The Things a Brother Knows (10 page)

PAR-PAR. 727-727

Is it an important date? Part of his social security number? Does this have something to do with airplanes?

I spend a good hour like this because that’s the way my mind works. I’m more a numbers guy than someone who’s clever with words.

Finally I stick it into my search engine.

I run it through the same translation program I use when Abba swears in Hebrew.

And there it is.

Parpar
. The Hebrew word for butterfly.

Christina calls and asks me to meet her for a cup of coffee.

I can’t because I’ve got a checkup with the pediatrician I’ve had since birth, the one with the Barney poster on his wall I stare at while he cradles my balls in his hairy, spotted
old man’s hand. So naturally I lie and tell her I’ve got to work. We make a plan for the following afternoon.

When the waitress comes by our table I order a cappuccino and immediately regret it when Christina orders a cup of black coffee.

“Listen,” she says. “I want you to know that I’m going to Washington. Max got a summer associate position at a big law firm there.”

Washington? Why is everyone going to Washington?

That’s what I think.

But what I say is “Really?”

“In the tax department.”

“You must be so proud.”

She eyes me. I figure she must be getting used to my weird, unjustified jealousy by now, just like I’m starting to accept the fact that no matter how pathetic I come off, I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut.

“Actually, I am,” she says. “Quite proud. There are all sorts of ways to lead a decent, meaningful life.”

“Parpar,”
I say.

Her jaw drops. Her eyes widen. She leans in closer. She whispers, “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

I don’t need to say anything else. I have my answer.

“No, really, what was that?”

“Nothing.”

She tries staring me down but then she gives. She shakes it off like you would some trick of the light.

“Look, I
am
sorry. Sorry to be leaving right now. I don’t
even know what sort of help I could have been, but regardless, I’m sorry I won’t be here.”

“It’s okay, Christina. Boaz is leaving too.”

“He is?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me where he’s going?” She stirs her coffee slowly.

I take a sip of my cappuccino. “He’s going to hike the Appalachian Trail.”

M
OM GOES ON A CRAZY SHOPPING SPREE
.

That magic sleeping bag. An equally high-tech tent. An ergonomically designed backpack. Drip-dry pants. A bundle of socks. She picks up two guidebooks to the Appalachian Trail. One with foldout maps.

She buys three pairs of hiking boots for Boaz to try on in the comfort of his own home.

She doesn’t make much of his refusal to accompany her to the store. He’s pretty clear about not wanting to drive and she seems to accept this like it’s no big deal. Just another item on her list of Bo’s little peculiarities, like his double-jointed thumb or his birthmark the shape of Texas.

She spreads her purchases out on the dining room table.

“So? Whaddya think?”

I’ve just come in from a run. I’m on my way upstairs to stretch.

“Looks good, Mom.”

Clearly, this isn’t the reaction she wants.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to take a little more interest.”

“What am I supposed to say?” I shoot back. “Nice mosquito netting?”

She waves me off. “Forget about it.”

Right then Abba walks in. Home early from work.

“How far?” he barks.

“About twelve miles.”

“
B’seder
. Maybe next year you’ll try out for cross-country.”

“Okay,” I say, even though I won’t. Not a chance. But I’m not used to Abba weighing in on what I should do with my life, and I’ve forgotten the words to tell him no.

Abba gestures to Mom’s table. “What’s with all this?”

“It’s stuff for Bo’s trip.”

She starts showing him the boots, the sleeping bag, the water-resistant socks. She’s acting like a hostess on a game show.
All these items can be yours!

I watch Abba turn things over in his hands. They seem to have forgotten I’m here, and that probably means Mom has forgotten she’s mad at me, and that’s good, right?

And now I can just go upstairs and listen to music and stretch after my run and forget about it, but watching this little show, and all the pleasure Mom is taking in all this stuff, I’m getting pissed.

Suddenly, I’m taking the stairs two at a time and I’m pounding on Boaz’s door. I’m not lightly tapping, or scratching with my chewed-down nails.

It’s not an
I’m so sorry to bother you
knock. It’s an
OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR NOW
knock.

Once he undoes the latch I push my way in. Bo steps aside and I spin around on him.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“What are
you
doing?”

Boaz backs his way into his desk chair and folds one leg over the other. I have no place to sit because his mattress is still on the floor, and he’s in the only chair, and the absence of this choice, of any place to sit down and talk to him at eye level, leaves me with this wild, untethered feeling.

“I’m trying to find out what’s up with this whole Appalachian Trail thing.”

“I’m going hiking,” Bo says calmly.

“No you aren’t.”

“I’m not?”

“No. You’re not. I know you’re not. You aren’t going anywhere near the Appalachian Trail.”

Bo scoffs at me. It’s the closest he’s come to smiling since I can remember. “What do you know?”

“Is this some sort of joke to you? Is it? Because Mom’s down with half the stock of the Outdoor Store sprawled across the dining room table, and she’s practically doing cartwheels she’s so amped up. All over a trip you aren’t actually taking.”

I finally settle for a corner of the mattress on the floor. I don’t know what to do with my legs, so I pull them to my chest in a pose that’s undeniably childlike.

“What are you up to, Boaz? Huh? I mean, what are you planning? Where are you going? Why?”

“Levi. Lemme give you some advice.” He leans in closer like he’s about to share a secret with me.

Then his voice goes cold. Sharp.

“Stay out of this.”

It’s a voice I don’t know, but it’s one I’m sure he’s put to good use over the last three years. And to avoid it, and the way he’s looking at me, I stare at the wall over what used to be his bed.

It’s empty.

“Where’s my map?”

“Can you leave now?”

“I want my map.”

“Get out.”

I stop looking at his e-mails. I stop scouring his maps. I’d like to tell you that I came to this decision in a moment of clarity, that I realized how wrong I’d been to stalk Bo’s online trail.

What a violation.

How unbrotherly.

But the real truth is that I didn’t come to this decision: Boaz did.

He returns my computer after canceling his e-mail account and erasing his online history. He isn’t just covering his tracks. He’s ended the trail altogether.

Zim comes to visit me at work. He’s still looking around for a job. His dream of spending the summer with his hands deep in women’s hair didn’t pan out. It kills me, because Zim has an encyclopedic knowledge of film. He deserved this job. He should be the one sitting behind the counter eating microwave popcorn all day.

He rubs his hands together. “Time to start planning the big one.”

He hops up on the counter and dangles his legs off the side. Bob never seems to mind Zim hanging around. He cuts me a lot of slack. I can see it in the way he looks at me. That mixture of deference and respect. Like by living down the hall from my brother, I’ve caught a bit of his heroism, the way one might catch a cold.

“What’re you talking about?” I ask Zim.

“Our eighteenth birthday, my Birthday Brotha. In the eyes of many, we will, at long last, be men.”

Oh, right. Our birthdays are only a few weeks away. Thank God I’ve already gotten the ball-cradling checkup out of the way.

“Let’s do something seriously raging this year. Something to prove ourselves worthy of the right to vote and smoke.”

“And join the military.”

“Right.”

A silence follows. I’ve deflated poor Zim.

“He leaves tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yep. Tomorrow.”

“And still no idea what he’s up to?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe he’ll prove you wrong. Maybe he’s really off to hike the Trail.”

I sigh. “Yeah, maybe.”

Zim wanders off to browse the horror section.

I hate being a downer, but I don’t care much about what birthday is on my horizon, and for sure, I don’t feel much like a man.

I try to remember if we had a farewell dinner before Bo left for boot camp. If we did, it was nothing like this. No festivity. Tonight Mom’s got the Beatles on in the kitchen and she’s singing along and I’m thinking how much it burns when your mom loves the same music you do.

I’m also thinking that maybe I should forget what I know.

Zim could be right. Maybe Boaz will prove me wrong. I should just put aside all that logic, tuck into Mom’s farewell dinner and believe in the Appalachian Trail.

It seems to be working just fine for everyone else.

Take Abba. He comes home, arms full of wine. He’s crazy about his wines. Special occasions call for wines he spends real money on, and that means you’d better brace for a long speech about oaks and tannins.

He likes to make me taste the ones he’s most excited about.

“Delicious,” I say, even though to me, wine tastes like grassy Band-Aids.

Dov comes over with a special package for Boaz.

“It’s from Mr. Kurjian,” he says. “An Armenian lunch for your first day on the trail.”

“Thanks, Dov.” Without looking inside, he puts the bag in the refrigerator.

“You all set?”

“Think so.”

“How about some cash?” Dov reaches for his wallet.
Sometimes he acts like a crisp twenty-dollar bill is the answer to all life’s troubles.

“Nah. I’m good.”

“You sure?”

The way Dov narrows his eyes at him, I question what he believes.

“I’m sure, Dov.”

We sit down to eat. I swirl the little bit of wine around and around in a comically oversized glass. I take a deep whiff. Then a sip. “Delicious.”

All through dinner and dessert, through the several glasses Abba fills for him with expensive wine, Boaz never once looks in my direction.

With cottony eyes I make out the red digital numbers.

Five. Five. Seven.

The buzzer on this very same clock usually fails to wake me, but this morning, at this obscene hour, the gentle click of Boaz shutting the front door behind him does the job.

I climb out of bed, scramble down the hallway, enter my brother’s empty room and head straight for the window facing the street.

I pull up the shade to a soft pink sky.

Somehow he looks small under the weight of all his things. He’s walking down the painted white dashes that divide the two sides of the road. There’s no traffic to contend with. All the world is sleeping.

I watch him go. Wondering if he’ll bother to look back. Not sure what I’d do if he did.

Wave? Or duck so I couldn’t be seen? Maybe I’d shout out his name. Wake the birds and the neighbors.

Maybe I’d find something to tell my brother, finally. Something important. One of those things people say at life’s big moments. The kind of thing that makes you think:
I’ll remember that
.

Maybe those sorts of words would find their way onto my tongue.

Maybe.

Boaz reaches the corner. His final chance to turn back and look.

I close my eyes tight. Shield myself from a glare only I can see. When I open them again, Boaz is gone.

I sit on the floor of his room and dig my hands into his carpet.

I imagine his path through the neighborhood. Even with everything he’s been through, with as far away as he’s gone from here and how he returned some other version of himself, he must still know these streets.

These are our streets.

He just turned up Archer, where I took the first spin on my bike without training wheels. Then he’ll go down Lincoln, where when I was seven, Abba broke the news that the family dog died, his face sad and serious. On Burr Street, where he’ll start heading south, Mom told me that Dov was in the hospital, but not to worry, he’s an ox. He’ll be okay. And then Pierce Avenue, where Abba tried out his lame version of the “sex talk” and I pretended what he said might have some relevance in my natural lifetime.

Come to think of it, most of the important conversations I’ve had in my life took place while walking these streets. Walking, like running, gives your body something to do while your head is reeling.

Soon he’ll leave the neighborhood. He’ll start heading west on a complex combination of the less-traveled roads, the ones friendlier to someone with nothing but a backpack and a pair of fancy boots.

I know where he’s headed. I’ve seen the maps. I’ve read some e-mails.

First to Poughkeepsie, to meet up with a guy named Loren, who I first mistook for a girl. That would make sense to me. Walking across three states for the love of a beautiful girl.