By John Tom Defiant (Challenge~Desperation~Victory)
To get inside the cabinet above the fridge would be a challenge for any kid not Isaac’s brother. To see his hand snake past the ceramic cat, between the now stale cereal boxes and Daddy’s unopened protein formula, was at this hour an exalted projection in the haunted nickelodeon of the kitchen, reeled from the blue irises of the eight-year-old, four-foot-and-three-door-notches-above-the-1993-mark-tall Isaac, here in still worship on the linoleum.
Isaac knew all sounds were intrusive in this presence, even breathing. He recalled the moist whispers on his ears to be quiet, okay. To keep watch, okay. He must have appeared dense when he was unable to answer but only to follow with deliberate steps, over the creaky board at the mouth of their bedroom and down the stairs. He now stood sentry at the leg of his chair where he ate and stooped at 6:15 each evening, so that his parents could squint to see the forecast on the TV at the far end of the living room. He scanned the dark places for eyes in quick intervals, telling his bare legs not to budge until the job was done, lest they should betray his wanting to run and dive into his bottom bunk. He must be brave. He must be brave.
Isaac felt a hand on his arm: his brother’s. He was proud not to have jumped, though surprised he didn’t. He watched the bottle rise in his brother’s hand and shake. Heard the liquid climb the glass inside and fall into itself, the label and the amber within bending and absorbing the harsh, preternatural light from the bare bulb over the stove. This was something he knew to be forbidden but not necessarily prohibited, and certainly not criminal if age and height and bad days were one’s only requirement to enjoy whatever it was that made grownups sleep sitting up. He felt his blood warm and push against his cheeks, just as it did when he traced his finger over the bellies and thighs of the ladies in the ads of the catalogues his mother kept on her nightstand.
There were no more commands. Isaac trailed just as before, but this time to float through the intervening space of a house asleep, without letting his heels strike the carpet, the stairs or floor. Just as he entered his room, he heard and saw the dull glow of the Superman nightlight behind the door click off, and he felt the dark mass of his brother move some feet near the bed and stop. Isaac moved towards it and dropped his butt to the floor once both feet met the rug. He heard the cap twist and pull from the bottle. “Here.”
Isaac felt the bottle near his chest, groped and gripped the neck. It was much thicker than that of any juice or soda he’d had before, and heavier. He was careful not to spill anything, or worse lose his grip on the cool glass. And remembering how it seemed a little over half full before, he lowered his mouth to the lip of it. He reared and coughed. And coughed.
He felt the bottle snatched from his hand. He felt, on fire. He felt as if he wasn’t ready for the drink to attack his innards like it did, like he needed warning. He thought maybe something was wrong, that maybe he had burned something important in there, and they would have to tell Mom and Dad and call the doctor, the school, the pastor. Had his brother given him something chemical? Did he know?
It was too late for Isaac to speak. He heard the gulp and the breath of satisfaction: exhale, a release of the demon of thirst, who just seconds before broke the hermetic seal of Isaac’s soul, fanned it away to stoke the embers at the bottom of his gut.
“It burns.” Isaac choked.
He felt the bottle proffered to him again. “Drink.”
Isaac took it, with hesitance this time. The burning was still there. Ever since he could remember, Isaac had wandered the negative space between him and his brother. Isaac was always reached over. Always left behind. Always felt a measure of desperation to reach past the ceiling of physical and emotional limitation and to be out of the now and in the not yet. He listened as his brother cursed with his friends without first looking over his shoulder. Watched him pedal down the drive without a helmet. Watched him pull lures from Daddy’s tackle box without asking, and play basketball after the streetlamps came on. He could do whatever he wanted because spankings didn’t hurt no more. Whatever he wanted because, in the end, baby brother could never keep up.
But now, in this dark room, they sat cross-legged on a level plane of existence, this rug and its red S. Now there was no Mackelschmit from down the street, no Billy Bigpond to walk with to the park on Elm. His brother was here, his presence bottled before Isaac’s witness and swallowed to set the younger’s insides aglow, to snap and mix the solutions of something so familiar and some thing not yet realized, to let Isaac know he was alive and living, to let him peer into the crystal ball of his being and show him what was soon his, a great present for him to rattle, for which to wonder and to anticipate.
Isaac lifted the bottle and let his mouth fill before swallowing. The same attack came as before and again the burn. It brought to mind the image of smelted metal, the Vulcan tongue moving across its mold, down his throat and into the bowl of his stomach. He imagined steam lifting from his ears and underwear. It warmed his skin.
He handed the bottle back to his brother and he drank. His brother handed it back and Isaac drank. Each moment of concession was a wild leap and chasse of this new dance, this pirouette on the pivot of Isaac’s ass. This was the twirl of the gyro world in the wheel of its trajectory, down cosmic wires in the divine hand at play. Isaac was moving up. And now in this ascension, in this new entity extraction, there was acceptance, and no longer a need to belong but to remain. This was a nod at having arrived on the face of the shooting star of wanting to be there and there and this and not that. And now he was accomplished. He had achieved. Now there was the fire of victory burning away the old Isaac. Final victory. And if the steam of his sweat forming at his chest and eyebrows could fog his bathroom mirror, Isaac could wipe his hand across the face of new identity to see behind him the backdrop of his climb. Here on this mountain, to be too far removed to see what it was like to be little brother. He was both.
And that’s when Isaac decided this fire could either melt him into the fingers of the floor or even into this bottle between his legs. Yes, that he’d melt inside and it be corked and cast at sea, later to be opened by some surprised islander hoping for wishes. Yes, to be cast at sea. That’d be just fine.
Then the room exploded with light, followed by a scream truncated, suspended in disbelief, the throat caught mid-breath. Isaac turned to see Mama gripping her hair, her eyes and mouth wide and agape. Heavy footsteps were heard and then silent, ending with Dad standing behind her scratching his naked belly. When his eyes caught up to him, his hand stopped. Both turned to stone.
Isaac looked to his brother, smiling. His cheeks flushed. He brought the bottle back to his face, this time to read its label: a spiced rum: Stigmata.
To get inside the cabinet above the fridge would be a challenge for any kid not Isaac’s brother. To see his hand snake past the ceramic cat, between the now stale cereal boxes and Daddy’s unopened protein formula, was at this hour an exalted projection in the haunted nickelodeon of the kitchen, reeled from the blue irises of the eight-year-old, four-foot-and-three-door-notches-above-the-1993-mark-tall Isaac, here in still worship on the linoleum.
Isaac knew all sounds were intrusive in this presence, even breathing. He recalled the moist whispers on his ears to be quiet, okay. To keep watch, okay. He must have appeared dense when he was unable to answer but only to follow with deliberate steps, over the creaky board at the mouth of their bedroom and down the stairs. He now stood sentry at the leg of his chair where he ate and stooped at 6:15 each evening, so that his parents could squint to see the forecast on the TV at the far end of the living room. He scanned the dark places for eyes in quick intervals, telling his bare legs not to budge until the job was done, lest they should betray his wanting to run and dive into his bottom bunk. He must be brave. He must be brave.
Isaac felt a hand on his arm: his brother’s. He was proud not to have jumped, though surprised he didn’t. He watched the bottle rise in his brother’s hand and shake. Heard the liquid climb the glass inside and fall into itself, the label and the amber within bending and absorbing the harsh, preternatural light from the bare bulb over the stove. This was something he knew to be forbidden but not necessarily prohibited, and certainly not criminal if age and height and bad days were one’s only requirement to enjoy whatever it was that made grownups sleep sitting up. He felt his blood warm and push against his cheeks, just as it did when he traced his finger over the bellies and thighs of the ladies in the ads of the catalogues his mother kept on her nightstand.
There were no more commands. Isaac trailed just as before, but this time to float through the intervening space of a house asleep, without letting his heels strike the carpet, the stairs or floor. Just as he entered his room, he heard and saw the dull glow of the Superman nightlight behind the door click off, and he felt the dark mass of his brother move some feet near the bed and stop. Isaac moved towards it and dropped his butt to the floor once both feet met the rug. He heard the cap twist and pull from the bottle. “Here.”
Isaac felt the bottle near his chest, groped and gripped the neck. It was much thicker than that of any juice or soda he’d had before, and heavier. He was careful not to spill anything, or worse lose his grip on the cool glass. And remembering how it seemed a little over half full before, he lowered his mouth to the lip of it. He reared and coughed. And coughed.
He felt the bottle snatched from his hand. He felt, on fire. He felt as if he wasn’t ready for the drink to attack his innards like it did, like he needed warning. He thought maybe something was wrong, that maybe he had burned something important in there, and they would have to tell Mom and Dad and call the doctor, the school, the pastor. Had his brother given him something chemical? Did he know?
It was too late for Isaac to speak. He heard the gulp and the breath of satisfaction: exhale, a release of the demon of thirst, who just seconds before broke the hermetic seal of Isaac’s soul, fanned it away to stoke the embers at the bottom of his gut.
“It burns.” Isaac choked.
He felt the bottle proffered to him again. “Drink.”
Isaac took it, with hesitance this time. The burning was still there. Ever since he could remember, Isaac had wandered the negative space between him and his brother. Isaac was always reached over. Always left behind. Always felt a measure of desperation to reach past the ceiling of physical and emotional limitation and to be out of the now and in the not yet. He listened as his brother cursed with his friends without first looking over his shoulder. Watched him pedal down the drive without a helmet. Watched him pull lures from Daddy’s tackle box without asking, and play basketball after the streetlamps came on. He could do whatever he wanted because spankings didn’t hurt no more. Whatever he wanted because, in the end, baby brother could never keep up.
But now, in this dark room, they sat cross-legged on a level plane of existence, this rug and its red S. Now there was no Mackelschmit from down the street, no Billy Bigpond to walk with to the park on Elm. His brother was here, his presence bottled before Isaac’s witness and swallowed to set the younger’s insides aglow, to snap and mix the solutions of something so familiar and some thing not yet realized, to let Isaac know he was alive and living, to let him peer into the crystal ball of his being and show him what was soon his, a great present for him to rattle, for which to wonder and to anticipate.
Isaac lifted the bottle and let his mouth fill before swallowing. The same attack came as before and again the burn. It brought to mind the image of smelted metal, the Vulcan tongue moving across its mold, down his throat and into the bowl of his stomach. He imagined steam lifting from his ears and underwear. It warmed his skin.
He handed the bottle back to his brother and he drank. His brother handed it back and Isaac drank. Each moment of concession was a wild leap and chasse of this new dance, this pirouette on the pivot of Isaac’s ass. This was the twirl of the gyro world in the wheel of its trajectory, down cosmic wires in the divine hand at play. Isaac was moving up. And now in this ascension, in this new entity extraction, there was acceptance, and no longer a need to belong but to remain. This was a nod at having arrived on the face of the shooting star of wanting to be there and there and this and not that. And now he was accomplished. He had achieved. Now there was the fire of victory burning away the old Isaac. Final victory. And if the steam of his sweat forming at his chest and eyebrows could fog his bathroom mirror, Isaac could wipe his hand across the face of new identity to see behind him the backdrop of his climb. Here on this mountain, to be too far removed to see what it was like to be little brother. He was both.
And that’s when Isaac decided this fire could either melt him into the fingers of the floor or even into this bottle between his legs. Yes, that he’d melt inside and it be corked and cast at sea, later to be opened by some surprised islander hoping for wishes. Yes, to be cast at sea. That’d be just fine.
Then the room exploded with light, followed by a scream truncated, suspended in disbelief, the throat caught mid-breath. Isaac turned to see Mama gripping her hair, her eyes and mouth wide and agape. Heavy footsteps were heard and then silent, ending with Dad standing behind her scratching his naked belly. When his eyes caught up to him, his hand stopped. Both turned to stone.
Isaac looked to his brother, smiling. His cheeks flushed. He brought the bottle back to his face, this time to read its label: a spiced rum: Stigmata.