean even shorter of breath. “That’s what you said … right?”

  He pulls open a drawer.

  “Why did Henri say that?”

  “What?”

  “That I’m temporary.”

  “Ah …” As if to tease him, the machine puffs too little oxygen into his lungs. “Here.” He hands me two small boxes.

  “One’s enough.”

  “And one … for spare.”

  “Thanks, Jean.”

  He gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Did Dad really say that?”

  “Forget it …”

  “I was never temporary.”

  “Course not.”

  “So why did he say it?”

  “That’s something …” He pauses to give his breath a run-up. “Between your dad and us.” He runs a clumsy hand over my forearm. His hands mostly hang like slack and stumpy tools from his wrists. I didn’t know they could touch.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  He gestures to me to let it go.

  “Tell me how much they cost.”

  “Free of charge.”

  “Is this enough?” I pull out the grubby tenner.

  “Too much.”

  “I still owe you for that headlight.”

  Jean chuckles. “Are you sure Maurice … is your dad?”

  He takes the tenner, folds it in half, and presses it back into my palm. “Start saving for … a girlfriend.”

  “So how come I was temporary?”

  “What are you on about?” Dad knows damn well what I’m on about. He’s hunched in front of the dark television screen in his leather easy chair, elbows on knees.

  “I’ve always been with you, haven’t I?”

  “Bry,” Dad says, so softly it takes me by surprise. “I had to say that or they’d never have rented us this place. We’d have had to li
ve in that shitty Taunus van. Hang around in car parks. Is that what you wanted? They would have taken you off me in a heartbeat.”

  That wasn’t what I wanted.

  “Here,” I say, and give him back his tenner.

  “No, no. I’m not taking money from my own kid.”

  I’m relieved he’s letting me keep it.

  “How are you going to get Lucien here?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  “But they don’t want him here.”

  “Ah, but what are they going to do about it? Well?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Lucien’s coming,” Dad says, like it’s me who’s trying to stop him. “And once they clap eyes on him, they won’t dare send him away. Wanna bet?”

  -

  7

  Dad has something to discuss with Santos in his office, so I go on ahead to see my brother. Down the corridor, I run into Selma pushing a trolley stacked with towels. Her face is tight with concentration.

  “Hiya,” I say. Her eyes are fixed on the pile of towels in front of her, willing it not to topple over.

  “Hiya,” I say again, a little louder this time.

  “Don’t talk,” she says flatly. She stops, takes a towel from the pile with both hands, places it neatly on a table in a little kitchen, and returns to her trolley.

  “I’m Lucien’s brother, remember?”

  “Don’t talk. I’m working.”

  “You’re working?”

  Her shoulders slump in time with an irritated sigh. “Don’t ta-halk.”

  “Okay, suit yourself.”

  Lucien no longer has the room to himself. Henkelmann’s bed is parked alongside his. The last time I saw Henkelmann was when we still visited with Mum. Back then he lurked under an empty table in the family room. I never wanted us to sit anywhere near him, though he only ever bit himself. Crocodile skin on the insides of his wrists and elbows. And in the folds between his index fingers and thumbs.

  Now he’s lying perfectly still in bed, staring at the little Christmas tree with luminous needles that slowly change colour. His wrists are velcroed to the bed rail.

  “You’ve got a neighbour,” I say to Lucien. Little cuts have appeared around his mouth. I can hear the soft humming noise he always makes when he’s restless. “Henkelmann won’t harm you. He only bites himself.”

  Someone has given Lucien a box. Judging by the state it’s in, he’s been gnawing on it for a while. “That’s not for eating,” I say, tugging at the cardboard. Lucien raises his arm to guard the box. A wet shred of cardboard is stuck to his teeth. “It’s for your own good.” But he won’t let go.

  Henkelmann lets out a kind of creak. His toothless mouth opens so wide that I can see all the way to the back. It looks like the inside of a shell, his extended tongue is the fleshy creature that lives inside. Lucien scratches nervously at the corners of his mouth.

  Carefully, I take his hand but he pulls it free immediately. I grab it again and squeeze his wrist until my knuckles turn white. You can inflict a lot of pain on Lucien before he feels it.

  I stroke between his pinkie and his ring finger the way Mum used to. I keep stroking and feel tendons pulling at the crooked bones beneath his dry skin. “Mum got married, did you know? Does Didier visit too, sometimes?” I stroke between his other fingers, until his eyes open and close more slowly. Now I don’t have to squeeze as tight to hold his hand.

  “So-o-o,” says a deep voice at the door. We both jump. “Time for some exercise.” A man with hair curly as telephone wire steers a wheelchair into the room. “I’ll just park this here.” He’s so tall he has to stoop to reach the handles. “Oh, hello,” he says when he notices me. “I’ve come to kidnap Lucien.”

  First he goes over to the other bed. “Fancy a game?”

  Henkelmann cramps up instantly, his body so tense it rises from the mattress. His wrist straps take the strain.

  “All right then. Just the one.” Curly holds a finger above Henkelmann’s open mouth and teases him, bringing it a fraction closer then pulling it away again. “Ah,” he says. “Playing the waiting game today? Been practising behind my back?”

  Henkelmann stares at the ceiling. The finger circles above his face and passes his mouth again. Round and round. Then snap! Henkelmann roars with laughter.

  Curly shakes his finger as if it hurts. “Man, that was quick!” Then he comes over to us. “And who have we got here?”

  “I’m Brian, Lucien’s brother.”

  “Thibaut, Lucien’s physiotherapist. I’m taking your brother for a walk.”

  “Can he still walk?”

  “He’s still got it in him.” He lowers the bed rail. “If I had the time, we could definitely make more progress. As things stand, the most I can do is keep him mobile.” Thibaut lets Lucien’s scrawny calf muscles glide through his hands. “The drugs don’t exactly help.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, all the pills he has to take.”

  “Aren’t they doing him good?”

  “Of course they are. Sure. But, as a physio, I mainly notice how they affect his motor skills.” He can see I don’t quite get it. “Some pills make you less able to move around.” He gently lifts Lucien’s feet and starts turning them this way and that. “So, let’s wake these fellas up first.” Lucien gives a cranky groan.

  “Is it okay to bend his ankles that far?”

  “These are movements he should be able to make himself. I’m reminding his feet what they can do.”

  Thibaut feels Lucien’s knees and starts to massage them, then lifts his feet high in the air and makes him pedal. A couple of farts gurgle in Lucien’s pants. Thibaut lets go and Lucien tries to carry on pedalling but he can’t do it on his own.

  “Right, then.” In one easy movement he turns Lucien so that his legs are dangling over the side of the bed, slides shoes onto his feet, and velcroes them tight. “Here we go.” Lucien clamps both hands around Thibaut’s hairy forearm as it pulls him slowly from the bed and holds him steady.

  Lucien flexes his knees a few times as if to make sure the floor can take his weight.

  “I’ll drop him off in half an hour. Will you still be here?”

  “I think so.”

  At every step, Lucien lifts his foot way too high, only to put it down an inch or so in front of the other.

  “That’s the way,” Thibaut says, shuffling backward toward the door. Lucien mashes a couple of panicky steps on the spot. “Come on. You’re doing great.”

  Thibaut winks at me and swings the door open a little further. From the corridor I hear, “Now that foot! Yes. And now this one. No, this one.”

  It feels weird being left behind in the room.

  Henkelmann lies there leering at me. I remember when he had teeth, only he wouldn’t let anyone brush them, so he kept getting infections and cavities. They had to give him an anaesthetic before the dentist could get anywhere near him. One day they decided to pull all his teeth out in one go, but his gums became so hard that he could still bite.

  “Do you want to play that game with me?” I stand beside his bed and lay a cautious finger on his arm. I thought his crocodile skin would be tough as tree bark, but it’s unexpectedly soft and warm. Velcro creaks around his wrists.

  I’m not sure I dare. My fingers are trembling inside. I hold out my arm, and his chest swells to hold his breath. I circle my finger above his face, then tap his mouth quick as I can. Snap! Just missed. My heart is thudding behind my eyes. “That was fast!” Henkelmann laughs so loud that his bed wobbles and clinks. “Want another go?”

  His body stiffens. My fingertip lands between his eyebrows and follows the slope to the tip of his nose. It’s one of the few places where his skin is smooth. Even before I tap his mouth … Snap! Just missed. Henkelmann roars again, but tenses up the second
I move away.

  “Okay then, just one more.”

  “Will you come?” Selma is standing in the doorway.

  “Come?”

  “To my room.”

  “Are you finished work?”

  She nods so deep her chin almost touches her chest.

  “I’m waiting here till Lucien comes back.”

  “Pleeeaaase.” She tilts her head the way other girls do when they want to look cute. “My room is one up …” She points at the ceiling. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Fifteen minutes?”

  “Till the long hand gets there.” She points at her right temple, closes her left eye, and peers at the clock above the door.

  “And then?”

  “Boys can come in for fifteen minutes. Door open.” Out of nowhere, she grabs my hand and swings it to and fro. “And you’re boys.”

  “Okay,” I say, and pull her behind me like a water skier. “This way?” We head for the stairs and her belly jerks with every wave of laughter.

  I let go of Selma and she waddles up ahead of me. Her backside sticks out as she plants both feet on each stair before moving on to the next. Every few stairs she looks back to check I’m still there. “Keep behind me,” she puffs, holding out her arm like a barrier.

  A card beside her door bears her name and a lopsided sun. “Here’s where I live.” You can pick out the things that belong to her at a glance. The rest look like the stuff in every other room. The table and chairs are from the rec room, her cupboard is identical to Lucien’s. A row of dolls along the top stare into space.

  “Door open with boys,” she says firmly, making sure the handle connects with the buffer on the wall. “It’s the rules.”

  The cuddly monkey on her bed is big enough to wrap its arms around her. Beside him sit three dolls in smocks, dummies stuck in their baby mouths. “Look!” She points to the wash basin. “My makeup.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Look!” The makeup bag is so crammed that the zip won’t close. “Look!” A capless tube of toothpaste, flecked with white. Necklaces, scarves, and tiaras hang from the towel rail. “Look!” And, when I don’t turn around quick enough, “Loo-hook!” At the foot of her bed, a poster of a couple on a scooter. “I want to ride on the back. With him.” The boy is leaning forward to go faster and looking over his shoulder at the girl. She has one arm around his waist, long hair streaming from under her helmet. Lipstick smile, perfect teeth, free hand holding down her skirt while the wind tries to peek underneath.