I began to worry that he wasn't being parented in that old-fashioned American way of keeping people children for as long as legally possible. Then I realized that pretty much any damage that could have been done by my father and his fourth wife was probably done. There wasn't really much to be done on my part - even if I had any clue what that would be. Sam was my brother, not my child. He wasn't anybody's child.
~
"So, how come you're not married?" he asked me one night, through a piece of some mystery meat covered in tomato sauce that I'd nuked for dinner.
Too startled for the sharp retort such an impertinent question usually deserved, I just shrugged at him behind my own forkful. "I dunno. Never really thought about it."
"Angela told me you were engaged once. She was laughing at the time, so I knew it must be true." Angela - my father's fourth, and fatal, wife.
"You do go out, don't you?" he asked, as if it had just occurred to him. "I mean date. Men."
"I go out and have drinks with some of the other hospital staff, but I wouldn't call them dates. Not even when they're men. How about you?" I asked, turning the question back on him. "Met anyone at school?" He blushed, and I felt bad.
He shook his head and fell silent.
"I was engaged," I admitted. "It didn't work out. I haven't really met anyone here, yet."
"Don't you get lonely?" He looked appalled at his own candor, but he seemed to have something more on his mind than just my love life. "Don't you get..." and he went beet red and was suddenly nothing more than the 17 years that his ID card claimed.
I didn't laugh, but I smiled. "I see a bit too much of people's insides, Sam, to get really sentimental about their outsides, but, yeah. Who doesn't? I just haven't met anyone here yet. That's all."
"So what happened with your boyfriend?"
I wanted to tell him to mind his own business, then I remembered he didn't have anyone else. No one to warn him about the potholes in the road, the maze of good intentions and broken promises that littered the path in the mating game.
"His name was Todd, and he's was in the Army, too; he was a doctor. May still be, I don't know. We dated for a few years, got engaged, planned a wedding. It wasn't that there was anything wrong about him, it's just that there wasn't enough right. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being gang-pressed into it? Do you know what I mean?" How could he? I barely knew what I meant, even five years later. But Sam nodded. He seemed to.
"When I told him that I wasn't going to change my name after we got married, he completely lost it. He seemed to think it was the most important thing in the world I could do to show him I loved him, and he told me that if I was unwilling to change my name, I couldn't possibly be serious about marrying him. But, I just couldn't do it.
"That's when I realized I was just playing a part in his little drama - the story of Dr. Archer. Anyone could have done it. After all, anyone could be Mrs. Archer, and she didn't have to be Dana. And so, she wasn't Dana. And I still was. Make sense?"
He shook his head as if to settle his thoughts to bottom of his mind and picked up his half-empty plate. He scraped it into the garbage pail and put his dish in the sink to soak.
Later that night, I stood at the sink washing the dishes and watched him argue with the trashcans. There he stood in the light of the half moon, his crisp, white, cotton shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, his black boots negotiating the mud holes. I watched his breath steam around his face in the chill and watched as it turned to short, labored puffs as he pressed the lid down hard and wrapped it with bungee cords.
After a quiet and companionable month, between the drama of the trash cans, the monotony of my cooking and the reserved caution of Sam's school life, we found ourselves startled out of the drone one evening by hammering on the front door. We shot glances at each other, but I finally got to the door and opened it. And there he was.
Sean Gordon had arrived.
He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his peacoat against the cold. He looked at me with sullen black eyes through a sweep of dark hair. He was young - older than my Sam but still undercooked to my eyes. He stood there on the porch with all the assurance of a man, and the pout of a child. He was handsome, and he looked like he knew it.
"Where's Sam?"
I could feel Sam go tense behind me. Every muscle in his body clenched, and the escaping air of his gasp hissed between his teeth.
"Sean." It was a whisper. It was a scream. It was horror and happiness in a single breath of relief.
The boy in the doorway dismissed me with his eyes, looked around me, looked through me, until they settled on Sam, where he'd staggered back from the door.
"Angela told me where to find you."
"What are you doing here?" More horror from Sam, or more relief - I couldn't tell.
"Came to get you, of course. Just like we planned. Just like we talked about. Right?" The dark-haired boy smiled. It was a hungry smile, even predatory.
"Why don't you come in?" I said and was ignored by both of them. Sean continued to dominate the doorway, somehow giving the impression that one would have to chew through him to escape.
"How did you get here?"
"I drove, of course. All the way from Chicago. And to be honest, I'm half dead. Can I come in?" He looked at me for just a moment, and he seemed to startle as if he hadn't actually seen me before. His brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed, as though weighing me up for prey or enemy, he couldn't decide yet. Either way, he wore his thoughts on his face, and I dropped my original estimation of his age even further.
"I brought your stuff," he told Sam as he pushed by me. "It's all in the car, even the easel." It sounded like an apology disguised as an excuse.
I shut the door and went into the kitchen to make some coffee, straining to hear what they said. But, whatever they had to say to each other was exchanged in quiet tones that didn't make it past the sound of water filling the pot, the ker-lunk of my cup being placed on the counter, the panicked beating of my heart.
"We've talked about this for months, Sam," he was saying when I finally came back into the living room. "I've already found us a place to stay, and Jules says she can get me a job."
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Sean and I were thinking of moving to New York after I finish high school," Sam said. He seemed regretful to admit it, as though it were far too clich?d an ambition for him.
"But you're not finished with school, Sam," I said. "Besides, Dad has already set up arrangements for college, hasn't he?" I sat down on the couch and sipped my coffee, eyeing the two young men who had squared off in the middle of my living room, with its dusty corners and worn carpet and overall atmosphere of neglect.
I thought they were going to come to blows, but I noticed that Sam started to slump, even with his fists clenched. Like he already knew he would lose any fight he ever had with the other boy. He seemed resigned. In fact, he looked as though he were looking forward to the bruises.
Sean, much sturdier than Sam, much more confident, arrogant, cocky even, stood there in his coat still, with a crooked grin, every muscle tensed, except for a strange sparkle in his eyes.
Sean laughed. "College?" He seemed to relax then and shook off his coat. Sam fell into an old chair I had gotten from the church thrift sale. The strange boy sat down next to me. "Sam doesn't need to go to college," he laughed. "He's a genius. Haven't you ever seen his paintings?"
I looked at my brother, who looked away.
"I've brought everything, Sam," Sean said, pleading. "Your brushes, your paints, even the acrylics. Even the watercolors - even though you never use them. You left all your paintings behind. Why?"
Sam said nothing, and Sean patted me on the knee, excited. "Your brother is fucking genius, I'm telling you."
So, that was the dream. They were going to high-tail it to the big city and set Sam up for fame and fortune, because after all - he was a genius. I
supposed Sean was going to wait tables or something to support them both. Sam could work too, between inspirations. It was the dream, wasn't it? Sam didn't look sure. In fact, he seemed embarrassed by the whole thing.
"I didn't have any way to take them on the plane, did I?" he snapped. "Besides, what were you doing rooting around in my room? You ransacked my bedroom?"
Sean, looking young and vulnerable for the first time since he'd walked in the door, shook his head, whispering, "No."
"Angela let you in to do that, did she?" Sam was livid now, shaking and red-faced.
Sean simply shrugged. "I brought everything." His eyes went soft then, looking at Sam. "You promised."
Sam could only stare back, and, although his eyes glittered with rage, his body sagged with some hopeless defeat.
"Look guys," I said, trying to break the tension. "It's late, and I have work in the morning, and Sam's got school. In case you missed the point," I said glaring at Sean, "Sam is still in high school and has to be on the bus by 7:30."
"I'll drive him."
"That doesn't matter - it's late and time to call it a night." I rose and put my coffee cup in the sink, regretting that I'd had any of it at all, and switched off the pot.
When I walked back into the living room, Sean was kneeling on the floor next to Sam with one hand on his knee and the other gesturing wildly. He looked a bit like an old minstrel showman.
"Sam," I said, "He can sleep here. There isn't anywhere else. He can sleep in your room. There's some extra blankets in the closet in there."
Sam looked at Sean and shook his head. "No, he can sleep on the couch. Is that alright?" With the last he looked at me, and I could read something in his eyes that was a bit like a plea, and a bit like fury. I shrugged.
"Just take out the trash first."
I went into my room, stripped down and threw on an old nightshirt while the sound of Sam wrestling with the trashcans penetrated the windows.
My night was filled with the sound of their arguments, their debates, a door slamming. I tossed through it on the edge of caffeine-twisted consciousness, biting back the urge to intervene, to protect my brother, to discover this bizarre promise that hung between them.
The next morning, I showered and tossed on the tired whites, reheated last night's coffee and poked my head into the living room. The couch was empty, but a blanket lay there, pushed back and crumpled, and a small pile of keys, change, and other pocket debris lay on the floor. Perhaps, they had made up - if they were ever really fighting. Perhaps they had fallen asleep while sitting on the floor talking about the good, old days back in Chicago, or the good, new days to follow in New York. Whatever had happened, Sam's bedroom door lay decidedly and deliberately closed. I took that as a lesson to mind my own and left for work.
The house was dark when I got home, and the evening gloom was seeping in through the gaps in the window frames and under the door. Nothing more insidious than the early evening of a Midwestern autumn, in my experience. It seemed to stifle everything and any noise or life after dark was treated like an intrusion on the hibernation of some large and dangerous animal. Everything in the air - the color of the sunset, the chill of the wind, was an incitement to hush.
The living room was dark, and only a strip of yellow light from under Sam's bedroom door betrayed any life in the place. I could even hear the electric hum of the coffeepot that I'd forgotten to shut off that morning. There was a sense of something behind Sam's door, some activity, at least the feel of it, and I walked over, tapped on the door and opened it a few inches.
Sean was lying on the bed completely naked and smiling at someone across the room. He was wild-animal gorgeous - olive skinned, smoothly muscled - covered in wild-animal fur.
"Oh fuck!" I said, slamming the door. "Sorry!" I mentally upped my estimate of his age again.
I heard a peal of light laughter on the other side, and Sam called out to me.
"It's okay Dana. C'mon back in."
As deliberately as Sam ever could in his dreams, I slowly inched the door open, keeping my eyes down and sneaking an occasional peek up through my lashes. I couldn't decide if it was to make sure Sean was covered or to catch him before he was. He was. I pushed the door open the rest of the way.
Sam was sitting on the milk crate behind a short easel on the other side of the room. He was wearing nothing but shorts and holding a brush. He had blue paint in his hair. He had umber on his thigh, and hunter green, streaked by careless fingers, across his chest.
Sean had covered himself with a blue blanket. He wore umber paint in his black hair and a grin. He seemed to be enjoying all the attention he was getting. I assumed an air of educated curiosity and stood behind Sam to take a look at the canvas.
Sam had found a way to capture everything about Sean that was irresistible and set it in paint. Every intriguing swirl of belly fur, every sleek strand of hair that slashed across his face like a challenge to both comb and fingers, right down to the slightly mad glint in his eyes. The promise that hung between them was in there, too. It was indefinable - a certain painted color of light. It swept over the painting of the young man, caressing the skin and set it flaming into gold. It stroked the reclined figure where it lie on the bed, and left it open, supple, and wanting. The promise hung over the canvas - waiting to be fulfilled. The pose was modest with a carefully bent knee, but the face held what could only be called a fierce and naked hunger.
I swallowed. I swallowed hard.
And, suddenly, I had to reassess my opinion of everything. Suddenly, everything I knew about anything was completely wrong. I wasn't sure where my perspective would settle once my life stopped spinning, but I knew I was going to land somewhere facing a direction I had never considered before.
Because Sean was right - Sam was a genius.
~
I didn't count the days that followed, punctuated only by their frequent arguments, set within the parentheses of my hospital shifts. I didn't mind Sean being there, except for their arguments, which were usually too late at night, always too often, and generally left Sam in a shattered state. Sean started doing the dishes and even made dinner. He was a much better cook than I was. The one thing Sam wouldn't allow Sean to do was take out the trash.
One night after work, I found Sam standing on the side of the house, in his long impossible coat. I suspected he was crying - he and Sean had had another one of their louder blow-ups. I made sure to make some noise, let him know I was standing there. But he wasn't crying. He was smiling, standing inside a ring of raccoons. There must have been six or seven of them, and they were looking up at him, half with hope and half with distrust. He was carefully picking pieces of food scraps out of a paper bag and carefully distributing them amongst his little congregation - a primitive communion of human and wild.
"What are you doing?" I asked him, rather pointlessly.
"I'm feeding the raccoons. They're hungry. They're not trying to trash the yard."
"Yeah, Sam, but they get used to being fed, and the minute you're not here to dish up the grub, they're in the cans."
He squatted down, and the raccoons jumped back, and a couple of them hissed. "You see, Dana? Despite the fact that I'm standing here giving them food, they're still scared of me. They're too hungry to resist taking their chances." He handed out a few more pieces of stale bread.
"Funny old things, really. They just want to eat, and I just want to feed them. I don't know why. Maybe it's a way of feeling like I'm still part of the process. We live in concrete boxes and talk over wires, and it's as though thousands of years of living in caves and hunting in packs with stone tipped spears never happened."
"But we're still a part of it. Or we should be." He glanced up at me and smiled. "I guess this is the only way I can feel like I'm any part of the whole thing. Real life, you know? Where you get too hungry to resist taking your chances. There's no danger anymore, no risk left. It's all too easy."
"Besides, how can I resist those eye
s?" he said, chuckling. They, indeed, glared at him mournfully, their whiskers bristling with barely repressed hope and hostility.
"By paying some attention to those ravening teeth would be my guess, Sam," I said. "They're going to bite you, if you're not careful."
"Yeah, I think that's part of the thrill, too." He grinned at me as he stood up and dumped the contents of the paper sack onto the ground.
~
Another round of days followed. If there was any more painting, I didn't see any evidence of it, though I assumed that their pursuits of artistic perfection (whether they included painting or not) stayed behind Sam's firmly and deliberately closed door.
For the most part, I saw little of Sean, except at dinner, where he lorded over the meal like a proud housewife, dishing out starchy dishes dripping with butter onto plates with admonitions to "eat up." In fact, as we settled into December, I was starting to feel a bit of a pinch around the waist of my uniform. I was going to have to have a talk with him about salads.
The only good thing about being posted to Bumfuck, Kansas was the lack of broken, bullet-ridden bodies to be repaired, so I had Saturdays off. At least the schedule was light, even if there wasn't anything to do with all the free time, except drink and stare into the cornfields - an amusement that one started taking seriously a few months into the assignment.
Saturdays were slow, and I slept in as a rule, puttering in the kitchen over my coffee. One Saturday morning, I found myself pouring in the water, staring out the window at the frosted weeds in the yard, when Sean padded in, sleep-strewn, puffy-eyed, rubbing his hands through his hair. He stopped, startled by my presence, and I instinctively clutched my robe close around my neck. He rubbed his face and grinned at me.
"Hey."
"Morning," I said, pulling a clean cup out of the cupboard. I recalled a time in college when I'd woken up in my dorm room to find that my roommate had brought home some local boy. They'd been so drunk; they didn't even notice I was there. They'd smoked and drank and fucked loudly, while I'd laid there, frozen, pretending to be asleep. In the morning, the local boy had also grinned at me and rubbed his face at me, and acted like he had every right to be there.
The Battered Suitcase July 2008 Page 11
