Homecoming

Nathan – When we were boys, my brother and I ­didn’t have much of anything, but we loved to make believe. Our favorite game was playing doctor. As the older one, I was always the doctor, and no matter what, Dwayne was the patient. A couple days before my thirteenth birthday, we had found a pair of giant metal headphones buried deep in the dumpster around the corner of Frederick Douglass Blvd. They were the heaviest set of headphones imaginable, enough to give your neck a crick if you wore them too long. Worse, they smelled like the breath of the old bum who hung around that particular dumpster. But they served as a stethoscope in our make-believe world.

My mom had my brother nine years after I was born, so I was always taking care of him. When we were young, I could say anything and he’d believe it. I could make the stupidest jokes, and he’d laugh as long as he heard me laughing. When we played doctor, I would say silly things like, “I’m sorry, Mr. Dwayne, but it looks like your brain is on fire. We’re going to have to amputate.”

He would giggle and squirm around in his chair, and I would fight to hold back my own laughter. Then he would flash a grin from ear to ear, but I would pretend to get all serious. I would run some tests: “Jump up and down while rubbing your belly.” And he would say, “Give it to me straight, doc. How much longer do I got?” I would put down the heavy headphones and pick up our surgical saw – a thin piece of cardboard we had colored gray with magic marker.

“I’d say you’re not done yet. You might still live a long, long life.” It was always “happily ever after” according to the doctors on TV. These were the doctors with short blond hair parted carefully to the side, uniforms pressed meticulously, smiles winsome and charming. They didn’t want to scare their patients with bad news. But everybody watching those shows knew the patient was doomed. The handsome young doctor knew it, I knew it, even little Dwayne knew it. The only one in blissful ignorance was the beautiful lady in the hospital gown facing the camera.

“Bam! You’re good as new, Mr. Dwayne! Just remember, no smoking or drinking or late-night partying for at least a week, okay?” He would giggle some more in that sweet, naïve voice of his. Then we would put away our musty-smelling doctor things, grab a ball, and run down to Rucker Park to breathe in the warm summer air.

***

Dwayne –

I was nine when my brother Nathan left for college, but I still remember his explanation.

“Hey, do you remember when we used to play doctor? Well … guess what? I got a letter from some people in Boston, and they say they’re gonna teach me everything it takes to become a real doctor. And, well, I’m gonna be going to school there for the next few years.

“Now, it’s not as bad as you think. I’m not leaving. I’ll be back whenever I can. They give us plenty of breaks.”

Maybe they did give plenty of breaks those first few years in Boston, but when Nate got bogged down in med school out in Chicago, the visits became few and far apart. Pretty soon, I started to understand what being an only child was like. Mom was running around Harlem so much to pay his tuition that I barely saw her. I was on my own.

As for school, well, we sort of had a love-hate relationship. The teachers loved me because they all remembered Nate and how good a student he was, but I couldn’t stand their monotone voices and condescending ways.

When Nate would come home, he would convince me to try harder, so I could be a doctor too. In the beginning, I wanted to be just like him, so there would be periodic bursts of energy with my homework and tests. But these little spurts never lasted long, even when Nate started offering me five bucks for every B on my report card, and ten for every A. I dropped out of high school junior year, with plenty of other things on my mind.

I met Angel Vasquez when I was fifteen. Every kid in the neighborhood knew Angel. He was my brother’s age, and everyone called him Mad Dog. His hair was full of grease, and his sleeves were cut off, I suppose to bring attention to his large collection of tattoos. He walked up to my friends and me in the middle of a pick-up game, wanting to know if we had seen Joey Black.

Everyone knew that Mad Dog was out for Joey, and everyone knew where Joey was hiding. Joey owed him money or something. I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but I ratted Joey out. I wanted Mad Dog’s respect. A couple of cops found Joey dead two days later.

***

Christmas Eve – 11 p.m.

Nathan –

With each step I took, the clean white snow underfoot was crushed and tainted by my grimy black soles. My shoes traced webs of criss-crossing designs in the unblemished powder. I hadn’t seen fresh-fallen snow blanketing New York like this since I was twelve. It struck me that this soft powder was perfect for snowball fights – a memory that hadn’t crossed my mind since the beginning of college.

A bitter gust of freezing air hit me in the face as I turned the corner. I had stepped into the worst wind tunnel in New York. I pulled down my cap and buried my face in the delicate cashmere scarf around my neck. Today was a sort of homecoming for me. I hadn’t seen my family since last Christmas, hadn’t set foot in New York in two years.

The hustle and bustle of being a medical intern working 24-hour shifts for the last two years had worn me down. Like my favorite author, J.R.R Tolkien once wrote, I was “thin, like butter spread over too much bread.” Semesters of late-night studying had garnered me a pair of thick glasses. I was perpetually tired, but life was looking up. It was my first year running a small private practice in Chicago’s Southside.

There’s something about being a doctor that adds a small kick to each step. Even when I’m running on caffeine alone, I stand tall with an air of confidence. I’ve actually been complimented on my posture. Maybe it’s just the pride of scribbling out “M.D.” at the end of every signature. Or maybe (for me, at least) it’s the satisfaction of seeing men and women react differently to a black man than they normally would. Growing up, I hated those people who looked at my brother and me and turned up their noses. It wasn’t just the snobby rich people, it was the poor white trash – just as poor as Dwayne and me – who victimized blacks for the hell of it. I tried to imagine what they must have been thinking: I’m trash and I know it, but at least I’m better than one of them.

I strolled down 115th Street, head held high and briefcase in hand. My overcoat fought off haphazard tendrils of wind that collided with me. Flurries fogged up my glasses, and every now and then I would wipe them on my sleeve. There was a hushed quiet in the air. Hardly any cars were on the street, even though it was only an hour until midnight. A foot of snow already, and more coming soon.

I walked toward my mother’s home, just a few more blocks. I would have taken a taxi from the airport, but there were no drivers willing to navigate this blizzard. My head stretched up toward the night sky. Through the heavy storm clouds and lifeless smog of the New York skyline, I could see the faint glimmer of celestial shapes. They were hidden behind a hazy mantle of darkness, but to me, they were like pearls in the sand. I saw the crescent moon – its breadth torn asunder, incomplete, devoid of something. I walked on toward home, following the stars.

***

Dwayne –

“Perfect weather, boys,” screamed Mad Dog. “Perfect, perfect, perfect. You wanna know why it’s so perfect? Dwayne. Tell ’em why it’s perfect weather?”

“I dunno, man. Why?” Mad Dog was getting all bloodthirsty. I could tell from his voice. Whenever you heard a trace of happiness in his voice, you knew something was about to go down.

“Why! This fool doesn’t know why it’s perfect Goddamn weather. I’ll tell ya why! Now it’s snowin’ like hell, right. That means not one cop is gonna be out on the streets, boys. We could raise all sorts of hell, and those lazy fatasses won’t do nothing. Know what else? No doubt there’s gonna be some poor sucker wandering all helpless in the snow? I’ll tell ya, he ain’t gonna be making no quick getaway in this perfect weather. And you know our motto, boys. What we gonna do to that fool?”

“We gonna fight, kill, pillage and burn! Fight, kill, pillage, and burn!” we replied in unison.

“Hell, yeah. Now shut off that damn TV. Let’s go.”

Together, we followed Mad Dog outside. There were about ten of us. I was always the last one. Mad Dog had a sort of pecking order with everything, even when it came to simple things like walking. Naturally, he led the way. His closest friends were right behind him. The young guns like me were last in line. I figured it was because Mad Dog was afraid of getting stabbed in the back.

We walked around for about an hour, looking to mug some poor fool. We started to wander near the house where Nathan and I grew up. But except for us, the streets were empty. I had never seen New York impersonate a ghost town so convincingly. Apparently, neither had Mad Dog. He kicked the tire of a parked sedan, and I watched mounds of snow cascade onto the sidewalk.

“Agh, what the hell!” he spat. “Damn, let’s go.”

We saw Mad Dog’s eyes drift over to the other side of the street. An old homeless man trudged through the knee-high snow. He struggled to push the shopping cart filled with his belongings, the wheels getting trapped in the icy sludge.

***

Nathan –

The lenses of my glasses continued to fog up, but I didn’t bother wiping them. I just couldn’t keep up with the blizzard. My vision was distorted; everything was black and white, light and shadows. It was almost like a photo negative, or a fuzzy X-ray image.

Up ahead, I made out a shadowy figure. He was walking slowly, tenderly, bent over on top of something. Behind him, I made out some other shadows: tall, wide, ghostly figures, approaching the man pretty quickly. I stood transfixed, watching this silent movie play itself out.

***

Dwayne –

I wasn’t particularly proud of what I did daily with Mad Dog. In fact, I hated what we did. Fight, kill, pillage, and burn. It was our creed, but I despised it. When I told Mad Dog where Joey Black was hiding out, I didn’t do it because I wanted to join his fraternity of murderers. I just wanted some respect, somewhere I could belong. I just wanted some friends who wouldn’t ever sell out. I wanted brothers who wouldn’t ever get up and leave.

And if I had to kill, pillage, and burn to keep those friends, so be it.

***

Nathan –

The group of ghosts descended upon the man. I heard a savage cry, a piercing howl of licentious ecstasy – like a wolf’s final cry after the hunt. They talked in low, guttural voices; their tone was mocking, laughing. One knocked the man over. Another kicked his cart over, strewing black garbage bags onto the icy street. I ducked behind a parked truck and held my breath.

My sensibility pulled me back, but my conscience urged me forward. I leapt toward the ghostly figures and tried to yell “Stop!” with all the conviction I could muster, but my voice sounded feeble amid the deafening winds of the storm.

It was enough, though. Every head turned in my direction, except the old man’s. He was shaking feverishly on the pavement. Close up, I recognized the hard creases of his forehead and the tufts of wiry white hair poking through his skullcap. Sarge was the proudest bum in Harlem, a Vietnam War veteran Dwayne and I had known since childhood. He was coughing and convulsing, muttering curses in a high-pitched, unintelligible drawl. The man who had been kicking Sarge cocked his head and grinned.

“Why don’t you guys leave Sarge alone and go home?” I declared. “It’s cold, and there’s no point in beating up an old man.”

***

Dwayne –

When he finally spoke, I knew it was Nate. My eyes widened in shock, and my lower lip fell open. He was going to die, I knew it. Mad Dog was too far in to let him go.

“My, my,” taunted Mad Dog. “We got ourselves something real special, boys. An educated black man. Y’all can tell by those nice leather shoes and that faggoty-looking scarf; this boy thinks he’s real uppity. What’s Uncle Tom gonna do, hmm?” Mad Dog kicked Sarge in the gut, and the old man let out a whimper.

“Hey, I’m talking to you!” retorted Nate. “Look, you see this right here?” He waved his wallet in his left hand. “I’ll give you all the money I have if you just leave this man alone, okay?” Nate bent over Sarge to check his vitals, to see if he was brain-dead.

“Hmm. That does sound nice, boy. How much you got?”

I knew what Mad Dog was planning. I’d seen it all before. He would toy with the man; first take his money, then his possessions, then his clothes. Then he would beat him, mercilessly – personally torture the man. In the end, he would turn him around and make him close his eyes, before ending it all with one slip of the trigger finger. But I knew I could stop it.

I spoke up. “Mad Dog, lemme at him. I’ll rip this fool’s heart out.” I tried to imitate Mad Dog’s tone – his half-crazy, adrenaline-fueled laughter.

Mad Dog snapped his head over to me. I expected his glare to cut into me, but his face seemed almost proud. “Now normally, you’d have to wait your turn, Dwayne. But I can tell from your voice that it’s just killin’ ya not to tear this boy apart. So you know what … it’s all yours. Let’s see what you got.”

I charged forward and hit my brother with all the strength in me. This had to look real if Mad Dog was to buy it. I was vicious, letting loose a series of body blows and kicks to the face. For every hit I made on Nate, I knew Mad Dog would hit twice as hard, and three times as deadly.

***

Nathan –

I once saw little robins push each other out of the nest as hatchlings, all in competition for a few wriggling worms. But as I took blow after blow from the hands of my brother (I knew it was Dwayne as soon as he spoke), my mind was flooded by a surge of emotions and memories that far transcended the level of primal instincts.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil. I cannot fight you. What have you become? What animal has consumed the mind of my brother? Duck. Too late. Why? Your smile. Ten bucks for every A. Use your height to gain leverage. Fight back. Where was Mom? Did she know? Duck. Punch. What have you become? No. Run. What have I done? What have you become? Why is Sarge getting up? Gun. Duck.

***

Dwayne –

I heard Sarge cry out sadly, “Why you kids do this to me? I’m a veteran.”

My ears registered a gunshot echo through the streets. I looked over to see Sarge standing still, pointing a 1973 Colt M15 at my body, hand quivering.

All I could feel was the fire in my chest and the blood in my ears.

***

Nathan –

Dwayne had sagged to his knees, his head bobbed down as if he were making some sort of invocation to God. The blood was running freely, hot and sticky over my stiff, frozen fingers. I had to slow it. I ran through the steps: rest, elevation, direct pressure. There was too much. I couldn’t stop it.

The ghosts took off, scared away by the gunshot, like the cowards they were.

“Give it to me straight, doc. How much longer do I got?” he whispered as I pressed my ear to his lips.

I wasn’t sure what to say, but we both knew the answer. When I finally spoke, my voice was small yet reassuring, deathly quiet yet more fervent than ever before.

“You ain’t finished. Not yet. Still a long, long ways ahead of you. I know it.”