Brothers: What I Read Aloud

 

Brothers

My father beat my brothers often for their mistakes. He’d grab whatever was handy Sometimes it was the strap, others, depending on the severity of the offense, he would grab whatever handy. Hangers. Switches. Cans. Beer bottles. After their punishment he would have them explain what they did to deserve their treatment. The offending brother would kneel in front of our father who always sat in the same chair, whittling at a malformed chunk of wood making of it some forest animal. Our father’s hands remained in a constant state of motion. We before his throne in supplication, plebes explaining why the crops failed. Why our taxes were late. I rarely received a beating, but I always had to sit and listen. “Why’d you do it?” Our father asked. His eyes roving over the chunk of wood. He held it before him as if divining the shape it would become.

Bryan didn’t answer. I sat on his left and Jake sat on his right. Bryan would say later their father’s words a bowling ball and we the anxious pins.

“I don’t know.”

Our father spared us a glance then, taking his eyes away from his whittling for a moment to express with his eyes how absolutely useless he thought we were. Jake and I looked at each other and for a moment I thought he would speak. Something we never did was come up with reasons for each other. Doing so would encourage another beating.

“Well,” our father said, releasing his gaze, “if you’re too stupid to know why you did something, just tell me what it is you did.”

“I broke Michelle’s pen so that when she shook it to see if it worked, ink would spill all over her dress.”

“Why?” Our father would ask. His eyes roving over the chunk of wood. He held it before him as if divining the shape it would become.
“She made fun of my ears,” he muttered.

“And when you’re grown, you going to run around playing pranks on anybody makes fun of you?”

“No, dad.”

Our father nodded, knife gone to work and shavings of the wood joining the fallen trees around his chair. Mother used to yell at him for that. She’d hover around him with a vacuum. Father would laugh and tell her not to worry, he’d clean up. Mom’s gone, and she took our father’s laughter with her.

Father let us ruminate on our failing for moments. The knife scraping against father’s creation the only sound between the four of us. When he felt we’d learned our lesson, father would wave us off. We would rise as one and walk to Jake’s room. The eldest had his own room. Jake’s room remained perpetually clean. Trash had no place in his room, disorder an unwelcome guest quickly and efficiently dispatched. When we entered, Jake threw himself on his bed. Brad sat in a chair. I shut the door and leaned against it.

“Fuck him,” Jake spat. Only recently had he begun swearing.

“Fuck him,” Brad parroted, though he said it quietly and glanced at the door as he did.

“Why’d you break a girl’s pen?” I asked.

“They glared at me and I placed my hand on the doorknob, ready to run before they shared their beatings with me.

Brad winced, rubbing his bottom, and instead of attacking said, “She made fun of my ears.”

“You do have big ears,” Jake said.

“Yeah, but she don’t need to point it out.”

“You like her, don’t you.

“She’s going to have to buy a new dress,” I said. “Stupid way to get a girl to like you.”

“Shutup, Ian,” my brother’s said. “You’re just like dad.”

“Am not,” I protested, but they had moved on. Huddling together like co conspirators, they spoke of things I had no interest in. Jake asked if Michelle had tits, and talked of other girls at school and making out. They both went to middle school. I was a baby in 6^th grade. Once, I tried to join in, but my brothers stopped talking and stared at me until I slinked away. They were growing up, leaving me behind, leaving alone with my father.

My father remained in his chair. The only difference the piece of wood had been changed into a cat. He no longer cleaned up the shavings on the floor and a week’s worth formed a dusty moat around his feet. When he left, I tasked myself with keeping the house tidy.

“How was school, son?” he asked without looking up.

“Good. Hey, dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you teach me to whittle?”

He smiled, a sad smile, but he didn’t take his eyes from his carving. For moments he was silent. His movements were more deliberate now. He caressed the cat with his knife, small slivers of wood falling. After each shedding he would move the cat around, inspect each angle, before deciding where to trim again.

“Dad?”

“No, son. I couldn’t teach. Patience ain’t one of my many virtues. Go play with your brothers.”

“They don’t play with me anymore. Could you—“

“Then go play outside.”

“Okay, dad.”

Instead of going outside, I went to Jake’s room. My brothers were coming out, Bryan with a football in his hand. They both grinned. They always did after talking about girl’s tits. When Jake saw me his smile disappeared. Bryan shouldered past me, but Jake stopped.

“What do you want?”

“To play?”

“You can come watch,” my brother said. “You’re too small to play with us. “

I opened my mouth to argue, but stopped. Arguments with Jake only ended in two ways: me hurting and then me crying. Instead, I fell in step behind him. Outside of our door stood several of Jake and Bryan’s friends. News of a football game spread throughout our block like chicken pox. How the news spread seemed a mystery to me. There was no phone in Jake’s room, no conceivable way to communicate with the kids on the block, but spread on our lawn was ten other kids waiting to play. The largest of them came forward. He was a freshman in high school and everybody thought that made him king. We called him Bull. He said it was because he was as big as one, but I always thought it had more to do with his intelligence. He looked down at me from his post-pubescent height and frowned.

“You bringing him?”

Bryan and Jake nodded.

“Okay,” Bull said. “We could use a cheerleader.”

Everybody laughed. Even Bryan and Jake.

 

I read this aloud this past Friday.  I think I’ll start posting some of my writings on my blog.  I like the story, which is one of a youngest sibling who wants to be accepted by his family.  There are lots of problems with this story right now.  Mostly with tense and the intro.  But I like it.  I enjoyed writing this piece, melancholy though it is.