When my brother, Andy, went away to college, he left me his fishing pole, a well-read copy of The Wind in the Willows, and a stack of Playboys. Those things serve as a perfect metaphor for the way I remember him, caught somewhere between childhood and maturity, a generous guy with a soft heart and a bawdy sense of humor. He knew more bad jokes than anyone, sharing gems like, “Hey Pete, why do mice have such small balls?” Answer. “Very few of them know how to dance.”
           
 I forgave him the jokes, after all he did teach me where to find the secret levels on Ferret Assassin II and gave me my first pocket knife, which mom promptly took away. That was one of the problems of not having a dad to back you up. Only a dad can understand a guy’s need for knives, slingshots and BB guns.  Mom was more worried about keeping us safe than she was about us turning into wimps.   Of course Andy being who he was, and me being his brother, that wasn’t real likely.  


Andy was fearless. How else to explain the things he got us into. One summer day we walked to Lost River to go fishing. Our luck was bad. All we got were a few palm-sized perch and a new layer of sunburn. Then Andy spotted a bony, stray cat slipping through the grass along the shoreline. He took one of the perch and tossed it to the cat. It came out fast, a calico blur, grabbed the fish and disappeared back into the high grass. For a while there was nothing but a wet, crunching sound. When it stopped Andy tossed another fish, a little closer to where we sat, atop the lone picnic table.

The cat slipped into sight again, a little less cautious.  It sniffed the second fish then took a tentative bite. The fish flopped but it only encouraged the cat. It put one paw on the fish and took a huge bite.  I slipped off the table and gathered a double handful of gravel. The cat stopped eating and the tip of its tail twitched. Even after I’d slid back to my seat and the cat resumed chomping that tail kept on snapping back-and-forth.

I let the gravel slip from my hands into a pile between my legs, then picked out a couple of nice chunks.

“What you doing?” Andy asked.

            “Going to mess with it.” I said.  I prepared to let the first stone fly. Not planning to hit the cat but to land the rock somewhere behind it. Make it jump.

“You leave her alone. Can’t you see she’s hungry, not to mention pregnant?  Why would you want to mess with a poor, starving, pregnant cat some jerk probably dumped out here to fend for itself?”

Ashamed but too stubborn to admit it I came back with, “Yeah, well how do you know it’s pregnant. How do you know it’s not a boy with a fat belly.”

“Because calico cats are always girls. Everybody knows that.”

“You think you know everything,” I said, giving him a push. He didn’t budge. He was fourteen, three years older, thirty pounds heavier, an athlete and award winning wrestler. I could hardly count the trophies mom kept on display in our family room. If Andy didn’t want to move he didn’t move. As usual my pride beat out my good sense and I shoved him again. This time he fell completely off the table to the ground, rolling in the dust and gravel. Even though I knew his theatrical fall was staged I felt better.

“Let’s go home,” Andy said, getting up and dusting off his jeans. Toss them fish to the cat. The cat had run away again. I dug the rest of the fish out. They were still half alive and beat the ground with their tails as I tossed them in the grass.

Andy took the hooks off our fishing lines and put them in the old tool box we used for tackle, then took the poles apart and handed me mine. He took the tackle box and I took the paint can and we began the three mile trek home. Our walk took us past farmland, sprawling acres of hay and potato fields as well as pastures with cows and horses.

“Hey,” said Andy, “I’ve got one.” What do you call a cat after you toss it out of the car?”

“What?”

“Kitty litter. Get it? Kitty litter. Good one, huh?”

“Right,” I said trying for sarcasm, but I couldn’t help but smile.

We walked on until, at one particular pasture, we were greeted by a trumpeting call and a tall black horse with white socks galloped straight at us. Then, stopping just shy of the six strands of tightly strung barbed wire, the horse spun and galloped away. “Wow. That’s some horse,” Andy said, admiringly.

“Some crazy ass horse,” I said. “Acts like it want’s to stomp us into the ground.”

“Nah, just playing is all. Give me your belt.”

“What?”

“Give me your belt. What, you deaf and dumb?”

Andy was taking his belt off, undoing the rodeo buckle our uncle Bud had given him, the one that said “Champion Steer Roper, 1977” then pulling it through the loops in his belt. I reached down and undid my own buckle, a plain brass square that didn’t say anything.

“What are you going to do,” I asked.

“Going for a little ride. You stay here and keep watch. Let me know if anyone’s coming.”

I scanned the area nervously. There was only one farmhouse in sight and all I could see of it was a part of the roofline, the rest blocked by a small rise. There was little road traffic this time of day. Once in awhile a log truck bypassing the town and sometimes a pickup full of hay or sprinkler heads or other farm equipment but at the moment, nothing.

Andy studied the wire enclosing the pasture. It was well done, stretched tight, with no gaps or sags. Finally he saw what he wanted, a place where the ground dipped, a place where run-off water had eroded the soil. He used his boot to dig the hole a little deeper, then got on the ground and wriggled through, head first. I was afraid the crazy horse might go after him, stomp his head in before he’d got himself through so I waved my arms and made whistling noises to get its attention. It had been standing a little way off, snorting and pawing and when I made the noise it rushed the fence, stopping just short and baring its big yellow teeth.

“Hey fella. Hey big fella,” I heard Andy call. “

The horse turned its attention from me to my brother. Its ears went back and it charged. Andy stood his ground, just twirling the belts in his hands. The horse came to a sod tearing stop right in front of him. Its head snaked forward and I was sure the next thing I’d hear was teeth and a sound like the cat had made eating the fish. Instead Andy had stepped aside and the horse’s head slipped by and into the loop of my belt. Pulling it tight, high up on the horse’s neck, Andy pulled its head around toward him. The horse turned, circling Andy. Dust flew up around the flashing hooves as they kept going, a one horse merry-go-round circling and circling. Finally the horse tired and stood still. Andy reached up and scratched behind its ears, made mumbling noises. Two minutes later the horse was bumping Andy’s chest, demanding attention.

Andy took his belt and slid it into the loop of mine, giving him a very slim bit of rein. Grasping the horse’s mane in one hand, he made a chirping noise and as the horse reacted to this new sound by jumping forward, Andy leapt and was on his back.

Horse and Andy pounded across the pasture. Just when I was sure they were both going through the wire, images of cartoon characters sliced in equal pieces dancing in my head, they turned and raced along the fence instead.

Eventually the horse slowed and began to listen to Andy’s voice and legs. He rode up to where I was sitting and said, “Come on. I think he’ll let you ride him now.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. I took off the rough spots.”

Trembling, I wriggled under the fence. The barbed wire snagged my T-shirt and tore a jagged hole. I got up and, pretending to dust off the seat of my jeans, dried my wet palms.

Andy swung his leg over the black horse’s neck and slid to the ground. Tired but still ready for a fight it backed up and bared its teeth. Andy wrapped his hand in the belt around its neck and pulled its head down. Looking it straight in the eye he said, “Listen up horse. You behave yourself with my brother, or else, got it?” The horse nodded its head, brushing up and down against Andy’s chest as if agreeing. Andy rubbed the horse’s ears and it sighed.

“Come on,” he encouraged. “Climb aboard.”

I stepped up and got a good handful of mane. I could see the dampness on the horse’s back where my brother’s legs had gripped. Andy cupped his hands and said, “Go.” I stepped into his hands and was lifted up and onto the horse's back. I grasped a handful of mane in one hand and the slender end of belt in the other.  An icy chill, as shivery as an electric shock, ran through my stomach and into my throat. Then the horse was moving along beneath me, each step threatening to unseat me.

            “Relax,” called my brother, “Loosen up or your spine’s gonna shatter, and drop your heels.

            I took the advice. Eagerly hanging onto each precious word I earnestly hoped would keep me alive for just one more moment. I dropped my heels, which brought my knees into a better grip on the slick sides of the horse, which was doing no more than walking slowly across the field.  I began to breathe more deeply and slowly sat up, drawing myself out of the crabbed as-near-to-the-ground-as-possible position I’d first assumed.

After a few moments I began to relax and enjoy myself. This was no more dangerous than riding Bell, our neighbor’s fat ancient Percheron. I managed to turn the horse at the corner of the fence and we were slowly heading back when Andy yelled.

“Hey Pete, how do you make a slow horse fast?”

I shrugged, not wanting to call out an answer and startle the horse.

“Quit feeding it. Get it?”

I shook my head, not because I didn’t get it but because it was such a lame joke.


The black horse stopped in front of Andy and reached out to have its ears scratched. I took the opportunity to slide to the ground. The muscles in my legs twitched from the unusual exercise and tension but I didn’t mind. I was just grateful for the solid feel of the ground under my feet. 

Andy took the belts from the horse’s neck and gave him a smack on the shoulder that sent him jogging a few steps away. Then we wriggled back under the fence, put on our belts and continued home. 

Time went on, as it does, and before long I was finishing my first year of college and Andy was shipping out to Iraq. I was still the quiet one, the one who read too much and whose sole picture in the high school year book had a list of accomplishments under it that revealed my complete lack of athletic ability: Editor of the school paper; Student Body Vice-President; Big Brother volunteer.

Andy’s year book, which mom to his dismay dragged out on his first leave, was sprinkled with pictures of him: Andy on the wrestling team at the regional’s, Andy playing basketball, football, and soccer. Andy working a cow at the fairgrounds for steer roping club.

We kept in touch by e-mail. Andy had joined the military to earn money for college. He’d gone to school for two years and though he hadn’t earned a degree he’d taken enough classes to figure out what he wanted to do. As soon as he finished his time in the service he planned to get a degree in mechanical engineering. 

After Andy joined the Marines the war heated up. None of us who knew him were the least surprised when he immediately signed up for a stint in Iraq.

Mom worried about him and sent care packages frequently. She sent cookies and he sent pictures of strangers dressed in desert camouflage. She sent homemade jars of jelly and he sent foreign coins stamped with palm trees.

Sometimes I got postcards with pictures of Baghdad on the front and bad jokes on the back, things like, “Hey Pete, a polar bear, a giraffe and a penguin walk into a bar, The bartender says, “ What is this? Some kind of joke?”

That’s what it seemed like when the letter was delivered. Like some kind of really bad  joke. The letter said Andy had been shot in Sadr, a neighborhood of Baghdad, during a fire fight with militants.

Mom took it hard. When she began to come out of it you could tell she’d changed. She had this look around her eyes.  I don’t know, maybe that’s the way it is for all the people who lose someone that way. Maybe her hostility towards government and war, her angry mourning, was normal. But it was more than just anger; there was an element of failure as well. I thought about the pocket knife she’d taken away from me when I was a kid. The way she had wanted to keep us safe. But she couldn’t. Of course it wasn’t her fault. I tried to explain that to her but I don’t think I ever really got through.

It was easier for me because I didn’t believe it. Andy wasn’t dead. There wasn’t a world I could conceive of that my big brother didn’t move through, casting his bigger than life shadow and taking me along for fun.  Sure he was MIA. Well that was just like him. When this was all over he’d turn up, probably married to some Arabian princess or something. I hurt for mom. I felt every tear she cried, but for myself, well I just didn’t believe he was gone. 

Then I got the second letter. It came in both me and mom’s names but she was out so I opened it and read it by myself. I sat down at the kitchen table and spread it out in front of me, smoothing the creases, taking deep breaths. It was from a member of Andy’s company and it said,

I want to tell you what happened with Andy, the details the official letter maybe left out. I was there with him and the others and I want his family to know.

They came out of nowhere. We’d been moving along just fine, no sign of trouble, and another unit had done a bomb sweep right ahead of us so though we were alert we were surprised when the shooting started. Sergeant Wilde got it first. A burst of auto fire took him out.

The rest of us scrambled behind some rubble, mostly broken down walls from an F-15 air bombing earlier that week. Later we figured one of them jumped the gun. Another couple minutes and we’d have been at an intersection and sitting ducks with no cover. We hunkered down behind the walls and fired back. That’s when we realized there were snipers on the roof across the street.

It’s not like on TV. Walls don’t stop bullets, especially .50 caliber machine gun bullets.  They might slow them down some but that’s all. Two more guys got hit by sniper fire or ricochets. Bullets were pinging off an old car in the street, glass shattering, chunks of concrete flying all over. I saw Corporal, I mean Andy, slide into a low spot behind a wall. Once he got set all I could see was the heel of his boots but I could hear him fine. He called out to each of us and those of us who could answered back.

We realized less than half of us were left. Then Sergeant Wilde, who we thought was a goner, yelled out. He’d been shot in the leg. It was torn up pretty bad.  Andy belly-crawled away, got turned around and came back to where he could see him.

He told Wilde his leg was pretty messed up and that he should take off his belt and wrap it around his leg and pull it tight.  Wilde said he couldn’t do it. It hurt too much. Andy yelled at him to quit being a baby and cowboy up. Sergeant Wilde was from New York and probably never saw a cow but he still got it. He did what Andy told him. He screamed some and the snipers let go a fresh round but they didn’t get anyone, though they did toss some dust in Wilde’s face. Andy told him to crawl behind a pile of sidewalk that had been bulldozed into a big mound not far from him.

Wilde was sort of losing it by then. He asked Andy if they were going to cut off his leg. He said he didn’t want to go back without a leg.

There was another round of fire only from a different direction. The enemy was moving and we were sitting around babysitting this guy.  I started bitching and Andy called out, “Hey Brett, Take it easy, a sucking chest wound is just nature’s way of saying slow down.”

He went back to talking to Wilde, trying to get him to take better cover.  Wilde said he had a wife and a new baby on the way and didn’t think he’d be any good with just one leg. That’s when Andy really gave him hell. Asked if he was going to leave his kid for some other guy to raise. Then, before Wilde could think about it too much, Andy tossed off another joke. “You ever hear how Santa one time asked a little girl what she wanted for Christmas? She said, ‘A Barbie and a GI Joe,’ Then Santa said, “Barbie doesn’t come with GI Joe, she comes with Ken. The girl says, ‘No, she comes with GI Joe, she just fakes it with Ken.’

That one got everyone laughing, even Wilde. Then Andy said Wilde was already GI Joe so why was he bitching. Wilde said he got it already and pulled himself in behind the slabs of concrete.

Andy didn’t stop there. He kept telling bad jokes. As it started to get dark he seemed to wind down some. The jokes came slower and they didn’t always make sense. Finally another unit came in and cleared out the snipers. They sent in a field medic to patch us up. I didn’t know for sure until then, though I’d started to suspect, that Andy had taken a hit in that initial encounter. It was funny how fast he went once we were rescued. I think he was hanging on, despite being shot up as bad as he was, just to keep us going. He kept us laughing and that kept us alive. Andy was a hero.” 
            
I folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. Mom would read it when she got home. Maybe it would help.

When my brother went to college he left me his fishing pole, a well-read copy of The Wind in the Willows, and a stack of Playboys .

When my brother went to war, he left me.