My Brothers Keeper

My Brother’s Keeper

         Anxiety overwhelmed him, as Bo paced the porch watching the steady rain, scanning the overcast sky for any sign of clearing, even a mere lightening of the dark thick clouds. But the downpour continued. He couldn’t take it. He had to move. He had to walk, so he marched out into the rain, hoping it would douse his mood. It didn’t. So he walked. Head down, he walked. No particular destination. He walked hard. Stomping. Marching, splashing down the gutters. He should feel like a kid again, but he doesn’t, no memories of splashing in the rain. No memories of laughter. The anxiety, like the rain, blinds him to the past and what lay ahead in his path. So, head down, he walks on. On he walks for days, or hours, or weeks, he has no sense of time. But his legs hurt; he's drenched to the bone when he enters the woods with its muddy trails and canapé of old growth trees. Sanctuary.

         His legs grow weaker as he fights his way through the clinging mud, making each step heavier and heavier. The rain stopped when he crossed the swollen river to the large flat rocks that once hung as a bluff over the cut-bank. The sun broke through the dwindling clouds and the river birch that lined the bank. He stripped off his clothes and spread them out in the filtered sunlight to dry and laid back on the sand stone rock. His eyes closed, he pays attention to the sound of the river, the few birds venturing out after the rain, and his breathing. Consciously trying to slow his breath, his heart beat, his racing mind. He wonders if he could stop the beating of his heart through sheer force of will. He nods off with an image of his bloated, pale body floating lifeless down the flooded river.

         John felt a story brewing in the back of his mind since he’d woken from a particularly vivid dream. He kept catching fleeting glimpses that he couldn’t quite grasp. He didn’t mind. The chase was often more fun than the catch. Often the writing itself was too much like work. He needed to walk. He needed the woods. To move, to keep the blood coursing through his veins, flooding his brain. He needed the rain to stop. He stood at the window watching the storm clouds racing by and thought of when he was young and would lay in the yard watching the high, fluffy white clouds. He would concentrate, imaging a beam of pure heat emanating from his mind reaching out to evaporate the clouds. He tried to recapture that feeling, that sense of youth when anything was possible. He focused. Concentrated. And to his amazement, a hole began to appear in the cloud. Of course he could be rational and dismiss it to the storm finally clearing, but the clouds thinned just where he had been concentrating. Then the thinning revealed blue sky. No matter how it happened, the rain stopped. The woods waited.

         “Well good morning sunshine.” Pete said as Bo woke, startled by the unexpected company, suddenly aware of his nakedness. “I’m afraid your clothes are still wet. Here put this on.” Pete took off his jacket and tossed it to Bo. “Turned out to be a nice day huh?” Pete said laying back with his head resting on his folded hands. “This has always been my favorite spot. Of course, I sure didn’t expect to find you spread out in all your glory. You never know what you’ll find in these woods.” Bo didn’t respond. “Guess that’s why I come here, it’s never the same. I remember when the river flowed a good twenty yards over that way. Gradually moving south through the years. I live just up over the hill so I’ve spent a lot of time here. You live near by?” Pete prompted. Bo merely shook his head. “Are you hungry? I’ve got some apples.” Pete reached into a bag and pulled out a large, red, perfect apple and tossed it to Bo who greedily took an enormous bite. “Good huh? Grow them myself. Have several apple trees, a few plum trees too, and a huge vegetable garden. I’m sure it loved this rain. I’ll be pulling weeds this week that’s for sure.” Pete smiled. Bo silently devoured the apple.

         “If you been thinking, you’re all that you got, then don’t feel alone anymore. Cause when we’re together then you got a lot, cause I’m am the river and you are the shore.” Pete sang. Bo tossed the apple core into the river and lay back against the warmth of the rock. Pete sang on, “And it goes on and on, oh, oh, oh, watching the river run. Further and further from things that we’ve done, leaving them one by one.”

         Jack packed up his fishing gear and headed down the trail leading to the river. He knew a sweet spot where the fishing was always reliable after a rain. Wearing his waders allowed him to walk just off the muddy path without fear of poison ivy, oak or even sumac. It was beginning to get hot as the last of the clouds raced northeast. Jack noticed the May-apples in bloom and thought it would be a great day for morels if it weren’t so wet. He loved the way May-apples bloomed beneath their canapé of large dark green leaves. Making the gleaming white, star-shaped flowers seem like a secret treasure that only those in the know could enjoy.

         When he reached his favorite fishing hole, he didn’t notice the two men laying on the large flat rock. He carefully chose a silver lure, his favorite pole and waded out into the rushing stream.

         “Hello there!” Pete called down to the fisherman who was so startled he nearly toppled head first into the current.

         “Damn, didn’t see ya there.” Jack said regaining his composure. “Didn’t expect to find anyone out here on a day like this.”

         “It looks like the storm has moved on. Whatcha’ fishing for?” Pete asked cheerily.

         “Whatever’s biting I imagine.”

         “Seen quite a few stripped bass lately. And carp, there’s always plenty of carp and blue gill. Don’t care much for blue gill myself.”

         “Is your friend there alright?” Jack scrutinized the other man laying on the rock.

         “I think he’s just having a bad day.” Pete said in a comic whisper.

         “Hey buddy, don’t ya think you ought to get your clothes on?”

         “They're almost dry.” Pete said lifting Bo’s shirt and shaking out the stiffness and dust left by the rock.

         “I’ve got a couple of poles if either of you would like to do some fishing?”

         “Maybe later.” Pete replied. “Let’s see how you do.” He laughed.

         None of the men noticed that John was perched on a rock higher up the hill, overlooking, observing the scene, and taking notes. He had written, “One came to absorb life, one to catch life, one to witness life, and one to end life. His own.” He wondered if the happy man, proud of his apples knew. If the fisherman reveling in his acumen knew. He could feel the pain of the half naked man, who just wanted to be alone. Alone so he could drift away on the current. But John just watched.

         Pete and Jack continued their casual conversation throughout the afternoon. John got the impression that both men sensed something wrong in the third. As though his despair emanated from him like the heat emanated from the sandstone rock. Neither wanted to leave. Pete had gone on and on describing his house up over the hill. Proudly expounding on all the work he’d done to the place. Jack caught a basket full of catfish, and the sky was turning a soothing orange, announcing the approaching night. John could see Pete trying to communicate with Jack, without words. Obviously concerned about Bo, neither man felt they could leave him there, and time was running out. Finally, Jack took charge. He packed up his gear, waded across the river below Pete and Bo and handed his catch, his tackle and poles up to Pete. Then he took Pete’s hand as he helped him up the rock.

         “Ok, how about you show us this house of yours and I’ll show you both how to properly clean and cook a catfish.” Jack announced a plan of action. “Bo, get your ass up and get dressed.” Pete had already gathered his clothes and turned to extend a hand to help Bo to his feet. Before either man could react, Bo stood and jumped from the rock into the rushing water. Jack stepped to jump in after him when he heard John.

         “I’ve got him.” John had moved down the hill and was sitting along the bank apparently anticipating this turn of events. He pulled Bo from the river, as he struggled to get away. John wrapped his arms around him, gently but firmly restraining him.

         “Just let me go.” Bo whispered a pathetic plea.

         “I just can’t do that.” John said.

         “What do you care? Nobody cares.” Bo sobbed.

         “I’ve just spent the afternoon watching two complete strangers, spend their afternoons watching over you. One fishing so long, his hands cramped with arthritis. You can see his gnarled fingers. One sitting on that rock so long you can tell his ass is numb and sore. And now they want to take you to Pete’s house, fry some catfish and talk. Are you sure nobody cares? Three against one.”

         “Are you two coming? It’s getting dark.” Jack called like a father yelling out the back door for the kids to come in, "It’s getting late."


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