The Complete Elizabeth Gilbert: Eat, Pray, Love; Committed; The Last American Man; Stern Men & Pilgrims (162 page)

And yet Denny Brown (at age fifteen) did not even know that the word “Monroe” was a person’s name.

Denny Brown knew nothing about where he lived. He did not know that his water came from a reservoir twenty-five miles north of Monroe, or that his electricity came from one of the state’s first nuclear plants. He’d spent his life in a suburban housing development called Greenwood Fields, never knowing that the area had once been a dairy farm. He did not know that the land had once belonged to a family of Swedish immigrants named Martinsson, whose only son died in 1917, killed in the trenches of France. Actually, Denny Brown did not yet know what
trenches
were. That was eleventh-grade history. He did not yet know very much about World War I. He knew nothing (and would never really learn) about more obscure wars, like the
Spanish-American War and the Korean War. He did not know that his mother had served for a year as a nurse in the Korean War. She’d never mentioned it.

Denny Brown did not know that his parents had fallen in love literally at first sight, or that his mother was pregnant on her wedding day. He did not know that his Grandmother Brown had objected strongly to the marriage because Denny’s mother was older than his father and had a wise mouth. Grandmother Brown thought that Denny’s mother was a “whore,” and said as much to her son. (That would be
her
only use of dirty language in ninety years on earth, and Denny’s father wept at the word.)

Denny Brown did not know that his mother had wept only once in her married life. He could not imagine her ever crying. It was over Denny himself, actually. It happened when Denny was two years old. He had reached up to the stove and pulled a frying pan full of simmering gravy down on top of him. His mother was right there. She grabbed him and threw him into the bathtub, where she ran cold water over him. She tore off his clothing. His mother (the burn unit nurse, the war hospital nurse) became hysterical, screaming for her husband. The baby screamed; the mother screamed. She would not let Denny out from under the stream of cold water, even when he was shivering and his lips were turning blue.

“He’s burned!” she screamed. “He’s burned! He’s burned!”

In fact, Denny turned out to be fine. Mrs. Brown had acted quickly enough, and Denny had received only first-degree burns on his face and hands. But his mother cried for a full day. She thought,
“I am not worthy to be a mother.”

What’s more, up until the day that Denny was burned, his mother had wanted to have a second child, but she did not ever consider this again. Never again. Denny Brown did not know that he had ever been burned or that his mother had ever cried
or that his mother had ever wanted another baby. He did not know anything about any of this.

He did know, however, where babies came from. At age fifteen, he did know that. His mother had taught him that, at the proper age and in the proper manner.

But there was so much else that he did not yet know. He was ignorant on so very many subjects. At age fifteen, for instance, Denny Brown still happened to believe that the Twin Towers were located in the Twin Cities.

On the morning of August 17, during Denny Brown’s sixteenth summer, Russell Kalesky came over to the Browns’ house, asking for Denny. As usual. Everything that morning was just as usual.

“Want to work on the car today, man?” Russell asked.

“Excellent,” Denny said.

But Russell looked different. His face and arms were covered with ugly red spots.

“Are you okay?” Denny asked.

“Check it out,” Russell said. “I got the chicken pox, man.”

Denny Brown did not know that anybody except little kids could get the chicken pox.

“Mom!” Denny cried, laughing. “Mom! Help!”

Denny’s mother, the nurse, came to the door and looked at Russell. She made him lift up his shirt so that she could examine the spots on his chest. This made Russell Kalesky laugh so hard out of embarrassment that a bubble of snot popped out of his nostril, and that made
Denny
laugh so hard that he had to sit down on the front step. Denny and Russell were both laughing like fools.

“You definitely have the chicken pox, Russell,” Denny’s mother diagnosed.

For some reason, this made Russell and Denny laugh so hard
that they had to fall into each other’s arms and then hold on to their stomachs and stamp their feet.

“Although it doesn’t seem to be interfering with morale . . .” Denny’s mother observed.

Because he had already had the chicken pox, Denny was allowed to go over to the Kaleskys’ house. Russell and Denny worked on the Ford for a while. Their job for the day was to take the mirrors off the sides of the car, soak them in a bucket of soapy water, then polish them and return them to their places. Russell kept stepping out of the driveway and into the garage because he said the sun hurt his chicken pox. Every time Russell mentioned the words
chicken pox
, Denny would start laughing again.

“Who gets the chicken pox, man?” Denny asked. “That’s crazy, getting the chicken pox.”

“My whole goddamn family got it, man,” Russell said. “Nobody ever had it before, and the whole family got it. Even my mom got it, man.”

Denny laughed. Then he stopped laughing.

“Even Paulette?” he asked. “Did Paulette get it?”

It was the first time Denny Brown had ever said the name
Paulette
around her brother Russell Kalesky.

“Paulette?” Russell said. “Paulette? Paulette’s the one that brought it home, man. Shit! She got it the worst. She got it from one of her stupid kids, man.”

“Is she . . . um . . . okay?”

Russell was not hearing or recognizing Denny’s tone. Russell was not asking himself why Denny Brown would care about his sister, Paulette.

Russell said, “Paulette’s a freak, man. She won’t come out of her room, man. She’s just up there crying all day.
‘Wahhh! It itches! Help me!’”

Denny stood there in the Kaleskys’ driveway. He stood there
in the sun, holding a sideview mirror. Stood there and stood there.

“Hey, man,” Russell said.

“Hey, man,” Russell said again.

Denny Brown looked up at him.

“Hey, man,” Russell said.

“I have to go inside now,” Denny said.

Denny set the sideview mirror down on the driveway and went into the Kaleskys’ house. Mrs. Kalesky was lying on the couch. The shades were drawn in the living room, and the television was on. Mrs. Kalesky was pink with calomine lotion.

“Are you okay?” Denny asked her.

She was smoking a cigarette, and she looked up at him. She was usually a friendly lady, but she didn’t smile. She shook her head, in fact, and looked miserable. Her face was covered with lumps and swellings, worse than Russell’s.

“I’ll be back, Mrs. Kalesky,” Denny said. “I’m just going upstairs. I’m just going upstairs for a minute.”

Denny went up the stairs of the Kaleskys’ house and down the hall to the room he knew was Paulette’s. He knocked on the door.

“It’s Denny,” he said. “It’s me.”

He went inside. Paulette was on her bed, lying on top of her sheets and blankets. She saw Denny and started to cry. She was worse than Russell and worse than her mother. She put her hands over her face.

“It itches,” she said. “It itches so much.”

“Okay,” Denny said. “Hold on, okay?”

The thing was, Denny had indeed had the chicken pox before. He wasn’t that young when he’d had it, either. Almost eleven years old. His mother had been working a lot during that time, and Denny’s father had nursed him. Denny’s father had done a very good job nursing him, Denny remembered.

Denny went downstairs and into the Kaleskys’ kitchen. Russell was inside now, too.

“What the fuck, man?” Russell asked.

“Russell,” Mrs. Kalesky said. “No.” She was too weak to protest the dirty mouth further.

“Russell,” Denny said, “I just need to get some oatmeal.”

Denny started looking through the kitchen cabinets.

“What the
fuck
, man?” Russell demanded. No protest this time from Mrs. Kalesky. She was really sick.

Denny found a large container of oatmeal, and said to Russell, “It’s for the itching. Paulette needs it, okay?”

He went back upstairs. Russell followed him, silent. Denny ran some water in the upstairs bathtub of the Kaleskys’ house. He poured the full container of oatmeal into the bath and tested the water temperature, rolling one sleeve up and dipping his arm into the tub. He swirled the oatmeal around and left the water running.

Denny went back into Paulette’s bedroom. He passed Russell without speaking.

“Paulette,” Denny said, “you’re going to sit in the bathtub for a little while, okay? That helps. It helps the itching. I’m going to sit with you, okay?”

He helped her sit up in bed, and then he led her into the bathroom. She was still crying, although not as much. He was holding her hand as they passed by the astonished former bully, Russell Kalesky, who was still standing in the hallway.

“Excuse me,” Denny said politely to Russell. “Sorry.”

Denny took Paulette into the bathroom and shut and locked the door behind them.

“Okay,” he said to her. “Here we go, okay?”

Paulette was wearing her pajamas. They were damp with perspiration. She was very, very sick.

“Okay,” Denny said. “You’re going to have to get undressed, okay?”

Paulette put her hand on the sink, to steady herself. She took off her socks, one at a time. She stepped out of her pajama bottoms. Then she stepped out of her underwear. She stood there.

“Okay,” Denny said. “I’m going to help you out of this shirt, and then we’re going to put you in the bathtub, okay? You’re going to feel a lot better, okay? Okay? Lift up your arms, Paulette.”

Paulette stood there.

“Here we go,” Denny said. “Lift up your arms.”

Paulette lifted her arms up, like a little girl who needs help getting out of a nightgown. Denny pulled her pajama top over her head.

“Okay,” Denny said. “Looks like you have the worst of it on your stomach.”

“Look at my skin!” Paulette said, and started to cry again.

“Your skin is going to be fine, okay?” Denny said.

He tested the water again, which was lukewarm. Cool and reassuring tones of water temperature. He swirled the oatmeal once more in the bath and helped Paulette step in.

“That feels better, right?” Denny Brown (age fifteen) said. “That helps, doesn’t it?”

She sat in the bath, knees up to her chest. She put her head on her knees, still crying.

“Here we go,” Denny Brown said. He scooped up handfuls of wet, cool oatmeal and pressed them on her back, against the patches of mean, swollen pox. “Here we go. Here we go.”

Denny packed the cool oatmeal against her neck and shoulders and arms. He took a cup from the sink and ran water over her head to calm the itching under her hair. He ran warmer water into the tub when its temperature began to drop.

Denny Brown knelt on the floor beside Paulette. Downstairs on the couch, Mrs. Kalesky wondered what was going on up there. Upstairs in the hallway, the former bully Russell Kalesky sat down on the floor, directly across from the locked bathroom
door. Russell stared at the door. He tried to hear what was going on in there, but he could hear nothing.

Inside the bathroom, Denny was tending Paulette. “You can lean back now,” he told her.

He helped ease her from the sitting position until she lay back in the bathtub. He put a folded towel under her head as a pillow. The water was cool and high all around her, reaching just below her chin. Her breasts floated up. They were lightened by the water.

“You’re going to feel better in exactly five minutes,” Denny Brown said, and smiled at her. Then he said, “Do you want a glass of water?”

“No, thank you,” Paulette said.

Maybe five minutes passed. Five minutes probably did pass. Mrs. Kalesky waited downstairs, still wondering what was going on. A few houses away, Denny Brown’s mother got ready to go to work at the burn unit. Denny Brown’s father helped a dying patient across town eat some lunch. Monroe High School sat empty. Russell Kalesky’s Ford sat in the driveway, still as ever. It was August. All things were as they always are in August.

And then Paulette Kalesky said to Denny Brown, “You’re doing a good job.”

Just outside the bathroom, Russell Kalesky sat very still indeed. He did not know what his friend was doing in there. He did not know what his sister was doing in there. Russell did not know what he was watching for, but he watched that bathroom door as closely as any person can watch anything. He did not know what he was listening for, either. But Russell Kalesky listened, and his head was cocked sharply.

A
T THE TIME
of Babette, my grandfather was not yet twenty. Although today, and perhaps even then, such youth is not necessarily married to innocence, in his case it was. There were boys his age who had already served in the war and returned, but he was not among them, for the unromantic reason that one of his feet was several sizes larger than the other. Outfitting him with boots would have inconvenienced the United States Army enough that he was not selected, and he passed the war years, as before, in the company of his elderly great-aunt.