My older brother Jared was eighteen and graduating from high school in a month. At the end of the summer he would be heading off to college far away. I was fourteen and would begin high school in the fall. These were the facts, though I refused to believe them.
Jared wasntthe rest of my family knew, but never admitted openlya happy kid. He breathed, dreamed, perspired resentment. At fourteen, hed been chubby, quiet, and studious. Hed smiled all the time, his cheeks red and always shiny. At school boys and girls picked on him relentlessly. Home wasnt much betterthough I was four years his junior, I jumped at every opportunity to tease him about his weight or the amount of time he spent with books.
But as soon as he started high school, all this changed. His smile disappeared. He went on a drastic diet and began working out with a weight set in the basement. Within a year his stomach was flat, his cheeks pale, and he joined a gym on Route 10, run by a former professional bodybuilder whod once competed and lost badly in the Mr. Olympia contest. Hed soon be making his own entrance into the world of competitive bodybuilding: his application had been accepted for an amateur contest in West Orange, set for a week after.
The transformations had been gradual enough for me to ignore on a day to day basis. Only during sporadic, unguarded moments would I notice his widening chest, his forearms beginning to bulge, the tendons standing out like cords on his neck when he turned his head to the side. Id see each new part as separate from the rest of Jared, as if a calf muscle were something he might have bought at a discount in the department store where he worked as a stockboy, no different than a new sweater or hat. Only reluctantly did I begin to piece together the whole. The recognition always troubled me and was sometimes so startling I had to turn away. Could this really be my brother? He didnt seem at all like someone who could be related to my mother or father. I had the growing suspicion that a stranger had taken over Jareds body and begun sleeping in his bed. If it werent for the faceundoubtedly Jareds, though leaner than it had ever beenI would have been certain. I occasionally searched the pouchy lips we had in common, the wide nostrils, the deep-set eyes and long eyelashes he could only have inherited from my mother, searched closely for any sign of the chubby, cheerful fourteen-year-old, but that Jared was gone for good. Now his voice had deepened, and the mild New Jersey accent shared by my whole familyand which I would never even notice in my own speech until I moved to Delawarebroadened in his mouth almost to the point of parody. Cars for him became cauws, work was wook. He carefully combed his hair back from his forehead and let it fall in ragged curls at his neck, a strange combination of Saturday Night Fever and Rambo. He took to answering his name with yo.
Most of his time at home he spent locked in his room, staring at his muscles in the mirror. Sometimes, late in the evening, I heard him on the phone behind the closed door to my fathers office, speaking in a boisterous, excited tone Id never heard from him before, and again I had the uncomfortable feeling of living with an impostor everyone knew about but no one acknowledged. He fought with my parents about everything imaginable, usually at the dinner table, and rarely spoke to me at all, though by this time Id long since stopped trying to tease him and wanted, sometimes desperately, for us to get along. Id never believed all those times Id picked on him had ever meant anything. Id never expected to be held accountable for my actions as a ten-year-old, and I certainly never thought they would cost me my brothers love. Now I took his side in any argument he had with my parents, but he didnt seem to notice. His gaze lumped me with my mother and father when he said, Youre always attacking me. Cant you all just leave me the hell alone?
All this anger and aggression dismayed my parents. Wed always had such a nice family, they mourned. Where had things gone so wrong?
As young boys Jared and I had never been spanked. Not once had either of my parents struck us in a moment of anger or frustration. Our punishments were always carefully planned and calmly discussed: banned toys or privileges, extra chores on weekends, painfully monotonous lectures. My father especially managed to keep his anger under wraps no matter how badly Jared or I (rarely Jared) misbehaved. He prided himself on his cool temperament, which he claimed was a long-standing hereditary trait in his family. It was also somehow tied in his mind to his apparent immunity to the most common infectious diseases. During his childhood in the 40s and 50sa treacherous, disease-ridden time in his descriptionshed avoided not only polio and smallpox, but also the mumps, the measles, and even chicken pox. This didnt mean he was a particularly healthy man. At least once a month he came home with some new ailment: a strained back, a pulled groin, a broken pinkie toe. A doctor had first detected a slight murmur in his heart when he was only thirty-five. By the time I turned fourteen, hed had two hernia operations, three bleeding ulcers, and a chronically spastic colon.
My mother, in contrast, never had so much as a nick on her finger, despite spending half her waking life chopping vegetables in the kitchen. But she was a magnet for every airborne germ imaginable. Shed had measles, mumps, chicken pox, all before her twelfth birthday. Without fail, she came down with a cold the first week of every December and caught strep throat in the spring of all odd-numbered years. Her assault on bacteria in our house was unyielding; she scrubbed toilets and sinks twice a day, soaked silverware in boiling water, sprayed enough Lysol in the kitchen to give everything we ate a slightly antiseptic, lemony flavor. She, of course, was not so even-tempered as my father. Though she never actually came close to violence, I often and easily provoked her into shouting or hissing warnings through clenched teeth. More than once Id watched her grip the edge of a counter or chair so hard her knuckles blanched and thought, this is it, this is the moment Ive taken things too far. Finally I would know what it felt like to be smacked by someone who loved me. I always felt terrible at these timesangry at myself and sorry for my mother, whod tried so hard for so long. But when the smack didnt come I was always disappointed, bitter at the predictable grounding or the dull speech about respect or honesty, which still left me stewing with guilt and remorse. Not like a blow, which, I imagined, would have freed me from all feelings of responsibility. I thought my mother must have known this, and was intentionally choosing the strictest possible punishment. Did she really love me after all? Already my mind would be working toward the next time I would stand before her apologetically, head lowered, hoping for the bite of her long fingers, followed by immediate tears and pleas for forgiveness.
Every time my mother was sick, my father bragged about his genes, which Jared and I seemed to have gotten the better part ofwe, too, rarely caught colds or the flu, and neither of us had ever had chicken pox. He often said he was glad we seemed, for the most part, to have inherited his temperament. When either of us acted less than mild-mannered, he blamed our youth and warned us about viruses and bacteria. He sang out at every opportunity, Keep a cool head, stay out of bed. All of this confused me terribly. If my genes said I wouldnt get sick, why did it matter how cool my head was? If they said I was even-tempered, did I have any choice in the matter? I couldnt make sense of it, but my father was a scientist, and it didnt occur to me to question him.
Only when he claimed his genes as the source of my cavity-free teeth did I begin to wonder. With this I wasnt impressed at allI may not have had any fillings, but my teeth were so crooked the orthodontist whod recently attached my braces said I would most likely have to wear them for three and a half years. One tooth grew in a quarter-inch from where it belonged, right through my palate, and had to be removed in a painful surgery. The rest were covered in wire and metal hooks that tore at the insides of my cheeks and rubber bands that snapped against my gums. My best friend, Greg Farisi, had perfectly straight teeth; he was spanked more than anybody else I knew. Whenever my father talked about cavities, I cursed the whole idea of genes and wished there was a way I could still get my traits from Gregs father, who couldnt have cared less about keeping a cool head. At these times I decided to turn my back on my heritage, my nature, as my brother seemed to be doing. I would be hot-headed. If I ever had kids, I would smack them whenever they deserved it.
My mother was equally skeptical. Theres something called fluoride, she said. Im the one who made them brush after every meal.
Dont worry, my father assured her. They inherited your looks. For that I thank my lucky stars.
If only my father saw his health as a source of pride, Jared took it as a signas he did everything else at this timethat he deserved better than he was given, that he was constantly treated unfairly. He had nothing but disdain for anyone who could get sick and still claim authority over him. Hed say about a teacher whod been out of school four straight days with a cold, I dont care what she gives me on that test. I dont even want it back. Its probably covered in snot. When my mother called after him to dry his hair before leaving the house, hed shrug and answer, What for? I dont have a weak constitution, like some people.
My father still insisted Jared was, at heart, sweet and mild-mannered. All this anger goes against who he really is. Thats why it gets him so upset. He doesnt want to be like this.
My mother snorted. So what happened to his genes? Do they go to sleep during the teenage years? Is there some sort of pill we can give him? Ill start Daniel on it now, just to be ready.
In the fall, Jared was leaving for a small private college in Tennessee. In three short months I would be living alone in the house with my parents. Though to Greg Farisi and my other friends at school I said, I cant wait. Ill get two rooms, I couldnt help feeling betrayed. How was I supposed to make it through dinner every night by myself? All my parents attention would be focused on me. Without Jared to distract them, how could I be anything other than what they wanted me to be? Before it even truly dawned on me that Jared would soon be gone, I found myself hanging around him whenever he would let me, offering to run errands for him, complimenting him on his clothes and hairstyle. I was determined to make up for all the years Id picked on him. If he began to like me before he left, I thought, maybe hed call often from college. Maybe hed come home on holidays and occasional weekends. Maybeeven as I thought it I knew the hope was ridiculous and futilemaybe he would change his mind and find a college in New Jersey. Maybe hed let me visit as much as I liked.
My parents were also bothered by his choice, though for different reasons. They couldnt understand why he would want to go to Tennessee for anything. And much less for college? Whats wrong with Pennsylvania? my mother said. Or Massachusetts? There are so many wonderful schools in Massachusetts.
You know what they think of Jews down there? my father said. And with your accent? Well get a call about you hanging from a tree.
They also worried constantly about the cost of tuition. Even at fourteen I knew they would, in the end, have no trouble paying for it. But still, my father couldnt keep himself from musing out loud one evening in early spring, soon after Jared received his acceptance letter, Its crazy how much theyre asking. He absently swirled a hunk of roast beef in the pool of butter leaking from his baked potato. I dont see how ordinary people can afford an education.
My mother answered immediately, Ordinary people go to public schools.
Jared laughed without the least bit of humor and threw his fork against his plate. Fine. You want me to go to Rutgers? Ill go. No, forget that. Ill go to County. Or maybe Ill join the goddamn Navy. You wont have to pay a dime.
My father glanced from side to side, stunned. He never seemed to understand where trouble came from. Werent we all just talking calmly, like human beings? Now he made a feeble attempt at appeasement. Did I say anything about not wanting to pay? he said. Well find a way. We can always sell the vacation house. Every year he talked about selling the cottage in the Poconos, where we spent no more than a week each summer, sometimes only a weekend. The rest of the year, my father triedunsuccessfullyto rent it. But every time his real estate agent came close to selling, he hesitated. It might still be a good source of income, hed reason. We just need to advertise better. The more money the house lost, the more attached my father became to it. We all knew hed never let it go. But now he went on, I can call the agent tomorrow. Maybe that couple from Poughkeepsie is still interested. Well find a way. If the market would just stay steady for once, I wouldnt worry. If there was such a thing as job security anymore
Before he could begin the speech wed heard so often before, about corporate loyalty and the inefficient use of employees as disposable resources, my mother cut him off. Of course we can pay for you, she said to Jared. Thats not going to be a problem. Its when Daniels time comes, thats what concerns me. Well just have to wait and see.
Somehow Id been brought into the middle of this against my will. What did college have to do with me? Jared was still fuming, and now his eyes were locked on me, his forehead creased, a muscle in his jaw jumping. So its my problem where he goes?
I dont care, I said. I dont want to go to Tennessee.
If you dont start studying, you wont be going anywhere, my father said.
Were just trying to be fair, my mother said.
Jared wouldnt stop staring at me, though I hunched down in my chair and feigned interest in the broccoli I so far hadnt touched. Ill join the Navy, he said. Ill join the Navy and you can go to Harvard, you little shit.
Jared! my mother cried. Dont you dare talk like that at my table.
I like Rutgers, I said.
Rutgers doesnt take just anybody, my father said. The kid doesnt read a thing. Not even the funny pages. I dont see how he doesnt fail all his subjects.
You can go to the fucking moon, for all I care, Jared said.
My mothers chair squawked against the linoleum floor. Thats it, she said between her teeth. She half-stood, leaning forward, hands flat on the table, knuckles white. My father held out an arm in front of her. She glanced at it and inhaled through quivering lips. I dont want to see your face until tomorrow, she said. Get marching.
Jared was on his feet. He tugged at his sleeves, which clung to his upper arms. I couldnt tell whether he was pushing out his chest or if it had simply grown big enough to stretch the boundaries of his T-shirt. Gladly, he said. Good practice for the Navy. Since thats what you want.
I dont want to hear your voice, my mother said, but already Jared was stomping his way across the kitchen, lifting his knees to his waist, swinging his arms stiffly, occasionally saluting the oven and dishwasher. She settled back into her chair and wrapped her hands carefully around her cup of tea, as if to warm the fury from them. Hes not being funny at all.
After Jared was gone from the kitchen and the back door slammed, I said, I dont need to go to college. And though it pained me, I added, Jared can go to Tennessee if he wants.
My mother shook her head. If you want to finish your dinner, Id better not hear another word.
You know what kind of jobs you can get with a high school diploma? my father said. Indentured servitude. Cannon fodder for the corporate army.
Stop, my mother said, rubbing a thumb and forefinger above her eyebrows. All of you. Please just stop.
In my parents imaginations, Jareds graduation was to be a great milestone, a turning point for our family. For months theyd spoken of it in hushed tones, with uneasy anticipation. Afterward, they seemed to think, everything would suddenly change. Finishing high school would lift some invisible burden from Jareds shoulders, and life would become easier, for him and for the rest of us. Make sure you show him how proud you are, my mother reminded me often. This isnt a small thing. Hes worked hard.
I was also graduatingfrom middle schoolbut no one, including me, made much of it. In fact, I didnt want to think at all about switching schools in the fall, and whenever anybody mentioned it, I immediately tried to change the subject. The last few years had been a good time for me. I knew it even while it was happening and didnt take a moment for granted. Id never been an especially popular kid, but my best friend was, and from that I benefited. Greg Farisi lived at the bottom of my street, and wed run around the neighborhood together since we were four. For ten years wed seen each other nearly every day, and though I didnt necessarily fit into his crowd of friends, almost no one questioned my being part of it.
Greg was a small kid with olive skin and a tight, impish smile that formed a dimple on his left cheek, one he was able to deepen on command. He always seemed on the verge of winking. His black hair ended in loose curls above his forehead, and at any given moment he was either fluffing them up or patting them down. He was a natural athlete; until he was twelve he played every sport the township offered and excelled in all of themas a halfback, a shortstop, a point guard, a hockey forward. But these were all just games to him, pure entertainment. Wrestling was his true calling. After placing second in the state at 106 lbs. his first year in middle school, he quit every other sport and devoted himself full-time to the mats. From then on he was always bulking up or dieting to make his weight; hed once spent an entire day spitting into 7-Eleven Big Gulp cup to shed the few extra ounces that would disqualify him from the next days meet.
When he wasnt wrestling or training, Greg grew easily boredespecially during schooland looked for ways to amuse himself. This usually meant causing some sort of trouble, and I was always more than happy to help him. This, above all, was why wed stayed friends for so long. I couldnt wrestle at all and was lousy at most other sports; Id pitched in Little League, but my control was so erratic and my speed so fleeting I didnt bother trying out for the middle school team. The only game I could compete in with Greg was ping-ponghe never beat me more than three out of five times. But when it came to getting into trouble, I was a star. I spent enough lunch periods in detention hall for the vice-principal to ask, Mr. Brickman, are you practicing for prison? Or do you just enjoy silent meditation? Maybe you should consider taking up yoga and stop getting thrown out of class.
Nothing we did was ever criminalclimbing onto the schools roof, swiping chalk erasers from all the classrooms, writing our names in bug spray on the basketball courts and lighting them on fire. Despite what the vice-principal said, I didnt believe these things would have any bearing on my future; to the contrary, I did them because in my mind nothing I did then could possibly matter one way or the other. But still, my parents were horrified every time they got a call from school. So he doesnt catch colds, my mother cried at my father, who could only scratch his beard with both hands at once. Big deal. What good are his genes if they make him act like an idiot? For every lunchtime detention, I was banned three days from watching TV or sentenced to a weekend of raking leaves.
Greg somehow managed to escape the consequences of our pranks, though they were usually his idea to begin with. In two years, hed only been sent to the office twice and had never sat through detention. He had a way of endearing himself to teachers, parents, other kidsto everyone except his own father, whod known him long enough to see through his smile and who kept a black leather belt, far too creased and battered ever to wear, always ready in his top dresser drawer. Greg had once shown it to me and described its sting, especially when his father didnt pay attention to his grip and the buckle accidentally caught the back of Gregs thigh. I never believed Mr. Farisi was a cruel man. Most of the time he was affectionate, even with me, ruffling my hair and telling jokes. But I knew his sense of justice was strict and absolute. Instead of hating him for it, Greg respected him far more than those teachers who let him get away with anything. Though he made me nervous, I liked him because he had no qualms about saying fuck in my presence.
But after seeing the black belt, I thought it only fair that I bear the brunt of responsibility for our trouble at school. Not that I had much choice. Once, in science class, wed purposely sat across the room from each other and had planned to set off a pair of firecrackers at the exact same moment. My fuse must have been longer, or else Id lit it a fraction of a second too late. Gregs firecracker blew first. The teacher whirled, a hand on her chest. She observed Gregs theatrical shrug and let out an equally exaggerated, exasperated sigh. Already she was beginning to smile in forgiveness. But then my firecracker went off, and her smile stopped short. Thats enough, now, she shouted. Once might have been funny, Mr. Brickman. Go see Mr. Swaney. Tell him youre guilty of overkill.
I never resented Greg for this sort of special treatment. It seemed worth the trouble at the time. Known to everyone as Gregs friend, I was always surrounded by a group of kids who otherwise wouldnt have spoken a word to me. I never sat alone during those lunch periods I wasnt in detention. Because Greg was afraid of injuring his knees or fingers and missing a wrestling match, he kept out of the regular lunchtime football game, instead sitting with other wrestlers and a group of girls on the grassy slope overlooking the baseball diamond and soccer field. And of course, I sat there, too. Happily. It wasnt that I didnt enjoy playing sports, but with girls watching from all corners of the playground, these games had nothing to do with fun. Something strange happened when I was conscious of eyes set on me. In Little League, Id once pitched three scoreless innings with nearly perfect control, but as soon as my father showed up in the bleachers, my fingers became slippery, my arm rubber; my cleats caught in the ground and the catchers mitt eluded my fastball, my curve, even my lob. Afterward my father said, Dont worry. You werent born for this. Theres only one Sandy Koufax in a lifetime.
So I was perfectly content to sit on the hill where Greg lounged on his elbows, chewing a piece of grass, squinting at the football game below, and picking out people in the crowd as objects of amusement. Look at Wilson, hed say. Runs like his pants are falling down. Then hed stand and do and imitation, and all the girls would giggle.
Almost always one of the other wrestlers tried to top him. Marty Jameson wrestled at 112 lbs. and made the team only because there was no one else to compete at his weight. Even six pounds lighter, Greg could pin him nine times out of ten. Marty had fine, nearly white, blond hair that fell in layers over his ears. His top teeth were slightly bucked, pushing his upper lip half an inch in front of the lower. This combination made him look to me like an albino duckoften, when he threw a glance in my direction I was certain his eyes had a reddish tint. For reasons I could never put my finger on, my presence had always been an offense to him. He put up with me only because of Greg, whom he hated and envied for his sense of humor, his wrestling ability, and most of all for the attention given to him by the girls. As soon as Greg imitated one of the football players, Marty followed with, This is how Coach Scholl walks. Then he strutted like the evil duck I knew him to be. But Greg would have no part of it. The coach was hard on him and never fell for his charms; Greg respected him almost as much as he did his own father. So Marty wouldnt strut two steps before Greg snapped, Thats not Coach. Thats your mother after I fucked her in the ass till she bled.
Whenever Marty made me his target, saying, I dont see why this kid sits with us. He couldnt wrestle a chicken, Greg jumped to my defense almost as faithfully as he did for the coach. Watch out for Brickman, hed say. He might look like a pussy, but he knows how to build a bomb.
Only Greg was allowed to make people laugh at my expense. My usual goal at lunch was to keep him entertained enough that he wouldnt resort to making me his entertainment. Id scan the football game for kids I knew he already disliked and say casually, I heard Plummer talking the other day. He said wrestlings for guys too pussy to play football and too stupid to do anything else.
Greg would nod and crack his knuckles. I hate that sonofabitch. Ill show him how pussy wrestling is. You ever hear a guy cry out for his mommy? Wait till I get him in a cradle.
But sometimes, when the football game and the wrestlers began to bore him, when hed tired of begging one of the girls to show him her breasts, he resorted to making me demonstrate the wrestling moves hed taught me. Though I was five pounds heavier and two inches taller, I didnt stand a chance. Hed let me take him down once, maybe twice, and then hed grind my skull or spine with his chin, skid my face along the grass, and finally apply a special hold that split my legs painfully and opened my crotch in the direction of the hysterical girls.
This was a sacrifice I was usually willing to make. I would do whatever I could to keep a firm hold on this life, even if it meant throwing away every third Saturday to rot in detention hall. As the end of middle school approached, I was more desperate than ever to fortify my friendship with Greg. There was no reason for him to drop me when we started high school. But then again, nothing seemed certain, and I often felt myself on shaky ground.
Most afternoons when Greg didnt have wrestling practice, we took off somewhere on our bikes, though from our neighborhood there were few places to go: into other residential neighborhoods guarded by Crime Watch signs, along the strip of dirt beside the freeway sound-barriers, across the train tracks to the private lake where wed twice been arrested for trespassing and lectured in the back of a police cruiser, to the gas station mini-mart on Route 10. More often than not, we rode beneath the column of electrical towers that cut a swath through our neighborhood and strung power lines from Newark to the Pennsylvania border. Wed once decided to follow the towers all the way to the Delaware Water Gap, but after less than five miles, already exhausted, Id stopped at the sight of an electrical cable dangling from a tilted metal cone fifty feet overhead. It was wrapped in rubber, the whole thing thicker than my upper arm; it snaked fifteen yards along the ground and ended in what had once been the face of a deer. But this no longer looked like the face of anything. The eyeballs were gone and most of the hide up to the neck was burned away. At regular intervals, a surge of electricity singed the remains of the deers jaw, sending up a plume of white smoke to quickly scatter in the breeze. Greg, whod been riding ahead, noticed that Id stopped and came back. He dropped his bike in the weeds and followed the line of the cable. To keep from vomiting, I laughed loudly. Thats the worst thing Ive ever seen, Greg said. Youre one heartless sonofabitch, Brickman. When I looked up his eyes were watery, their rims red. For the next week at school, he called me the iceman, and said to the group of girls on the hill during lunch, You want to meet the coldest man on earth? He laughs at electrocuted deer. The kids got no soul.
Copyright © 2002, Hawthorne Books & Literary Arts