A War Story

The glass ashtray flew by my head and I ducked. My brother screamed a string of curses at me, some I didn't even know, and reached for the next mssile - the imitation Swiss cuckoo clock came of the wall easily and went sailing past me. It was followed by small piece of pottery, an unwashed coffee cup, another ashtray and finally a case of knitting needles. Then, barefoot, wearing just his pajama bottoms and still cursing, he jerked the front door open and fled across the snow covered yard. It was Janauary and he had turned nine the spring before. My other brother, standing out of range on the stairs, shrugged as if to say, What the hell, you know he's crazy.

It wasn't the first time and it certainly wasn't to be the last. He was a dangerously troubled child - sullen, stubborn,
slow to learn, constantly in and out of fights. He was a bully, tormenting the neighborhood children and their pets without mercy. He never made eye contact unless forced, he took punishment with rigid defiance, he was hostile and prone to violent rages when he didn't get his way. He was never to be left alone with the dogs. I tried to keep as much distance between us as possible, having learned early that neither mother or dad could handle him. In his teens, he devloped a taste for setting small fires, petty theft, reckless driving and vandalism. To everyone's relief, he finally joined the army and was sent to Vietnam but when he came home it was with horror stories of war and killing
and he told them with huge pride. He married quickly and divorced almost overnight and eventually moved to somewhere in Florida. I haven't seen or heard from him since.

Everybody had a theory. He had fallen and cracked his skull as a small child. He was learning disabled. He was mentally ill. His features hinted at being mongoloid so it was fetal alcohol syndrome. My grandmother saw it in simpler terms - he's mean, mean as a snake and no damn good. Nana had seen The Bad Seed once too often and the resemblance she saw was too close for her own comfort. He spooked her.

The ashtrays, coffe cup and pottery were all in pieces but somehow the Swiss clock had survived. I rehung it on the walll and set the small ceramic figures back in motion. The brightly painted little boy and the little girl with the yellow braids began to swing back and forth, keeping time with each tick tock, as if nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary had happened. They had seen it all before.