Writings and Reflections

The Green Box

by Lloyd B. Abrams

"... and what the hell ya talkin' about, Richie? What are you saying?" My father's voice from downstairs. Yelling. Demanding. Overbearing. As usual.

I opened my eyes; 2:43 on the red LED. What the heck? I wondered. Then, My brother was in Viet Nam. What was he doing home?

I slipped out of bed and tiptoed out onto the landing, hugging the wall to keep the floor from creaking.

"Would ya stop shouting at me." My brother's voice, sounding broken, almost ready to cry. "All this goddam noise is too loud ..."

My mother shushed them. "Better keep our voices down. Don't want to wake up Albie. He's got school tomorrow."

"Yeah. And how's the little asshole doing?"

"Richie, your language ..."

"Ma, I'm only kiddin'. You know that, don't you?"

"He's grown a lot the past two years, and he's not so little anymore. Plays first base on the J-V team. Coach says he's a sure bet for varsity next year." My mother, always proud, never letting negatives get in the way. Always smiling, but I could always see through it. I wondered if anyone else could. "And, you know, Albie still looks up to you."

Not entirely true; not even close. Yeah, Richie had played second base but mostly second string. He could never hit the curve ball, and was not much better with a waist-high fastball right down the middle. Had to repeat classes each summer but graduated high school in the top half of his class, but barely - "Above average," my mother insisted, though my father called him lazy - and decided not to attend community college which friends called "thirteenth grade." Instead, he did odd jobs, working down at the docks and doing landscaping, staying out late and coming home smoky-smelling, until his low draft lottery number - February 2, 28 - came up. Born a day earlier, it would've been 306; a day later, 250. That's one of many thing Mom cried over when she thought no one was around.

I fake-coughed and shuffled down the stairs. Richie stood there, still holding his army duffel. He looked terrible. Gaunt, unshaven. His army fatigues looked big on him, as if he were shrunk inside. And dark, very dark. A lot of people seem outwardly bright and cheery. Richie was the opposite.

The room was middle-of-the-night dead still. I imagined Richie huddled behind sandbags waiting for inevitable mortar fire. This smoldering stillness was packed with explosive uncertainty.

I walked over to Richie and man-hugged him, slapping his back. I heard the duffel drop on the carpet but he didn't return the hug. He just stood there, hands at his sides, until I stepped back and away. I gave him a "what the hell is wrong with you?" look but he only glared back at me.

My mother broke the silence. "Albie, tomorrow's another day. I'm sure your brother'll feel better in the morning." Yeah, right, I thought. "Whyn't'ya go back to sleep. We've got a lot to discuss down here."

Discuss. Talk at would be more like it. The way Richie looked, it didn't seem he'd be able to take too much of it.

I padded back upstairs and cleared off Richie's bed, which I had piled up with a lot of my stuff - school books, magazines, cassettes, dirty clothes, old socks, you name it. Some months before, my mother finally stopped bitching about cleaning up "that awful mess." I guess she realized it wasn't worth the hassle, wasn't good for "our relationship," as she put it. But whenever she walked by my room, she made sure to pull the door shut. The only sounds she made were the muted thud of wooden door against jamb and the metal click of the spring latch.

I tried to stay awake but I couldn't. I fell asleep before Richie could come up.

I was the first one up the next morning, just like every morning. Richie wasn't there, but his unzipped duffel was, next to the unslept-in bed. Sitting on top of the dresser we used to share was a battered, army-green box, about the size of a kid's lunch box. It felt heavier than it looked, but a Master combination lock kept me from opening it.

The door swung open and there stood Richie, still in his fatigues, angry-eyed, hard-faced. "Put it the fuck down!"

"Sorry, Richie. I didn't mean to ..."

"Bullshit. Just leave it there and don't touch it again. Ever."

"What's in it, anyway?"

"Just some things. Souvenirs." He chuckled and shook his head. "My hush puppy, too. I was able to smuggle it out. Mom would shit a brick if she knew it was here."

"Hush puppy?"

"Smith & Wesson Mark 22. Special ammo and a slide-lock kept it real quiet."

I nodded as if I understood. "What else?"

"Things I don't want to talk about right now." He paused and his eyes went far away. Then, "Maybe not ever."

"So why'd you... ?"

"To remember how fucked up things were, the things we did, the gooks we ... Listen, Albie ... forget about it, will ya? Stop bustin' my chops." He turned and strode out, his footsteps noiseless despite the black leather boots. Moments later, I heard the door slam downstairs.

My mother appeared at the doorway, sleepy-eyed. Her eyes were bloodshot, like she'd been crying. Of course. She gestured, questioning, towards the stairs.

"Richie. He must've left," was all I said.

She looked into the room, noticed the bed, the duffel, the box. "Guess he must've slept on the cot down in the basement. Said he 'needed his space.'" Trying to keep her voice from cracking. Trying to keep it all together.

Then, like a light switch: "You're going to be late for school, Albie. I'll make you blueberry pancakes if you want."

"Nah. Don't bother Mom. I'll grab something on the way."

I swung on my book bag, checked the mirror, and shut the front door. Richie was sitting on the front stoop, looking left, then right, smoking a cigarette cupped in his hand. I stepped around him and said, "See you later?"

"I don't know, kid." His voice was far away. "I don't know if I can stand it."

"Yeah, I kinda ..."

"I don't know what the fuck's goin' on," he interrupted. "I just ..." and his voice trailed off.

He tossed the cigarette into a flower bed and hugged his knees, folding into himself, rocking. Jesus ... my brother. I didn't know what to do.

"Listen, Richie. I got to go ..."

"Go on, kid. But remember these three numbers: Eighteen, forty, twelve. Just in case."

"In case of?" as I repeated them silently to myself.

"I don't know. Remember them. Just in case."

He stood up, stretched, and we walked down the front path together. But we turned in opposite directions.

Rev 2 / October 18, 2007

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October, 2007…Copyright © 2007, Lloyd B. Abrams
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