Bruiser (14 page)

There's no funeral for Uncle Hoyt.

Instead, his ex-wife has him quietly cremated and the ashes shipped back to her in Atlanta, where she will do whatever angry women do with their ex-husband's ashes. Even so, the guy has it easier than Brewster, who has to suffer through The Week From Hell.

 

FRIDAY: Uncle Hoyt dies under mysterious circumstances.

 

SATURDAY: There's no word from Brewster, and all we get are rumors from neighborhood kids—not just rumors about how it happened, but where Brew and Cody are now. Brontë and I are completely out of the loop, and it drives us nuts. There's not a single reliable source of information, and all the possibilities are as nerve-racking as SAT choices:

A) “I hear the Bruiser shot his uncle and ran away.”

B) “I hear the Bruiser strangled his uncle, and the FBI is holding him.”

C) “I hear his uncle was whacked by the Mafia, and now the Bruiser's in the witness protection program.”

D) “I hear Bruiser never actually had an uncle, and Ralphy Sherman says they found radioactive material in the basement.”

We're the only ones who know Brew well enough to know the answer is E) None of the above.

 

SUNDAY: Brontë, who has never thrown a punch in her life at anyone but me, gets into a death match cat fight in the street with some cheerleader who calls Brewster a psycho. The offending young lady won't be shaking her pom-poms anytime soon.

“Welcome to the Dark Side,” I tell Brontë. She is not amused.

 

MONDAY: In school, word comes down that Uncle Hoyt's autopsy revealed a blood clot in the brain. It was a stroke, but it's too late to shut down the rumors and the mindless whispers by asinine students that it's just a cover story and that Brewster killed him. We still don't hear from Brewster.

 

TUESDAY: Brontë accosts our school psychologist—a tall, slithery man who, in my opinion, doesn't exactly engender an
air of safety and trust. He claims doctor/patient confidentiality and won't say much of anything at first—but Brontë has a way of charming snakes.

She seems much more relaxed after she finally breaks through to some actual facts. Brew and Cody were taken in by Mrs. Gorton—Cody's old kindergarten teacher, now retired. She lives near Brew's house, saw the police at their place, and took them to her house when social services didn't show.

It was a full day before a social worker even arrived at their door.

 

WEDNESDAY: We finally receive a call from Brew and get a clearer picture. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Gorton are very big in their church, which means setting an example as Pillars of Virtue and doing the whole What Would Jesus Do? thing. Of course, the problem with
them
being an example is that Brewster and Cody have to be examples, too: living testimonies to the grace of God. Brew's the last person to want that kind of spotlight.

“It's much too Huckleberry Finn-ish for me,” Brontë says after she gets off the phone with him. “They're keeping Brew and Cody under lock and key as they try to ‘civilize' them. They wouldn't even let Brew call me until today. Even in jail they give a person one phone call, don't they?”

I suspect that Brew has other reasons for going incommunicado, but I keep my suspicions to myself.

 

THURSDAY: Brew still hasn't resurfaced at school, and there's no indication when, or even
if
, he ever will. Perhaps they're transferring Brew and Cody to someplace else.

That afternoon Brontë pays a visit to the Gortons with me in tow for moral support.

“Brewster and Cody aren't at home,” Mrs. Gorton says when she answers the door; but her story doesn't wash, because Cody runs out and nearly tackles Brontë with a hug.

“Brewster's sleeping,” Mrs. Gorton says—but I see him peeking out between the upstairs blinds then ducking back out of sight. For a Pillar of Virtue, Mrs. Gorton sure does lie a lot. She tells us that the boys have been seeing doctors for much of the week, apparently for both physical and psychological assessments. Considering Brewster's various contusions, which were clearly gifts from their late uncle, many doctors were in order.

“I just want to talk to him,” Brontë pleads.

“He doesn't want to see anyone now.” This time she's telling the truth—and Brontë knows it, too, because I can see how hurt she is by it.

“Give him this, please,” she says. “Tell him it's from Brontë.” Then she hands Mrs. Gorton one of those little pastel-colored volumes of bad inspirational poetry—the kind they sell in greeting card stores—definitely not the kind of poetry that Brewster likes; but the woman takes one look at the flowery
book and is almost moved to tears.

“Of course I'll give it to him, dear.”

We walk home, mission failed.

“Do you really think he'll like those cheesy poems?” I ask.

“It wasn't for him; it was for her,” Brontë explains. “To win her over so the next time I come by she'll let me in.”

I stand corrected: Mission accomplished.

 

FRIDAY: Brontë's investigative eavesdropping into teachers' private conversations reveals a problem: In a situation like this, social services bends over backward to make it easy to become a foster parent—basically, anyone without a criminal record can get approved—and since the Gortons had already taken in Brew and Cody, they were being put on the fast track to foster parenthood. However, Mr. Gorton, in his youth, did six months for auto theft before he found religion; and although his criminal history was history and God stuck like glue, it didn't matter. The couple came up short in the eyes of the law.

Now it's only a matter of time before their application is denied. Then Brewster and Cody will be pulled out of the Gortons' home and taken to a state facility, where love and concern get divided like cake at a wedding.

That weekend Brontë comes up with the Big Idea. I knew it was coming.

It's Sunday, and we're out front washing Mom's car. It looks like it's about to rain, but it's something to get us out of the house. Something to keep our minds and hands occupied—because you know what they say about idle hands and all. We soap up the car, not even paying attention to the fact that one of the windows is open and we're getting the upholstery wet. Mom won't yell at us about it. She doesn't yell at us much since she's afraid we'll yell back—and lately we have much more powerful ammunition than she does. It's a clear indication that Brontë and I are now the superpowers within our own family, and you don't attack a superpower. Frankly, though, I'd much prefer to have stability return to the region.

“You know what will happen to them once the Gortons get
denied,” Brontë says. “They'll end up in some orphanage or workhouse or something.”

“Don't be Dickensian,” I tell her. “They don't have workhouses in this day and age”—although I'm not quite sure what modern, twenty-first-century orphanages are like. All I know is that once a month there's a big shocking-pink plastic bag around our doorknob screaming for clothes donations for “
the something home for something-something children
.” I also know that Brewster's terrified of being sent to one.

“Wherever they end up, it won't be good,” she says, wringing out her sponge like she's trying to strangle it.

I know exactly where she's going with this—like I said, I've been waiting for it—but I don't want to deny her the satisfaction of getting there, so I play dumb. “Maybe they'll get other foster parents,” I suggest.

“The last thing Brewster and Cody need is to be handed off over and over again.” She soaps up the hood of the car in serpentine curves as she wends her way to her point. “It just seems so ridiculous,” she says, “when we have a spare room big enough for both of them.”

I sponge the back window in small, even circles, taking my time before feeding her the line she already knows is coming. “Dad's living in the spare room.”

She shrugs. “So what? It won't be forever.”

I don't comment on that, because the future can hold many things when it comes to our father's sleeping arrangements.
He could move back into the master bedroom with Mom; he could move out; he could pitch a tent in the backyard—the roulette wheel is still spinning and there's no telling if Dad, God rest his soul, will land on a black or a red number.

“Even if we could give them the spare room,” I tell her, “do you really think Mom and Dad would allow you and your boyfriend to live under the same roof?”

“They're very progressive,” Brontë counters, “and besides, we're not sexually active, thank you very much.”

I smirk. “You say that now.”

She hurls her sponge at me. I duck and it hits the mailbox.

“Forget it,” she says, exasperated. “Forget I said anything. It was a dumb idea anyway.”

But she's wrong about that, and I think about that day playing basketball—and how good both Dad and I felt with Brew in the mix, changing the whole family dynamic. Maybe what our little roulette wheel needs isn't black or red but a nice dose of double-zero green.

I retrieve my sister's sponge and hand it back to her. “I'll have to be the one to suggest it,” I say, “because if it comes from you, no matter how progressive they are, they'll freak out.”

“No, forget it; with everything that's going on between Mom and Dad, the last thing they need is two kids with issues in the house.”

I smirk again. “Don't you mean four?”

She sneers but holds on to her sponge, having deemed my comment not sponge worthy. “Actually six,” she says, “if you include Mom and Dad.”

I hose off the suds and hand her a towel for drying. “Leave it to me,” I tell her, because although I don't often mess with Mom's and Dad's heads, when I do, I'm pretty good at it.

Dad's in the spare bedroom grading papers on Emerson. Mom is out, probably with the Ewok. They're rarely home at the same time except in the evenings. The first things I notice when I enter the room are the suitcases. Two of them. They've migrated from the basement. A pair of no-nonsense gray roll-aboards made of sturdy ballistic nylon. They can catch a bullet, and your suit would still stay pressed.

The cases are not being packed; but they sit ominously in the corner, waiting for the day, the hour, the moment when Dad will use them and move out. I try not to think about them as I approach my father.

“Papers from your grad students?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says, “although to read these essays, you'd never know.”

Looking at the essays, I can see handwritten notes between
every line. You could create a whole second essay from what he's written back to them.

“Busywork,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“You're filling the hours with busywork so you don't have to think about stuff with Mom. I get it.”

He rubs his forehead like Advil is in order. “Is there something you want, Tennyson?”

I pick up one of the essays and casually pretend to read it. “I guess everything's relative,” I say. “I mean, what's going on in our family is nothing compared to what happened to Brewster Rawlins. What's happening to him, I mean.”

Dad continues red-inking his students' work. “Sometimes you have to count your blessings.”

“Brontë's all broken up over it.”

Finally Dad puts down the paper he's reading. “Are they still dating?”

It surprises me that he doesn't know that; but then, these days nothing should surprise me. Rather than make assumptions about how much he knows, I bring him up to date—the fact that Brew and his brother have no family and that Mr. Gorton's ancient criminal record leaves everyone royally screwed. I don't tell him about the healing thing because I'm not an idiot.

Once I'm done with the saga of woe, Dad throws me a glance—I think by now he knows what's coming—then he returns to his work. “Too bad we can't help,” he says.

“Actually, we can.”

“Absolutely not!”

This was okay; I was expecting this. Walls don't fall without effort.

“We're in no position to take them in,” he says. “Besides, someone else will; and if not, well, I'm sure social services will take fine care of them.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Dad sighs. “Are you completely clueless, Tennyson? Do you have any idea how bad the timing is? Do you even see what's going on between your mother and me?”

“I see everything,” I tell him coldly. “I see more than you.” And I believe that's true.

“So then, case closed.”

That expression “case closed” makes me look over at the two suitcases standing against the wall like a pair of hollow tombstones.

“Maybe taking them in will change things,” I suggest to my father. “What if putting ourselves out for someone else is just what we all need? What you and Mom need…”

Dad sighs. “Putting ourselves out for someone else? Now you sound like your sister.”

“Then you'd better listen, because me sounding like Brontë is one of the signs of the apocalypse—and if the end of the world is coming, good deeds could earn you Judgment Day brownie points.”

He doesn't laugh. His shoulders are still slumped; his attitude has not changed. “It's a nice idea, but we can't do it. Now, please—I really have a lot of work to do.”

I sit there a moment more, pretending to weigh the validity of the things he's said. I pretend like I'm getting a clue.

“You're right,” I tell him. “I'm sorry I bothered you.” I shift in my chair as if I'm getting ready to stand up and leave. Then I say, “Mom would never allow it anyway.”

I can practically hear the hairs on his neck bristling. “Then for once your mother and I would be in agreement.”

“Well, yeah…,” I say. “But even if you wanted to take them in, she'd shut it down.”

He still won't look at me. “It's not like your mother makes all the decisions around here.”

“No?”

He taps his red pen on his stack of essays. Finally he turns to look at me. “You think I don't know what you're doing?”

“What am I doing?”

“You're trying to manipulate me into taking in Brewster and his brother.”

I don't deny it. “Is it working?” I ask.

He laughs at that. Now all bets are off. I don't know how this is going to play out. Then Dad says, “If you want it to work, you need to make me think it's
my
idea.”

“It
was
your idea,” I say in total deadpan seriousness. “You suggested it just a second ago.”

He laughs again. “My mistake.” And he shakes his head at my bald-faced audacity. He thinks about it for a moment, or pretends to think about it—I don't know who's toying with whom anymore. Then he says, “I'll discuss it with your mother, and we'll make a
joint
decision.”

“That's all I can ask,” I say, “that you and Mom give serious thought to a decision that Brontë and I will remember for the rest of our lives.”

He studies me with that tentative gaze of parental evaluation—you know the one: It's both a little bit proud and a little bit frightened at the same time. Then he says,
“So shines a good deed in a weary world.”

I know this one! I snap my fingers and say, “Shakespeare—
The Merchant of Venice.
”

“Actually,” says my father, “I was thinking Gene Wilder as Willy Wonka, but both answers, A and B, are valid.”

 

Mom and Dad have their discussion, and the answer is still no. The Gortons are denied foster-parent status less than a week later; and as soon as social services can wade through their own paperwork, Brew and Cody will be sent to
“the something home for something-something children,”
vanishing into the system, never to be seen again.

If the wall Mom and Dad have erected is going to fall, it has to fall soon. It's Brontë who completes the erosion process, turning herself into a human tsunami, as if it's a secret
superpower. Although I'll never admit it to her, I'm in awe, and a little bit frightened of her now.

I'm there when Jericho falls. It begins with a phone call, which I'm about to pick up; but Brontë, seeing the number on the caller ID, stops me. It rings one more time, and I hear Mom take the call in the hallway. We both listen.

“Excuse me, you're from
whose
office?” we hear Mom say. “An attorney? What's this all about?”

I don't like the sound of that. When your parents are living on a fraying tightrope, a call from a lawyer is a very bad sign. I turn to Brontë, but the look on her face is more anticipation than dread.

“Let me get this straight—you're calling for Brontë? Why would you want to speak to my daughter?” Mom listens for a moment more, then Brontë whispers to me: “They won't tell her a thing—attorney/client confidentiality.”

“You hired a lawyer?”

“Consulted,” Brontë tells me. “Consultations are free.”

The phone call ends abruptly with Mom saying, “No, wait, don't hang up,” which they obviously do.

Since no one in our family sits down for dinner together anymore, Brontë makes a point of eating with Mom. I join them because I love a good fireworks display. But instead it's painfully quiet until Mom says, “Brontë, there's something I want to talk to you about.”

I know that Mom means to broach the topic of the phone
call, but instead Brontë blindsides Mom with something else.

“I've decided to quit the swim team.”

“That's not what I…what?”

“I've decided I need to get a job instead. I've been told that self-sufficiency is the first step.”

Mom's still mentally backpedaling, trying to catch a gear. “First step toward what?”

“To becoming an emancipated minor.”

Mom takes a deep breath and lets it out, the dots finally connecting in her head. The fact that Brontë actually called a lawyer makes it hit exceptionally hard. “And why would you want that?” she says, trying to sound bright and unbothered by it.

“Well, you have to admit that you and Dad have not exactly been warm and nurturing lately. And the fact that you won't consider helping Brewster and Cody makes it very clear this is not a place I want to be.”

Then Mom looks Brontë in the eye with the cold gaze of a serious parental warning. “Listen to me, because I will only say this once, Brontë,” she says. “I will not be blackmailed by you.”

Brontë holds the gaze, and strikes back with equal force behind her words. “Actions have consequences, Mom. You taught me that. Your actions are no exception.”

Then she gets up and strides out of the kitchen.

Now I'm alone with Mom, who's no longer eating. “Wow,” I say; and since I really am blown away by what Brontë has just done, I say “Wow” again, truly speechless.

That night I ask Brontë if she really means it. She seems terrified by the question.

“I don't make idle threats,” she says—and I suddenly realize that she's not scared of our parents' response; she's scared of her own determination, because if Mom and Dad don't do something for Brew and Cody, she
will
quit the swim team, she
will
get a job, and eventually maybe she
will
go all the way with her threat to become emancipated.

I want to comfort her somehow; but again, all I can say is “Wow.”

 

Nothing more is said about it until the following day, but then Dad tells Brontë and me that he and Mom are “open to considering the possibility of maybe temporarily helping Brew and Cody if no one else steps forward.”

They schedule an appointment with the social worker, who comes by our house the same day. I suppose she's trying to make up for botching things the day Uncle Hoyt died. She must have sold used cars in a previous life, because although Mom and Dad keep insisting all they want is information, the appointment ends with an application, fingerprinting, and a background check. “So you'll already be approved as foster parents should you decide to move forward,” the social worker
says; but I think our parents know full well that there's no closing this door once it's open.

“God bless you,” the social worker tells them. “God bless you both.”

Then Brontë smothers Mom and Dad in kisses in a way she hasn't done since we were little. “I love you both so, so much!” she tells them. “I knew you would do the right thing.”

 

Our phone rings a week later. Sometimes when the call is momentous enough, you know exactly who's calling and why even before you pick up the phone. I've never been one to believe in that kind of intuition, but lately I've had to broaden my mind to a whole range of things I used to dismiss. When that phone rings, I know just as certainly as I know my own name what the call is about even before Dad says, “Hello?”