Brother Broken

Good morning.

It's a going-to-church kind of day, so walk with me, that's where we're headed.

Sunday, May 16, 1965, 9:45 a.m.

When the church bell rings, it’s time to get to Mass. Sunday mornings are a ruckus of primping and fussing. Boys have their hair slicked smooth with Brylcreem, women cap their lids with pretty bonnets, little girls wear tiny white gloves, and Dads shine their shoes.

My family walks from home to church, which is only half a block. We fill the third pew from the front on the left side, facing the altar. Mom and Dad sit at each end of the bench to keep us hemmed in. The rest of us cram in the middle, except for whichever brother’s turn it is to serve as altar boy.

After Mass, Mom rushes home to make sure the chicken in the oven isn’t over- or undercooked. The priest is coming for dinner. She sets the table with nine plates, one more than the current number of family members.

The house is clean and tidy. Mom spent the previous day scrubbing and waxing floors to a shine. Pauly and I dusted furniture with polish that smelled like antiseptic lemon. Rhubarb pies, waiting to be served for dessert, sit on the counter.

Mitch and I follow Dad home from church while the rest of my siblings linger with friends in the churchyard. It’s a beautiful spring day, and we want to ride the tire swing.

With one free hand, Dad helps us gain elevation on a rubber doughnut. With the other, he raises a smoke to his lips. I have an image of him still—an almost-dandy, leaning casually near the base of the swing, cleanshaven, wearing pleated trousers and a dress shirt, with a fedora cocked on his head. I think I saw that figure once before, in a movie on TV where the star catches the leading lady’s eye.

Pauly walks across the yard toward the swing and joins Dad to keep us airborne. Mitch lets out a squeal and tightens his hold on the ropes. He relishes the thrill of flying. I hear Rod, Denis and John cavorting from down the street as they make their way home. Soon, they want a turn on the swing, too.

No one notices him arriving. There’s no sound to alert us, except perhaps the gentle rustle of his robe over the grass. I look up and squint my eyes to see a dark figure looming over me, blocking light from the sun. A dark, towering silhouette without a smile or emotion. I quit picking dandelions, the boys step away from the swing, Pauly holds the ball that Mitch wants to keep kicking, and Dad stubs a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Play stops, and we are sombrely attentive when the priest shows up.

Brother Broken

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