“That all men should be brothers is the dream of people who have no brothers.”
~ Charles Chincholles
Oh shit, I thought, when I heard my father in the hallway, I’m in trouble now!
I hardly had time to extinguish the flashlight, and bury it under the pillow with my book, before the footsteps stopped in front of my door. They always stopped at my door; no matter that there were two other bedrooms at the end of the long hallway.
The other bedrooms belonged to my three sisters, but they were perfect.
This would be my father’s third visit, and it was well past midnight. The first time he’d found me at my desk, tying flies, and offered a patient reminder. The second time, betrayed by light leaking out from under my door, he’d caught me in bed with a well-worn copy of Robert Ruark’s, Old Man and the Boy. He’d been less patient.
The door slowly opened, and through my half-closed eyelids I watched my father’s silhouette for a long moment before he silently walked to my bed and sat down. “Bob, you awake?”
Should I continue my subterfuge, feign to stir, pantomime a yawn, and then pretend to awaken, surprised to see him?
I was a horrible liar. “Yes.” I said, propping myself up on an elbow.
It occurred to me that the last time my father had dropped by for a midnight chat, my dog had died. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer for a long second, as if he were trying to find a gentle way to tell me something.
“Wrong?” he asked.
“Did my dog die?”
“No, your dog’s fine,” he chuckled. “Nothing’s wrong, nothing at all. As a matter of fact, everything’s great… you’re finally going to have a little brother!”
Holy shit, I thought. He’s not kidding!
I’d always wanted a brother. I had three sisters that I battled with constantly, and I fervidly believed that my life would be much simpler if I could even those odds a bit.
“Really?” I asked in awe, hardly believing that it could be true.
“Your mother just told me,” he said. “We’ve talked it over and decided that you should pick his name.”
“Tommy!” I blurted out. “I’ve always wanted a brother named Tommy!”
“Tommy, it is,” he said.
Then a serious look crossed his face. “ Your mother is getting a little old for this sort of thing. So, you and I are going to do our best to help. We’ll say a Rosary every night until Tommy’s born.”
I hated school and homework, and was even less fond of praying, but decided that, given the circumstances, it was worth it.
“When’s he going to come?” I asked trying to gauge how many nights I’d kneel on the hardwood floor.
“That’s the best part,” my father said with a smile. “He’s due on Christmas!”
“Christmas?” I gasped. The wait until Christmas seemed like an eternity under normal circumstances. “That’ll take forever.”
For nearly eight months I spent the hour before bed on my knees as I climbed my way, bead by bead, around the Rosary. Spring passed into summer, and summer into fall. The leaves changed their colors and Halloween came and went, followed by Thanksgiving, and soon we were watching a “Charlie Brown Christmas”.
The Rosaries became easier with time, perhaps because of the calluses I developed on my knees, and I fell asleep each night content in the knowledge that God would soon give me the best Christmas present any boy could ever ask for… a little brother.
On Christmas Eve my mother’s water broke, and a neighbor stayed with us while my father took her to the hospital. It seemed like forever until the phone rang.
The oldest sister beat me to it.
When I finally got the chance, I excitedly asked my father a very important question, since I was making a large “Welcome Home” banner for my little brother. “What’s Tommy’s middle name?” I asked.
“Ahhh,” he stammered. “I thought it best if your mother named your new little sister.”
My world stopped. “What?” I croaked. “But, God was supposed to… what about all those Rosaries?”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “You must be disappointed.”
“Disappointed,” I whisper, and handed the phone back to one of my gushing sisters.
It was that night, at the tender age of ten that I stood alone, in the dark, at the edge of an abyss, and experienced a crisis of faith from which I have never fully recovered.
There is no God, I decided. And, if there is, she’s a girl.
I grew up alone (even the family dog was a girl) and envied all of my friends who had brothers. The neighbors down the lane had four boys, and the family at the top of the hill had five, so I spent a lot of my time with them. There was the usual pack mentality that boys develop, and we watched out for one another, but I never had anyone whose allegiance and loyalty surpassed friendship and came from blood.
In retrospect, of course, there were some benefits to being the only boy; I had my own room, and didn’t have to worry about sharing my stuff. There was little chance that my sisters would make off with my fishing rods, poke around in my tackle box, or borrow my BB gun.
On the other hand, there were certain important life-lessons that I never had the opportunity to learn. I never learned to share my space, or my time, or my things with others. I never learned how to have a knock-down-drag-out fight with someone, and then throw my arm around his shoulder when we finished.
If I were to be psychoanalyzed, I’m sure that it would be suggested that, as a result of being an only boy, I’m insecure and overly sensitive; that I strive too hard for other men’s acceptance.
This may well be true, but I’d argue that I have gained important insights into brotherhood by virtue of not having experienced it first hand; by being an outsider looking in, unencumbered by a blood connection.
Some men learn about brotherhood by the simple virtue of having a brother, many by playing team sports, others by serving their country and learning to trust their lives to their brothers-in-arms… something so powerful it’s unimaginable to me.
I finally learned about brotherhood as a fishing guide in Alaska. There’s a certain selflessness that’s basic to survival in such an environment. One learns to sleep while others snore, and to share the last of whatever is important and rare; clean socks, credit for a job well done, a certain fly pattern, boat gas, two-cycle, tippet material, the location of a good fish, dry matches, a cigar, and countless other things.
I’ve had more than my share of whisky over the years, but the very finest I’ve ever tasted was at the end of a wet day when logistics demanded that my brother-guide and I return to the lodge in open boats over a large and windblown Lake Beverly. At the end of the ride we’d have to negotiate standing waves at the mouth of the Peace River before winding our way to warmth and safety.
As we waited for the de Havilland Beaver that would transport our guests to the warm comfort of the lodge, one of the older fishermen slid over between us and smiled with a sigh that indicated he was much more comfortable with us than the others.
“It’s going to be a shitty ride home, isn’t it?” Jack said, more as a matter of fact than a question.
“Yes sir,” I replied. “But, we’ll be fine. We’ll see you at the bar in a few hours.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll be okay, but when we meet in the bar, I’ll have had a hot shower, a couple of drinks, and hors d’oeuvres. You’ll still be wet and cold; stopping by as a courtesy to me before you shower and get warm.”
My brother-guide and I looked out at the gray wall of weather we’d soon face, and back to Jack’s clear eyes.
“You guys take this,” he said reaching into his tackle bag to produce a well-used and tarnished flask. “One taste each before you leave, and the rest when you beach your boats at the lodge.”
“Thanks,” we said.
“And meet me in the bar before you head off to “The Swamp”, he said, referring to the guide shack where we bunked.
The big floatplane’s two-bladed prop cut into wave tops as it rotated, and it quickly disappeared into the rain and fog.
“What is it?” my brother asked, nodding to the flask.
“Who cares?” I answered, handing it to him.
“It tastes like bourbon,” he gasped.
The amber liquid made its way to our stomachs and began to warm us from the inside.
We made the trip home slowly, feeling our way through the fog, and over each wave. Eventually we met Jack in the bar as he’d requested.
“Here’s your flask,” I said, handing it to him.
“You keep it, brother,” he said to me. “I know you’ll make good use of it, and pass it along when the time’s right.”
I nodded and smiled, proud to have someone I admire refer to me as a brother.
I’ve never had a real brother, but I’ve shared plenty of brotherhood over the years, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the term shouldn’t be used lightly or thrown around haphazardly. The older I become, the more sparingly I use it.
If I ever refer to you as a brother, know that I’ve chosen carefully.
