When Eunice had asked me to wash the dishes because she had to watch the baby, I mistook that as: “Danny go do chores while I play with my real son.” I had unexpectedly inherited the responsibility of doing chores around the house while Peter was doted on like a prince.
Neither of my adopted parents had come to see me star in the fifth grade school play because the little germ had developed a sudden case of Chicken Pox. I recall anxiously standing center stage, looking out in that full auditorium of proud parents and not seeing their faces smiling back at me from the crowd. It was utterly devastating. I realized I was alone and suddenly I couldn’t remember a single line.
In all honesty, it was no one’s fault. We were all new at the family thing and we dealt with it the best we could. Peter, of course, was the most innocent out of us all, but I grew to loathe him.
I was so wrapped up in my own jealousy that I didn’t realize Patrick and Eunice were giving me responsibilities because I was older and I could be trusted. “Watch your brother,” and “Hold Peter’s hand while crossing the street,” were burdens to me. When my mind should have said, “You are the older brother; they trust you to bring Peter with you.” But that message was never relayed to me. I couldn’t see beyond my own insecurity.
I was fifteen, and Peter was seven when he died.
July seventeenth, during summer vacation.
I was with my best friend, Tommy Doyle, with baseball gloves in hand, and we headed towards the Babe Ruth Little League Baseball field. That day, however, we had no intention of playing ball. The gloves were a ruse. It was the property that lies between my house on Wallcott Avenue and the baseball diamond that interested us that day. There were dozens of acres of trees, and concealed within the foliage were remnants of old, abandoned buildings known as the Farm Colony. From my understanding, it had once been a pauper farm in the late 1800s and then became part of one of the largest Tuberculosis sanatoriums in the country. After a cure for the disease had been discovered, the facility had closed down building by building in the 1960s. It had been abandoned since; at least that was what my father had said. He had also warned me that if he ever caught me trespassing there, I’d be grounded until I turned eighty.
For as long as anyone could remember, especially among the students of Susan Wagner High School, the Farm Colony was a source of ghostly tales and wild rumors. Supposedly the spirits of all the people who had died there over the course of a century were still wandering the vacant halls. While I didn’t put any stock into the fabricated stories of my peers, I was acutely aware of the lurking dangers that awaited us. As Tommy pointed out, after fifty years of neglect the structures could be compromised. The weakened floors, staircases and crumbling ceilings of the old buildings would be a major concern. Not to mention broken glass, rusty pipes and the possibility of wild dogs roaming the grounds. None of these facts would deter me from my mission. I had something to prove. Only the coolest and bravest kids had dared to enter the creepy old buildings and boldly leave their tags in blue spray paint. My friend and I had planned to return to school sophomore year earning respect and status by leaving our marks there, too.
As we followed the tall fence perimeter up my quiet, residential block, we saw that there was a gaping hole in the mesh fence. A similar breech existed around the corner, but that way in was more visible to the public, especially in broad daylight. Going through this entrance we’d have to weave our way through some thick vegetation to get to any of the old buildings, but the risk of being spotted was significantly less. Ducking through the hole we maintained a straight course, careful to avoid the rampant poison ivy and thorny bramble.
“Here we are,” I said cheerfully as we cleared the brush and found ourselves on a paved walkway. “I guess this building is as good as any.”
Standing outside the decrepit building we looked up at the foreboding structure. The crumbling brick face was faded to a dull brown. Obscene graffiti had been sprayed on much of the front of the building. A crudely painted penis on the rusted front door greeted us with us with the phrase “Cum In You Dick!” Not a single window of the three story structure had remained intact. Large cloudy shards of broken glass protruded the wooden frames like ragged incisors.
“I don’t know about this. It looks pretty dangerous,” Tommy warned.
“We’ll be okay.” I said and unslung his backpack removing a can of blue spray-paint.
“Even if the whole building doesn’t collapse on top of us, what if we cut ourselves on something? Like moldy wood or rusty metal? We could get a serious blood infection. We could get tetanus, lockjaw or our bodies could go into septic shock.”
“We’ve been through this already. Stop being a fuckin’ faggot about this, dude.” My tolerance for my friend’s over cautiousness had reached its limit. “Shuttup, Tommy. God! And you wonder why everyone ay school thinks you’re a total dork.”
“Who thinks that?” he asked indignantly.
“I do,” I said with a grin, “and you are.”
Tommy looked doubtfully at the building and shook his head. “How can you be so cavalier about this, Dan?”
“Cavalier?” I mocked, “Really? Who the hell talks like that?”
I was about to drag Tommy into the building when something rustled in the brush behind us. Tommy let out an audible yelp. I froze instantly, like a deer in headlights. In those few seconds watching the leaves rustle my mind raced through terrible scenarios. What if it was a rabid animal? What if was the police arriving to arrest us for trespassing? What if it was my mother? I would be in so much trouble when Dad got home. There was no threat; my little brother came tromping through the brush like a bunny. My brow furrowed and my lips tightened immediately. Fear was replaced by anger. Peter, ever the fucking shadow.
“You scared the hell out us, you lurker. What are you doing here?” I snapped, finally able to find my voice.
“Ha-ha! I found you. I found you!” He shouted, quite pleased with himself.
I had almost forgotten about my brother. Earlier, in an attempt to rid ourselves of his annoying presence, we had engaged him in a game of Hide and Seek. We had left him blindfolded in my backyard counting to one hundred and assumed he would spend a good portion of the afternoon in a futile attempt to find us, and then he would eventually get bored of his fruitless search and go back to his video games. He must have seen us make our escape out the front gate and tracked us. Fucking cheater.
“I followed you,” Peter said. “I win! I win!”
I had to get rid of this monkey wrench quick. “Fine, whatever, you win,” I conceded. “Now go home, Peter.”
“I wanna play with you.” Peter stamped a foot stubbornly.
“We’re not playing with you anymore,” said Tommy through gritted teeth.
“If you don’t go home right now—” I started to say, but Peter cut me off before I could finish my threat.
“You’ll what?” he challenged defiantly. “I don’t think so. I’ll tell Mommy where you are and you’ll be in big trouble.” The little shit was used to getting his way.
“You would, wouldn’t you?” I had been out maneuvered by a seven-year-old.
He nodded emphatically placed his hands on his hips to emphasize his triumph. “I win again,” he giggled.
I was going to teach him a lesson and wipe that smirk right off his stupid face. “Okay, you can play with us. Yeah. Now it’s your turn to hide and we have to find you.”
“I’m the best hider, you never find me, Danny.”
That’s because I never looked.
“One...two...three...four…” I began to count. Peter dashed off screaming and laughing cheerfully. I stopped when he was out of range to hear me.
“So are we just gonna leave him here?” Tommy asked.
“No, I have a better idea,” I confided, “let’s have some fun with the little brat. Follow my lead.”
We took off down the path after Peter. Almost immediately I spotted him hiding in a bush.
&nbs
p; “Pile on!” I shouted with malicious glee as I charged the small bush tackled Peter.
He hit the ground hard, scraping his elbows, knees and forehead. In an instant Tommy had jumped on top of us, further crushing my brother beneath our combined weight. Tommy, who was fairly heavy for his short stature was, bouncing up and down. When we got up, Peter was weeping. He had nettles in his hair. Blood trickled from a small gash on his forehead.
“Ow! Ow!” Peter moaned pathetically, “I want Mommy!” He was holding his knee. Blood seeped through his fingers.
“Of course you do, ya fuckin’ mamma’s boy,” I said without sympathy. “Are you ready to play again?”
“I don’t wanna play no more,” Peter sniffled. Tears streaks down his dirty face.
“Well, that’s too bad, you don’t have a choice,” I laughed cruelly. “This time I’m only going to count to twenty.”
“No.”
“One!” I shouted.
“Danny, no.” Peter pleaded, his eyes wide, his bloody lips quivering.
“Two!”
“Please…”
“Three!” I was laughing maniacally. “You better get moving, Petey-boy.”
“Danny, stop!” A gale of fresh tears flowed in rivers down his cheeks.
“Four!”
Screaming in fear Peter tried to run, but only managed a strained limp. Tommy picked up a rock from the ground, aimed and pegged him in the ass with it. I could hear Peter howl in pain as he scurried away. I knew I’d be in hot water with my parents for roughing up the Golden Boy, but I didn’t care. I’ll admit, I did intend to hurt him that day. But I never thought he would die out there. Never.
We followed Peter, keeping our distance, but taunting him with a barrage of loud threats. He made a sharp left, darting into one of the old buildings.
Tommy and I entered the shadowy building without hesitation. My nose was immediately assaulted by the stench of rot and mold. The floor, covered in dirt and debris, crunched beneath the soles of my sneakers. Empty beer cans were strewn throughout the hallway. Sunlight pooled in from the broken windows. Dust particles swirled in the air. Rotted furniture and rusted wheelchairs lay overturned like fallen soldiers. Nearly every inch of wall-space was smothered in graffiti.
“Come on out, Petey,” I called into the shadows.
We a heard patter of footfalls from above, Peter was upstairs.
Tommy and I crept up a nearby staircase toward the origin of the footsteps. As I reached the landing I could hear Peter’s muffled sobs. Entering the corridor I saw him crouched behind a toppled file cabinet.
“AHA!”
Peter scrambled down the hall. I gave chase.
“Have a nice trip!” I screamed as I shoved my little brother from behind with both hands.
He went sprawling head first into the brick wall. To my shock, the old mortar beneath the window crumbled like dried paper. A section of the wall gave way, I could only watch as Peter crashed through, taking wood and stone with him as he fell. Time seemed to freeze.
“Oh shit! What the hell happened?” Tommy ran up from behind breaking my paralysis.
We stared through the hole in the wall. Looking down I could see Peter on his stomach, one leg twisted in an unnatural position. Oh, Jeez, I thought, that leg is broken for sure. There was a bloodstain where Peter’s head hit. The boy wasn’t moving.
“Holy crapballs! Do you think…? Is he…?” Tommy couldn’t even finish his question.
I couldn’t answer, I didn’t dare. I called down to Peter a few times, but he didn’t respond.
Unmindful of our own safety, we practically flew down the stairs, our feet barely touching the steps. My heart was thudding with fear. Peter hadn’t moved, but the pool of blood around him was spreading.
“Grab his arms, I’ll take his legs. We can carry him to the hospital.”
True, if we followed the concrete path we’d come out at the hole in the fence on Brielle Avenue, on the opposite side of the street was Seaview Hospital. Even carrying him we could have had Pete there in a matter of minutes.
“Wait,” I ordered. I rolled him halfway over and saw his face. It was covered in blood. He was dead, I was sure.
“He’s dead?” Tommy asked.
I nodded, too thunderstruck to speak. I had killed my brother. Jesus, What was I going to do now?
“Oh, man,” Tommy whined, “We’re going to be in so much trouble. Oh. man! Oh shit!”
“It was an accident,” I said. I repeated the words over again.
“Was it?”
“I didn’t kill him!” I shouted trying to convince myself as much as I was trying to convince them, “It was an accident! We were playing…chasing him…in fun…and he tripped and fell.”
“Dan, I saw you push him from down the hall,” Tommy’s voice was a small whisper.
I grabbed my friend by his meaty shoulders and shook him hard. “He tripped!” I yelled into his face, spittle flying from my mouth. Tommy cringed, perhaps thinking that in my rage I would kill him as well. “I didn’t mean for him to die! I didn’t fuckin’ kill him.” I was raving like a lunatic. “I didn’t kill my brother, Goddamnit! You got that?” I felt like crying. Not for Peter, but for the trouble I would be in when my parents found out the truth.
“Okay, okay! So what do we do, Dan? He’s your brother.”
I had managed to regain my composure, somehow I knew it was important to remain calm, think straight and logical. “Nothing,” I answered after a pause.
“What?” Tommy was so scared he was in tears. “Leave him here? Are you serious?”
“Look, he’s dead, there’s nothing we can do. Peter is dead, we can’t help him.” I explained, “If he was alive, we’d have no choice, but he’s not.” We looked at Peter’s body. “Now the only thing we can do is save ourselves. If we tell anyone what happened, there will be a police investigation. Both of us will probably be arrested.”
“No, we won’t. It was an accident. Right?”
“That doesn’t matter. We’re trespassing on city property. That’s illegal. And a little kid died, bro. Do you think they’ll take that lightly? The city will press charges against to cover their own ass. They’ll prosecute us to set an example. They’ll ship us off to Juvie until we’re eighteen. If you think high school is bad, imagine how it will be at a juvenile detention center in Brooklyn or the Bronx with a bunch of real thugs, bro.” I warned. “A pudgy kid like you? You’d be fuckin’ lunchmeat. Is that what you want?”
“No, of course not,” he answered, looking away.
“Then we have to agree to never tell a soul what happened here today.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said unconvincingly.
“You’re sure?”
“I said okay, didn’t I, Dan?”
“If you rat—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” he promised.
We turned to leave. My friend took off into the trees like a race-car. I lagged for a moment, marveling at how fast that fat boy could run when I felt something touch my sneaker. Looking down, I almost screamed in horror. It was Peter’s hand. I saw that he was looking up at me, silently beseeching for me to help him. To save his life. One of his eyes was bulging out from its socket. His nose resembled a squished tomato. Several of his front teeth had been knock from his mouth and dark red bubbled from between his lips. Tommy had disappeared into the tree line, so I kicked Peter’s hand away. I ran away as fast as I could, never looking back. I was afraid he might be staring at me helplessly. I was scared to see that maybe he would be crying.
Once we reached my block, Tommy headed his separate way without so much as another word. I went back home like nothing had happened. My mother asked me the whereabouts of my little brother.
For the first time ever I lied right to her face, “I don’t know.”
Peter’s corpse was discovered around nine o’clock that evening by a local search party. Abduction had been the immediate theory on everyone’s mind. Maybe you remember this sto
ry. It was front-page headlines of The Staten Island Advance and all over the TV news for a week. About a decade earlier, a young victim of convicted child murderer, Andre Rand, had also been unearthed in the same vicinity. The island was suddenly hysterical again with the possibility of another such predator in their midst. There was a huge public outcry for answers as every parent in the borough kept their young children close to their breast. The police launched a criminal investigation and desperately looked for suspects. For weeks, dozens of officers combed the area looking for clues as to who could have killed the sweet, young boy from across the street.
For a time, I thought Tommy might turn me in, but he remained true to his vow of silence. Probably more out of fear of being considered an accessory to murder than anything else, but it was all the same to me.
In the end no charges were filed. More importantly, no one ever blamed me, not even my parents; they blamed themselves for not being there to watch him. Mom was especially devastated by the loss. She became very withdrawn, putting a strain on her marriage. I’m sorry, Mom, Dad. It was my fault; I killed Peter. I couldn’t say that until now, but now is too late. No use crying over spilled blood I suppose.
I saw little of Tommy after the “accident.” I think that we went out of our way not to see each other back then. Every time we would look in each other’s eyes we each would see our own guilt reflected there. Not only had I lost my little brother, but my best friend, as well.
At home, Peter’s room became a shrine to his short life. It was a museum of toys and participation trophies where Eunice could often be found weeping. The walls were crowded with photographs of his smug little booger-face. Finger paintings and his stupid macaroni craftwork from kindergarten were framed like celebrated Picassos in the Louvre. I only went in his room once after he died. I didn’t apologize. How could I apologize for what I had done? First I pushed him, then I left him there to die. I had my chance to save his life and I didn’t. Perhaps I was gloating, because in a morbid way I was happy he was gone. I was number one again.
“This time I win, you booger,” I whispered triumphantly to one of the smiling photos on the wall.
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