Page 81 of Two Marlboros

I remembered the moment when, at fifteen, I had confessed everything to my father, cornered. I was standing in front of the trophy I had won at the swimming competition organized by the school. Next to the cup, there was a small white ball with black textures, the kind baseballs use; I picked it up and turned to him.

“Look, I’m still the same guy from five minutes ago, you know,” I tried to say right after dropping the bomb. “The one who comes to watch baseball with you and cheers for the Mets.”

Three years later I figured out what the answer was to the question I had asked myself over and over again, and that Jimmy was now asking. It would be the same answer for the rest of my life, the one I didn’t have the courage to give him at that moment.

“I don’t know, champ. I hope soon.”

He agreed, and I felt slimy for lying to him.

“But why doesn’t dad want you here?”

I wrote the truth in my head and found it trite. “It’s a hard thing to understand.”

Yes, it was hard for a five-year-old to understand how stupid adults could be. If I told him the truth, I was sure he would reply with a simple, “So what?”

“Mom always says that, too. Can’t you try? If I don’t understand, you can explain it to me when I’m older.”

I thought back to how I had treated him a few hours earlier and the way he had forgiven me by offering me the toy soldier. Now there he was, on my leg, tight in my embrace and eager to understand. At that moment I realized that being jealous of one’s five-year-old brother was crazy.

“Let’s say I like something dad hates.”

He looked at me waiting for me to continue; but, when he realized I had already finished, he frowned, and his gaze was lost.

“I don’t understand. Is that why you are no longer with us?”

“Yes, that’s why.”

He swung his legs and his gaze was lost again, after which he emitted a thoughtful moan.

“And what is it that you like and dad hates?”

I knew it would come to that, but I couldn’t take it. Talking would have been easy, but I couldn’t say a word, perhaps because I was afraid that then the talk about girlfriends and bees and flowers would start.

“I’ll tell you about that when you’re older.”

“Why is that?”

I ran a hand through his hair and tried to be as honest as possible.

“Because your big brother will start crying if he tells you now.”

His face grew gloomy, as if he felt he had been inappropriate; so I pulled him close to my chest and held him tightly, leaving a kiss on his head for every second I had thought I hated him.

I stayed for dinner with them. At my mother and Jimmy’s, of course; dad had locked himself in his study and showed no sign of wanting to go out. My mother told me he did that a lot, but my brother’s contrite look made me guess that it was a lie so I wouldn’t worry too much. Although I was aware of it, that gesture made me reconsider her: perhaps she was not as displeased with me as I thought.

I went away immediately after eating. Although my mother and Jimmy’s presence heartened me, my father’s presence in the study agitated me. I was always afraid of being grabbed by the ear again from one moment to the next or being a part to one of the many outbursts he made about me, accompanied by less than flattering epithets. It made me feel wrong because that’s how I was to him. So how come I couldn’t just ignore him and let any of his nastiness slide by?

When it was time to go, I thought I wanted to say goodbye to him, too. I took my things from the coat rack and approached the study. I stretched my fist toward the door to knock, but my arm was as if paralyzed. All I would have needed to do was to tap my knuckles, a simple gesture; yet I could not. In the end I gave up and it burned like a defeat.

I joined my mother and Jimmy in the doorway. My brother hugged my legs, as he had done on my arrival, but this time I reciprocated. Upon pulling away, I noticed that he was holding something in his little fist. My curiosity did not last long: he in fact opened his hand and there was the poor rifleman.

Perhaps it was at the very moment I accepted the gift that I realized how strong was the bond between us; and I felt stupidfor all the jealousy I had felt that day, because dad loved him and not me. It wasn’t his fault; it wasn’t something we could change. And that little soldier was nothing but a display of a small but great truth.

My mother caressed my cheek once more. The blame I had read in her eyes was gone, to give space to a feeling of bitterness.

“Jimmy and I love you, Nathan.”

“I know.”

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