Brotherhood of the Sparrow

1. Now.

When he squinted real hard, and stared way off toward the horizon, it almost looked like he was home. Not that he was, or had ever been. The closest he’d known to a home for years were these stinking Doc Marten steel-toes that needed a fresh wrap of duct tape, and the bedroll now strapped across his shoulder.

He’d been in town for two days, and for the first, he was thinking this might be the place at the end of the journey, that last place on earth. The next morning he woke to the same terror chasing his mind since leaving the city that had nurtured him before the moment of his birth.

In his dream, he was trapped inside one of those shells of flesh that carry little phones and constantly scurry here and there, doing important things. He could see the reflection of his flesh shell face with tie beneath in the gloss of the photos laid on the wood railing in front of him. But those were not his eyes he looked through, no, because he could have never answered the questions, those goddamn questions, the way the shell kept answering them in the dreams.

“Hey, kin I git one dem cigarettes, buddy?”

A ghost of one of those flesh shells was standing before him. An older white female one, in acid washed jeans with a Mexican blanket around her shoulders, little phone in hand, long grayed blond hair framing her toothless mouth. He gave her a cigarette and moved past her piece of the asphalt, banishing her from his moment. The same way he’d banished the souls of all those flesh shells into oblivion at the moment of his birth, right there in the hallway womb in front of those big wooden doors that lead back to the tomb of that flesh shell that he existed as, still, in his nightmares.

2. Spring, 1968.

Little Brother ran toward him across the green and yellow carpet of dandelion and fescue that was their domain. Cherub brown eyes welled glossy with tears as the trembling innocent 5 year old hands opened to reveal a dead tiny sparrow. Little Brother’s BB found its’ mark too well.

“Didn’t mean to hurt it, let God know I didn’t mean it…” Huge tears found their way to the grass.

Brothers took the dead bird down to the trees beside the little creek where the BB gun lay, and buried it in the deepest hole they could dig then walked slowly to the house, hearts and sneakers heavy with Hoosier clay.

3. Now and Then.

He was on the riverbank beside his tent with his back against a post oak that seemed older than his pain. He lit a cigarette, closed his eyes and dragged deeply as the western sky put on its’ belt of deepest reds and beckoned the nearing darkness.

The same darkness that always carried him back toward the memories and the face reflected in those dream photographs. He stubbed out the butt and placed a fresh one between his chapped lips. The flare of a safety match shadowed the deep crevices of his face rendering a picture of a ghost, the ghost he knew he had become. The ghost of the soul banished from that flesh shell in that room behind the big wooden doors in the hallway.

He opened his eyes slowly to the cold penetrating light above him. A pretty young nurse in Winnie the Pooh scrubs adjusted an IV line that was attached to him for some reason he couldn’t quite fathom. “Where am…” was all he could manage through the metallic tasting dust that seemed a foot deep across his tongue.

Nurse Pooh turned a lovely, reassuring smile his way.

“Seems you had you a pretty good little flare there today sir- but you’re stable- we started you on steroids and someone from Neurology should be down to see you pretty soon to talk about your MRI…”

He remembered it all too clearly now. Sitting at work finishing employee reviews when the big jolt of electricity poured from the back of his skull down his spine down the back of his legs as the world got blurry and he’d tried to stand and fell forward across his desk. Then it was Nurse Pooh and the garish light.

Yeah, here we go again, he thought, fourth time in two years. Week in bed on steroids and Percodan then the cane for another couple until the legs come back. Nurse Pooh smiled and closed the curtain as she headed out to wherever pretty ER nurses go when they close the curtain.

4. Morning.

Little Brother was beaming and golden looking down at the tiny baby in the incubator when Big Brother came into the room. “Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t she?”

Little Brother had waited years for the chance to be a father, dreamed of it. Big Brother just beamed back at him sharing his joy. And thinking back to the rather drunken conversation a few months back when they’d almost lost the child and Little Brother had confided that he was afraid God might punish him by taking his child because of that little dead sparrow from so long ago.

“Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t she?”

“Pretty sure God knew you didn’t mean it all along, brother.”

5. Mourning.

Big Brother watched as they passed Little Brother’s folded flag to the Mother and as the soul of Little Brother took the Mother soul’s hand and they lifted, featherweight, away from the drizzle and silence. He watched her flesh shell wince at the first volley of the rifled salute of Little Brother’s comrades, and the next two as he wished today would hurry and become another day.

The smell of carnations and gunpowder lingered in his nostrils from that moment on.

6. Night will always come.

He knew it was a dream, always knew it was a dream because it was black and white and grays and when it had been real he’d noticed the color of the wood, the color of the Judge’s hair, the fireplug red of that blonde juror’s lipstick, the strange putrid shades of little brother’s open dead belly, the silver table that bore his flesh shell, and; The questions, the goddamn questions while he sat and watched flesh shell Mother and the whole room of people watching him answer the goddamn questions and look at the goddamn pictures and answer the way he knew he was supposed to:

“Yes, Sir, that was my brother.”

“Yes, Sir, he was 33- my younger brother, yes, sir.”

He knew it was a dream. And every night he wished it would go differently, that this time instead of saying what he knew were his lines he’d scream and wail and make them see, that it wasn’t just Little Brother gone but the Mother’s soul and a piece of all of our souls… This time, in the dream he’d make them see.

But each time he did what he did when it wasn’t a dream. He walked through those big wooden doors in front of the cameras and faces and little phones and said the words he was expected to say. And each time he saw all of their souls and his, fade away, all the souls in the human race, gone leaving billions of hollowed shells of flesh, doomed and emptied because he could never speak and make them see the truth that could have saved them all.

7. Daylight.

He woke slowly, back against the old post oak. He shook his head the way he always did to shake the away the last bit of the dream that dominated his nights. His legs were stiff as he pulled himself up and began walking down to the riverbank to wash his face.

The fresh cold water felt good as it streamed down his cheeks past his collar and down into his ratty old shirt. He brushed his teeth and turned toward his tent in silence.

A rustling of brush and the excited voices of children drew his attention further downstream. He turned and headed towards the sound. About fifty yards away he spotted a pair of brothers frantically pulling at something on the river’s bank.

As he came near, he could see the object of the boys’ attention- a small bird that was tangled in a knot of monofilament that had been discarded by some careless angler, its’ tiny leg bound and preventing escape back into the sheltering sky.

The boys turned to see who was approaching, then jumped up and ran to escape the ragged ghostly creature that appeared before them.

He watched them run away before stepping over to where the small bird lay trapped by the carelessness of some fishing empty flesh shell. The bird was chirping frantically as he leaned over and began to pull at the nylon strands that attached the bird to a forbidding earth.

Trickles of blood trailed from the holes the sparrow’s beak had torn into the flesh of his hands as he’d worked to free it. He shuffled slowly towards the river as the little feathered body nestled against the warmth of his chest. When he reached the bank, he opened his scarred hands and watched as the sparrow opened his wings and embraced the freedom of sky and glowing sun.

8. Awakening?

He opened his eyes slowly to the warm, welcome light above him. A pretty young nurse in Winnie the Pooh scrubs seemed to float beside him, smile and bright brown eyes leading him out into this bright safe place.

“I’m going to be just fine, now, aren’t I?”

Nurse Pooh nodded and smiled back at him.