Bruiser (6 page)

Things were more strained than usual at dinner that night, but it could just have been that my senses were on high alert. Things around me had become confusing; I didn't know if I could trust my own perceptions anymore, and my thoughts were preoccupied with Brewster.

My parents, who used to be so much more observant, had absolutely no clue that anything was troubling me. Their own personal universes had developed a shell so thick, I don't think anything was getting through from the outside.

“Are you done, Brontë?” Mom asked, reaching for my dinner plate, not even noticing that I hadn't eaten a single thing. Carbs, protein, fiber—it all just sat there, as appetizing as plastic to me.

“I'm done,” I told her. She took away my plate and scraped my dinner into the disposal. I guess if I wasn't so focused on
Brew, I might have realized how “off” things were, how our whole family was on the verge of a landslide. Right then I wasn't seeing anything, though.

But Tennyson was. He was the one who noticed that Mom and Dad didn't say a word to each other all evening—how Dad just ate in silence. Tennyson even noticed my lack of appetite.

“Starvation diet?” he asked.

“Maybe I'm just not hungry,” I said. “Did you think of that?”

“I guess it's contagious,” he said. Only then did I realize he hadn't eaten much either. In fact, all he had eaten were his vegetables.

“Since when are you a vegetarian?” I asked.

He looked at me, taking great offense. “Just because I don't feel like eating meat lately doesn't make me a vegetarian. I'm not a vegetarian, okay?” Then he stormed away from the table.

 

After dinner I tried to do my homework, but I simply couldn't focus. I knew why. I had avoided talking to Tennyson about Brewster, but I couldn't put it off any longer. He was, unfortunately, the only one I could talk to.

I found him in the family room, watching basketball. He was slouching in the man-eating sofa—the one that, when we were kids, we could sink into and practically disappear. It
looked like Tennyson was still trying to do that; but the older we get, the harder that is.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to call you a vegetarian.”

“Apology accepted,” he said without looking at me. And when I didn't leave, he said, “You wanna watch the game?”

I sat beside him and let the sofa pull me in. We watched the game for a few minutes, and finally I said:

“I saw it.”

He turned to me, only half interested. “Saw what?”

“His back,” I told him. “He took off his shirt, and I saw his back. And it's not just on his back; it's all over.”

Tennyson shifted forward out of the folds of the man-eating sofa and raised the remote, turning off the TV, and gave me his full attention. I was grateful that this was more important to him than the game.

“So, what do you think?” he asked. “Do you think it's his uncle?”

Well, I know what I thought, but Brewster swore up and down that it wasn't true. “I don't know,” I told my brother. “He's a conundrum—and there's still a piece missing from the puzzle.” Whatever that piece was, there was a part of me telling me not to get involved—that it was too much to handle. That you shouldn't go out on a limb unless you're absolutely sure the limb can support your weight.

But a stronger part of me wanted to know everything about Brewster Rawlins and become a part of his story, no matter
how harsh that story was.

Tennyson opened his mouth to speak again, but I didn't let him.

“I know what you're going to say. You're going to say ‘I told you so,' then you're going to look at me with that smug expression you get whenever you're accidentally right.”

Then Tennyson did something he rarely does. He caught me by surprise.

“No,” he said, “I think you should keep seeing him.”

I tried to read the expression on his face, but with the TV turned off and only dim lights in the room, I couldn't. “Are you being sarcastic?” I asked. “Because it's not funny.”

“No,” said Tennyson. “I mean it. If you care about him, then you should keep on seeing him. Do you care about him?”

I didn't answer right away. I'll admit that Brewster had started as a project, but he had quickly become more than that. The question wasn't whether or not I cared about him; the question was, how much? I'm glad Tennyson didn't ask
that
, because then I'd have to ask myself; and I already knew the answer. I cared far more than was safe.

“Yes,” I told Tennyson simply. “I do care about him.”

Tennyson nodded and, without an ounce of judgment, said, “Good. Because he probably needs you. And I think you're going to need him, too.”

I didn't quite know what he meant by that last part, but I
was still processing the fact that Tennyson felt this was good.

“I thought you hated him….”

“I did,” Tennyson admitted, “but if I wanted to keep hating him, I needed a good reason; and I couldn't find one.”

This was not the Tennyson I knew. It's amazing how people can surprise you. Even brothers. “So, now you're friends?”

“I wouldn't go
that
far.” Then Tennyson lifted his hand and made a fist. I thought he was making a point; but no, he just studied his knuckles with a creepy kind of intensity. “Tell me something, Brontë by any chance did you hurt your foot last week?”

It threw me because I didn't expect him to know about that. How does he find out these things? “Yes,” I said. “I mean, no. I mean, I thought I sprained my ankle, but I didn't.”

“And the Bruiser was with you?”

“Were you spying on us again?”

“No, I just had a hunch.”

“So, then, he told you about it?”

“Nope.” And then he added with a grin, “Maybe I'm just a mind reader.”

Now this was more like the Tennyson I knew. “The only thing supernatural about you, Tennyson, is your body odor.”

He laughed at that. It eased the tension, but only a little. Then he got serious again. “Just promise me that you'll stay away from his house and from his uncle…and if things start to get weird, you'll tell me.”

“What do you mean by
weird
?”

“Just promise,” he said.

“Okay, fine. I promise.”

Then Tennyson leaned back into the man-eating sofa and turned on the TV, signaling the end of the conversation.

I left feeling more unsettled than before. It was easier to deal with Tennyson when he was fighting me; but having him on my side was frightening, because now I didn't know who the enemy was.

In horse racing they put these slats on either side of the horse's head, blocking the creature's peripheral vision. They're called blinders. They don't actually blind the horse, but they allow the horse to see only what's right in front of it; otherwise it might freak out and lose the race.

People live with blinders too; but ours are invisible, and much more sophisticated. Most of the time we don't even know they're there. Maybe we need them, though, because if we took in everything all at once, we'd lose our minds. Or worse, our souls. We'd see, we'd hear, we'd
feel
so deeply that we might never resurface.

So we make decisions and base our lives on those decisions, never realizing we're only seeing one-tenth of the whole. Then we cling to our narrow conclusions like our lives depend on it.

Remember how they imprisoned Galileo for insisting the earth revolved around the sun? You can call those people ignorant, but it was more than mere ignorance. They had a lot to lose if they took off their blinders. Can you imagine how terrifying it must be to suddenly realize that everything you believe about the nature of the universe is wrong? Most people don't realize how terrifying that is until
their
world is the one being threatened.

My world always revolved around our nuclear family. Mom, Dad, Tennyson, and me. It was an atom that might ionize once in a while, erratically spewing electrons here and there; but in spite of that, I always believed it was fundamentally stable. No one expects nuclear fission within the loving bonds of one's own family.

My blinders didn't allow me to see it coming.

I promised Tennyson I wouldn't go to Brewster's house, but that didn't mean I couldn't invite him to ours.

It was Friday, and I was already cooking dinner when Mom came home from the university. I had told her and Dad that tonight was the night Brew was coming; but I still couldn't take the chance that Mom would forget and have to order fast food, or worse, pull out frozen burritos and try to pass them off as homemade. So I skipped Friday's swim practice and got dinner going myself, thank you very much.

Sure enough, Mom's mind was beyond elsewhere when she got home, so I had definitely made the right call. “Brewster will be coming at six,” I told her. “Just in time for dinner. Please,
please
, don't bring out my baby pictures, or ask him about his philosophy of life the way you did with Max.”

Mom nodded, then said, “I'm sorry, honey, what was that?” like she was somewhere in deep space, where sound waves couldn't travel. It drove me crazy that I had to repeat myself, and I still don't know whether she heard.

If it weren't for my blinders, I might have wondered about the bigger picture, but right then and there it was all about me.

“Please
try
to make him feel at home. Please
try
not to scare him away.”

“Did your father call?” Mom asked with an emptiness in her voice that I misread as exhaustion.

“I don't know,” I told her. “I've been out buying groceries.”

Tennyson arrived a bit later, all sweaty from lacrosse.

“Shower!” I ordered. “Brewster's coming over for dinner.”

He looked worried and said to me quietly, “I don't think this is a good night.”

“When is it ever?”

“No,” he said just as quietly. “There's something wrong. Something going on. I could tell this morning at breakfast; didn't you notice the way Mom and Dad were?”

“No.”

“It's like…it's like someone died and they haven't told us yet. Anyway, whatever it is—”

“Whatever it is,” I said stridently, “it's going to have to wait until after dinner. I've been planning this for a week, dinner is in the oven, and it's too late to call it off.”

He gave no further argument and went off to shower.

When Dad came home, he opened a bottle of wine, which wasn't unusual. He'd usually have a glass as he watched the news, and maybe one with dinner if the wine was one that complemented the meal—but never more than that. Tonight he guzzled the first glass with the wine bottle still in his hand and poured a second. I thought about what Tennyson had said but decided that whatever was wrong, a hearty, home-cooked meal would soothe it.

“Dad, save the second glass for dinner,” I told him. “Merlot goes well with what I'm making.”

“You?”

“Yes, me. Brewster's coming for dinner, remember?”

“Oh. Right.”

Brewster arrived just as I finished setting the table. “Am I too early?” he asked.

“Right on time,” I told him. “You look great.” He was dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt that was a little bit small on him; but that was his own personal style, and I'd come to appreciate it. His wavy hair was so well-groomed, he was hardly recognizable. I practically wanted to put him up as the centerpiece of the table and present him proudly to my parents; but instead I just made introductions, and they all shook hands.

Then, when everyone was seated, I brought the platter to the table. “
Voilà
,” I said. “
Bon appétit.
” And I unveiled my
gastronomical masterpiece.

Tennyson and Brew just stared at it like it had come from Mars.

“What is that?” Tennyson asked.

“It's a tri-tip roast,” I said.

Tennyson looked like he might become physically ill. “Where'd you get it?” he asked.

“The store. Where else?”

“I'll pass.”

“What do you mean, you'll pass? You can't pass! I was cooking all afternoon!”

Tennyson turned to Brew, and Brew grinned. “Still not eating meat?”

“I'll eat it when I'm good and ready,” said Tennyson.

The fact that the two of them had some secret that I wasn't aware of really bothered me. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“Not while we're eating,” said Tennyson, and he loaded his plate with asparagus, announcing that it didn't make him a vegetarian.

“It's a lovely dinner, Brontë,” said Mom; but instead of eating, she got up to clean the pots and pans that I had cooked with, refusing to sit down again.

Dad said nothing about the meal, or about anything else. He served himself and picked at the food on his plate, glaring down with an intensity that was both cold and hot at the same
time, like he had a vendetta against the roast and hated each and every vicious spear of asparagus before him.

The silence around the table was awful and simply had to be broken, but no one was willing to do it but me.

“It's not usually like this,” I told Brew. “That is to say, it's not really this quiet. Usually we have conversations—especially when we have guests. Right?”

Finally Dad took the hint. “So, exactly how long have you known each other?” he asked, but his tone was strangely bitter.

“We started going out three weeks ago, if that's what you mean,” Brew said. “But we've known each other since elementary school. Or at least known
of
each other.”

Dad shoved a piece of meat into his mouth and spoke with his mouth full. “Glad to hear it,” he said as he cut another piece of meat. “You have my blessing,” he said to me. “
Via con Dios
.”

It was the most mad-bizarre thing I'd ever heard my father say. I turned to see Mom's reaction, but she was still busy washing the pots and pans, keeping her back to the rest of us.

Finally I lost it.
“What's wrong with you?”
I shouted to Mom and Dad.

No answer for a while. Then Dad said, “Nothing's wrong, Brontë. I'm just worried about your mother. She's putting so much effort into that ‘Monday night class' she teaches, I'm concerned for her health.” He glared at her back like it was
an accusation. Suddenly I realized that it was.

For a brief moment I met Brew's eyes, and there was panic in them. I could see the way he held his utensils tightly in his hands, as if he'd have to use them as weapons at any moment. I turned to Tennyson, whose hands were out, palms down on the table; he was looking at his plate as if he were silently saying grace.
No, that's not it,
I realized.
My brother's bracing himself. Bracing himself for what?

And suddenly my blinders fell away, letting the big picture invade my mind in all of its terrible glory.