Brother

Everyone who knew the retired bachelor in Apartment 2E always said he would have made a perfect husband and father. Trent Eden knew better. He would thank his neighbors, smile sheepishly, and tell them about the life-changing summer he spent with Brother Monroe.             

 Affable and inquisitive, Brother spoke four languages, could play classical music note-perfect on piano or cello, and had an I.Q. of 130. And yes, there was also that prophetic first name.

The most amazing thing about Brother was that he was only six years old.

There was an aura about him, a light. Brother’s mop of golden hair was never out of place, his clothes were always neat (dirt came standard with most six-year-olds), and he always looked people in the eye when he spoke.

His seventeen-year-old sister, Mindy, was exceptional in other ways. She had a lack of sexual restraint that would have made the Marquis de Sade blush, and she seldom saw a classroom. If she hadn’t paid Trent ten dollars per paper for her English and history assignments, she would have been the poster girl for summer school.

Mindy dated well above her age group, snagging a few of the local biker toughs, most notably Bartram Resner. Trent called him “Black Bart” because of his attire as well as his soul. Lanky and scruffy, with dark, penetrating eyes, Black Bart hit first and asked questions later.

  Like most girls her age, Mindy was drawn to Black Bart’s bad boy image. Bart may have dropped out of school in tenth grade, but he knew how to sucker good-looking girls into falling for him. And Mindy became his prize, dewy-eyed and dense with flowing amber hair, an athletic figure, and dimples that popped out whenever she smiled.

With summer approaching, Trent knew his arrangement with Mindy would soon be suspended. Trent promised her his last two papers would get her an A and brought them to her parent’s house a few doors away.

  In typical Mindy fashion, she got bored of reading the first paper halfway through it.        

"I don’t have any money,” Mindy declared. “Let’s negotiate your payment.”

 She began walking toward her bedroom. Turning, she gave Trent an alluring over-the-shoulder look.

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

    Trent drifted behind her, transfixed.

    “Sit down,” she commanded.

    He plopped down in a nearby chair.

    “Not there. On the bed.”

Trent’s mouth noticeably dropped when Mindy’s clothes dropped.

“Will this be okay?”

    “I’m not in any position to say no.”

Of course, that was when Mindy’s parents and Brother came home early.

“Hide! Get under the bed!”

Mindy’s twittering voice greeted her parents, followed by the pitter-patter of Brother’s sneakers as he headed toward his room.

He paused in the doorway. Trent cursed to himself when he heard Brother enter Mindy’s room.

Bending down, Brother gave Trent a cherubic grin that seemed to say “Gotcha!”

“Why are you hiding under Mindy’s bed?”

“We’re playing hide and go seek,” Trent said.

“Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

“It’s all I got,” Trent replied. “How did you know I was hiding here?”

“Your feet were sticking out.”

    “You’re not going to tell your parents, are you?” Trent asked.

“My parents are well aware that Mindy’s very popular with boys. She’s not called the friendliest girl in Mount Kisco because she’s funny or smart.”

“Do you understand why?”

“I know it’s not a compliment,” Brother said. “I’m surprised you’re one of her boyfriends. I thought you were smarter than that.”

“You’ll understand why later on when you’re a teenager.”

“Oh, yes, sex. Glad I’m only six.”

“We still friends?” Trent asked.

“Of course. I’m not going to let my sister’s weird habits come between us.”

“Thanks. I know I promised to teach you how to throw a curveball. Maybe I can show you later.”

Brother’s eyebrows arched into a V. Trent knew he was hatching a plan.

“I’ve got a better way you can get over your guilt,” he said. “Are you going to work as a camp counselor again this summer?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Mindy usually takes me to camp and picks me up. I can go with you instead.”

“I don’t have my license yet. I walk to the park.”

“Even better, that’ll give us more time to talk. You’re more interesting than Mindy.”

“You’re sister’s plenty interesting.”

“That’s what all the guys say. So, what do you say? You can either walk me to camp every day or I can tell my parents why you were hiding under Mindy’s bed.”

Trent told his friends that walking to day camp with Brother was like taking a trip along the astral plane with Confucius. He knew more about politics, philosophy, and music than any adult, yet he still retained a child’s sense of wonderment.

“What’s your favorite album?” Brother asked.

“The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys, by Traffic.”

“Hmm. Did you know the verses are in D minor while the choruses modulate to D major with a repeated piano riff in D minor?”

“Show off. Let me ask you, Brother, with all the knowledge you possess, what do you want to do with your life?”

“Research. Sometimes my mom gets very sad. She drinks and gets sadder. She gets sad because I’m so smart and Mindy, well, Mom says Mindy’s lost. So, I want to invent a pill to make Mom happy all the time.”

“How about one to make Mindy smarter?”

“That would be more in line with a miracle,” Brother replied.

“Is that all you want to do, research?”

    “Of course not. I want to play at Carnegie Hall. Did you know it has the best acoustics in New York City?”

“I do now.”

Brother and Mindy’s parents made every effort to love both their children, but it was obvious Mrs. Monroe considered her daughter a failure because Mindy lived her life at full throttle. Her conversations with Mindy often ended with her yelling in her daughter’s face that she’d never amount to anything.

 Irma Monroe was the director of the local library, a conservative who wore dowdy dresses down to her knees, black-rimmed glasses, and a stern, studious expression. The only time she smiled was when she was around her husband, David, and Brother.

“I don’t know what you see in Mindy,” she once said to Trent.

“Deep down, Mindy’s a nice girl.”

“There isn’t a shovel big enough to dig that deep,” Mrs. Monroe parried. “She’s a sex-crazed party girl. But at least she’s good at something.”

“You still have Brother.”

    “He’s the light of my life. He’s going to be something special.”

    “He already is,” Trent replied.

    Mrs. Monroe flashed a rare smile.

Fortunately for Mindy, her father hadn’t given up on her.

"I bet you didn’t know that when Mindy was a little girl, she was smarter than Brother,” he said to Trent.

    Trent could barely contain his laughter.

    “My little princess caught a rare form of Fibromyalgia when she was seven. She was in a coma for a month. When she came out of it, everything she’d learned was gone. She couldn’t even remember her own name. From that point on, Mindy had problems concentrating. Before her illness, she wanted to be the first woman astronaut in space. Now she just takes up space.”

That summer, Trent happened to be a counselor for the six-year-olds, which meant Brother was in his group. Brother couldn’t play kickball, couldn’t swim, or hit a baseball like the other kids, but he could teach them how to play chess or how to sing a hymn in German, and he inspired the other kids to take art class more seriously. It was like having an extra counselor around.

Dealing with the kids who were bullies, whiners, or crybabies made Trent wonder if he could cope with being a father. Watching Brother made Trent think how proud he’d be to have a son like him. Whenever Brother smiled at him, laughed at one of his stupid jokes, or reached out to take his hand for support, Trent couldn’t wait to be a dad.

Mindy picked up Brother and Trent when camp was over. She’d stash Brother with their Aunt Delia, who lived a few blocks away. A former Metropolitan Opera singer, Aunt Delia gave Brother voice and piano lessons while Mindy gave Trent more personalized instruction.

Trent wasn’t so sexually enthralled by Mindy to believe he was the only guy spending afternoons with her. Mindy was always unavailable on Thursday and Sunday afternoons. Passing the Monroe’s house one Thursday, Trent saw Mindy mounting the back of Black Bart’s bike and knew it wouldn’t be long before she was mounting Bart.

When he saw Mindy the next day, she was sporting a black eye.

“Did you fall off of Bart’s bike or his fist?” Trent asked.

“None of your business.”

“Your folks think I’m tutoring you…”

“Sometimes it’s the other way around, isn’t it?”

    “As your tutor, I’d advise you to stay clear of Black Bart.”

“And I’d advise you to shut up unless you want me to tell him what you call him behind his back.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you, Mindy.”

“Look out for yourself. Bart’s noticed the way you look at me.”

“No different from any other guy.”

“He doesn’t think so,” she said. “He gets jealous really easy, you know. So maybe you should keep your distance from now on.”

“Are you telling me it’s over between us?”

“He’s a man. You’re a kid. Besides, he’s got a bike.”

     "I do too,” Trent said.

“But yours is a Schwinn.”

“He’s broken your heart before.”

“He didn’t mean to.”

“Next it’ll be your nose or your jaw that he breaks.”

“He wouldn’t hurt me,” Mindy replied.

“So, I’m wrong about your black eye?”

“It was a mistake. He didn’t mean to do it.”

“Bullies never do, Mindy.”

“It was my fault.”

“If you believe that Mindy, then you really are as stupid as people say you are.”

 Trent immediately felt sorry he’d been so cruel. Mindy turned her back on him, whimpering as she walked away.

Mindy may have cut Trent out of her life, but he stayed in Brother’s, continuing to walk him to camp.

 “I didn’t know what the saying ‘trouble in paradise’ meant until now,” he said to Trent one morning.

    “So, what do you think it means?”

    “You and Mindy. You two were always under the covers, giggling and tickling each other.”

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.”

    “You haven’t done that lately. When you come over, Mindy disappears. Is that what happens when people stop loving each other?”

"Sometimes.”

    “Well, that’ll never happen to us.”

It was pouring a few days later, so Trent decided to call in sick. Running day camp on a rainy day was like trying to pacify rioting prisoners at Alcatraz. The rain meant hundreds of campers who were used to frolicking around in the acres of free space at the park would be crammed into two floors at the Boys and Girls Club.

Trent called Mindy to tell her she had to drive Brother to camp.

“Why can’t you?”

“He’s your brother. Besides, I don’t drive, remember?”

“But Bart’s coming over.”

“Then get Bart to take him. No scratch that, you don’t want Brother on the back of his Harley in the rain.”

  “Brother hates Bart,” Mindy whined.

  “Shows you how smart he is.”

While Mindy was cursing at Trent, Brother put on his rain gear and slipped out the back door. If Trent wasn’t going to walk to his house to pick him up, Brother was going to go to his place and prod Trent into walking him to camp.

Mindy suddenly screamed, dropping the receiver.

    Mindy had often run off during conversations with Trent to turn off the stove, the bath, or some other appliance she shouldn’t have been trying to operate, so Trent hung up and went back to bed.

Minutes later, Trent’s peaceful slumber was interrupted by desperate, loud banging on his front door.

  Trent opened the door to see Mindy standing in the downpour, her makeup running down her cheeks, her light brown hair dripping like a sopped mop.

Despite the heavy rain, Trent could tell she was crying.

"It’s Brother! He’s dead!” she screamed hysterically.

    Giving in to her grief, Mindy rushed into Trent’s arms. She just as quickly pushed him away.

    "It’s all your fault! He was coming to see you! You killed him!”

     “You’re not making sense,” Trent said.

    “Nothing makes sense now.”

Grabbing Trent by the hand, Mindy pulled him out into the rain. They broke into a dead run, splashing through puddles, racing to the crossroads a few doors away.

A police cruiser’s flashing lights bathed the scene in a surreal, foreboding light.

    A man in a motorcycle jacket was screaming out an explanation to the officer. Cupping his face with his hands, he shrieked, “WHY? WHY?”

Trent recognized the driver. It was Bart. Bart had just traded in his bike for a brand-new Mustang, and hoping to surprise Mindy, had been speeding down the street.

 "He jumped out in front of the car! I never saw him!” Bart screamed.

By now a neighbor had called Aunt Delia, who had made her way to the scene. She pulled Mindy away, taking her inside.

Trent fought the urge to look at Brother, but his eyes drifted toward Bart’s Mustang.

   A pair of red rain boots poked out almost comically from underneath the car as if Dorothy from “The Wizard of Oz” had dropped a car on him. What was left of Brother’s once-perfect mop of blonde hair was blood-spattered. The head that had once held the mind of a genius was flattened. His brain matter was in small piles on the pavement and was slowly washed away by the rain.

Brother’s body was quickly covered up, but when Mrs. Monroe arrived at the scene and pulled back the sheet, everyone’s agony increased two-fold. Her shriek started as a slow mournful moan before reaching such a horrific height that even the policemen covered their ears.

Brother Monroe never got to play Carnegie Hall or cure his mother’s depression. Trent blamed himself – and he wasn’t alone. If Trent had gone to work, Brother might have become a beloved leader like John Kennedy or an icon of social change like Dr. Martin Luther King. Of course, things didn’t exactly work out for them either.

Trent had always wanted to see Black Bart suffer. When he did, it wasn’t worth the trade-off.

 Bart was the first to leave the area, slipping out of town unannounced the week after the funeral. He developed a taste for hard liquor and sat alone in bars muttering about the little boy he’d killed.

Bart died after falling down a flight of stairs four years after the accident. A witness swore he jumped.

After Brother’s death, Mrs. Monroe shunned Mindy. They seldom spoke and when they did it always resulted in bruised feelings and the guilt of Brother’s death passing between them like a Frisbee.

Mrs. Monroe quickly lost her battle with depression after Brother’s funeral (which Mr. Monroe advised Trent not to attend). No one saw Mrs. Monroe for several months, and when they did, it was the day she fell asleep behind the wheel of her car, which slammed into a van parked only a few feet away from where Brother had died. Never a fashion plate but always neat, Mrs. Monroe was now a haggard, hollow-eyed mess in a housecoat and slippers. She’d gone to the liquor store and had almost made it back home before her depression meds stopped her heart.

Mindy blamed Trent for Brother’s death, saying it was my phone call that had distracted her. Every time Mindy saw Trent that summer, she’d turn her back on him, whispering to anyone within earshot, “That’s the guy that killed my brother.”

She may have done her best to point the finger at Trent publicly, but in private she blamed herself. After Brother’s death, Mindy overindulged in any liquid or substance that could momentarily make her forget. 

Mindy didn’t bother with the façade of trying to graduate. Midway through senior year, Mr. Monroe shipped Mindy off to a relative in New Jersey, hoping she’d clean up. Misinterpreting her father’s desperate move as abandonment, she overdosed the weekend her father came to visit, a trip that marked the first anniversary of Brother’s death.

Since Mindy had poisoned the air around her parents, Trent didn’t think it was in anyone’s best interests to try and beg for forgiveness. He ran into Mr. Monroe at the corner store shortly after Mindy’s death. Mr. Monroe had just got off the train from Manhattan and was still dressed impeccably. Trent was amazed that after all he’d been through in the past year, Mr. Monroe was still going to work as if nothing had happened.

“I was sorry to hear about Mindy.” Trent offered.

“Thank you. I’m surprised you still could feel sorry for her, given the way she treated you after Brother’s death. Poor Mindy never found her path. When she started blaming herself for Brother’s death, she couldn’t face the possibility that life could still go on.”

“He was really gifted,” Trent said.

“That’s a good way to put it. He hated being called special. But you could look at him and see he was going to burn brightly for a little while, then he’d be gone, just like a comet.”

A few months later, Mr. Monroe moved to Tennessee. The once-dapper salesman grew a beard, remarried, and started a second family.

Trent always said Brother’s death made him mature into a miserable man when all he wanted to be was a naïve, fun-loving dreamer. His thoughts of being a husband and a father died with Brother. He’d killed a child. He didn’t want to take the chance he might kill another.