The Recalcitrant Brother

It occurs to me that I talk about The Butcher all the time and rarely about my recalcitrant brother. My recalcitrant brother is usually sullen or asleep. But sometimes he'll catch you in rare moments, usually in the middle of the night at the kitchen table or at 5:30 in the morning as you're taking the dog out, and then he's a riot. He's closer to the Butcher than he is to me. Sharing a bedroom and favorite vices will do that, I guess. But we've been through some shit together, the recalcitrant brother and me. There was the Thanksgiving we had with the Ku Klux Klan where the biggest scariest rural Georgian I'd ever seen sat across the table from us and made not-so-quiet comments about how easy it would be to kill a Yankee and hide his body across the state line where no one could find him. And he saved my life, once, I believe. Armed only with a baseball bat and a sense of righteous indignation, he took care of a scary problem for me. Though our bond seems to be forged through life-threatening situations, we also have good times together. The Thanksgiving after the Klan incident, he came to my house. We started drinking when we put the turkey in and kept at it. Most of the afternoon, we had a huge leaf fight in the front yard, that ended with the two of us lying side by side in a pile of leaves out by the street, trying to catch our breath between giggles. He missed dinner because he locked himself in the bathroom and passed out in the tub. I'd have gladly left him there, but it was the only bathroom in the house. After my grandma's funeral, we all went back to her suite at the nursing home to empty it out. And there, in a frame, by her chair was a picture from that day, of the recalcitrant brother and I sprawled out side by side in that pile of leaves.