Dancing with Decisions

Richard was a guy who had it all, after his life got better from the accident. It wasn’t always so nice having a wife, two kids, even if they didn’t get straight A’s. But dang it, he had plenty of time to think of what he wanted, and got most of it. He was ruthless in most pursuits from sheer work: 16-hour days, undermining colleagues when needed. Power plays by will. He got things done. But only after figuring it out after making decisions that snowballed into paralyzing regret that physically stopped him.

           Back when he and his brother would play around, wrestling, actually fighting, and roaming in the woods, the park, even at school when everybody left, those were times he missed most. Times when he didn’t have to be cold-hearted, and instead could just figure out things, help people, and all without trying with hopeless desperation to be empathetic and fail.

He’d reminisce when upon occasion the grinding of life would have waves of emotions pummel him and he’d be found by a friend or family member breathing hard and staring out a window. He always pictured one object in particular. And it always brought flashbacks.

           “I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” the memory of Luke came back to him as he stared at it.

Gleaming, black, and bossy. “You don’t need to listen to it, Richy.” His brother had said. “It’s stupid. It’s not a real thing.”

“You said, ‘If you follow the answer, then you’ll do dishes for a week’. There were a bunch of dirty dishes in the kitchen, and a bunch of dry fingers between them. “I dug the grave. For two hours!”

“I didn’t know you’d actually do that.” Truth be told, Luke was smarter than him. It was like he was just quicker off the gun. Any time some decision or judgement was about to happen, bang, he’d given a thorough answer that he could debate from, and he’d almost always win. Well, now that Richard had this ball, there wasn’t relying on luck or slow answers anymore.

Richard snapped back to the staring at the object he’d brought out of his basement tonight. It was creepy enough that basement with dreadful lighting. Almost tumbling down after bouncing off the wall that faced the steep stairway. It wasn’t like there were too many boxes, but there were mementos that he had to keep. Most all of it was related to Luke. Now that the box was minus the ball and sitting on the desk, he pondered.

Stroking his stubble, occasionally feeling sideburns—as if to make sure they were still there. Jumping back in time, you had to be careful you didn’t revert to being so young you couldn’t grow facial hair. Curly black hair, that was always going to be curly black, like his dad. He’d probably get hunchback, too, when he got old enough just like his dad. If he got old enough to be a whole 40 something years old.

“Still feel like a kid even now,” he mumbled to himself. Downstairs, 11 at night, his own kids in bed, and his wife, hair untied, asleep long ago, Richard danced his thoughts upon this magical object. It held his focus, all else got sucked in. Exclusively magnifying itself, the ball warped his mind into a gateway he was happy to enter.

About the only things to change were the layout of furniture. The same bland walls stood before him. Seemingly newer, but only because he was 30 years younger, but so was the house. He could see his brother not wanting to challenge him. He’d dug the grave and Luke couldn’t think of what to say to stop him. Big brothers are supposed to be more mature, wiser. All of that.

“Richy,” Luke sighed. “I’m going to take a shower. I don’t want to be all dirty when Mama gets back. I think Daddy’s getting home late. Still, I’m going to do my homework. I’ll, I guess, see you. I can help you with your homework. Later, tomorrow.”

Richard waved with little care. Didn’t even blink at the hesitance in his brother’s voice, higher pitched than it normally was. That only happened around especially cute girls, like with Ada, who could make her own hair into a ponytail. He bet he could hold her hand and walk to the pizza place after school. But, Luke was the one she liked.

Almost drooling, before he wiped it away, he went over to the ball to shake out an answer. “What should I do? I like her, but she likes him? Is that right?” The magic pushed up an answer. It was excruciatingly slow. Once, he’d missed the answer because he looked up. That’s when Luke had chosen to re-shake it. He wondered if the second time would’ve had the same answer. That never happened again.

“Don’t count on it.”

Richard then hummed a dissatisfactory reply. It was sometimes a conversation. You had to pull at it the just the right way to get the answer. “Should I hurt Luke some. He’ll understand. No one likes someone with a big swollen face.” He shook it till one long vein on each arm showed. Bubbles and relief came with the answer: “Without a doubt.”

Coldcocking him. That was a way to bruise an ego and a face. Luke didn’t even probably feel it. He was shorter, too. So he didn’t have that big a fall. Besides, it wasn’t on the bathroom tiles, just on the fluffy brown carpet.

“What now?” Richard asked the object, not even caring to bring Luke to his bed so he could be out of the hallway. It’d be awkward, he thought. His parents might trip over him, but he had time to next do whatever it said.

“Yes definitely.”

“Come on, not a real answer!” He pushed his glasses up. They had almost slid off when he’d bent to see the bruise growing around his brother’s right eye. Still, to make sure he’d have a real shot with Ada, Richard pushed Luke to the side and punched him in the other eye. It was like reverse Whack-a-Mole. You hit something, then see it rise.

“Does this mean I’ll have a good chance now?”

“Concentrate and ask again.”

Half swollen, purplish, radiating heat from each punch, Luke didn’t make a sound.

“Okay, okay. I don’t want this anymore.”

“It is certain.”

“Should I take him to bed. He’ll be only a little angry. Or I can . . .” He looked out back. The backyard wasn’t the biggest, but it was a few acres. No one asked for the boys to quiet when they were yelling loud enough that they should’ve gotten scolded, like at school. Crabgrass grew where it could among the holes and divots. It wasn’t a place to invite any family friends.

“Outlook good.”

“Phew. All right, then. You got this.” He opened the back door into a ugly-clouded day, dragging his brother, one heave with each step. “Don’t worry, bro. We’re just pretending.”

Stumbling over some toys—now he knew why his dad simply threw toys in the trash. A step or two of sharp pain wasn’t funny when a plastic army man stabs you right in the heel and you of course jump onto another toy that shanks you with equal pleasure.

It was a treasure hunt of finding one spot, which gave access to find another spot. Obstacles of dirtied clothes and landmines of toys slowed his pace between small walkways. His dad was a packrat. Not something he’d be doing when he became an adult. Still, he finally got his brother to the destination in the backyard.

The hole is big and hungry looking for a body. The ball knew.

For some reason, Richard smelled animals. Wild animals—the stink of sweat, piss, blood, and desperation. He put it out of his mind. It was time to get a job done.

Parents can always find the spot where their kid is. It was science. “Instrinct.” Richard remembered hearing Luke say. He’d show Luke now, even if he didn’t really know what the word really meant. In a little bit, their mom would come home, go straight here, and just then Richard would say he found him.

Slamming the side of his fist into his mahogany desk, Richard thundered. “Face down, face down. You stupid kid. Why would you leave him face down? He already can’t see because you bashed his face in!” Richard was screaming at the fading mist of memory. Waking up from this nightmare meant every time tears would come and feelings of rage would linger for a long time. Even if the memory was never as raw as this time, he wiped hands like clockwork to make sure blood, sweat, tears, and whatever else wasn’t covering them.

He realized people were going to wake up if he didn’t calm himself. Shaking hands and even shakier fingers weren’t a way to comfort a kid, in case they came to see him. Not that he even really knew how to be good with kids.

He just wished he could get over all this. Police had sent him to juvenile hall. Parents split up, and died not many years later. He got out after five years, but barely got a high school diploma. Working as a gas pumper, cleaning cars. Being constantly told machines would soon enough take his job. Least he had this house. Even if the kids weren’t as perfect as he wanted. Even if his wife, his life, his jobs now were great. Least he still had something.

“I just don’t know. I want this over and done with. You know, I’m tired of thinking. So much thinking, never stopping.” Work, expectations, endless frustration and not getting things right. Smearing wet frustration down cheeks, Richard, through gloomy eyesight, peered at the threatening ball. It could have an answer. “Is there something I should do?”

But he didn’t look at it. He went to bed. Junior, his son, had snuck down when he was awoken. He had questions, but since his dad wasn’t likely to answer, he looked at the ball and decided on the same question.

“It is decidedly so.”

An ominous smile that the world hadn’t seen in three decades appeared on his face.