his little red ball. His brothers move a step closer, looming over him like trees. Trees that hate.
It’s embarrassin, Bigger Brother says, bein known as your brother.
Put some meat on your bones, Big Brother says. And quit bein such a sissy.
Okay, Willie says. I will.
The brothers laugh. What happened to your friends, Willie Boy?
You scared them.
The brothers pour the egg creams over Willie’s head and walk away. You scared them, they say, imitating Willie’s thin voice.
Another time they make fun of Willie’s big nose. Another time, the red bump on his eyelid. They always make sure to tease him in the streets, away from any grownups. They’re as sly as they are heartless. They remind Willie of the wolves in one of his storybooks.
When Willie is nine his brothers stop him on his way home from school. They stand directly in his path, their arms folded. Something about their faces, their body language, lets Willie know this time will be different. He knows that he’ll always remember the high blue of the sky, the purple weeds in the vacant lot on his left, the pattern of the cracks in the sidewalk as Big Brother knocks him to the ground.
Willie writhes on the sidewalk, looking up. Big Brother smirks at Bigger Brother. What are we gonna do with him?
What can we do, Brother? We’re stuck with him.
Didn’t we tell you to quit bein such a sissy, Big Brother says to Willie.
Willie lies on his back, eyes filling with tears. I’m not.
Is it liars you’re callin us?
No.
Don’t you want us to tell you when you’re doin somethin wrong?
Yeah.
That’s what big brothers are for aint it?
No. I mean yeah.
Then.
I wasn’t. Being a sissy. I promise I wasn’t.
He’s callin us liars, Big Brother says to Bigger Brother.
Grab him.
Big Brother jumps on Willie, grabs his arms.
Hey, Willie says. Come on now. Stop.
Big Brother lifts Willie off the sidewalk. He puts a knee in Willie’s back, forces him to stand straight. Then Bigger Brother punches Willie in the mouth. Okay, Willie tells himself, that was bad, that was terrible, but at least it’s over.
Then Bigger Brother punches Willie in the nose.
Willie crumples. His nose is broken.
He hugs the sidewalk, watches his blood mix with the dirt and turn to a brown paste. When he’s sure that his brothers have gone, he staggers to his feet. The sidewalk whirls like a carousel as he stumbles home.
Mother, turning from the sink, puts her hands to her cheeks. What happened!
Nothing, he says. Some kids in the park.
He was born knowing the sacred code of Irish Town. Never tattle.
Mother guides him to a chair, presses a hot cloth on his mouth, touches his nose. He howls. She puts him on the sofa, leans over him. This shirt—I’ll never get these stains out! He sees his brothers behind her, hovering, glaring. They’re not impressed that he didn’t tattle. They’re incensed. He’s deprived them of another justification for hating him.
The sidewalk whirls like a carousel. Sutton staggers. He reaches into his breast pocket for the white envelope. Tell Bess I didn’t, I couldn’t—
What’s that, Mr. Sutton?
Tell Bess—
A stoop. Six feet away. Sutton lurches toward it. His leg locks up. He realizes too late that he’s not going to make it .
Willie, Photographer says, everything cool, brother?
Sutton pitches forward .
Oh shit—Mr. Sutton!
It varies widely, for no apparent reason. Sometimes the brothers simply knock Willie’s books out of his hands, call him a name. Other times they stuff him headfirst into an ash barrel. Other times they scratch, punch, draw blood.
They pretend there are offenses. Crimes. They stage little mock trials. One brother holds Willie while the other states the charge. Showing Disrespect. Being Weak. Kissing Up to Father. Then they debate. Should we punish him? Should we let him go? They make Willie plead his case. One day Willie tells them to just get it over with. The waiting is the real torture. Big Brother shrugs,
It’s embarrassin, Bigger Brother says, bein known as your brother.
Put some meat on your bones, Big Brother says. And quit bein such a sissy.
Okay, Willie says. I will.
The brothers laugh. What happened to your friends, Willie Boy?
You scared them.
The brothers pour the egg creams over Willie’s head and walk away. You scared them, they say, imitating Willie’s thin voice.
Another time they make fun of Willie’s big nose. Another time, the red bump on his eyelid. They always make sure to tease him in the streets, away from any grownups. They’re as sly as they are heartless. They remind Willie of the wolves in one of his storybooks.
When Willie is nine his brothers stop him on his way home from school. They stand directly in his path, their arms folded. Something about their faces, their body language, lets Willie know this time will be different. He knows that he’ll always remember the high blue of the sky, the purple weeds in the vacant lot on his left, the pattern of the cracks in the sidewalk as Big Brother knocks him to the ground.
Willie writhes on the sidewalk, looking up. Big Brother smirks at Bigger Brother. What are we gonna do with him?
What can we do, Brother? We’re stuck with him.
Didn’t we tell you to quit bein such a sissy, Big Brother says to Willie.
Willie lies on his back, eyes filling with tears. I’m not.
Is it liars you’re callin us?
No.
Don’t you want us to tell you when you’re doin somethin wrong?
Yeah.
That’s what big brothers are for aint it?
No. I mean yeah.
Then.
I wasn’t. Being a sissy. I promise I wasn’t.
He’s callin us liars, Big Brother says to Bigger Brother.
Grab him.
Big Brother jumps on Willie, grabs his arms.
Hey, Willie says. Come on now. Stop.
Big Brother lifts Willie off the sidewalk. He puts a knee in Willie’s back, forces him to stand straight. Then Bigger Brother punches Willie in the mouth. Okay, Willie tells himself, that was bad, that was terrible, but at least it’s over.
Then Bigger Brother punches Willie in the nose.
Willie crumples. His nose is broken.
He hugs the sidewalk, watches his blood mix with the dirt and turn to a brown paste. When he’s sure that his brothers have gone, he staggers to his feet. The sidewalk whirls like a carousel as he stumbles home.
Mother, turning from the sink, puts her hands to her cheeks. What happened!
Nothing, he says. Some kids in the park.
He was born knowing the sacred code of Irish Town. Never tattle.
Mother guides him to a chair, presses a hot cloth on his mouth, touches his nose. He howls. She puts him on the sofa, leans over him. This shirt—I’ll never get these stains out! He sees his brothers behind her, hovering, glaring. They’re not impressed that he didn’t tattle. They’re incensed. He’s deprived them of another justification for hating him.
The sidewalk whirls like a carousel. Sutton staggers. He reaches into his breast pocket for the white envelope. Tell Bess I didn’t, I couldn’t—
What’s that, Mr. Sutton?
Tell Bess—
A stoop. Six feet away. Sutton lurches toward it. His leg locks up. He realizes too late that he’s not going to make it .
Willie, Photographer says, everything cool, brother?
Sutton pitches forward .
Oh shit—Mr. Sutton!
It varies widely, for no apparent reason. Sometimes the brothers simply knock Willie’s books out of his hands, call him a name. Other times they stuff him headfirst into an ash barrel. Other times they scratch, punch, draw blood.
They pretend there are offenses. Crimes. They stage little mock trials. One brother holds Willie while the other states the charge. Showing Disrespect. Being Weak. Kissing Up to Father. Then they debate. Should we punish him? Should we let him go? They make Willie plead his case. One day Willie tells them to just get it over with. The waiting is the real torture. Big Brother shrugs,
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