“He's gone. Nothing can change it.”
“But he suffered,” Alan had said. “It didn't have to be so bad—”
“I know he fucking suffered,” Tim had shouted, shoving Alan. “I was there. You think you have to tell me?”
“Quit acting like an asshole,” Alan had said. “Neil would hate it.”
“He's dead,” Tim had shot back, hitting Alan's chest with the heel of his hand.
With Neil gone, Alan was the oldest brother. Tim was tougher, but Alan was big and had never lost one of their fights. He'd stepped away, shaking with rage.
“You sat outside his window,” Alan had said. “You were afraid to go in. I want to help people not be afraid.”
“Fuck you, afraid” Tim had said. “I'll shove it down your throat….”
He hooked a right, and Alan took it in the gut. Their eyes met, wide and surprised. Alan grunted and swung back, driving a left into Tim's side. Tim moved in, and Alan tried to push him off, but Tim raked his fingers down Alan's neck, and the brothers were rolling on the sidewalk in the middle of Harvard Yard.
Alan slammed him with a right to the head. Tim had him by the hair, and Alan jerked his arms hard tobreak the grip. A gash over Tim's eye was bleeding, and Alan felt the nail marks down his throat. Springing up, he reached down to yank Tim to his feet. Tim wasn't done fighting. He swung blindly through the blood in his eyes. Alan came to his senses.
“Hey, knock it off,” he'd said, shaking Tim by the shoulders.
Another left hook.
Alan caught it in the air. The brothers circled, unsteady on their feet. Both were wary, but Alan's burning anger was gone. As Tim swung again, Alan hit him in the solar plexus and sent him to his knees. He stepped away, but Tim kept coming back for more. It's insane, Alan thought. All he wanted was to help children, cure them when he could and comfort them when he couldn't, and here he was, fighting to the death with his brother.
After the fight, Alan and Tim drifted even further apart: Alan buried himself in his studies, Tim chose to escape back to the sea.
For the next few years Tim had stayed at sea. Lobstering took most of his time. It weathered his face and toughened his hands; even more, it hardened something deep inside him. He forgot how to be with people. He'd drink and fight, or he'd flash a smile that let some girl know how lonely he was. That he needed her to hang on to.
One of those girls was Dianne. Knowing that Dianne was interested in Alan made Tim go after her full blast. He had pulled out all the stops. Tim wanted someone to save him, and he chose a woman with a special talent for giving. Some of his behavior was an act, he thought, as he played the part of a lonesome, drunken lobsterman just to get her attention. But it worked, because it was real. So hethought he was playing a role, but he really wasn't. And Alan had watched it happen, Dianne falling in love with his brother.
Alan gave up without a big fight for only one reason: If he couldn't have Dianne, maybe she could at least straighten his brother out. At least that was what he told himself. Dianne was strong and solid, and Tim had been heading downhill since the day Neil had died. Maybe marriage and children would fill the void, make him stop hurting. But they hadn't.
“I hear you saw my girls yesterday,” Mrs. Robbins said, startling Alan as she wheeled in a cartload of periodicals to be shelved.
“I did,” Alan said.
“How is Julia?”
“She's a champ,” Alan said.
Mrs. Robbins had been the Hawthorne librarian for forty years. Alan had heard kids in his office claim she had read every book on the shelves, and he could almost believe it was true. Her blue eyes were clear with intelligence and compassion. Curiosity kept women like Mrs. Robbins young.
“But how is she?” Mrs. Robbins asked evenly.
“You know,” Alan said. “She's holding her own.”
Mrs. Robbins bit her lip. She shuffled through a pile of National Geographics as if to make sure the issues were in order. But
“But he suffered,” Alan had said. “It didn't have to be so bad—”
“I know he fucking suffered,” Tim had shouted, shoving Alan. “I was there. You think you have to tell me?”
“Quit acting like an asshole,” Alan had said. “Neil would hate it.”
“He's dead,” Tim had shot back, hitting Alan's chest with the heel of his hand.
With Neil gone, Alan was the oldest brother. Tim was tougher, but Alan was big and had never lost one of their fights. He'd stepped away, shaking with rage.
“You sat outside his window,” Alan had said. “You were afraid to go in. I want to help people not be afraid.”
“Fuck you, afraid” Tim had said. “I'll shove it down your throat….”
He hooked a right, and Alan took it in the gut. Their eyes met, wide and surprised. Alan grunted and swung back, driving a left into Tim's side. Tim moved in, and Alan tried to push him off, but Tim raked his fingers down Alan's neck, and the brothers were rolling on the sidewalk in the middle of Harvard Yard.
Alan slammed him with a right to the head. Tim had him by the hair, and Alan jerked his arms hard tobreak the grip. A gash over Tim's eye was bleeding, and Alan felt the nail marks down his throat. Springing up, he reached down to yank Tim to his feet. Tim wasn't done fighting. He swung blindly through the blood in his eyes. Alan came to his senses.
“Hey, knock it off,” he'd said, shaking Tim by the shoulders.
Another left hook.
Alan caught it in the air. The brothers circled, unsteady on their feet. Both were wary, but Alan's burning anger was gone. As Tim swung again, Alan hit him in the solar plexus and sent him to his knees. He stepped away, but Tim kept coming back for more. It's insane, Alan thought. All he wanted was to help children, cure them when he could and comfort them when he couldn't, and here he was, fighting to the death with his brother.
After the fight, Alan and Tim drifted even further apart: Alan buried himself in his studies, Tim chose to escape back to the sea.
For the next few years Tim had stayed at sea. Lobstering took most of his time. It weathered his face and toughened his hands; even more, it hardened something deep inside him. He forgot how to be with people. He'd drink and fight, or he'd flash a smile that let some girl know how lonely he was. That he needed her to hang on to.
One of those girls was Dianne. Knowing that Dianne was interested in Alan made Tim go after her full blast. He had pulled out all the stops. Tim wanted someone to save him, and he chose a woman with a special talent for giving. Some of his behavior was an act, he thought, as he played the part of a lonesome, drunken lobsterman just to get her attention. But it worked, because it was real. So hethought he was playing a role, but he really wasn't. And Alan had watched it happen, Dianne falling in love with his brother.
Alan gave up without a big fight for only one reason: If he couldn't have Dianne, maybe she could at least straighten his brother out. At least that was what he told himself. Dianne was strong and solid, and Tim had been heading downhill since the day Neil had died. Maybe marriage and children would fill the void, make him stop hurting. But they hadn't.
“I hear you saw my girls yesterday,” Mrs. Robbins said, startling Alan as she wheeled in a cartload of periodicals to be shelved.
“I did,” Alan said.
“How is Julia?”
“She's a champ,” Alan said.
Mrs. Robbins had been the Hawthorne librarian for forty years. Alan had heard kids in his office claim she had read every book on the shelves, and he could almost believe it was true. Her blue eyes were clear with intelligence and compassion. Curiosity kept women like Mrs. Robbins young.
“But how is she?” Mrs. Robbins asked evenly.
“You know,” Alan said. “She's holding her own.”
Mrs. Robbins bit her lip. She shuffled through a pile of National Geographics as if to make sure the issues were in order. But
Similar Books
