by Kia Corthron
I stand.
“I’m jokin! Swear I won’t say nothin to her like that.” I’m unmoved. “Come on, B.J., you gotta admit this news is a little shockin to your brother from Prayer Ridge, Alabama.”
You’re not meeting her.
“So where’m I gonna sleep. The street? That bus depot, Port of Authority? I saw what kinda place that is right off, you put your brother out with the derelecks?”
You can take the bus back now.
“No I cannot because there’s only one bus a day: 11:30 in the a.m.”
I’ll give you the money for a hotel.
“I ride twenty-eight hours cross-country to get here firs time I see my brother in twelve years an you send me off to a hotel. Ma muss be rollin in her grave.”
I take a deep breath, and sit.
You can sleep on our couch. You’ll leave in the morning.
“I appreciate the accommodation. Here’s your hat what’s your hurry ain’t exactly the family hospitality you was brought up with, but guess you done got New York’d.” I wait. “Yes, I will be on that damn bus in the mornin.”
I watch him dip crust into the soupy vanilla. My hands move carefully. Please don’t say anything to hurt my wife.
“Lord, whaddya think I am?” He pushes his plate away, the dessert half-eaten. “Miss! Coffee please?” He lights a cigarette. “So what’s her name?”
I sigh. April.
“Nice name.” He blows smoke. “Let me tell ya a story, how once I had a wife named Erma an now I got a wife named Monique.”
Outside my door I turn to him.
Could you please wait out here a second? So I can prepare her?
“Prepare her for what? This is a reunion, B.J.! Oughta be a family celebration, bygones be bygones.” When I don’t reply, he shakes his head. “Do whatcha gotta do. Feel like some stranger off the street treat me more brotherly.”
Before I enter I calm myself so she won’t be worried. April May June is pouring herself a glass of milk. In the heat of the summer, she’d cut her big Afro so that it’s now no longer than two inches. She looks up at my smile, and is instantly alarmed: What’s wrong?
I brief her on our guest, and I can see she’s conflicted between her knowledge of my sibling feud, the details of which I’ve never revealed, and her excitement at finally meeting someone from my family. If I allow another minute I’m worried Randall may start pounding and disturbing the neighbors if he isn’t already. I open the door.
He enters smiling. April May June smiles, timid, holding out her hand to shake, which he takes but also gives her a gentle peck on the cheek. He and I have not touched since he arrived. “Hello, sister-in-law.”
As I prepare dinner, he seems to enjoy having another person to converse with in sign, and she follows, trying not to frown in her bafflement when he tosses in our homespun signals. I still don’t have an appetite but I sit to eat a little with my wife. Randall, full from the diner, takes just a few mannerly bites, filling the meal with his questions for April May June. Where’s her people from? When did she move to New York? Why did she move to New York? What sort of work does she do? Does she hope it will be a girl or a boy? I clutch my fork and wait for the other shoe to drop, but he conducts himself as a proper gentleman. “Superintendent? My brother never tole me that! That mean yaw get free rent?”
When dinner’s over, we retire to the living room. I’d never owned a television before, but April May June had purchased one for herself the summer before last and brought it with her when she moved in. Without our requesting it, Randall begins interpreting the news. Henry Kissinger has just proclaimed “peace is at hand.” April May June and I say nothing, though we’re both weighing our mistrust of Kissinger against the hope that he wouldn’t make such a pronouncement if he imagined he would soon lose face over it. Around eight, she says she’s tired and is going to bed. I follow her to see if she needs anything, then come back out to the living room.
“Well? Ain’tcha gonna show me New York?”
Crossing my fingers that no emergencies arise as I skip out on my evening super duties, we walk Times Square, the New York Public Library, Grand Central, the United Nations, back to Radio City, Rockefeller Center, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, up Fifth Avenue, over to Carnegie Hall, lower Central Park, Lincoln Center. I give him a ride on the subway uptown. Stroll around Harlem, then Riverside Church, Columbia University, St. John the Divine. The train again, to the bottom of the island. Battery Park to look out at the Statue of Liberty and up at the Twin Towers, then north to Chinatown, Little Italy, Soho, Lower East Side, Greenwich Village, up to the Flatiron. I sign little other than to identify the sites. After the Empire State Building I tell him, That’s about it. Except for the two underground rides we’ve been walking, four hours walking, and even as a seasoned New York pedestrian my legs are giving out. But Randall never complains. We stand on the southeast corner of 47th and Broadway, Times Square, five minutes to home, and he asks me to stop, he’d like to take it all in. We gaze at the flashing neons.
“You never asked about me.”
I don’t respond.
“It hurts that you don’t even care.”
I sigh.
“I like her. Your wife.” I look at him. “Surprise surprise, maybe I ain’t exactly the same man I was twelve years ago. But you jus—” He kicks his toe against the pavement. “You ain’t told her nothin.”
No.
“Good, cuz it’s not fair, her gettin jus your side.” The colossal flickering Coke sign reflected on his cheek.
“I know you’re in 3B now. I know starta the new year you’ll be in 4F. That right? Case I wanted to write ya?”
I stare at my Prayer Ridge brother, now surreally framed by the glitz and rush and multitudes of Manhattan. If you wrote to me at my building, I’d get the letter. Either apartment number.
He jumps, and I realize a police siren had unexpectedly gone off just a few feet from us. “If I write you, will you write me back?”
I consider the question, and give him an honest answer.
I don’t know.
I’m surprised to see him smile. “Well. I thought you’d jus outright refuse, so guess that means you’re warmin up to me.”
7
It’s nearly one by the time B.J. and Randall get back to the elder’s apartment. B.J. is exhausted and ready for bed, but Randall notices the deck of cards on the shelf.
“Brother, I may not see you for another dozen years. Or ever. Can’tcha just gimme these lass few hours?”
They sit on the couch, cards on the coffee table. The game goes slowly, owing to B.J.’s sleepiness and Randall’s interest in chattering. Through a fog B.J. watches his brother’s lips moving rapidly, knowing he wouldn’t wake April May June but hoping he’s not loud enough to disturb the neighbors.
“You ain’t even asked me if I got any kids.”
Do you have any kids?
“Matter a fact I do. This time aroun I seem to get a wife with all the parts in workin order. A son. Randall Jr. Randy.”
B.J. nods, concentrating on keeping his eyes open.
“You ain’t even asked how old!”
How old?
“Ten. He’s a regular athlete. Baseball. Soccer. An jus gettin to the age for basketball, we put a hoop out back. He was in the kids’ football leagues too, he was good, but less a football fan. It jus come natural to some kids, that ability. Don’t even need to like a game to excel at it. Look.”
He takes his wallet from his hip pocket and tosses it on the table, open to a picture of the boy in baseball uniform. B.J. can’t help but smile.
Like you spit him out.
Randall grins. “Everybody says that. Monique, they tell her, looks like all you did was carry him them nine months cuz everything he got he got from his pappy.” Randall picks the photo back up, gazing at it. “Good thi
ng, otherwise I might wonder. All that natural talent with a ball, but one thing he got no time for is school. Now where he get that from? Remember me his age? Couldn’t catch a high fly to save my life, but the books, there I was the star.” He chuckles, shrugs. “Long time ago.” He turns to another picture, sets it on the table. Randy with his soccer team.
Looks like a fine boy.
With his fingertip, Randall flips to the next photo. The whole family: Ma, Pa, B.J., Benja and himself in front of the tree, that last Christmas before their father died. B.J.’s smile fades. Randall laughs ironically, shaking his head and putting the billfold back into his pocket.
“I don’t know, brother, erasin your entire history. Listen, I think I wanna cuppa coffee. No, don’t get up, I see everything. Now as I recall you’re a tea-totaler. Okay, there it is.”
B.J. makes the mistake of winning the first rummy game because Randall tells him it’s only fair that he give his brother a chance to redeem himself. As they continue Randall talks about his son, his work, life in Texas. B.J. fading, but Randall seems more energized as the night progresses. When the second game is finally over, Randall the victor this time, he announces a tiebreaker is now in order.
“Randall!”
Randall stops, his eyes shining. “I ain’t heard my name from you in—” He swallows. “Your pronunciation’s got a lot better.”
B.J. doesn’t see how. He never speaks anymore, has no interest in oral communication. Randall starts to gather the cards, then, “Oh!” He runs to his duffel and pulls out a piece of paper.
“Almost forgot. Benja sent me one a the bulletins from Ma’s funeral. Copied it for ya. It ain’t as pretty paper as the original, but.”
B.J. stares at the page, a small photograph of his mother smiling at the top. His breath is shallow, quick.
Randall shuffles. “Benja’s youngest girl, that Tessa wrote a poem to her grammaw. Printed in there.” Randall deals.
Day breaks, and at 7:30, full up on coffee, Randall decides he’d like one of those hot chocolates with whipped cream advertised in the window of yesterday’s diner. He’ll be back in a few minutes.
He takes the drink to go and strolls over to Broadway for a last look at Times Square, more subdued in the early morning. He’d come looking for some reconciliation. The worrying possibility that B.J. would be unforgiving had haunted him much of the trip, but as he neared the Northeast he calmed himself, hoping for the best. And still B.J. had stubbornly clung to history, shutting his brother out. Randall takes a swig of the brew and singes his tongue.
The apartment door was left unlocked for him. On the table is a note, B.J.’s sleepy scrawl.
The bedroom door is slightly ajar. Randall pushes. It slowly opens wide.
April May June sits up, knees bent, the latest issue of Ms. magazine propped against her thighs, turning pages with her left hand. On the bed to her left are other periodicals: Silent News, The Deaf American, Essence. To her right B.J. lies dead asleep, fully clothed, his mouth open, one leg on the bed and one off, as if he were climbing up to her, his right hand on her round stomach. With her own right hand she absently strokes his hair, but as she sees the door creep open, her hand freezes. She had been expecting Randall to merely stick his hand in, to “knock,” and she is stock still, her eyes alone moving, up from the magazine to fix on her brother-in-law.
“Boy, he gimme the tour lass night! There sure is a lot to Manhattan!” Randall laughs, signing and speaking. “Well. Looks like you both made a nice life here for yourselves. An I guess I can’t complain neither. Good wife, good son. Great son! Life ain’t all a bowl a cherries but it sure could be worst. But listen. Didn’t you never wonder what happen between my brother an me?” He crosses his arms, leaning his back against the door. A vague smile appears on his face, staring at nothing. “Once upon a time there was Erma an Randall. They met at a dance, ’twas love at firs glance.” He giggles. “Might not a been marriage on second glance if it weren’t for real fast Erma tellin Randall he done plant one in her, but it was awright, him feelin pretty ready for man an wife, for You an me an baby makes three. Cep the only three they ever got was a blob a blood in the toilet but that’s okay, nex time. But nex time he fertilize her, scrambled eggs again. An nex time. Nex time. Nex time so guess it Me an you, jus be us two.
“Well Randall, he took it in stride. Or maybe he didn’t but weren’t no room for Randall to express any kinda heartbreak what with Erma’s conniptions fillin their whole damn world.” His eyes somewhere above April May June, where the wall meets the ceiling. “‘Randall, go to the meetin!’ ‘Randall, come with me to church!’ ‘Randall, I know it ain’t your fault, but.’” Randall bouncing his shoulders against the door, tiny rapid motions. “Then ridin with his sister in the ambulance, stayin overnight in the hospital with her lookin like the grave after her lovin hubby’s fists done turn her face inta groun meat, but ain’t she still orderin: ‘Go to the voters!’ Same thing like his boss told him, shoe store owner what give him gainful employ so he do go an yet an still nex thing he knowed he’s fired. Fired! So whaddya think happen nex? I’ll tell ya what, Randall takes all them goddamn shoes off the goddamn walls a the goddamn store an pitch em at his goddamn boss! Which subsequently give him a bloody face to match his sister’s an make him a overnight guest a the Lefferd County Po-lice Department, he don’t even get no lawyer then his sweet wife come to take him home. So she can let him have it herself!” He guffaws. “Oh the tears, the tears!” He lets his mirth ride, gradually subsiding to a smile. “Erma’d just had the sixt incubation gone awry before postin bail on her jailbird till-death-do-us-partner. For her nerves the doctor give her these high-power prescription tranquilizers.” He had lowered his eyes but now looks up at April May June. “Grind up them pills an pour water over em, easier for her to swallow. I know the proper dosage. I know what’s overdosage. I got A’s in everything, English, history, math, science, science. I know there’s chemicals can speed a heart up I know there’s chemicals can slow a heart down. I know these is the latter, if Erma’s heart go patpatpatpat, a pill over the dosage slow it down to pat, pat, pat, pat, pill over that dosage pat. Pat. Pat. Pat. A pill over that, pill over that, pill over that:
Pat. Pat.Pat.Pat.Pat.Pat.”
Now a very long silence, Randall’s and April May June’s eyes locked. Then he turns to his sleeping brother, his voice nearly a whisper. “‘I have very strong reason to believe.’” He turns back to her. “That’s what he told em. The po-lice, ‘I have very strong reason to believe,’ how he know?” Randall’s eyes shine. “How he do that to me! His own brother! Then everyone in town wanna.” He glares, his signs becoming huge. “How I stay in Prayer Ridge after that? Huh? My own hometown I’m banished from cuza my own brother!” Randall takes the crook of his arm, roughly wipes his eyes with his shirt. “I never woulda done that to him! Own flesh an blood! my own—”
He slams his hand against the wall behind him, his breathing heavy and quick. He stares at B.J., wipes his eyes again. Then turns to April May June and gives a start, as if he had forgotten she was there.
Her face tight, eyes registering horror. Her hands tremble as she speaks: Erma died?
He stares at her, confused, terrified. “I didn’t say that! I didn’t—” He tries to calm himself, and eventually his breath softens. He looks down as he signs.
“Hard growin up. Him five years older, the oldest, yet he’s Ma’s baby. Took me decades to lose all interest in bein her favorite, so naturally that’s when I become it. So here he’s the one stayed with her, took care a her, an the only thing she ever took him for was for granted. Then me an Benja get married, an Benja all them kids, we had lives, what did B.J. have? So I guess I get it. The bitterness. Guess he finally find a way to pay me back.”
Randall gazes at his sleeping brother, B.J.’s chest rising and falling deeply. “Those days when I firs come to Texas. The vengeance. Come up with a pisto
l behind him, bang. Watch his flesh explode, pieces a B.J. brain flyin Alabama to New Orleans. But then he’d never know. Even the one half-second before death when he mighta heard the sound, known what’s comin, well course he wouldn’ta heard it. So I had to think up somethin else.” He chuckles. “It got pretty elaborate. There were a couple a bricks comin loose outside Ma’s house, I’d tell him we gotta fix em. We walk outside together, me behind him. An I’d wait. Him stoopin, his back turned away from me wham! Break that brick over his head but jus to stun him. He be weak but he be aware, lyin on his back, he see me liff that brick high, he know what he done unto his brother he havin done unto himself, wham! wham! wham! Flatten his face, nothin leff but blood, bone. Brain spillin the grass.”
His smile is far away. Then fades. He shrugs. “Just a fantasy, had to get it outa my system. All that.” He runs his fingers through his hair, suddenly tired. “Ugly. Ugly time. I don’t bear hard feelins no more. Life’s short. I only got one brother.” Glances up at her. “He forgets. That goes for him too.” He pulls from his pocket a napkin from the diner and tosses it onto the bed, his mailing address written on it, then walks out to the living room and picks up his duffel bag. At the door of the apartment, he stops. He has a direct view into the bedroom, at his sister-in-law who hasn’t moved, her eyes full with terror. “Why you lookin at me like that? April? Ain’t nunna us perfect! What, you think when you meet St. Peter your slate be spotless? Yeah, doubt it. An him.” His eyes rest on B.J. one last time. Randall’s blue irises are full again, wet and stinging but hard. He speaks quietly as he signs to April May June without ever removing his eyes from his sleeping brother. “Sometime you might wanna ask your hubby bout his ole days in the Klan,” and with that Randall walks out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him.
