Guardian Angel

Saturday, June 22

Well, it looks like my baby brother, Tommy, has messed up again. The new wife, the one called Jolene, left him, and she took the air fryer! I knew from the moment I met her (skinny little thing she was), that she was no good and just after whatever money Tommy still has left.

I took the 145 bus over to visit my brother this afternoon. You should have seen him, sitting on his screened porch, staring out at his overgrown yard…the sight of him! He was wearing a raggedy old flannel shirt and a pair of sweatpants, looking like he’d been sleeping in those clothes for days. Only one word came to my mind: pitiful!

“I can see I haven’t come a moment too soon,” I said. “Look at yourself!”

I was huffing and puffing from the climb up the porch stairs and the walk from the bus stop.

“Marriage is for idiots,” Tommy said, “and I’ll be damned if I count myself among the fools again.” 

I shook my head and said, “Tommy Baxter, if you’ve ever listened to anyone in your life, you listen to your big sister now. You're fifty-six years old, you’ve had four wives and each one of them has gone and left you worse off than before. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe the problem is you and your pig-headedness? You’ve been sitting here on your porch moaning day after day, not bothering to look after yourself or clean up your mess.” 

Lord, was his house ever in a state! I don’t think he’d rinsed a cup or even wiped up a dish for over a week. I kid you not, I saw a cockroach as big as my left thumb run out from under the baseboard. At least Jolene, that last one, kept a neat house and knew how to make a decent meatloaf and gravy. Now from the trash left lying around the house, it looked like Tommy's been living on drive-thru and instant noodles.

Lucky for him I knew just how to turn things around. I had stopped at the Dollarama by the bus stop and picked him out one of these journals. This one I’m writing in now is red, but I got Tommy a blue one, and I told him how to do it. You’re supposed to write things down, that’s what I heard on television, and then you count your blessings every day–three of them. They say it’s supposed to help you get a better mood on.

“And you’re going to do it, too, Tommy,” I said to him.

I slapped the notebook on the table in front of him. “You’ve gone all dark on me. You’re going to use this book, and you’re going to make a list of what you’re grateful for. Three things every day, Tommy, do you hear?” I said, 

He said to me, “Angel, if you think writing in a 99 cent notebook from the dollar store is going to fix my leaky roof and my broken bank account you’ve got another thing coming.”

I told him I’d be back to check on him, and if I didn’t see anything written down in that journal, I would not speak to him for a month. Then you know he had the nerve to say? He said, “That might just be the first blessing I can count and write down..”

He thought that was real funny and was still smirking as I left. I told him he’d turned into a cynical old toad, and I slammed the screen door as I left to let him know I was not at all happy with him.

Now here’s me:

1. I am grateful I’m smart enough not to let my heart get broken like Tommy does.
2. I am grateful I don’t have to live with the mess he’s got.
3. I am grateful I’ve got the opportunity to talk some sense into my fool brother.

Sunday, June 30

My gratitude journal is absolutely working. Whenever I think of my poor brother’s life, I just thank the Lord that I’m not like that, and I can feel myself growing happier and happier each day. Most nights this week I called Tommy. I can’t get more than a word out of him, he’s such a grump, but I told him I was calling to make sure he’s still breathing and to make sure he was writing down his blessings. Maybe I don’t have a house like his or his kind of money, and maybe I never did find the right person to marry. Still my little life is decent and clean. I've had the same job at the cafeteria for 25 years, and there’s a lot to say for that kind of stability. Nothing fancy, but I suppose my needs are simple enough. 

When I went around to Tommy’s this afternoon, I found him still sitting on the porch. He was punching his finger at a game of solitaire on his cell phone. He didn’t even have the decency to stand up when I came in. I leaned down to kiss his cheek and could feel days of stubble all over his face. Pathetic! At least the t-shirt he was wearing smelled fresh, and he’d moved all of the dirty dishes off the porch table.

“You’re growing roots to that chair,” I said as I brushed past.

I had brought a pair of yellow rubber gloves and a scrub brush in my handbag and got busy in his kitchen. Oh, did he need my help! I filled the sink with suds, shaking my head at the state of things. Mercy, the coffee rings had absolutely solidified in his mugs, and there were crumpled hamburger wrappers all over the counter. Never in my lowest days could I let my life get as bad as that!

“Just leave it, Angel,” he called from the porch. “It ain’t worth the trouble. Those dishes are just going to get dirty again.”

“Proper folks don’t say ‘ain’t,’ Tommy Baxter,” I said.

I’ve been correcting his grammar ever since he was just a little thing. Thank the Lord I know how to sound educated when I speak.

It took nearly an hour of solid scrubbing, but I got that kitchen clean, and it did look good when I was done. Now mind you, I didn’t have the courage to open up the refrigerator but that could be for another day. I plopped down into one of his porch chairs to rest my back and catch my breath a bit. Then I saw the blue notebook was still on the table, and I wondered if he had touched it. 

“Have you been writing your gratitude?” I asked him.

“Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t,” Tommy said, “but either way it’s none of your damned business.” 

Oh, but he was rough–a scraggly face and a sharp tongue! But if anyone can turn him around it’s me.

“Tommy, go and shave that shameful-looking face,” I said. “You’re not a bum.” 

He looked up at me from his phone game then; he gave me a good long stare. I know that look, because he’s shown it to me his whole life; like he wanted to spit out something else ugly and hateful, but his mind was working hard to hold everything in. Tommy’s always been the attractive one in the family, ice blue eyes like a husky dog. Truly he is a fine-looking man. No wonder he always found somebody to love him; no wonder he’s so unfamiliar with what it’s like to stare at the television at night, hoping that sleep will come and finally put the day out of its misery. But of course my brother will always mess it all up in the end, won’t he?

Tommy’s jaw was twitching and grinding, as though he was chewing on a tough piece of thought. Then he put down his cell phone and headed into the bathroom without saying a word. As soon as I heard the electric razor buzzing behind the closed door, I did it: I opened the blue notebook on the table. Wouldn’t you know, he had actually written in it. It wasn’t easy to read (that boy doesn’t make an effort for legible handwriting), but I read:

“Grateful for Wheel of Fortune.”

“Grateful that ramen noodles cook fast.”

“Grateful that this day is over and done.”

At least that’s something, but I will need to keep at him. And oh, that reminds me:

1. I am grateful I don’t have my brother’s mess of a life!
2. I am grateful Tommy listens to me.
3. I am grateful I can try to fix him.

Wednesday, July 3

Everything is better. My feet get sore at work from standing for hours by the steam trays, but even when I come home to an empty apartment, I always think, “compared to Tommy, this life is a dream.”

I went out to see him again today, and he looked surprised when he saw me coming up the walk. He was out in the yard, hooking a lawn sprinkler to the hose. When I went to kiss him, I noticed his cheek was shaven and smooth.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” he said. He fixed me again with those blue eyes.

“I brought you some decent food for once,” I called out as I headed up the porch steps.

I don’t often cook for myself, but today I put together his favorite–salmon croquettes–and brought him half a dozen in a tupperware. The plan was to clean out that fridge of his, but first, while he was busy in his yard, I snuck a peek into the blue notebook.

“Grateful it isn’t raining,” he had written

“Grateful for lightning bugs.”

And then I felt my breath catch as I saw something, and I felt warmth spreading all the way to the tips of my ears. “Angel,” he had written on the page. Just a single word, but my name, listed in his gratitude journal.

Of course he was grateful for me, and of course he had better be if he knew what was what. I opened the refrigerator door, and Lord, I was right. There was a whole pizza box in there…with nothing in it but leftover crusts. The jars of olives and pickles had layers of gray fuzz floating on the top, and there were all sorts of colored and sticky dribbles all over the shelves and walls. How can a civilized person live like that? I got my rubber gloves back out and set to work, tossing things, scraping off the refrigerator walls with a butter knife. 

Tommy came in and stood leaning on the frame of the kitchen door. “You know, you don’t need to do all this, Angel,” he said.

He was still wearing a cap on his head. “You know better than to wear that hat indoors, Tommy Baxter,” I said, but then I remembered the glow I felt when I read my name in his journal, so I sweetened my voice a bit and said, “You look more handsome without it.”

1. I am grateful Tommy needs me.
2. I am grateful I can teach him a thing or two.
3. I am grateful I can clean up his life.

Sunday, July 14

Worn out. It’s probably the extra shifts I’ve been pulling at the cafeteria to get caught up on the debt. I went to Tommy’s today and found him vacuuming the rug. I didn’t even know he owned a vacuum cleaner! He’d had a hair cut and was clean-shaven. He even had on a new shirt with a collar.

When he saw me come into his living room, he clicked off the machine. 

“Angel,” he said, “I didn’t know you were coming round.”

“Well, that’s a fine greeting,” I said. 

“I mean, you should have called,” he said. “I’m just on my way out to meet someone.”

“Meet someone?” I said, “who’re you meeting?”

“Just a someone,” Tommy said.

I clutched at my handbag and the thin leather of the strap pressed into my hand. From the way it was hurting, I knew it was leaving a mark, but I couldn’t stop myself from squeezing.

“Just a someone I met on the internet,” he said.

I tried to stomp my foot, but of course on carpet, it didn’t make a noise. “You can’t do that, Tommy, " I said. "you can’t just go meeting a stranger from the internet. You’d better let me come along with you and make sure it’s all okay. You’re just going to mess it up all over again if I’m not there to help out.”

“Angel,” he said, “I’ve got to leave now and so do you.” He took my arm to walk me to the door, but I stood there holding my ground like a steel post. 

“Time to go, Angel,” he told me again.

“Go on then,” I said, “you go on, and I’ll stay here and make this place nice for you and cook you some supper.”

I know my voice was getting louder and shriller, like all of a sudden he was the older one and I was the baby. “You can’t get along without me, Tommy, and you know it.” 

And then he did it again; he stared at me without a word. Today though, there was something softer in the ice blue, something like pity. The nerve he had to feel sorry for me, to feel sorry for my life!

“Truly,” he said, and he spoke in a gentle voice now like he was trying to calm down a scared animal, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Angel, but you’ve got to go home now.”

I sat down hard in one of his easy chairs. Finally I found something to say, and I pointed to the vacuum cleaner. “You know, you can’t just leave the house with that sitting out, Tommy,” I said. My voice was softer now, too. All of the puff had blown out of me. 

“You’re right,” he said. “Of course, you’re right. I’ll go put it away upstairs.” 

Once he’d left, I righted myself and made my way to the porch to look in the blue journal.

“Grateful for Pamela,” he had written

“Grateful for another chance at love”

“Grateful my life is finally moving on”

I shut the notebook, wobbled back to the living room and felt my body sink into the stuffing of the easy chair. My chest was tight and breathing was an effort..

“Come on, sweetie,” Tommy said, when he came back downstairs. “I’ll drop you at the bus stop on my way.”

His hand was gentle on my arm as he led me towards the porch door. “Oh,” he said, “and I got to tell you that journal idea, I think it really does work.”

On the 145 bus back to my apartment building, I thought about that new someone who might be called Pamela who was getting to know Tommy’s husky dog eyes. But I felt my bone tiredness, and in the end, all I could do was watch out the window–the same store fronts and advertisements–each one promising things, but really just looking too old and too familiar.

And before I forget:

1. I am grateful for Wheel of Fortune.
2. I am grateful that ramen noodles cook fast.
3. I am grateful that this day is over and done.