The Brother Years Page 3

  “That’s the rule,” I said.

  “See,” Coyle said. “Sorry. Too bad for you.”

  Coyle gripped the handlebars of the bike and rocked it upright, and when his back was turned, Robert tossed the basketball, bonging it off the back of Coyle’s head.

  The group of kids laughed nervously. Coyle just stood there, with his back turned, not moving for a moment. Then Coyle lowered his bike down gently, stood still for a minute and whirled and leapt on Robert. The two fell into the grass, thrashing each other, as everyone crowded around and shouted, “Fight! Fight!”

  Coyle got on top of Robert, holding an open hand up.

  “Do you want this? Do you want this?”

  Smack—Coyle brought his hand down and slapped Robert across the face. We all heard it and I was surprised and a little afraid. Smacking us was something Coyle would do from time to time, but I’d never seen him do it to anyone else, and definitely not to a rich kid like Robert Dainty.

  Coyle raised his hand again, but a stocky kid named Liam, a friend of Robert’s, shoved Coyle and yelled, “Savvy’s coming!”

  Principal Savitt was a lumbering, curly-haired guy with bad knees, an ex-lineman. He limped his way across the playfield as Coyle picked himself up and Robert brushed his clothes off. Robert’s eyes were glassy from the smack and I could tell he was ashamed of this and he kept looking down, trying to hide it.

  Robert stepped out to meet Principal Savitt and in a wounded, indignant tone, Robert said, “I did nothing. Literally nothing. And Coyle Brennan attacked me.”

  “Coyle?” Principal Savitt said. “What’s your story?”

  “It was definitely me who started it,” Coyle said sarcastically.

  Coyle lifted his motorcycle. He started wheeling it away.

  “Coyle Brennan. Stay here,” Savitt called to him.

  “You already heard his story,” Coyle said over his shoulder. “I just attacked for no reason. Right, Robert? No reason at all.”

  Coyle wasn’t the sort of kid who would plead his case with teachers. He felt pleading was suckass. He wanted his actions to speak for themselves.

  Coyle swung his leg over the bike and kick-started the engine.

  “Stay here!” Savitt ordered.

  Coyle pretended not to hear. He held a hand up.

  “Adiós, amigos,” he called, and roared away, bouncing over the grass and cutting into the parking lot, weaving among the parked cars, going off in a blaze of defiance.

  “See,” Robert said. “He’s not supposed to be here with that bike. He knows it. And now he’s running. Whatta you expect? Total burnout.”

  Savitt, who’d been a principal for more than ten years and was not easily suckered, knew both Coyle and Robert, and did not seem to believe Robert’s story.

  “Did anyone else see?” Savitt asked the crowd of kids who were drifting away. “Who else saw? Anyone? Willie Brennan!” he called to me. “Get over here.”

  Savitt put a hand on my shoulder, and as the group of kids dispersed, I was led back to the school and was asked to tell my version of the story, which I did.

  Later, Coyle said that I went with Principal Savitt voluntarily because I wanted to get him in trouble. Even now, years later, I’m not sure what’s true. I had lost to Coyle in every contest for my entire life and Coyle was always telling me my methods were flawed. I resented that. Of course I did. But did I linger there on purpose to get him in trouble? I try to go back to that moment to ask myself honestly what I was thinking, but I really don’t know. I can only say with certainty that whether I wanted to get Coyle in trouble or not, the telling of that story changed my life, and the life of every person in my family.

  * * *

  —

  A few hours after Coyle smacked Robert Dainty in the face, Fergus, Maddy, and I were sitting around the table in the living room. I was sent home with a pink disciplinary slip. I leaned over and read it for the fifth time:

  “This is to notify the parents of Coyle Brennan that Coyle got in a fight today outside the grounds of Seneca Junior High. As Coyle is no longer a student at the school, and his fight was with another former student, there can be no official reprimand. Nevertheless…”

  “Nevertheless!” Fergus mocked, tenting his hands.

  “It sucks,” Coyle said. “Dad says not to let anyone else ride the motorcycle, and when I tell Robert he can’t ride it, he beans me in the head with a basketball. Nothing would have happened, but Willie tattled.”

  “Not Willie who got the pink slip,” Dad said as he lumbered in. He picked up the small slip of pink paper, glanced at it, then tossed it back onto the table. “We have to be better than other people, Coyle. We’re not rich—”

  “Might as well admit it. We’re poor,” Fergus said.

  “Middle class,” Mom said gently as she came in with a steaming mug of tea. “We’re middle class.”

  Mom was slim, with dark hair in a mushroom cut, a serious, patient woman who didn’t put up with a lot of nonsense. She was the ice to counter Dad’s fire.

  “Explain again what happened,” Mom said. “Because this notification says you attacked Robert for no reason.”

  “It does not say that I attacked for no reason,” Coyle said. “It says that Robert’s story was that I attacked for no reason. Willie’s story.”

  “I just told the truth,” I said.

  Coyle made a dismissive, puffing sound.

  “Willie’s mad that I do everything better, so he tried to get me in trouble.”

  “Not me who beat on Robert Dainty,” I said.

  “Anyway,” Dad said, cutting in. “The point here is that you’re out of the yard with that bike. You broke the rules. So you lose your motorcycle privileges.”

  “For how long?” Coyle said.

  “As long as it takes,” Mom said. She glanced at our father. “It was a mistake to let you have the bike in the first place. Probably until you’re sixteen.”

  “Until I’m sixteen!” Coyle shouted. “Bullshit!”

  “Coyle!” Dad shouted. None of the kids had ever sworn in front of our parents. “There may be a chance to reassess in the future,” Dad said. “But first you need to apologize, in writing, to Robert Dainty and to Principal Savitt.”

  “I’m not doing that,” Coyle said.

  Dad flicked a pen so it bounced off Coyle’s hand.

  “Yeah, you will,” Dad said. “Write the apology.”

  Coyle didn’t pick up the pen.

  “I’m not apologizing to Robert.”

  “You think I like working eighteen hours a day, waking up at three every morning, and coming home to a pink slip?” Dad said.

  “You think I like you telling us to work harder than everyone else and be better than everyone else in everything, then we’re taunted by some suckass kid like Robert Dainty? You would have fought, too.”

  Dad waved a hand dismissively.

  “You got in trouble, so write an apology, not because you did something wrong in defending yourself, but because it will be the broad-minded thing to do. You apologize. You eat a little crow—”

  “Kiss ass!” Fergus yelled.

  Dad pointed a finger at Fergus.

  “Be quiet, Fergie. I’m trying to make a point. We don’t always fit in in this neighborhood. So sometimes we have to do the broad-minded thing.”

  Fergus leaned over the table and mouthed the words kiss ass to Coyle. Dad gave Fergus a warning look, then turned back to Coyle.

  “Write the apologies,” he said.

  “No,” Coyle said. “I was wrong about the bike. I admit that. I understand that I can’t take it out of the yard. I’m sorry. See? I apologized. I won’t do it again. But I wasn’t wrong about fighting Robert Dainty. He’s jealous of me because I beat him in grades and in sports. He turned my old friends
against me, saying things like, ‘Brennan’s dad’s a paperboy. Brennan’s dad cleans toilets.’ ”

  “Well, that is very foolish,” Mom said, suddenly flustered.

  Dad’s face went white for a moment.

  “Willie knows it the same as I do,” Coyle went on. “These kids in Seneca have never met an adult who wasn’t a doctor or a lawyer. Robert makes fun of us because we don’t have the right clothes and cars and whatever, but I beat him in everything and so who cares what kind of sneakers I have? But he’s always saying little weaselly things. I ignore it like you tell me to, but then he bounces a basketball off my head. If Willie wasn’t a loser he’d’ve spoken up for me with Savitt.”

  “He just thought I was lying anyway. I’m your brother—”

  “That’s why you should have spoken up for me, dick.”

  Dad smacked his hand on the table.

  “That’s what I’m talking about. That sullen look. Using bad language. I’ve seen you out in the field with your new friends, smoking cigarettes.”

  “I don’t smoke cigarettes,” Coyle said. “That’s for losers.”

  “Well, your friends do. I pay a lot of money to live here and give you opportunities that neither I nor your mother had. You need to take advantage of those opportunities. Those new friends are the worst crowd to be with. Druggies.”

  Fergus made horns with his fingers.

  “Druggie!” he whispered.

  Maddy and I stifled laughter and shrank in our chairs. Fergus liked to bait our father. He knew it was dangerous to do it when Dad was in that mood, but Fergus was a jester, a natural mimic, and he couldn’t help himself. He often got away with things the rest of us wouldn’t have because he could make us all laugh. But not always. Dad checked Fergus, then turned back to Coyle.

  “Write the apology.”

  “No,” Coyle said.

  “Just write it,” Maddy whispered to Coyle. “Who cares?”

  Coyle turned to our father. He took a deep breath. Then he began speaking in a clear, even tone.

  “For my whole life I’ve done whatever you asked. You know I have. In return I just want one single thing—to ride my bike. I might have been wrong to take the bike out of the yard—”

  “Write the note,” Dad said.

  “I’ll write to Savitt. Fine. But not to Robert Dainty. He’s a little suckass. I’m not apologizing to him. Unless—” Coyle looked down at the table. “If I write the note can I still ride my bike in the backyard?”

  Dad glanced at Mom. There was a long silence. I could tell that Dad would have given in here, but Mom said, “This isn’t a negotiation. You broke the rules. You lose bike privileges.”

  “If I can’t ride the bike I’m not writing the apology,” Coyle said.

  He stood from the table. Mom and Dad glanced at each other. No one had ever defied our parents like that. Dad stood up to stop Coyle’s departure.

  “Write the note,” Dad said.

  “No,” Coyle said, and tried to keep on past our father, but as he did he jostled our father and there was a sudden uncoiling from our father, a blurred motion, like the flap of a bird’s wing. Coyle’s teeth clacked. His arms went up in the air. He fell back and hit the wall and lay curled on the carpet alongside the table, not moving. Dad had slugged him. It had happened really fast. We all sat silently, stunned.

  Coyle lay there alongside the dining room table, sprawled, his head turned away, his eyes knots of skin. After a long moment, in her cool, withering tone, Mom said, “No reason to lie there on the floor making a theater out of it. Get up.”

  Coyle got up slowly, making little catching sounds.

  “Sit back down. Both of you. And act like human beings.”

  Coyle twisted his neck in an effort to hold back tears. He hated to cry in front of us. He stepped past Dad and went up the stairway. Dad stood up, too.

  “Alex,” Mom said, but Dad just kept walking out of the room. I heard the jingle of keys and the door slamming. Dad had gone outside to sit in the station wagon and listen to sports radio. That’s what Dad always did to cool down. There was no place in the house for him to be alone, so he’d go out to the car to be by himself.

  Maddy was sniffling. Mom put a hand on her knee.

  “The boys are just working out a disagreement,” she said. Then, to Fergus and me, “You could have helped rather than make a difficult situation worse.”

  “Like it’s our fault Dad beat on Coyle,” Fergus said.

  “Your father did not beat on anyone. He gave Coyle one hit, which he should not have done, but don’t exaggerate. And Willie, you should stick up for your brother.”

  “So now it’s my fault?” I said indignantly, though deep inside I knew I was partly to blame for what had happened.

  “I’m not saying it’s your fault, but your brother, after being diligent for many years, has decided to take this time to act out. Instead of trying to stir the pot, you might think of how you can help, and not aggravate your brother, or your father, who is not always in control of his emotions.”

  “Really?” Fergus said. “Dad’s not in control of his emotions?”

  “Thanks for clueing us in,” I said.

  “Why don’t you two do something useful like clear the table,” Mom said.

  Ten minutes later the kids were all up in our small bedroom. Coyle slept on the top bunk over me. Maddy slept on the bottom bunk of the other bed, beneath Fergus. There was a rough red carpet in between a desk and two dressers. And that was pretty much it. The bedroom was cramped and cluttered with a single bare bulb in the socket overhead.

  As soon as I got in bed Coyle leaned over and hung his fist down.

  “All I did was ride my bike out into the park. Robert couldn’t stand it that I had something he didn’t, so he started a fight. You could have told Savitt that.”

  “I did tell him!” I said for about the fourth time. “But he didn’t listen. Because you’re my brother.”

  “You wanted to get me in trouble,” he said.

  “It’s not my fault!” I shouted, though I knew this wasn’t entirely true.

  Coyle reached down to grab me, but the front door opened and we were all quiet. We heard Dad’s footsteps on the stairs. We knew what would happen. Dad worked too much and he was frustrated with his life. He had wanted to “get into business,” but instead he was working as a janitor and renovator and paper-delivery guy and taking classes at night. He slept only three or four hours a night and there were constant money worries and so every few weeks Dad had a fist-waving tantrum, sometimes chasing us around the house. Afterward Dad would go outside to cool down and then would come back inside and he’d try to smooth things over.

  We could hear Dad’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. A moment later Dad appeared at the door of our room. All four of us were quiet, waiting.

  “Coyle, you’ve been a great kid. You work harder than any of your friends. I know that. But you broke the rules and you’re going to have to hand over the keys to that bike. And you’re going to have to suck it up and apologize to the Daintys and to your principal.”

  “Ex-principal,” Coyle said.

  “Whatever,” Dad said. “We don’t have all the advantages these other families have. But you go to that good school. You’ll be paid back in the end. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” Coyle said almost inaudibly.

  “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

  “I don’t care about that,” Coyle said. “I just want to ride my bike.”

  “Yeah, well, it might be a while before you’re allowed,” Dad said. “And I’m not going to yell about it, but you have to write that apology.”

  Coyle paused, then he said faintly, “All right.”

  Dad looked at the rest of us.

  “Willie.”

  “Yeah.”

 
; “You need to stick up for your brother. I know you guys sometimes fight. That’s normal. But whatever happens between you and your brother stays in the house. You stand together against everyone else.”

  “You tell him that, too.”

  “Same for you, Coyle.”

  “I do that anyway,” Coyle said. “Not that I want to, but I do. If Willie hadn’t ratted me out to Savitt none of this would have happened.”

  Dad didn’t seem to disagree. He turned on Fergus.

  “Fergie, you need to learn to keep your mouth shut.”

  “I’m not the only one,” Fergus said.

  Dad looked like he’d go after Fergus, but in a tired way. Once Dad lost his temper he didn’t lose it again for a week or two. It was cyclical.

  Maddy was lying in her bunk, the blanket up to her chin, just her eyes and the short-cropped blond hair showing above. She was so skinny she hardly made a lump in the bed. She was timid, like a bird, always skittering away from our fights. trying to stay out of the war zone.

  “You ok?” Dad asked her.

  “Yeah. I’m ok,” she said.

  “Nothing bad happened. This is just the way adults discuss things.”

  There was a burst of laughter from Fergus.

  “Shut it,” Dad said to him, then walked to the door and flicked the lights off and on. “Go to sleep,” he said. “Willie, Coyle, paper route in the morning.”

  Dad walked out and we all lay there with that blank feeling, sort of laughing about what had happened and sort of not, the whole thing vibrating inside, the gray, simmering feeling after a fight.

  Ten minutes later the lights were out and I was lying in the dark, my insides bouncing around. It was nine-forty-five. We had to be up at three-fifteen.

  * * *

  —

  Up till the age of thirteen Coyle was diligent, thorough, responsible, and exacting, but he didn’t seem that happy. You could feel a simmering restless dissatisfaction in him. Then Coyle got that bike, and for a brief window of time—about five months—Coyle wasn’t just competent, but was joyful. He was filled with a vibrant, jaunty happiness. He acted in a more casual, pleasing manner. That bike was the conduit that connected him to a wider, brighter world.