Fiction

So I need to revise this to work out some kinks, but my professor really enjoyed it. Yes, it is based on a true story, and it may be difficult for some people to read. Know that I use my inspiration to honor the dead, to express feelings that I might otherwise suppress, to intertwine reality with fiction. In fact, I know that a lot of this is not reality, is nowhere near reality. Please do not be offended by the content-- it is merely a borrowed backbone.


His legs, sticky with sweat, are glued to the leather seat but he doesn’t care. The garage is dark and empty save the pasty flickering overhead light that always stays on due to a lightning storm about a year ago. He never got around to fixing it, and had forgotten about it until he came back today for the first time since the divorce. Something seems different about his old house; he feels like a stranger barging in on someone else’s life. It’s dead summer, but Mr. Brooks doesn’t notice because he’s falling asleep and his mind is far from thoughts of late nights and fireflies and cookouts. His minivan’s driver door is cracked open and the glint of a silver nozzle is almost unnoticeable, peeking into the car like an unwanted stranger.
Mr. Brooks dreams of cradling baby Joel in his arms when they first came home from the hospital (it seems like yesterday or an eternity ago), caressing the shock of blond peach fuzz so unlike his own dark brown curls. He dreams of God (hopes, but doubts He is real) sitting in the passenger seat, whispering words of encouragement and strength. He’s never been a religious man, but he yearns for the comfort of life after death. The smell of gasoline and oil permeates the dingy garage, and the hum of the engine lulls Mr. Brooks into a deep slumber. This time last year he was having a cookout with his family. He could still smell the blaze of hot dogs on the grill, Joel’s shampooed hair after a bath. His hands are grimy from his job repairing vehicles, with fingernails that are blackened and have been that way for decades. No headlights illuminate the garage, no friends or loved ones are thinking of Mr. Brooks tonight but are instead clearing the table after a filling dinner and reclining in their leather sofa-seats in preparation for Family Feud, or the Price Is Right. People are probably commenting on the nice weather, talking about vacations they will take and future plans. Inside the house, Mr. Brooks guesses Joel is probably fervently dreaming upstairs while Mrs. Brooks is on the loveseat, quite unaware (she’s always been a deep sleeper) that Mr. Brooks is in their garage despite a restraining order and a year of divorce. Mr. Brooks twitches, wipes his hands gingerly on his button-down, and prepares to die.
He remembers that the hospital was that egg-white sheen that glares like it wants to dissect and sanitize and absorb you into the deceivingly placid atmosphere. Jr. Brooks, four years old at the time, bounced past Mr. Brooks and jumped over to the kids section of the waiting room. Mr. Brooks didn’t want to watch his wife giving birth this time. He almost fainted when Jr. came. In fact, Brooks was perfectly content to sit in this little blue waiting room in his little blue chair, far away from the screaming and sweating Mrs. Brooks whose jaw was always clenched and whose dark eyes, though beautiful, were taunting and ready to fight. As a child, Mr. Brooks had learned to give space to women with mad eyes. A portly looking man in white glided over a few hours after Mr. Brooks’ arrival, smiling serenely.
“If you would follow me please, Mr. Brooks.” Brooks and Jr. swiftly follow him up the escalator, past the cafeteria and into Mrs. Brooks’ room, where she holds a bundle with peach- blond hair. Mr. Brooks is at first overjoyed because the baby’s light locks almost seem a miracle.
“Jr., you looked like a monkey when you were born. A monkey! Your black hair stuck out like a little fuzzball, all over the place. Out of control. ” Mr. Brooks gleams and tousles Jr.’s hair. Jr. giggles fiercely and peeks at his new brother.
“Must’ve been a blond gene somewhere in there,” coos Mrs. Brooks as she gazes adoringly at the baby bundle. For a second she tears her glance away from the baby and to Mr. Brooks, and looks uncomfortable because they both know but don’t vocalize the fact that a blond gene is almost impossible. Mr. Brooks has never met a relative without dark brown, curly hair, and Mrs. Brooks comes from a long, traceable line of Native Americans. Mr. Brooks pushes his discomfort to the very back folds of the mind where he can easily and happily forget about genes and probability.
Joel, his infant hands curling and uncurling, looks like an albino.
“Jr.! You’re too close, don’t scare him!” Mrs. Brooks whispers severely and Jr. backs away, looking ashamed. Mr. Brooks stays far from the hospital bed, knowing that he will hold his baby soon enough. He has plenty of time.
Mrs. and Mr. Brooks and Jr. drive home from the hospital with baby Joel. Six years of diaper changing, first steps, minor injuries and thank god no major injuries, Spongebob Squarepants, babbling, endless talking, eating, learning to read, and sleepless nights passed like a snapshot in a collage of yesterdays that want to be remembered. Mr. Brooks conveniently forgets Joel’s blond hair and light eyes and convinces himself (mostly) that somewhere deep within his family history was a blond-headed relative. He lives a comfortable, almost beautiful life with his wife and his children, despite the occasional furtive look or underhanded comment about light hair. Maybe the beauty of these years is only apparent because Mr. Brooks has so little time left. Maybe Mr. Brooks wishes Joel was never born, was never conceived.
On the day that he finds out, Mr. Brooks just returned from the garage. His blackened fingernails scrape in his one-size-too-tight jean pocket to fish out the ringing cellphone. Joel is six and a half years old, and Mr. Brooks lives in an ancient apartment a few towns away from his family.
“You know you haven’t paid child support this month! Why do you do this to me and the kids?! You’re a selfish son-of-a-bitch, I knew it from the beginning. Always thinking about yourself—“
“Now you wait one goddamned minute. When have I ever thought about myself? I’m living in a rat-infested apartment, for Christ’s sake! Where are you? In my house, on my furniture, living off of my money—“
“Your money?! You mean the money that I need to raise my kids! You don’t live with them, you don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about!”
“Your kids? Your kids? Are you that independent now that they’re no longer our kids?” Mr. Brooks’ palms are sweating and the phone slips for an instant and crashes against the cracked white linoleum kitchen floor. He gropes for the phone like a lifeline, wiping angry tears from his eyes that cloud his vision all too often now. It’s a shame he and his ex- wife can’t talk face-to-face anymore, but after she locked him out of his own home and slapped a restraining order on him, the relationship went downhill. She claimed he was a “threat to the children” because of his nightly beer, but Mr. Brooks just drinks as a man after a long day’s work; he needs to unwind. Anyway, the wife always gets custody of the children in a divorce, so the restraining order was just Ex-Mrs. Brooks’ way of laughing in his face. Oh well, it’s not like he can do anything about it anyway. He finally picks up the phone and dials his home number, emotionlessly listening to one ring, two, three…
“Why did you hang up on me?” Ex- Mrs. Brooks breathes furiously.
“The phone slipped—“ a pause.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this.” She begins to jaggedly inhale like a dying camel.
“You can’t do what anymore? You have my house, my money, our kids. What more could you need?” Mr. Brooks speaks solemnly and slowly, like a business report.
“I mean, I can’t lie to you. He’s growing up and he’s starting to look less and less like you and I can’t lie anymore.” Ex- Mrs. Brooks rapidly and furiously breathes, quelling her mania. “When he was born, I thought it would be easy to cover it up, pass the hair color off on some distant branch of the family.”
Another pause.
“He’s not yours. He’s not your child.” She sucks in breath like a vacuum, waiting for an explosion. “He’s mine, but he’s not yours.”
The phone clicks off. Mr. Brooks doesn’t remember who hung up. They both saw this coming, but neither wanted to admit it.
Lining the grey-white apartment walls are tidbits of information—post-it note To-Do lists, pictures of Joel as an infant, potential email passwords. Mr. Brooks has spent months (he’s lost track of time) tracing every male correspondent of Mrs. Brooks. He sits at the kitchen table, remnants of last night’s Chinese takeout strewn across piles of notebook papers and pictures. Mr. Brooks rolls an empty bottle of Woodchuck Ale back and forth, back and forth, whistling jumpily and tapping his foot on the cracked linoleum. He re-checks his newest information (days old), looking ashamedly at his covert snapshots of Ex- Mrs. Brooks speaking animatedly in her driveway with a man. Mr. Brooks is tired of being that guy who lets all of the bad things happen to him; he needs to take action.
He’d had to borrow one of the vehicles from the garage in case she recognized the white minivan, but he’s been watching her come and go from the house for quite a while now, and she still hasn’t seen him. And this man in the snapshots he recognizes. Mr. Johnson, the family’s real estate agent. He is blond and thin, a few years older than Ex- Mrs. Brooks but in good enough physical condition to lie about his age and get away with it. He has one of those cheesy billboard smiles that consist of all teeth and no laugh lines. He is despicable, a rogue, a wife-stealing salesman with no morals. Mr. Brooks clenches the Ale so tightly that his knuckles turn white and his veins show bumpy blue against pale skin. Why would she want him? What does he have that Mr. Brooks doesn’t?
In the early evening, Mr. Brooks cruises down Main Street with his minivan window rolled down, checking for the wooden sign with “Johnson and Banhart Real Estate” neatly etched in bold red. There it is, right next to the failing beauty salon and the fire station. Mr. Brooks finds a place to park and walks inside the agency, knowing that Johnson is waving goodbye and getting ready to leave the building. All Mr. Brooks needs is a small talk, an affirmation of his wife’s infidelity, a key to understanding his own faults (why did she choose him?). Brooks corners Johnson just as his hand reaches the door handle.
“Excuse me, Mr. Johnson. You haven’t seen me since you sold us that house on Lewis Lane…no, no. I’m not looking for any real estate advice right now. I need to talk to you.” Mr. Brooks looks at Johnson with a mixture of anxiety and anger, because Johnson looks so composed and Brooks feels like a fluttering heartbeat or a pounding hammer or both.
“Mr. Brooks, it’s a pleasure. And I wondered about the real estate; that house was a real deal and I was sure you wouldn’t be dissatisfied. Let’s take this conversation outside, shall we?”
Mr. Brooks turns a deep shade of scarlet. Less than a few sentences into the conversation and he’s pushing his goddamn real estate agenda. He’s cracked. He slams the door forcefully and faces Mr. Johnson.
“Listen here, Mr. Johnson. I know what you did with my wife. I came here to tell you that if you come near Mrs. Brooks again, there will be consequences.” Mr. Brooks had rehearsed this line all night (he’d never said anything threatening to another person before), and knew that it sounded impressive and powerful. He waited, chest puffed out, for Johnson’s response.
“Mr. Brooks.” Johnson faltered for an instant, but looked squarely at Brooks. “Marty is not your wife. I clearly remember her filing for divorce. She doesn’t belong to you. She can talk to whomever she wants, including myself. You need to step off of this property before I call the police; I hope you understand that a threat is not tolerable. At the rate you’re going, you’ll never see your kids again.”
A pause. Mr. Brooks backs away, retreating to the minivan, knowing that he has lost.
My family. My family. The only family I know. I love them. Why? I spent fifteen years with her.
The night in the dim light of the dance hall she forced him to go to, she spun like a top and he asked to marry her.
My family. Her dad hated me, a blue-collar mechanic holding his middle-class daughter’s hand. Who was I to think she loved me, anyway? I had nothing to offer her.
He handed her the ring, looking bashfully at her clenched jawline, waiting for a smile that never came. Tears escaped her eyes, though, as she nodded her head.
My family. My sons. She was ready for a family, and so was I. They hardly know me now.
Jr. pedaled faster, faster on his bike until Brooks was able to let go and watch as his son gleefully rode down the street. Joel’s chubby fingers were pressed against the window, reaching for his daddy.
My family. My family. Who am I without my family? Nobody. I am a meaningless name. A forgotten face. A dark-haired man in a blond, happy family.
Mr. Brooks doesn’t know how he got to his home. He remembers driving, pulling into the garage, worrying that he would wake up the children, his ex-wife, even though their vehicle is gone and they must be enjoying a pleasant evening out.
The nozzle breathes release, whispering words of solace to Mr. Brooks who is sleeping. The pasty flickering overhead light clicks off, and Mr. Brooks heavily opens his eyes to darkness. For a moment, he sees Mrs. Brooks smiling, Jr. and Joel peeking out from behind her with giggles etched in their eyes. They fade.