My Brother's Keeper

Some days are better than others, but on balance, I'm pretty worn out.

One episode from my youth that troubles me often concerns my younger brother, Kevin. Junior by exactly three years - some quirk of fate had him born on my birthday - Kevin endured gross mistreatment and debasement at the hands of my parents. But that's a given now, yesterday's news. What bothers me today, still, is the mean-spirited, older brother put downs that I visited upon him. Part of that, I'm sure, was typical sibling competition, but I was unkind as hell toward Kevin, and more than once. Even early in life, I had a sharp tongue and I'd learned how to use it to wound. This particular incident disturbs me quite a bit now, as it has for years. And for many reasons, I have cried almost as many tears over what happened during Kevin's childhood as I have about my own.

On the day I'm remembering (for what seems like the hundredth time), I was standing three houses down the street from my parents' home, talking to my best friend, Dave, in his mother's driveway. It was a typical Northern California day, which means only that I have no way now to judge the season based on the weather. I'm pretty sure I was wearing jeans, which would indicate that it was other than summer (I wore nothing but shorts all summer and still do). It seems to me that it was autumn, but that's almost entirely a gut feeling and unsupported by either memory or circumstantial evidence. I was probably 12 or 13 years old, Dave a year older than I, and of course Kevin 3 years younger.

I first noticed Kevin as he walked down the street to join Dave and me. Watching him approach, I was annoyed immediately that my escape from home was about to be interrupted by my little brother. It was a relief to get away, even briefly, and though Kevin was seldom an antagonist, his attempt to join us angered me. I wanted to continue my falsely mature, entirely adolescent, discussion with Dave unfettered by family. How dare he intrude on my sanctuary, bringing with him (inadvertently, and just by his presence) a reminder of exactly what I was trying to leave behind? Why couldn't he find his own place to go, his own friend to talk to? What Dave and I discussed was private, in a realm as far removed from my parents and siblings as I could remove it. And Kevin wrecked my few moments' reprieve - or at least that's how I felt then.

What haunts me now is the knowledge, the certainty that Kevin needed a friend and a place to go at least as much as I did - maybe even more. He was beaten and belittled, brutalized in ways that still horrify. And I probably could have helped him that day. I should have helped him. My flight from home was false anyway, a sort of whistling in the dark or stealing a few minutes' safety by hiding. It would have been easy to open up and include Kevin in my talk with Dave. Nothing to it. We shared the same parents after all, the same abuses, the same bedroom for Christ's sake. But I didn't. I sent him back home, back to the place I left as often as I could. And instead of comforting my brother in one of many hours of need, instead of sharing myself a little bit, I managed to hurt his feelings in the process.

I don't remember exactly what I said to Kevin, but I know, I feel it in a place deep inside of me, a place I can't ignore if I'm to be honest, that my words cut him in a way that both of us were used to being cut. I'm quite sure I laid open an existing wound, one of many that likely have never healed. He certainly didn't need that treatment from me. He'd had enough already to last many lifetimes, far more than anyone should be subjected to. And as it turned out, there was plenty left to endure before it was over.

As Kevin walked up Dave's driveway toward us, I believe I snapped something like "What are you doing here? Get away, go home." Again, the words are lost to me now, but I doubt that I will ever lose the picture of his face falling, his eyes moving from expectant to hopeless, from risking trust one more time to maybe never again, from our faces down to the pale gray concrete beneath our tennis shoes. The camera in my mind plays over and over the shot of his back and his slow, quietly dejected walk, away now from Dave and me down the street back to our home. It breaks my heart every time I see it. When I'm in a place where I can afford to lose my composure, where I don't have to be the "professional", the teacher, the coach, the confidant, or sometimes even the "dad", I know I have to watch this scene without turning away. I've seen it dozens of times already, but the projectionist that is my conscience keeps replaying it every few months or so. I hate it, but I watch.

I think Dave even chided me that day for sending Kevin away, saying something in the spirit of, "He can stay, it's fine. It won't hurt anything." But the damage had been done already; Kevin was walking home. Amazingly, I was still mad. I felt righteous in my indignation, certain that I had been wronged by his intrusion.

Jesus.

It's probably a little dangerous for me to admit this publicly, but sometimes I look forward to dying. There's a part of me that patiently awaits the day when my penance is over, my sentence has been served, and I can rest a little before moving ahead wherever my journey might lead me next. I long to feel free, unencumbered by memories of past wrongs, by movies I'd never recommend that anyone else go see, but that I revisit again and again.

I doubt it's that easy, though. I fucked up. I hurt Kevin, and I can't ever change that. It doesn't matter that we lived together for 15 years in a brutal household, that our turning viciously upon each other was taught, even encouraged, by our parents' treatment of us. It doesn't matter at all - at least not today. I injured my brother, probably deeply. I added to his already unbearable load, and there's not a damn thing I can do to make it better now.

God, I'm tired.