Mike

My brother Mike arrived unannounced, which was the least surprising part of the evening.

After rearranging the furniture of my little cottage, the only room for his faded leather bag was on the armchair, and so it sat there begrudgingly like the passenger of a delayed flight. Last time, he stayed just long enough for Emily to learn his name, and I spent that year trying to explain why everyone she called out for was gone.

“The Amazon isn’t just pumas and anacondas,” he whispered the secret to her after dinner in the shadow of the fireplace, “It’s birds! As big as this house!” And he pranced like an overgrown chicken, knocking over stools and logs. Emily’s eyes swam with fireworks, as if she was listening to one of Rachel’s bed time stories.

“If I knew the Amazon was gonna visit, I woulda built a bigger living room,” I forced a yawn, rubbing away my tears.

On her way to bed, Emily looked back every few steps.

“Uncle Mike’s gonna stay for breakfast,” I looked to him, and he nodded.

“Something for you, little bro,” he handed me a pamphlet, “That volleyball league you used to beg dad to let you join”. He swept his arms in a mock-serve. “Where is the old ball anyway?”

“I threw it out with Rachel’s things,” I replied, savouring its chill, “And this is in the city. I can’t go”.

Mike was a familiar stranger to me now, the way that my teenage self was. Tonight was his rest stop as an evangelical of the World, that beautiful tantalising place that can take a mother with its wrath, that keeps a man on a Guatemalan bar crawl while his brother cried himself to sleep. The same World that followed Mike into our home to lure Emily, first with a story, then a trip, until she gracefully untangled her kite strings.

“And you can’t stay,” I felt the stony mantlepiece, and the dying flame lick meekly at my feet.

***

His leather bag was gone in the morning, making the armchair look useless and spare.

One more to go, I thought, as I stepped outside and breathed in the icy mist of the paddock.

Mike was leaning against a tall log, which held up towels stitched together like a net, and he was bouncing a ball that looked like it was frankenstein’ed from pieces of his bag.

“Since you won’t go…” he gestured at the new court.

“Oh, since I’m too chicken to leave?” I smirked.

“No. Chickens always run away,” he picked at the ball’s stitching, “You’re too brave for that shit”. And he threw the ball in the air.

We played past breakfast, and when Emily wanted to join, Mike would hoist her up above the net and let her throw the ball like a goddess casting lightning.  Right before lunch, Mike dived for and missed my spike, collapsing in a heap. When I ran over, I saw that he was sobbing, but with that wide grin only he could make. He was clutching the grass with all his strength, as if a hurricane could sweep him away.

“You big dork,” I hugged him tightly, “If you like building so much, you can help me expand the living room”.