Remember My Name (18 page)

Dad runs a hand across his
forehead, massaging the skin above his eyebrows. Not quite as harsh as when he
summoned me up the stairs, he says, “Either of you want to tell me what the
hell happened here?”

A second passes. “He did
it,” our voices overlap each other, the nearly identical pitch making us sound
like those musicians who record their own voice on multiple tracks of a single
song. Ben and I meet eyes. Why is he glaring? He busted the trim on the door,
no question about that. I know I’m the one who kicked the hole in the wall, but
he was trying to piss me off the fastest way he could, so is it really my fault
if I took out my Ben-induced rage on the wall?

“Fine,” Dad says with a sigh
that sounds more pissed off than resigned. “If you won’t tell me, then you boys
will just have to sort this out on your own.” Jabbing a finger at the damage,
he says, “This needs to be fixed up by this weekend. Jackson, you know how to
do the work. I don’t care who does what, but it gets done and it looks like
new.” He surveys the two of us like we’re juvenile delinquents. “Understood?”

“Yeah,” I mumble. Ben nods.

“Good,” Dad says. His voice
losing some of its gravity, he continues, “I’m always available to talk, and
that goes for both of you.” He looks at me and then at Ben. “But if you’re going
to keep things between yourselves, take it outside the next time you work out
your issues, and for God’s sake, please don’t break any bones.”

Something strikes me about
what he’s saying. I lift my eyes to Ben. Does he remember too? Dad told us this
before, years ago. His message has changed slightly though – last time he
forbade us from even drawing blood, but we were a lot younger then.

“Understood?” he asks, his
voice sharp. He’s serious and he wants us to know it.

“Yes,” I say.

“Clear,” Ben says.

Dad gives us a last look
before retreating down the stairs. Ben seems like he wants to say something,
but then he just turns back into the spare room, closing the door quietly
behind him.

Jackson

For the first time in a
while, I can stretch my arms and legs out to the edges of the mattress. The
sheets are cool against my skin, but it’s not the same refreshing welcome that
they always used to bring. It bugged me that first night we both slept here,
but after that I realized I actually liked the warmth escaping from Ben
sleeping next to me. Because I knew he was there. Without stimuli from light or
sound – even completely unconscious – it let me sense his presence
all through the night. I doubt he felt the same way, but as much as he pisses
me off, it felt good to have him close.

I’m still mad at him, though
it’s hard to decide what I’m most upset about. It irks me all the more that
he’s the reason it’s taking so long to fall asleep tonight. What gives him the
right to swing into my life after all this time and start tossing shit around?
I roll onto my back and shove a pillow under my knees. I think it’s better for
the spine or something.

The next morning, the fog in
the bathroom is already fading by the time I roll out of bed to take my shower.
Ben has already been in here. The realization slowly hits my groggy brain that
he probably got up early to do that. I take a moment to allow the exasperation
to roll through me, filling every cell inside me from my toes to the tips of my
disheveled hair. He’s taking this way too far. I’m still Jackson. Plain old
Jackson. Why doesn’t he see that?

Stepping into the shower, I
force the handle hard over to hot. With one hand on the glass, I let my head
hang. Water filters through my hair, dragging it down into watery strands. Like
the branches of the weeping willows outside, the curtain of my hair hangs
around me, a barrier to the world outside.

The water borders on
searing, and everywhere it lands, my skin turns bright red. Blood rises to the
surface, and the veins become fiercely defined on my arms. Let the water
scorch, let it scald. Let it take away all the bad things, please, just burn
them from my flesh. Take it all away until nothing is left.

*     *     *    
*

The next few days are quiet.
Ben does his own thing, and I do mine. Now that we’re not slaving away for Dad
anymore, we have a lot more time, which just gives me more hours to think about
everything that I want to ignore. Dad seems to recognize that things are messed
up between us, but he doesn’t say anything about it. It’s no surprise that he
figured it out, because the tension between Ben and me is so thick you could
cut it up and serve it as some kind of cake. Calorie free but certain to cause
indigestion.

I’m reading on my bed when
my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text from Matt.

Hey I was thinking of
stopping by for a few hours today… your dad is working, right?

Moisture breaks out on my
palm. I glance out the window.
Um I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Did I do something wrong?

No. I’d just rather hang
out this weekend.

Ok, you’ll text me?

Yeah.

I’m not putting him off.
Really. I just don’t want Ben getting any more ideas.

Jackson

A knocking on my door wakes
me up Saturday morning. I roll over, blinking the sleep out of my eyes. More
knocking. Christ. “What?” The word comes out hoarse and barely loud enough to
carry through the door.

“Are you decent?”

“Come in.” The door opens
slowly. Really slowly. “A little paranoid, don’t you think?”

Ben is wearing a stained
white t-shirt and a ratty pair of cutoff shorts that look suspiciously like the
ones I haven’t seen in a few weeks. “Do you blame me?”

Dropping my head onto the
pillow, I roll my eyes at the ceiling but ignore his question. “You look pretty
flashy. You have a date?”

“Screw you. I’m wearing this
so I don’t mess up my good clothes while we fix the hole
you
kicked in
the wall.”

“Oh yeah, that.” I wrap the
covers around me a little tighter. The air is cool this morning.

He glares. “Yeah,
that
.
Now get up.”

“I need to shower.” I
stretch my arms out of the blankets and over my head.

His eyes jump first to the
window before hitting me with their intensity. “You don’t need to shower. I
want to get this done.”

I curl back into the
blankets. “Damn it, Ben, then do it yourself.”

He crosses his arms. “I
don’t know how to fix drywall, you do. And it’s your own stupid fault, anyway.”

I roll over, facing away
from him. When he doesn’t say anything, I think he might actually let me sleep
longer, but the next second, the blankets are flying off me. “What the hell,
Ben!”

He smiles remorselessly,
tossing the ball of sheets and my comforter into the far corner of the room.
“Now get up, you lazy bum.” He throws the pair of shorts at me that I wore
yesterday.

I kick him out of my room so
I can get changed, but before long he comes knocking again. Might as well get
the stupid project done sooner rather than later.

“So how do we patch this
thing?” he asks, squatting beside me in front of the busted wall.

“We have to cut back to the
studs. Here, and here.” I draw imaginary lines with my finger on the wall.
Feeling around the edges of the hole, I start ripping out chunks of drywall
until the gap is big enough for me to see where the studs are.

 “You have the knife?” I
ask. He grunts and digs in the toolbox behind him, handing me the bright green
utility knife a moment later. Leveling the long metal drywall square against
the floor, I line it up with the center of the stud as best as I can. “All
right, now hold the square.”

His hands reach across mine
to press the metal T-square against the wall. Starting at the floor, I drag the
knife blade up the wall, flush against the square. “Careful of your fingers,” I
breathe, maintaining pressure on the blade. I feel his eyes on me for a long
second before his grip on the square moves away from the knife’s progress.

We repeat the same procedure
for the opposite side and finally the top of the hole. Delivering a swift
strike with the side of my fist, the pieces snap off, leaving a relatively
square hole, cut so the studs are partly exposed. I glance at Ben and nod.
“That’ll work.”

His fingers are turning
white from holding the new piece tight against the studs while I drill in the
screws. After we tighten it down, a bit of a gap remains around the top, but
it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a bit of mud and sanding.

“Good work,” I tell Ben.

He holds his breath for a
moment. “Yeah, you too.”

Setting the drill on the
floor between us, I lean back against the opposite wall. “Why are you in such a
rush today anyway?”

“Um,” he hesitates. “I’m
actually going to hang out with Katie tonight.”

I raise an eyebrow. “This
isn’t going to take that long.” As an afterthought, I add, “I didn’t know you
guys had become friends.”

He averts his gaze, absently
spinning the utility knife in a circle on the floor with his outstretched
finger. “This is the first time we’re hanging out. Outside of work, that is.”

“Cool.”

He opens his mouth a
fraction of an inch, like he wants to ask something. After a pause, he says,
“How about you, any plans to spend time with… anyone?”

He was going to ask if I’m
seeing Matt today. “Uh no, not yet.” Behind him, the sun is partway up the sky,
visible through the hallway window.

“Maybe Matt is free,” he
suggests. “I haven’t seen him around here in a while.”

I grit my teeth. “Maybe you
could mind your own fucking business.” I regret the words as soon as they’re
out. I didn’t mean to freak out on him, but he’s made it clear that he doesn’t
approve of me, so why does he even bring it up?

Ben bites his lower lip, his
expression tinged with resignation. “I’m going to go,” he says.

“You’re just going to leave
me to finish all this?” I snap, tossing the T-square onto the floor so it
clatters against the hardwood.

“You made your point. I
don’t think you really want me here anyway,” he says softly, flashing me a last
look before disappearing into his room. Waiting until the door is safely
closed, I pull out my phone. No new messages. About time to create one of my
own, I think.
You free today?

I haven’t even got the phone
back in my pocket before the screen lights up.

Hey you, sure am! When do
you want to meet up?

In like an hour? What do
you want to do?

Parents are home all day,
but we can find something to do. Meet at my house?

I feel like a dork, but I
can’t help but smile while I tap out my reply.
See you then
. I still
need to finish mudding and sanding this, so maybe two hours is more realistic.
If I make Ben paint it later tonight, it will save me some time.

Jackson

After spending the afternoon
at Matt’s house, engaged in G-rated activities because of his parents
downstairs, I’m ready for a quiet evening. Walking up the stairs to my room
feels like it takes longer than normal. Maybe it’s because I’m not sure what
I’m going to find at the top. A trio of empty rooms, and nothing to pass the
time but hours on my bed reading?

A thin stream of light is
dripping out from underneath the door to Ben’s room. Ear to the door, I hold my
breath and listen. He’s on the phone, but I have to strain to hear his words.
Is he talking to our mom? I haven’t spoken with her in a long time. She used to
call a lot, way more than Ben did, but about five years ago, that changed.

She tried to get back
custody of me from Dad. At first, the idea was tempting – a chance to
live with Ben again – even if it meant leaving my life here behind.
Except when Dad found out, he sat me down and told me about the divorce. About
how he wanted to keep working on the marriage, but Mom refused to even go to
counseling. He said he begged her to at least stay in the area, but she moved
away to California anyway, taking Ben with her.
Ben
. Her first choice.

If she hadn’t wanted me when
she left, why did she want me then?

The next time she called, I
refused to talk to her. And the next time, and the time after that. Eventually
she stopped calling, and she dropped the pursuit of custody.

Behind the door, their
conversation continues. Unable to distinguish the individual words, I listen
instead to the sound of my brother’s voice as they talk. Mostly it’s soft,
deferential, but at times adamant. I’ve made a point to not need anything from
either of them over the years. They left me, not the other way around. But
overhearing their conversation makes me wonder what it would be like to have a
relationship with my mom again.

Finally Ben’s voice says a
muffled goodbye. After he hangs up, I hear movement inside the room, but it’s
hushed. What’s he doing? Brandishing the knuckle of my index finger, I tap a
few times on the door.

The noises are abruptly
silenced. “What?”

“Can I come in?”

“If you want.”

Turning the handle just
until the latch disengages, I apply precisely enough pressure for the door to
swing ajar. Not even a light breeze wafting it open could be subtler. In the
center of the room is the bed that used to be in this room before we started
redoing it. The air, heavy with the scent of wet latex paint, drags my
attention away from Ben’s sleeping accommodations. The dull gray of the drywall
is now a soft blue, at least on the wall across from me – the others are
still unpainted. Ben just watches me. Paint roller in hand, he dips it into the
tray on the floor and turns away from me, wheeling it up the wall.

“When did you move the bed
in here?”

“Dad helped me move it up
from the basement a few days ago.” From his voice I can tell he doesn’t want to
be talking to me.

“Oh.” Taking tentative steps
into the room, I sit on the corner of his bed and slip my hands under my
thighs.

His roller is running low on
paint, but he keeps pushing it up and down the wall. “Did you want something?”

I flinch. “I…uh…thought we
could talk.”

Finally turning away from
the wall, he locks eyes with me. “What do you want to talk about?” He doesn’t
make any move toward the paint tray.

His dense stare is hard to
withstand, but I don’t let myself look away. “I thought we could talk about
the… um, gay thing.”

“What about it?” His tone is
like cold steel, cutting and chilling all at once.

“Why does it bother you so
much? I’m still me. Nothing has changed.” I should give him a chance to
respond, but I deserve to get this out. “What does it matter if I’d rather be
with a girl or a guy? I’m still your brother. Jesus, Ben, I can’t believe
this
is what you can’t take. After years of being separated, you’d think you’d be
happy being back together again, but you won’t even brush your teeth next to me
anymore.” Wetness is slowly gathering in my eyes as I speak, but I’ve said what
I need to say. Almost. My voice is quiet. “Why are you doing this?”

He’s always been so easy to
read, but right now I’m not sure what I’m seeing. His expression is conflicted,
but with what? When he speaks, his words come slowly, but they’re determined
and purposeful. “You clearly don’t know the first thing about what I can or
can’t take. Why don’t you get it?”

“Help me understand. Help me
get it.” I stand up and grab a regular paintbrush off the floor. “Here, I’ll
help you paint. Just you and me.” Raising my eyebrows a quarter of an inch, I
smile tentatively.

There’s that torn look again,
but it’s clearer to see what he’s feeling now. It’s pain. “I don’t want your
help.”

Dipping my brush into the
tray, I say, “Well, I’m going to help anyway.” Aiming the brush for the corner
where his roller can’t reach, I start up the wall.

A clunk beside me seizes my
attention. He’s dropped the roller onto the tray. “You want to paint so damn
bad,” he says, “then you can do it yourself.” Without another word, he walks
out, leaving me alone with the paint. I stare after him – at the door
really – until long after the sounds of him tromping down the stairs have
faded into the old bones of the house.

The faintest sound of a drip
murmurs up from the floor. I glance down. A single round dot of blue paint has
fallen from the brush in my hand. Forcing out the stagnant air in my chest, I
crouch and sweep up the drop with the side of my thumb.

Why is it so hard for us to
figure this out? I know Ben well enough to understand that he’s having a tough
time now too, but I can’t do
everything
. He has to take some responsibility
in this. And him being such a colossal dick about the sexuality thing isn’t
something I can ignore.

The blue on my thumb is
still wet. Wiping it in a long streak on an unpainted part of the wall, I
glance down at the tray and dip my brush into the viscous blue. Taking the
brush to the wall, I let it glide in light strokes as I scrawl a line of
cursive. I’ve always had great penmanship – much better than Ben’s.
Stepping back, I examine my work with satisfaction. I think it gets the point across.
Fuck you, Ben, go home.

Forcing my eyes away, I scan
the rest of the room. It would be a mess, but there isn’t enough stuff here to
qualify. His travel bag and a bunch of dirty clothes are piled at the foot of
the bed, which itself looks like a herd of bulls tore through it. It’s a full
bed just like mine. I must have been off with Matt when he and Dad moved it
back in here.

Squatting in front of his
bag, I unzip it and peek inside. I dig through more clothes that – from
the smell of them at least – are dirty as well. A can of Axe body spray
clunks against my wrist as I push a nest of socks out of the way. How did I
ever think Ben was anything but hopelessly straight?

My breath stops in my throat
when I catch sight of the next thing. It’s the picture from the hallway, the
one that fell and broke when I kicked the hole in the wall. The four of us are
there, all smiling. It’s in a new frame though. It has to be, because I
remember the glass shattering on the original.

The frame slipping from my
slackened fingers, I zip the bag back up so fast that the zipper jams and I
have to back it up and try again. I shouldn’t have looked, but now that I have,
I can’t un-see that picture or what it means. I can’t imagine how hard it was
to give up his summer to come live with Dad and me. Like,
really
hard.

Even that nagging voice
inside me, whispering that it was Ben’s fault anyway, his choice to leave,
can’t shake the conviction that this has been one tough summer for my brother.
My eyes flit around the room. It’s just so… empty. The only thing of note is
the message I’ve scrawled on the wall for him. Guilt hits me in the gut so hard
I almost double over. I can’t let him see it.

Dried smears of blue cover
my hands and arms when I finally finish. I didn’t stop with covering the
anathema I’d inscribed onto the wall, but instead continued until the whole
room was painted. Slipping the brush, roller, and tray into a plastic bag so I
don’t have to clean them tonight, I scan the room one last time before stepping
into the hallway.

Not bothering to wash the
paint off, I collapse into my bed and switch off the light. Eyes adjusting to
the moonlight navigating past the trees to splash through the window, I curl up
on my side and wrap my arms around a ball of blankets. They smell like me, but
there’s an unidentifiable hint of something else that makes me know part of Ben
is still in them as well, from all those nights he slept here with me. I inhale
again, deeper this time, savoring the tiniest portion of the scent that is
uniquely Ben.

*     *     *    
*

Benny’s fluffy tuft of blond
hair catches the sun, making it look almost white. He’s next to me at the
kitchen counter. We’re sitting on the tall chairs, eating popsicles. Mom is
drying dishes. Dad is mowing the lawn in the backyard. I know because I can
hear the loud noise through the open window. Sometimes the sound gets quieter
but then it always gets louder again.

When Benny turns to me and
smiles, I point at his face with my popsicle and laugh. “Your lips are all
blue, Benny.”

“Are not,” he says and makes
a pouty face. “Don’t make fun of me.”

I can’t stop laughing, so I
try to cover my mouth instead. “Are too.”

His eyes are wide. “Are my
lips blue, Mom? Jacks says they’re blue.”

Mom stands up straight and
crosses her arms. The sound of her laugh fills the whole room, making it feel
warm. Not warm like it is outside, but warm like everything feels safe and
happy. “They are a little blue, honey.”

He sets his popsicle on the
counter and lowers himself onto the floor. His shorts pull up as his bottom
slides off the stool.

“Benny, where are you
going?”

He glares at me. “None of
your business.” His voice is whiny.

Popsicle in hand, I follow
him out of the kitchen and to the bathroom. He leans over the counter and turns
on the water, trying to wash the blue off his face. Benny is so funny about
being dirty or messy. I don’t know why he doesn’t like it. Maybe it would help
if he were messy more often. Then he wouldn’t be so scared of it. I grin.

He’s so busy cleaning his
face that he doesn’t notice me behind him. As fast as I can, I pull the collar
of his shirt out to make a gap around his neck, and I shove my dripping
popsicle down his back. I watch with glee what happens next. He arches his back
and screams. He twists, his hand reaching around in his shirt. He can’t get a
hold of it. A wet spot forms in the middle of his back where the frozen treat
is stuck. He does a silly little dance in a circle, wailing the whole time. I
laugh and laugh until I can hardly breathe.

A second later, a melted red
blob falls out of his shirt onto the floor. Benny’s eyes fill with a mixture of
tears and fury. “I hate you, Jacks!” he screams through his sobs.

Then I run. I’m already out
of breath from laughing so much, but I’m not worried. I’m quicker than Benny. Especially
when he’s upset.

Mom tries to catch me when I
sprint past her in the hallway, but I duck and her fingers miss me. Now Benny
is right behind me. I could stay away from him if we were outdoors, but there
are too many obstacles in here. He chases me around the living room. Next to
the couch he catches me by the hair and tackles me.

“I hate you, Jacks!” he
shrieks again. I try to roll away but he won’t let go, so we move together. We
roll right into an end table. I’m on my back, and Benny is on top. Above him,
the lamp rocks from side to side. It’s going to fall. It’s going to fall on
Benny. He’s going to get hurt.
My Benny.

The lamp tips off the edge
of the table, and I throw him off me as hard as I can. A second later, it hits
me and the bulb bursts in a flash of light.

*     *     *    
*

I wake up pulling a deep
breath into my lungs. Cycling through the rest of the memory, I put together
how it ended that day. After the lamp broke, Mom quickly checked to make sure
we were both okay before running to get Dad. That’s when he gave us the talk
about sorting things out, as long as there was no blood. In retrospect, I think
we were a little young for that particular message.

Dad asked me afterward why
I’d done it, especially considering that I knew perfectly well how fast Benny
got upset about things. I didn’t have an answer at the time, but now I think I
did it
because
he got upset so easily. It was a little game that I would
always win. How fast can I make Benny cry? It makes me feel shitty thinking about
it, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. What bothers me the most is that
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m still hurting him. It’s not like it doesn’t
go both ways, though. He has said some pretty hurtful shit, and what he hasn’t
said is worse.