Brother Grim

“No, stand like this.”

I am looking at my brother. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Taller than me. Age 14. His bangs are feathered back the way my sister taught him to style it. He is a hit with the schoolgirls. He is standing with his legs about two feet apart, his arms parallel to the floor. Even. Wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

We are standing in the basement. The basement I rollerskate in. The pool table is on our right, its rectangular Tiffany-style lamp hanging above it. Walls paneled in wood, short foot-high windows allowing a bit of afternoon light into the room.

Behind him is the basement living area. A bar (in addition to the one upstairs), a television, a fireplace, a sitting area for entertaining guests. The Atari hooked up to the television. The faint sound of “Adventure” playing in the background. Bookcases overflowing with books of WWII, an Encyclopedia Britannica collection, science books, novels. All very dark, paneled in wood, carpeted in dark brown. Dark.

I mimic his posture. It seems like a perfectly reasonable idea at the time. This is my brother, not the devil. My protector. Never mind that I’m standing in front of the opened dartboard and he’s holding a green dart in his hand. With its pointy end. Its pointy prickly painful end that whooshes past my ear right before it sticks to the wall. About two feet from my eye.

“Damn!” He says. “Let me try again.”

“You’re going to hit me.” I say. Standing there in my shorts and t-shirt. Barefoot. Obedient. Quiet. Terrified.

“No I’m not. I’m getting pretty good at darts.” One eye closes as he focuses and the tip of his tongue pops out of his mouth. His lips closed around it. This tongue move resurfaces years later when he plays guitar and, indeed, every time he concentrates on anything.

The dart is pointing directly at me even though he says he’s shooting for the space between my parallel-to-the-floor right arm and right leg. The room fades, my brother fades and all I see is the dart. The metal point of the dart, waiting to land directly in my eye and blind me for life. Waiting to land directly in my heart and cause amounts of pain so enormous that my scream will be heard throughout our suburban neighborhood and perhaps as far as the drug store two miles away right before I collapse in a pre-pubescent pile of death.

I close my eyes.

Whoosh!

Pain.

My eyes open at unreasonable wideness. Usually almond-shaped, they are perfectly round and the blue of my irises is completely surrounded by white. I can feel their roundness. I am still standing there in my dart pose when I see the whites of my brother’s blue eyes as well. Shock. His mouth opens into a perfect round “O!” as the sound escapes from his mouth.

Everything in the room turns to white for an instant. I scream. I look down at my right leg to see nothing but the green plastic of the dart sticking out of my calf. Lodged into me. Neat. An inch deep.

“Oh shit!” This from my brother. He takes several quick steps toward me, his eyes not leaving the dart that is now attached to my leg. His hands wrap around the dart. All I can see is the top of his head. But he looks up at me.

“This might hurt.”

“Get it out!” He yanks. “Ow!” I scream. He tosses the dart aside.

“I’m so sorry!” He’s put his arm around me as I’m limping toward the stairs. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea my aim was that off. I was shooting for the space above your head. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. God. I didn’t mean it.”

I’m limping. My brother, a Boy Scout, washes my leg and sticks on a Band-Aid.

“You’re not going to tell mom, are you?” I don’t.

Several weeks later I am standing in a neighbor’s driveway. Their driveway is directly across from ours. It starts with a short five foot plateau then dips down at an improbable angle and leads drivers to the garage that is attached to their brick house. I don’t know these neighbors.

I’m looking across the street at my brother, who commands me to stand at the head of their driveway. He is standing there with his friend, Scott, who lives a few doors down. Behind them is our basketball goal. The one that my brother helped dad install by digging a three foot hole. I can see the ball beyond it in the grass, beside the brick steps that lead to our deck.

My brother is holding a gun. It’s a long gun, like a rifle or something. But I know it’s a BB gun. The one dad had given him at one time or another. A toy that shoots bullets.

“My aim is terrible. Just stand there and don’t move.” My brother is shouting to cover the distance. I am 100 feet away. Scott is in the background looking anxious. He is a chubby boy genius who would eventually attend an Ivy school, marry a Brit and have three painfully adorable children.

The gun is hiding my brother’s face, but I can see his tongue sticking out again. Concentrating. He’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt with sneakers. Scott is dressed in white. Scott’s face crunches up into a wince. A wince of pain. The sky is blue, the sun bright on this cloudless day.

I close my eyes.

Pop!

Pain.

My left leg. A sharp concentrated pow that feels like someone has shoved an ice pick through my skin. The pain lessens as it spreads. Right before I collapse onto the driveway in a frog-like sitting position, I see my brother racing toward me, having thrown the gun into the grass. Scott trailing close behind.

“Are you okay?” Panic. His eyes are wide again and he’s looking at my face. Staring. “Where did I hit you?”

“My leg!” My hand is rubbing my calf. Obviously he’d hit my leg. Agony.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes it hurts! Mom!!”

“No. Don’t tell mom! If you tell mom they’ll take the gun away! Please don’t tell her!”

“Mom!” I’m watching the back door. The one that leads to the deck, which is suspended a floor above the driveway. I know mom is in the kitchen, which is attached to the door I can see.

“No! I’ll do anything you want. And I promise never to shoot you again! Just please don’t tell mom! Please!”

“MOM!”

“Really. What do you want? Do you want a stuffed animal? I’ll give you $10 so you can buy a stuffed animal. Don’t tell mom!” I’m crying. Okay, not really crying. I wouldn’t dare cry in front of my brother. But my eyes are wet. Red. Stinging. I’m staring at my leg, clutching the bottom half, The pain has subsided.

Mom opens the back door. Her dark brown hair sitting neatly upon her shoulders. She is wearing slacks. She never wore jeans. She thinks jeans are tacky. Low class. Like double wides and tank tops.

“What’s going on out here?”

I look at my mom. She is holding the back door open, turned toward us. Framed in red brick. She seems impatient. I peer at my brother who is crouched beside me. His face is pleading. His eyes wide in the universal expression of desperation. His eyes dart from me to mom then back to me. I look back at mom.

“Nothing! Never mind.”