Brother John

fc &® f¿ßtwlttm ¿f<Án by George Strange "Hope they don't get into it again this year," Grandma said as she handed me a dish to dry. She was looking out the kitchen window at the driveway, but I was too small to see anything except the tops of two tall pines, one marked with a long gash where lightning had stripped the bark away. "Well," Grandma said, handing me another wet dish, "will there be peace this year?" "Has there ever been?" I asked. My smile brought a trace of one to her lips, but she crushed it by tucking her bottom lip into her mouth. "Don't you make me laugh 'bout something that serious, and don't you do anything to provoke either one of them," she warned. "They don't need outside help," I said. 84 She leaned on the sink and laughed a big hearty laugh that blew bubbles off the dishwater clean up to the window. One filmy bubble latched onto the faucet. I hopped up and popped it. "You're smart beyond your years, Wes," she said when she recovered. Grandpa and my grandmother's brother John had been provoking each other as long as anyone could remember, which was as long as they had known each other. Even before, ifyou take into account Grandpa's parents had named him John without knowing the other one existed. Names being somewhat personal, neither adversary could tolerate this insult of sharing, so Grandpa invented a middle name, Samson, which was used whenever he was around Brother John. There was no end of things they'd find to needle each other with. Grandpa called the lightning-damaged pine the Brother John tree because, he said, it was streaked like a pole cat, and Brother John would go around saying that in the Bible, anyway, Samson wasn't a runt. They argued about which lived in the better place. Grandpa had been born in Florida and then moved to Georgia. It was the other way around for Brother John, and he claimed that Georgia birth followed by Florida residency made the sounder character. Grandpa's neck would turn red whenever he heard such logic. Grandma was paying more attention to the window than she was to the dishes, so I knew she was expecting one of them any minute. "Wonder what'11 start it this year?" she asked in a resigned voice. I didn't answer. She turned to get thelast · plate from the table. "I'll put this up for later," she said, referring to my partially eaten slice of pound cake. Whenever I get excited I don't eat or drink so good, and Christmas coming on as the main event and Brother John coming into town to square off against Grandpa as a preliminary had cut right into my appetite. "Who do you think's gonna get here first?" Grandma asked. "Grandpa, don't you reckon?" "Not if he doesn't hurry. Brother John said that he'd be in before dark." "Maybe they'll get here 'bout the same time," I grinned. "Lord help us if they do," Grandma said, and this time she grinned. "I might be smiling, Wes, but I'm a warning you. If you don't take all this serious I'm gonna tan your hide. Brother John and John. . ." "Samson," I corrected. "Brother John and Samson," she said the name deliberately, cueing herself for the name change, "are getting on in years, and it isn't gonna do either one of them any good to tussle neath the pines. Lord, I might have a heart attack if I tried to stop them, and you'd be battered aside like a biddy." She looked straight into my eyes. Through her glasses, I could see that she was serious. "What we've got to do is keep water on that fire." "I'll get the hose." Grandma grinned and told me I was hopeless. Grandpa drove up first. He was in an old, black Chevrolet that he'd bought a few weeks before to commute to the train yards and to use as a fishing car when he retired. It was a long sloping hulk of metal that had two little seats in 85 the back that folded up into the sides of the car. "Brother John didn't win this one," I said as we headed outside. Grandpa got out of the car and stretched his five and a half foot frame toward the pines. He threw his arms so high that momentarily the wrinkles disappeared from his stripped overalls and blue work shirt. With his arms up, he took a deep breath, then wiggled his nose. "Smells good," Grandpa said. "He's not here yet." "Don't you start that, John Samson," Grandma said. "This year's gonna be different." "Not if that freeloading brother of yours gets across into Georgia." "He's not freeloading." "Pshaw," Grandpa said and spit into the pine needles that covered the driveway . "Why doesn't he go visit those rich and famous doctor sons of his in New York City?" "Sometimes they're too busy, Brother John says." "I don't care what he says. The truth is that they've learned to keep him away and we don't have sense enough to," he turned to me. "What about you, little man? You been helping Grandma enough to keep on Santa's Good List?" "Sure," I said. "Sure you're rotten as the devil." He laughed and picked me up on his shoulder and whirled round and round until I grew dizzy. "Quit that," Grandma said. "A man your age. Come on now. We've got lot's to do." Grandpa set me down and kissed my cheek. "Did boss give out turkeys this year?" Grandma asked. "Yep," Grandpa answered, "but they're different." "Littler?" He winked at me. "Live." "Lord, I never did like to dress out a turkey." Grandpa led us around to the trunk. Inside was a large brownish black bird with claws tied together. He had enormous wattles, and his neck was straining toward the sky. He'd been placed on a litter of papers, but they had gotten wadded into one corner. "Better get him outta here before he tears that car apart," Grandpa said and reached for the bird just as the long neck unwound itself in his direction. Grandpa jumped back and stared at the bead of bright blood standing on his sunburned hand. "Bird, I'm a mind to wring your neck now. Ornery as you are, you'd last to Christmas sure." "Stand back," Grandma ordered. She grabbed the turkey by its bound feet, slung him over her shoulder and took off trotting. About that time, Brother John wheeled off the sandy street into the driveway, sending a small dust storm through the yard. He honked the horn and the unexpected blast sent Grandpa crashing into a pine tree. "Merry Christmas!" Brother John shouted. "Dad Gum it," Grandpa muttered. "What you think you're doing?" "Playing a Christmas carol for you, Samson. Cheer up." A big smile crossed his face as Grandma rushed up with a hug and kiss. Knowing she hadn't had time to get to 86 the chicken house, I looked around to see what she'd done with the turkey. From around the corner of the garage, I saw a long neck and red the color of Christmas ribbon stretching my way, and I imagined a small brain trying to guess the reason for being suddenly dropped. I knew it. Grandma didn't want her two men getting together for too long without a referee. Grandpa hooked his thumbs under the straps of his overalls and rocked back on his heels as he watched the reunion of brother and sister. He wasn't watching his wife very much though. I saw his eyes going slowly up Brother John like the eyes of a timber cruiser go up a pine, and I could tell by the set of his mouth when he saw something he didn't like. First it was the sandals. Grandpa always thought Brother John was spreading the Florida sunshine a bit thick by wearing sandals in December. The pants and belt passed inspection, but the flowered shirt made Grandpa tighten his face. He leaned over to me, "Never did see a sane man wear such clothes." "You doing okay?" Brother John asked Grandpa. "Couldn't be doing better." "You don't look so good. Color's off." I looked close at Grandpa and didn't agree with the diagnosis. Best as I could see the color was on; the diamond wrinkles on the back of Grandpa's neck burned. "You don't look like a prize yourself, if the truth was told," Grandpa said as the red slowly subsided. They were remarkably alike in size, in color, and the fact that they looked more like brothers than brothers-in-law was a sore spot with both. My theory was that they argued so much because their voices were so different, and they had to stress that difference as much as possible. Grandpa's voice was kind of high, though not shrill. "Soft as goose down" is how Grandma described it, while of her brother she'd say, "He'd make a bullfrog green with envy." "I may not look like a prize," Brother John replied, dropping his voice as low as he could, "but I look a sight better than you do." "Come on now," Grandma said, grabbing the arms of the two men and leading them to where she'd dumped the turkey. I walked behind to see if the change in scenery would do any good. Brother John smiled when he saw the bird, and the turkey looked up like he'd seen more than a turkey should. "Let me tell you what to do," Brother John said, and he did just that as the sky darkened. He rambled on about how to prepare a bird for slaughter, what to feed him, when to stop feeding him. "I was raised up on a farm," Grandpa said. "I don't need you to tell me what to do." "I can tell you stuff about meat you've never heard," Brother John said. "Don't want to hear it either," Grandpa said. "Besides, Christmas is tomorrow, and we don't have three weeks to manipulate the bird." "So it is, so it is. But you'll have a tastier turkey if you do it my way." "Won't be the way I'll do it a tall," Grandpa announced and walked on toward the back door. "Now why's he taking off in a huff like that?" BrotherJohn asked. "That's not going to help his blood pressure." 87 "Grandma," I said, "remember what you asked me a little while ago: will there be peace this year? The answer's no." She picked up the turkey and sighed. "We'll work on it, child." The turkey's head left a trail in the sand as she dragged him to the chicken yard. The house was in Christmas order. On the buffet in the dining room, Grandma and I had set out the minature nativity. The stable was made from a cardboard shoe box, and the hay was cotton that Grandma had saved out of her medicine bottles. All the ceremic figures were dull and chipped except for the baby Jesus. He had been given his annual treatment with clear fingernail polish, and he shone like a star. Beside the scene, the large family Bible was opened to Luke. Everything in the room had been cleaned, including the curtain rods, which I had dusted. The silverware had been polished, the floor waxed. On a small table beside the buffet, the edges of loaded silver platters gleamed and offered a varied assortment. There was green, white and pink divinity, some flat as a silver dollar and crowned with half a pecan. Others were jagged like icebergs, and concealed chopped nuts. There were roasted pecans as dark brown as the table, shiny peanut brittle, and dark fudge that'd coat your teeth for hours. Brother John acknowledged the nativity and turned his attention to the candy. Before you could say quick as a wink, a pink iceberg of divinity disappeared in his mouth and a piece of fudge was in his hand. Samson watched in disgust as Brother John stuffed himself. He cast a cold eye at his wife as her brother used his left hand to load his pants pocket with divinity while his mouth and right hand were busy with fudge. Grandma went into the kitchen and came back with cookie tins, most of them old Claxton Old Fashioned Fruit Cake containers filled with peanut butter cookies, Scotch cookies, pound cake, red velvet cake, and fruit cake that Grandma had accepted from a neighbor even though it had been soaked with wine. Brother John looked at the arsenal and sighed. He followed Grandma back into the kitchen while Samson and I cleaned crumbs from the dining room floor. Samson didn't say anything to me, but he stared at the flowered shirt slouched over the kitchen table long enough for me to understand. As if he couldn't take any more, Grandpa motioned to me, and walking through the den to avoid Brother John, he led me past the rumbling fuel oil heater in the large open hall', then through the living room and out the front door. "Where we going, Grandpa?" I asked when we were outside. He smiled. It was the first time I had seen him smile since Brother John arrived. "We're going to stuff that bird until he busts, that's where we're going." I argued with Grandpa about it and told him even if he was going to feed out the turkey he shouldn't do it with chicken formula. He listened, but I could tell I was being too opinionated for his liking. I hushed up. He had all he could handle with Brother John and the turkey, so I knew he didn't need any mouth from me. The bird was well-proportioned for a turkey. He looked more wiry than 88 plump, and his eyes looked too bright to be linked with a brain the size of a pea. I reckoned his to be equal to a bean at least. When Grandpa started toward the cage with a can of mash, the bird charged so hard and unexpectedly into the wire that Grandpa jerked backwards and spilled the mash down his overalls. Then he straightened up and stared at the turkey. The bird stared back. While they checked each other out, I refilled the can and opened the cage door to get the waterer. The turkey ignored me, but when Grandpa moved his hand to within six inches of the cage the bird aimed his beak for a break in the wire. He wedged his beak into the opening, but there wasn't enough room to get through to the hand. Grandpa motioned for me to put my hand near the opening. The bird watched but did nothing. While I was cleaning out the waterer, Grandpa put his hand up again, and the bird went diving for flesh only to be stopped by the wire. "Wes," Grandpa observed as we walked back to the house through the cold, dark night, "me and that turkey there understand one another." Grandpa walked with his arm around my shoulders, and he smelled of railroad grease diluted by chicken mash, about the most wonderful odor I knew. "I hope this is the best Christmas ever for you," he said as he squeezed me into his side. Because I liked him so much and because I was born sentimental, tears came into my eyes and I turned from him. I wanted it to be the best Christmas ever for everybody, but most especially for Grandpa and Grandma, for Brother John and the turkey. I liked them all, but one was already condemned , Brother John and Grandpa were fighting, and poor Grandma was caught right in the middle. When we got back in the house, Brother John was bringing in presents and scattering them on and around the packages that Grandpa had stacked neatly around the tree. "Let me help you," Grandpa said and began stacking the presents in neat piles while Grandma watched. Brother John waited until Grandpa was almost finished; then he reached in and pushed the stack askew. "I don't want them to look like they were layed by a bricklayer, I want them to look like they were flung off Santa's sleigh. That is, if that's all right with you." He and Samson locked their eyes into one another . The best way to put it is that I spent part of the night with Brother John in the big four poster bed in the front bedroom . Because as far as I know, no one slept. I got awful sleepy at times, but the night was cold and every time I'd get warm enough to sleep Brother John would flop over and drag the quilt with him, leaving my bare feet sticking out in the cold air. Then he'd groan and hurry out of bed. When he'd come back from the bathroom, he'd be smelling of divinity and fudge, only it wasn't a real fresh smell. His face was white and wet each time he came back, and he always said, "Wes, don't grow up liking candy." One time I got so mad that I fluffed up my pillow and slammed it down hard. "That sounded like that scraped against the bottom of the world," Brother John said. 89 "I don't care if it did," I said and almost immediately I was sorry I'd said it. Brother John usually made me feel good about myself, so there was no reason for me to get riled up just because he was the way he was. "Why don't you see what you hit?" he urged. Under my pillow lay the shinnest silver dollar I had ever seen, and because I'd managed to save fifty-seven cents during the entire past year it seemed like a bonanza to me. "Is all that for me?" He laughed. "All except the shine. That's for your pocket." He rolled over on his side, and I propped up on my elbow and looked at him in between time the silver dollar required. With the exception of his bickering with Samson, he was generally a kind old man, and I loved and trusted him. And out of that trust came what I thought to be an obvious solution. "Brother John," I said. "Would you do something for me and Grandma this year?" "Depends." "Would you quit fighting with Grandpa ?" "Asking a lot, aren't you?" "I mean it," I pleaded. He rolled over on his back and put his hands on his belly. For a few moments he gazed at the ceiling; then he turned his eyes to me. "If he's not above a truce, I'm not either." Grandma wasn't in her bedroom when I went across the hall to negotiate with Grandpa, who was snoring loud but not loud enough to undercut the steady metallic click of the clock. Waking Grandpa would not be the way to begin bargaining from strength, but I had no choice. He resisted, but finally he reached for his glasses on the nightstand. "What is it, Wes?" he asked while he adjusted the wire around his ears. I was smiling when I walked into the living room. "What you doing up so late, Grandma?" I asked. It was three a.m., and I had never known her to be up past ten o'clock. "Am I glad to see you. Come over here. You're hand is steadier than mine." In an instant I saw that she was wrapping gifts for the adversaries to give each other. She had done that each year and had signed the cards in her handwriting. What was unusual this time was that she was looking at the cards they had signed to her and was trying to copy their signatures precisely. "Grandma," I said, "you don't need to do that." I told her what I had done. "We'll call this insurance," she said as she gave me the pen and the order to forge. We laughed when I finished. While Grandma wrapped their presents in bright red paper and tied them with wide green ribbons, I lay on the sofa. The Christmas tree appeared almost solemn and the room was heavy with the aroma of pine. Stockings hung empty from the mantle. I closed my eyes and let my mind delight in expectations of the fullness that daylight would bring: stockings stuffed like bags of nuts, myself on the floor handing out presents to the reconciled Johns, and Grandma in her big chair, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she read aloud," "And it came to pass in those days, that 90 there went out a decree. . ." My body sank into the cushions, and I was unable to respond to a small voice deep within me that urged me to free the turkey. I wanted to act, but my eyelids drooped like wattles. Some time later, I was awakened by a breath of divinity. "Come on," Brother John said. "Maybe you can talk some sense into your Grandpa." Brother John took me out the front door and out onto the heavily-dewed lawn. Light was breaking on the horizon, and the air was still and cold, the dew like melted ice. "There," Brother John said, but I didn't look because I was watching Grandma rush toward us. She had on a robe but was barefooted. "What's going on?" she asked. Brother John shouted: "Up! There!" Grandpa stood up there on the roof in his bathrobe. He held a short section of garden hose. "Will you get Wes and that stupid brother of yours back in the house, or I'm gonna . . . ." "What have I done?" I yelled. "You shut up, John Samson," Grandma insisted. "Talking like that on the Lord's special day." "If somebody doesn't get that silly old man off the roof, it's gonna be the hospital's special day," Brother John said. It looked like Grandpa had dragged the hose from the edge of the roof up to the chimney and had started back down, making a parallel line two feet from the first one. "Come on," Grandma said to Brother John, talking low so I wouldn't hear. "Can't you see he was trying to surprise Wes? Make it look like sleigh tracks on the roof. Can't you see that?" When Grandpa got off the roof, it was his turn to haul me somewhere. "The idiot could have asked me what I was doing before he sounded the alarm," Grandpa said. His face was red and his cheek muscles flexed as he stomped to the chicken yard. The one advantage of being there was that I could wiggle my feet down through the upper part of the sand to warmth. Inside the cage, the turkey looked cold. He even looked thinner and his eyes duller. I felt he knew what was going on and was trying to prepare himself. "Wes, go to the woodshed and get my ax." I walked away slowly, knowing the bird was watching me and knowing I'd betrayed him by not acting while there had been time. "And don't tell me you can't find it," Grandpa said. "We both know exactly where it lies." It looked like me and the turkey were both cooked. "There's only one way to do this," said Grandpa as I handed him the ax. "By the power invested in me as your owner, I hereby name you Brother John." He reached through the door for the turkey, and the bird buried his beak in Grandpa's hand. "You do what?" said a voice behind us. "What?" Grandpa said, wrapping a handkerchief around his hand. "What did you call that turkey?" Grandma asked. "You heard me. I called him what he is." 91 "You are not going to call him Brother John," she insisted. "Oh, but I have," he insisted. "Merry Christmas," I said. For once, I was brushed aside like a kid. "You will take no ax against Brother John." "You do it then," he said and handed her the ax. "I will," she said firmly, "now get outta here, so I can." Grandpa was chuckling as he went out the door, but he looked awful mad at the same time. The ax looked so big in Grandma's hand that I was afraid it would topple her. She stood with her bare feet braced into the sand. Even with her bathrobe on she looked thin, and I wondered if a supplement of chicken mash would do her some good. "If I'd known those two couldn't have made it through the night, I'd have stayed dressed," she said. The turkey looked at me like he was expecting some kind of resolution. "What about him?" I said, pointing to the bird. "Are you gonna do it?" "Are you gonna watch me?" "No," I said backing away. "Then you run inside and get me the Lord's money." "What for?" I asked. "You hush up and get." "She done it yet?" Grandpa asked when I got inside. "Probably so by now," I said. "Good," he said firmly. I went into their bedroom and reached into her dresser drawer where she kept and envelope marked "The Lord's Money," where she put a tenth of everything she got. I was slow getting back to the chicken yard, and I strained to hear fluttering. It was so quiet that I knew it was over. There was nothing to do but walk in and see the inevitable. I smiled when I got around the corner and saw Grandma standing by the pen with a burlap sack in her hand. "You didn't do it," I said and handed her the envelope. "No," she said. "I'm going to drive over and let Bird Dog do it." "I'll go with you," I said. Charlie "Bird Dog" Vickers supplied Grandma with eggs when her hens were off, and I liked to go to his place because he kept ducks, guineas, quail, and a big strut of a peacock. "And who would stay with Brother John and Samson?" "They're old enough to take care of themselves," I said. "That's what worries me," she said, and she didn't smile. "What do I do with them?" "You get them to church. See if the Lord won't help." "Grandma, I already tried with them." I didn't tell Grandma then, but she was expecting too much of the Lord and asking too much of me. I'd had about all an eight year old could take and so as she backed out of the driveway, I walked across the chicken yard and headed for the woods. I thought about staying away forever, but compromised on one o'clock. I figured that by then whatever was going to happen would have happened. Grandma didn't need to be worrying about me, too. When I passed back through the chicken yard, I smelled baked turkey, and it almost made me sick. I looked at 92 the pen where Brother John had been, then walked reluctantly to the house. Grandma rushed out and hugged me. "We'll talk about it later," she said, and instead of yelling at me like I had expected , she took me to the dining table, which was covered with bowls of rice, beans, and cranberry sauce, a pie tin with sweet potato souffle, salad plates with nuts and raisins suspended in jello, a deep dish of dressing, and a large platter with a turkey about to be carved. The table was set with china plates and coffee cups, cut glass glasses, and silver, all atop a white crocheted tablecloth. "I want the part that flew over the fence last," Brother John said. He wore the flannel shirt that had been in the package with the "Love, Samson," I'd signed. Wearing the new tie from Brother John, Samson smiled: "You're our guest," he said. "We want you to have whatever suits you best." BrotherJohn looked dumbfounded. I ran into the kitchen as Grandpa carved with vigor and delight. Before I could start crying good, Grandma was beside me. "Now listen here, Wes," she said. "That isn't Brother John, but don't you let on. Bird Dog had some butchered turkeys left, and he gave me one for Brother John, which he said was by far the smartest turkey he'd ever laid eyes on." "So what's he gonna do with him?" I asked. "Keep him for a watch bird." "Really?" "Ill take you out after dinner and let you see for yourself." "But Grandpa?" "He thinks we're eating the bird he brought home. Remember, don't you let on otherwise." My appetite was instantaneous, but more for the presents than for the meal. Brother John was bent over a heaping plate, and Samson was working his jaws hard. "Never ate a turkey so tough or enjoyed one more," he said. "Do you remember the time," Brother John said to Grandpa, "that we helped each other out of a tight spot." "No," Grandpa laughed. "My memory's not that good." He put down his fork and turned to me. "Wes, I've never seen your presents stay wrapped this long before. Go get 'em. Over the mantel in the living room, Grandma had strung a banner that read "Peace on Earth, Good Will Towards Men." Hanging from the mantel was my bulging stocking and from the fireplace like fruit from a cornucopia my presents spilled. I looked back at the dining room table. Brother John was smiling, Grandpa was smiling, and Grandma was laughing . The presents could wait. I ran to the table to eat with my family. O S\3 cyr r93 Photo: Bruce Peters (c. 1938) 94 ...