My Brother's Keeper

  She fiddles with my hair, moving it around with professional, Hairport-style moves. She stands back and looks at me.

  “Don’t worry,” she says.

  Don’t worry is the kind of thing people say all the time. But you can tell by the way she’s saying it, she really means it, and she needs me to know she really means it.

  So I say okay.

  I think maybe were done, but she scrunches up her eyebrows.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me?” she says.

  I look the other way.

  She waits.

  “He took my Stargell.”

  I look back; her eyebrows are even more scrunched up. “What’s a Stargell?” She says this like it’s a word in a foreign language or a new rap group, like it’s something she’ll never understand.

  It’s the one card of the one player I cared about more than anyone in the world, the one guy who never left Pittsburgh for better money or better teams or better towns.

  “It’s just a baseball card,” I say, “Really?”

  I look at her. Except that all of a sudden she’s blurry, because somehow my eyes are full of stupid, annoying tears. I look away and clear my throat. “Really.”

  She sighs. “You know, I think he stole from me, too,” she says finally. “From the tip jar.”

  “I know,” 1 say.

  She nods, then she cups her hand over her mouth, like she just realized something. “I bet he took my pearl earrings, too,” she says. “The ones your father gave me.”

  This is a major violation of the unspoken rule about not speaking about my dad. I fold the Cooking Lite coupon into about a million little squares and wait for her to say more.

  She stares off into space, then blinks. “It’s okay,” she says. “I never liked them anyway.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “You know, he used to take money from the grocery envelope,” she says. “For beer.”

  “Dad?” It’s weird and also surprisingly not weird to finally say his name out loud.

  She nods.

  I hold my breath.

  She pats the pocket of her robe, like she’s looking for cigarettes. “I thought it was my job to take care of everything,” she says. “I thought if I cleaned up after all the messes he made, then there wasn’t a problem.”

  “I know,” I say, because I really do know.

  “I know you do,” she says.

  Then I get up and go over to the drawer next to the sink, where there’s a pack of herbal stop-smoking gum the Food King bought for her. Which I toss her, underhand, slow-pitch style.

  Right about then, Eli comes in carrying Mr. Furry in a choke hold. Which is not only amusing since Mr. Furry looks so miserable, but which also puts an end to my mom and me having an emotionally meaningful moment.

  “Go clean up the den, you two,” she says, popping some gum in her mouth. “I have some calls I have to make.”

  Out of habit, I start by going over to the Implosion picture. I dust it off with the elbow of my shirt and set it back down on top of the TV “Toby?” says Eli.

  I turn around.

  “He’s not coming back, is he?”

  “Who?”

  Eli points to the Implosion picture. “Dad.”

  I stand there for about 185 years looking at Eli in his blankie and cowboy hat, until I know what I’m going to say.

  “I don’t think so,” I say finally.

  As soon as I say it, I know it’s true. Which, to tell you the truth, doesn’t make me feel all emotionally out of control like it maybe it should. In fact, it feels surprisingly not weird, like maybe it was pretty much what I’d figured all along.

  “It’s okay, Toby,” says Eli.

  I don’t get it.

  “He’s like the Easter Bunny.”

  I still don’t get it.

  Eli flicks the light switch.

  “You can still believe in him.”

  When I walk into homeroom the next day, everybody stops talking. Which means they were probably talking about Jake. Which doesn’t technically have anything to do with me, but apparently people think they have to shut up about around me.

  I walk toward my desk. And trip over Badowski’s backpack, which is somehow suddenly in the middle of the aisle.

  “Jeez, man,” he says real loud. “What’s the matter with you? You on drugs or something?”

  I get a mental image of me punching Badowski in the face but I just walk past him, sit down, and wish I was actually home-schooled.

  At lunch, Arthur comes and sits down next to me and starts eating his hamburger without saying hello or anything.

  I look at him sideways. And see that he’s looking at me sideways.

  “You want my Jell-O?” he says.

  I don’t, on account of Jell-O being made from gelatin, which I heard is made from horses’hooves, which can probably give you something like Mad Horse disease, but since we haven’t technically spoken since the day in the bus when I almost went postal, I figure it’s the least I can do.

  “Thanks,” I say, not exactly meaning for the Jell-O.

  He just looks at me. “I hate Jell-O,” he says.

  Then we sit there for about 185 years, with him openly hating Jell-O and me pretending not to.

  “That was weird in PE the other day when we played that Colonial America thing,” he says finally.

  I don’t want to say that it wasn’t that weird, so I just nod.

  “Didn’t it gross you out?” he says.

  Telling a person you’ll eat their secondhand Jell-O when you think it may give you some rare undiscovered terminal disease is one thing. But telling a person that it grossed you out to hold another persons hand when you actually liked it is another thing.

  “Not exactly,” I say.

  Arthur looks relieved. “Yeah,” he says. “Me neither.”

  He takes another bite of his hamburger. “You think Chrissy Russo might talk to me if I talk to her?” he says.

  I guess there are people who like people who like talking about dead people. “Sure,” I say. “If you talk about Kurt Cobain.”

  Then we sit there for another 185 years.

  “About your brother…” he says.

  I stop chewing and wonder if talking about Jake is going to maybe make me feel postal again like it did the other day on the bus. Then I get ready to say I’m sorry, because I don’t want to be like I was the other day on the bus.

  And then Arthur says he’s sorry.

  “You’re sorry?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry it happened.”

  At which point, I decide that maybe Arthur is the kind of person you can talk to about things. Like how you can be worried about what’s going to happen to your brother, and how you can also still feel like killing him for taking your most precious possession. And how you can wish your brother would come home, and also wish you never had to see him again.

  Which I make a mental note to do.

  As soon as I figure out which way I feel.

  That afternoon on the bus, Martha MacDowell sits down right next to me. Even though there are about forty-five other places she could have sat, and even though I don’t have any junk food like Arthur—who gets on, looks at us sitting together, and actually doesn’t do or say anything emotionally out-there or highly embarrassing and just goes and sits down in the back.

  I try to think of something witty to say, knowing that under the circumstances I’ll probably be about as talkative as Kurt Cobain.

  She flips her hair over her shoulder, giving off the clean laundry smell. Then she looks at me. “You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?”

  I say yes, which I realize too late sounds like I do mind. But I don’t. Which means the right answer, grammatically speaking, is no. Which means I then say no.

  She looks at me like maybe I have a split personality disorder.

  So I say “Stay,” which makes me sound like an instructor in a dog obedience class.

&nbs
p; She gives me a sort of weird look, but she stays.

  I wipe my hands on my jeans.

  I clear my throat.

  “Nice weather out there,” I say. I actually point out the window, which at that moment I want to jump out of.

  But she smiles. “I like spring,” she says.

  “I like it too,” I say.

  Then we sat there liking spring for about 185 years.

  “I like how it smells,” I say finally. “Like dirt and stuff”

  She laughs. “Like dirt? That’s such a boy thing to say.”

  I start hoping the bus will be rear-ended by a Mack truck, which would either put me out of my misery or at least give me a reason to accidentally hold her hand.

  “You have gray hair,” she says finally, which coming from her sounds like a simple fact, not like I’m a freak of nature.

  “They’re not all gray,” I say. “Just thirty-two of them.”

  She bursts out laughing.

  “You’re funny,” she says, I say thanks, then sit there trying to be funny again. Except that not only can I not say anything funny, I can’t say anything at all.

  “Hey,” says Martha finally. “At least you’re not bald.”

  At which point I burst out laughing, which to tell you the truth, isn’t something I’ve felt like doing much lately.

  Then she says we’re at her stop. While she’s gathering up her books, I lean toward her in a totally unobvious way, trying to get another whiff of her clean laundry smell and pretty much deciding to rule out the home-schooling thing.

  For the rest of the ride and all the way home from the bus stop I feel about as good as a person can probably feel without actually being on antidepressants.

  Until I get home and sit down on the couch and the doorbell rings. It’s the Food King standing at our front door with a couple bags of Chinese food.

  “Mind if I come in?” he says in his polite, nice-guy way.

  I don’t say if I mind or not, but I let him come in. “My mom’s not home yet,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “She’s on her way with Eli.”

  I nod and try to make a face like I knew that already, even though we both know I didn’t. Then I stand there trying not notice how good the food smells.

  “Smells good, doesn’t it?” he says.

  I shrug like maybe it does or maybe it doesn’t.

  “Do you think we should set the table?” he says.

  I say I guess so, and then pray that we don’t have to have a male bonding moment trying to decide which side the forks go on or something. At which point Eli comes blasting in through the front door and hugs, actually hugs, the Food King. My mom comes in right behind him, but before I have to witness the possibility of my mother having actual physical contact with someone of the opposite sex, Mr. Furry shoots out the front door.

  “I’ll get him,” I say, secretly thanking Mr. Furry for giving me a chance to escape.

  After which, I stalk Mr. Furry around ye olde condo, shaking the can of Liver Lovin’cat treats and trying not to think about everybody inside eating Chinese food without me.

  Finally, I spot her under a bush next door. I reach out for her but she swipes a paw at me, scratching my wrist. Apparently, Mr. Furry’s forgotten all about our tender moment under the Dumpster the other night.

  I walk across the yard, deciding she is a lame pet after all. I crouch down next to the Dumpster and make you-can-trust-me sounds. Then, when all she does is hiss at me, I make a grab for her. She skitters to the other side of the Dumpster. I’m about to swear at her when I realize someone’s watching me.

  It’s the Food King.

  “How’s it going?”

  I shrug.

  “I’ve heard you’re pretty good at this, but I thought maybe you could use some help.”

  I shrug again.

  The Food King points to the liver treats. “May I?”

  I think about the Chinese food inside getting cold, and I hand him the can. He takes them out one by one and makes a trail of liver treats leading from the Dumpster to our front door.

  Then we both wait for Mr. Furry to come out. Which she eventually does, twitching her whiskers and giving me a highly offended look. But she eats the treats one by one, looking like her usual dignified self, until finally she’s back at the front door.

  I open the door and Mr. Furry trots inside.

  I just look at the Food King.

  He sort of shrugs. “Cats,” he says. “You have to make them flunk it was their idea.”

  Then Eli hugs me, and calls me a cat rustler, and the Food King doesn’t say anything about him being the one who technically rustled Mr. Furry, and we all sit down to eat.

  My mom asks Stanley if he’ll take a look at the screen door before he leaves.

  “It probably just needs a little WD40,” he says.

  My mom gets up to get soy sauce.

  “Maybe sometime I’ll come over with some grass seed, once it finally warms up,” he calls out to her in the kitchen. “For that that spot out front where the bike left a bare patch.”

  “Tonto,” says Eli.

  “Beg your pardon?” says Stanley.

  Eli climbs under the table to feed a noodle to Mr. Furry. Which means it’s just me and Stanley.

  “Tonto,” I say. “The bike’s named Tonto.” I start out saying this with a totally straight face, but by the time I’m done, I’m smiling like ye olde village idiot. But the Food King just smiles at me.

  “Okay,” he says. “Thanks for telling me that.”

  Then we just eat, and he helps clear the table. When my mom says she doesn’t have any dessert, he says he’s got to get going anyhow.

  My mom walks the Food King to the front door. I position myself so I can see if they hug or anything without them seeing me watching. But she just thanks him for the Chinese food and then he’s gone.

  “Is he going to be our new dad?” Eli says this before the door is even totally closed.

  My mom makes a face like this is a silly question.

  “Stanley?” she says.

  “I like him,” says Eli, who then walks out holding Mr. Furry in a death grip.

  Which just leaves me and my mom standing in the kitchen.

  “So what’s going on?” I say.

  “With Stanley?”

  I make a face like that’s a silly question. “With Jake.”

  She motions for me to sit down at the table, then pulls out some of her herbal gum.

  “The judge .'..” she says, “. .. gave him probation.”

  Probation at school means you have to sit in the principal’s office during recess. I don’t exactly understand what it means when a judge says it.

  “When he comes back.”

  Now I really don’t understand.

  “Is the judge going away?”

  “No.” She puts her hand on mine. “Jake is.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “Rehab.”

  All of sudden I feel as mean and rotten and hateful as I did the night he took the Stargell. I pull my hand away.

  “Doesn’t he have to go to jail?”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t he have to pay anyone back?”

  “You mean for the damage to the car and the mailboxes?”

  I mean for the Stargell, too. “For everything.”

  She looks confused. “Why are you so angry?”

  “I don’t get it.” I get up and turn my back to her.

  “What don’t you understand?”

  I turn around. “Everything.”

  She sighs and gets up to throw out her gum. “Well, we get to spend a day with him tomorrow before he goes.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  I turn and stomp out, making as much noise as I possibly can pounding up the steps. Which is pretty stupid because I have absolutely no idea what to do once I get upstairs. Which I solve by grabbing a copy of Eli’s new National Geographic for Kids an
d going into the bathroom and sitting on the fuzzy green thing on the toilet and where I stay until I’m sure my mom and Eli have gone to sleep.

  The next day when I wake up, I smell bacon. I look at the clock and see that it’s only ten o’clock, which is weird since my mom’s never up this early on a Saturday. What’s weirder is that our house smells like real food.

  I come downstairs, still feeling mad, but also feeling embarrassed for how I acted last night. Especially when I see her mixing a bowl of scrambled eggs and all.

  Until I see Jake sitting at the kitchen table. At which point all I feel is mad.

  I don’t say hello or even let on that I notice that he’s there. “I’m going to Mr. D’s,” I say, purposely not looking at him.

  “Not today,” my mom says. “Jake’s only here till dinner, and I want everyone home.”

  I mentally try to figure out exactly how many minutes there are between now and six o’clock.

  “Want some bacon and eggs?” she says.

  “Nah,” I say. I walk past Jake toward the pantry to get some cereal. Except that there isn’t any. Which means I have to have eggs. “Okay,” I say. “I guess I’ll have some.”

  I sit down, purposely not sitting next to Jake like I usually do. Which means I’m sitting right across from him. Which means I pretty much have to look at him. His face looks banged up and he looks smaller than he used to, smaller and pale and tired, and not exactly like the person I felt like killing.

  At which point Eli comes running in and practically tackles Jake. “You’re back!” he says. He wraps his blankie around Jake’s shoulders and Jake smiles. His lip is cracked. He touches it with his finger, like he just remembered it hurts to smile.

  Then my mom brings over the food and asks Jake what he wants to do today.

  He shrugs. “Play some Nintendo,” he says, looking at Eli. “Maybe watch the Pirates game.” I make a big deal out of chewing my bacon and looking at my plate so I don’t have to see if maybe he looked at me when he said that.

  Then breakfast is over, and Eli and Jake go up to play Nintendo while I stay in the kitchen, trying to figure out how exactly I’m going to spend the 428 minutes between now and dinner.

  My mom is chewing her herbal stop-smoking gum and putting the dishes in the dishwasher.

  “Aren’t you mad at him?” I just blurt it out then wait for her to get mad. At me.