Ms. Mindy inherited a great misfortune, I think you'd agree, a misfortune which no amount of pitiable pleading can fix or unvex.
Any misfortune on Jason's part, I'd render, is entirely by design. Wouldn't you agree a misfortune more readily remedied by strength of character than by ploy?
I fault neither of them. Neither is faulting my prerogative to attribute. It is hard for some of us to know the outcome of such things before the fact. Isn't that the truth? But then comes the aftermath.
I just wish their pain would not have turned so unbearable. I wish their pain had not spoiled so many lives. But that's too late now, isn't it? Viewing the whole mess from this end, it all seems wreckless and unwarranted, more like burning the house to spite a ghost.
I had seen Jason go into that barn before - you know, Hawthorne's old barn; the one that hangs just a little over the Tee Stream, which you had, well, should I say warned me about?
I saw him go there more than once or twice or three times.
Do I detect a snicker, a sniggle, a knock-me-out-did-you really?
Yes? No? If that's a smile on Mona Lisa's face then I am smiling too. I can't help but. The private humor between us grows more poignant with time, the ironies starker by day, especially in the light of your cause.
Perhaps my assertion deserves a better explanation; you're probably trying to guess where this is leading. True? Be patient. Don't forget that these diatribes are solely intended for you to rediscover the boy you left behind and to know the man I have become, the brother you once protected, and to afford you another chance to see what connects my heart to my soul, and not at all about silly recollections of shared events - though their telling is mightily warranted; I think you'd agree.
Well?
Be patient; allow me a question or two along the line. Yes, I know: your blankets can't smother me now. Pack them up.
Question. Is it wrong or rude or insensitive to smile, to snicker, to laugh knowing that much of the pain wrenching so many lives is inflicted blatantly by the sharpest edge of hypocrisy? Or rather, is Renaldo right, our Renaldo? He said, "Laugh. Laughter is the perfect shield against mental cruelty, the best poultice for reopened wounds. Heals more quickly."
Sounds like something Mama would say. Doesn't it? Renaldo was not known to us for wry wisdom. Still, I laugh.
Did Mama tell you of Renaldo's great masterpiece? It surprised even her. Or did you even checkout her private vblog? She still hides her pain well.
Renaldo created a great masterpiece - Metamorphosis Of The Golden Ass - which he bequeathed to me, as if he knew the bomb would take him before the word got out. He attributes this telling line to you: human stupidity is a lucrative commodity.
I very much recall you saying that. Human stupidity is a lucrative commodity. I remember when you said it too. It seems Renaldo understood that fact from every angle, judging from his work, but then he proceeded to modify your statement. "Stupidity," he wrote in his masterpiece, "is the most effective weapon of mass destruction for which knowledge is a very poor defense and the spoil of victory is greater stupidity."
What do you think?
As I was saying, I don't recall you exactly warning me against going into that barn. Of course, I had no desire to have what you said happened to Hawthorne's old maid and her dog and her donkey to ever happen to me or to you or to any of our friends. Oh God! The very thought of it used to give me chills. However, that is not the same, I suppose, as saying you warned me against going there. Warning as in, "Don't ever go into that barn for if you do you will die. Or, don't ever go into that barn for if you do you will ever after live a very miserable life. Or, don't ever go into that barn for if you do you will regret it forever and ever and ever."
Could it be, however, that you believed that all you needed to do was to share the story, that that was all it would take to steer me clear of that barn, as clear of it as if it were the gate to hell?
Well.
Sometimes I think it was the manner in which Ms. Mindy was calling for her husband that day, like a baby crying out of her womb, that I felt inclined to sidestep through the woods toward that barn and risk the old-maid's curse in hope of finding Jason so he'd answer his wife's call.
Sometimes I wonder if it had nothing to do with Ms. Mindy but more with me harboring a diabolical wish that Jason, unaware of your barn maid story, would succomb to the old maid's curse just so I would witness your tale unfolding as you said it would and that that was what caused me to wander toward the barn that day. Just for a glory peek!
Sometimes, though, I think it is simply that I am possessed of an inordinate amount of curiosity and that eventually I would have gone to that barn come what may and that that day just happened to be the day I did.
I have no idea which was the ultimate motivator.
But do you even remember what else was happening that day? I hope you do. Or is all this coming to you as a complete surprise - mostly surprised to hear that I was at the barn on that particular day and that all this while I gave you no hint that I was there?
Now I am snickering. Can you guess why? It is funny to think that in fact it might be you who gave me no hint that you knew I was at the barn that day; that that was your plan; that all along you expected curiousity to draw me there; that that way I might see the facts with my own eyes and make up my own mind. Mama said you were cunning.
Nevertheless, by and by, after this initial experience I snuck back to that barn several times more. Those subsequent excursions were definitely fueled by curiousity, a desire to clarify things: all the more why reflections on your barn tales grow ever more humorous with time.
That first time, however, that day which would mark my unexpected march to heroism, started with me walking out from Mama, because I had found her answer to my question about the zebra unsatisfactory. She just kept repeating the same answer: "Rock, how many times do I have to tell you a zebra cannot change its stripes neither can a leopard its spots?" I thought she just didn't understand my question, that you would, so I left to look for you.
You see, what you had told me about the spectrum of colors stuck with me. I anticipated from you equal clarity for my zebra question. The beauty of your revelation about colors is the brilliant imagery. There is a whole spectrum of colors, not just a few, you had said. You told me that whole spectrum is a joy more often squandered than appreciated. Or something to that effect. You even told me that certain people for varied reasons remain intent on smashing those magnificent colors together and shoving them into two bags - a black bag and a white bag. Certain other people out of frustration or 'noble' compromise find a third bag - the other bag. No amount of bags will ever do, you told me. That kind of order doesn't last. The bags soon burst. The sky goes awry in colorful baloons. The people get distracted, mesmerized, drunk in colors, whatever! And fools go to work all over again - stuffing colors in two bags. And sometimes three. Religion. Politics. And money.
Something to that effect; I might not have done your explanation justice, but the imagery is still with me. Your point still stands scrutiny: some seek to construct peace of mind on the principle of sameness; but what do we get? Pieces of Mind. So, keep your marbles! Keep your mind. Did I hear you correctly?
I was expecting Mama to be just as picturesque in her response to my zebra question. But she just kept repeating the same thing: "Rock, how many times do I have to tell you a zebra cannot change its stripes neither can a leopard its spots?" That was so disappointing, I left her and went in search of you. And came upon Ms. Mindy's cry. And soon I found myself in fair promixity to Hawthorne's barn. And I meandered closer.
With each step, I think, it became less and less about Ms. Mindy's cry, less and less about Jason's possible plight, and more about boyhoodness. I was pulled to it. It was as if the barn had become a giant magnate pulling me. Likewise, it was as if your barn maid's tales had coalesced into a giant force pushing me back from the barn. Curiosity and fear were tugging me this way and that. Still I leaned toward the barn, hugging the trees like a chipmunk as I went along.
Maybe it was curiosity after all. Remember what Mama used to say? Her bookend sons are two of the most curious persons in the world; there was no way she could get away with the stork brought it or Santa came down the chimney. Her boys would launch an investigation into why the stork didn't deliver exactly what was ordered and why not on time, and how come Santa stays so clean? "Two peas from the same pod - those two are."
Oh, I don't know. Anyway, I got close to the barn.
And then! "Ravi ... Raviiii."
I recognized Jason's voice calling out your name in that sort of pained way. "Raviiii..."
I couldn't have hesitated for more than a second. I dashed to the barn, being mightily careful in my hurry. I came to the barn door. There was a crack in it. I looked in.
You had him pinned, wrestled to the ground; his clothing ripped and clumped.
I presumed you were winning.
Whatever wrong he had done he had to have deserved it, I concluded. Right or wrong I didn't want you to lose.
Instinct, I guess, or brotherly love, or perhaps it was the borning of that little hero in me, I immediately positioned myself to protect your back. We have to protect each other's back, you used to tell me. My first thought was that the bad guys might have heard Jason calling out your name and come rushing in to rescue him and catch you off guard and gang up on you. No way could I allow that. They might even have guns and machettes.
I had to guard the barn, if only to sound the warning. I scouted every angle, double-checked every sound. You were still winning. It was easy to tell by the ever increasing exhausion in Jason's grunts and by the way he held on to your name. "Raviiii ... Raviiii." As if he was hanging on to life itself. I was not going to let anyone sneak up to spoil your victory.
But still I felt sort of sorry that anyone should have to come to hurt like this. I kept reassuring myself that whatever Jason had done to cause you to forgo your usual charms and resort to this superhero pounding, he must have deserved it.
I had no doubt, left uninterupted, you would win. No doubt whatsoever. I had your back. I imagined your moves. Besides, you and I had equal passion. Mama used to say so. We don't give up short of victory, she used to say. Even when you think either one is down and out, boom! Up comes the victor. It's my boys!
I crouched on guard thinking that one day I was going to have an overwhelming victory equal to the one you were having over Jason. He was all yours. But who would be mine? Who would give me this victory?
Mama used to tell us that victory is not always a good thing. I couldn't see what she was seeing, but she was quite positive victory is frequently not a good thing - it isn't what lasts. You frequently dismissed what she said - feminine instinct, you said - not to be trusted.
Remember how you and I used to wrestle; you the good master dog, I the good energetic pup? Wonderful days those were, weren't they? I always intended to win. Did you know that? Your size was not a deterent. No way. Even though I loved you, even though I respected you, even though you were my protector, I still wanted to beat you convincingly. That was always my goal. I hated us always ending in a draw everytime Mama intervened. I hated that she thought you were being too rough with me and much too cunning. "You don't know your own strength," she used to tell you. Even when she took my side, saying that if I had more meat on my bones I would take you down, I still wished she would leave us alone so that I could prove this had nothing to do with lack of meat or your cunning. I always believed I was on the verge of taking you down for the count.
I guess it was all just boyhood exuberance. We'll never know now - I am not a boy any more. We are men. I have a lot more meat on my bones now. The fight would be uneven.
No, I'm not challenging you. You are my brother, which bespeaks as much of my soul as of my heart. However, if it were a challenge and you were not smart enough to resist such a challenge, I would win, and it would be a very shallow victory. And for you a grave loss.
However, Mama still thinks we are very much alike.
In time, back at the barn on that memorable day, all went quiet, all but the bushes and the wind.
Victory! Victory! That's what I thought.
For a split second, though, I wondered: is Jason dead?
Ice ran up my spine.
I snuck back around to the barn door, being very careful not to cause a stir. I peeked through the crack in the barn door.
Huh? Both dead?
I looked again. Did Hawthorne's old maid's curse get both of you, got to you through some secret crack while I was watching your back?
My spine froze. But this was not how you explained the curse; this was not how it was suppose to turn out.
I squeezed open the barn door and entered.
And tiptoed.
Jason's snore was ever so slight. Life! He isn't dead.
I felt a little more at ease and I was still thinking. Had you whupped him then forgiven him? Were you so overtaken by his surrender, the very humanity in you - that Mama spirit - it implored you to comfort him, to redeem him, to counsel him, and in so doing, exhausted, you fell asleep beside him?
Now those were not exactly my questions, merely the spirit of my questions, not exactly my wonderment, merely the essence of it. His was a snore, a restful snore. Yours was more of that deep satisfactied breathing I knew. The two of you weren't dead after all; you were asleep. And it was quite touching. Or rather, relieving!
The ice that took my spine continued to melt. I was so touched I curled up behind you and threw my arms around you, but I couldn't sleep.
Mama had warned me about being selfish; it's the doorway to greed, she said. This was the battle in me now; I felt selfish. You had vehmently disagreed with Mama on that one. You had said selfishness is not necessarily a bad thing, people need to be selfish. When I asked you why you think so, you said, "People ask for your heart but really they are after your soul; they cannot be trusted. Be selfish." That was the very battle in me now; I felt selfish. I wanted Jason gone. I wanted him to get up and go, to leave us alone. I had a mind to kick him up and tell him so. I wanted to tell him that he was not your little puppy, that I was, and that I smelled a trick brewing in his snore. Alas, I couldn't. For I remembered how much you hated being awaken. Awaking him would awaken you. Awaking you was like awaking a wild beast, Mama used to say. I wanted to be with you. I didn't want to be with a wild beast. I wanted Jason gone. I didn't want Jason to hate me.
So I got up and walked out of the barn and sat under the big tree. I didn't want to be selfish. And so I was confused. The fact that my question about the zebra was still hanging out there only frustrated me that much more.
I got up from under the tree and walked away. It wasn't my mind, I don't think, that was leading me; my feet were. My heavy feet. All that was in my head were you, Jason and the zebra. Then you and Jason were the zebra; then various zebra images kept popping around in my head. Then I remembered Ms. Mindy's rug - her zebra rug. That's where the whole question had begun.
Oh well!
I came to the lake - our lake! Oh so many memories. Questions about zebras vanished.
I sat beside the lake remembering the song you sang for me the day the barber slipped and shaved all my hair off and made me cry. You said I wasn't ugly, I had a noble head. You said that whenever you think yourself ugly you stand at the mirror and sing that very song to yourself. That's true. I saw you. You cried. Then I cried. But you were never ugly. No one I know ever thought of you as ugly. No one I know ever called you a swan either; they said you were a stallion. A rare stallion. And I wanted to be a rare stallion too.
Well there, by our lake, it was as if you were at my side singing. I lightened up. My feet turned happy again. And off I went.
