Tietam Brown (22 page)

My eyes were still focused on my sneakers, but I nodded my head.

“He did, huh? Wow, you and your nigger must have been best buddies . . . Hey kid, he tell you about the eye? I bet he did, didn't he?”

Against my better judgment, I nodded again. Tietam Brown whooped with joy. He was enjoying himself.

“So anyway, kid, Eddie, the compassionate Christian, goes to the hospital, and I head for his house. See, I had a chance with the old lady once before, but she wasn't a doctor then. Was just going to medical school. No real challenge there. But now she's a doctor, and I get my chance, so I take it. I show up, she's drunk, but she tries to fight it at first. But I know what she wants. So it doesn't take long, and she's fumbling with my trunks. Believe it or not, I'm still wearing my trunks. Balls are all sweaty, but she doesn't care.

Then he laughed and said, “This is where it gets funny,” and he started slapping my back.

“The funny thing is, Eddie's wife can't suck a dick. She doesn't know how, she's never done it. The nigger's all teeth, and it's starting to hurt, so I . . . I . . . Hey Andy, buddy, you're not crying, are you?”

I'd kept looking down, but my body gave me away. Sobs that were silent, but sobs all the same.

“Thatta boy,” my father said, his voice thick with false compassion. “You let it out. Just let it all come out.” A pat on the back completed the sham, and his voice changed its tone again. Now he was a teacher.

“Books are great, you know that, son? They can teach you quite a bit. But sometimes books alone do not suffice, they can't teach you everything. For example, I've done quite a bit of reading on the history of Japan. It's just something that I'm interested in. But during the course of all that research, I never knew that they have a thing for blond girls. Blond singers, more precisely. And I never knew that they hired girls to sing, fly them over on a one-way ticket. Get them there and then let them know that they need to do a little more than just sing for their money. Did you know that?”

I shook my head. My whole body throbbed. My head, my hand, my shoulder, my ribs. It all hurt so bad. But my gut hurt the worst, because I knew in that gut that something was wrong. My father was a lot of things, but a liar was not among them. I knew his next words would be true, and I knew they would hurt.

“So Andy, put yourself in my shoes for a second. Pretend you're me. Just for a second. Pretend you're in love for the very first time. Made beautiful love for the very first time. She's carrying a baby, you sing that child songs. Then one day your wife, who is due in two weeks, she comes into the room crying, says she's got a small problem. Says she's not really sure just what's growing inside her. Who knows, she says, it could be yours, or maybe it's not. Could be a Jap. A nasty, slant-eyed father-torturing Jap. And Andy, tell me, what would you do?”

I felt for him, I really did. Because I knew his pain was real. He was like a roller coaster, taking my emotions for a ride. Up and down, round and round.

“I'm so sorry,” I said as I wiped at tears. “God, Dad, I'm so sorry.”

Tietam got up from his bed. An evil grin creased his face.

“Hey, don't. Because I don't feel sorry for me. No, Andy Brown, I feel sorry for you.”

“Why?”

“Well it's really quite simple. I guess what I'm trying to tell you is your mother was a fucking whore!”

He was trying to provoke me. I was pretty sure of that. Trying to see how much I'd take. Maybe trying to see what my “rage” was really like. But the rage was never something I ever could control. It just appeared every several years, and left great suffering in its wake. Usually I suffered most. I did make a move for Tietam, but not one born out of rage. No, in my tiny bedroom amid broken pieces of my life and Nat King Cole, I was just an injured kid defending the honor of his mother, throwing a wild punch at a very dangerous man. A man who specialized in causing pain. He ducked the punch as if it had been thrown in slow motion. From a hand that he caught in the crook of his arm. A hand with fingers that he snapped like pieces of chalk. First the pinkie and the pointer, then the two middle ones. Finally the thumb, which he pulled from its socket with deliberate care.

The pain was just too much to bear, and I felt myself teetering on the thin line of consciousness before losing the bout. But mere seconds had passed when I felt Tietam Brown's hand slapping my face. Not to cause harm, but to help me come to. Because my father, you see, was not quite through with me yet.

I became vaguely aware that I was prone on the floor, and that my father lay behind me, his limbs seemingly everywhere. Right forearm pressed against my neck, left arm hooked around my right. And his legs were wrapped around my waist in some strange configuration. Firm, but not painful. At least not at first.

He spat out a phony laugh, one of extended exaggeration. “Whoa ho, look at me. After all my lecturing on the big F word, when I finally let it fly, I use it as a fucking adjective. Which we all know that it's not. Of course not. We all know it's a verb. As in Clem fucked Terri. Or did Terri fuck Clem? I guess we'll never know for sure.”

Tietam then arched backward and cinched up on his hold, bringing forth a kind of pain I never knew could exist. Pain so deep and sickening that I couldn't even scream. Excruciating to such a degree that I felt something leave. My will to live. It was leaving. I was begging God to let me die. Until my father spoke again, and the will came rushing back.

He didn't so much speak as hiss into my injured ear. Hot breath in my stump, stabbing right into my brain. “Imagine you're a woman and you've got a child inside. Due in two weeks, in this type of pain. What kind of damage would that do?”

My will returned, blocking out the pain, but my consciousness was fading. I fought it off as best I could, but his wrist was dug in deep. Dug into my neck, not letting blood get through. As my world faded off to black, Tietam Brown served up one last dose of hatred.

“All that blood just came gushing out of her mouth and I knew she was gone. Just like I wanted, that fucking whore, she was gone. But how could I know that you would still be alive. Inside of her womb. Goddamn you, boy, you were supposed to—”

I think that “die” was his word of choice, but I'll never know for sure. For just as in my incident with Clem Baskin, that last word never made it out. And just like Clem Baskin, lots of teeth were lost in the attempt. But not in my fist. In the back of my head. In that one bright red split second, I had snapped once again. Wasn't sure how I'd gotten loose, but I'd cost him some teeth. I had leaned forward enough and come firing back with my head. And then he let go with his legs and covered his mouth with his hands, and then I was up on him, all fury and feet. The rage had returned.

A kick to his ribs and a stomp to his head, and Tietam Brown screamed and reached under my bed. Came out with his hands around the barrel of a bat that I kept there just for him. Had kept since the day after Christmas, just waiting for him. I knew he would use it if he got the chance, so I made sure that he didn't with a kick to his face.

“I'll kill you,” I screamed. Over and over, the same primal scream. “I'll kill you, I'll kill you.”

And Tietam Brown began to scream. “No, Andy, don't, please Andy don't!”

But I kept it up. Screaming I'd kill him and then doing my best to make those words truth.

He looked almost comical, with his teeth broken or gone. Blood spilling out as he begged for his life. But nothing was funny when my feet found their mark. Over and over, my feet found their mark. Kicks to his face, his ribs, his middle-aged balls. All thrown in a rage, but even while caught up in its fury, I sensed that somehow something was wrong.

Yes, something was wrong. My kicks were still landing, but my father still moved. At least twenty kicks, but my father still moved. And though he was screaming, his face, through the blood, didn't look scared. He screamed and begged for his life, but he didn't look scared. The whites of his eyes looked incredibly calm, and as he crawled to his knees, I saw his mouth form a red, jagged smile.

My rage left me then, and took with it most of my strength. Now fear came rushing in, shooting straight through my veins. I knew that I had to act before Tietam got up. I had to act soon.

At that moment I had a premonition of sorts. I thought of my dad and that night in Atlanta, and the big kid from Texas with his eye hanging out. And though I didn't know how, I just knew if I hit him—my knee in his face—history would repeat itself, right there in my room.

So I charged at full speed, and thought of Tietam's eye hanging, and thought that in spite of shattered fingers, I would find the will to make a fist, and that fist would crush his eyeball against his very own cheek.

My premonition was wrong. For right before impact, my father dropped to his side and scissored my left leg with both of his thighs. I went down hard, the impact of my head on hard wood jarring my brain, so that when I regained my bearings, my left leg had already been broken in half. I had two last thoughts as a free man, both of them hazy. Before consciousness left me, I saw a bone sticking out of my sock and I felt my body being thrown down the stairs.

January 8, 1986

The old man was distinguished, I could just tell right away. Wire-frame glasses he wore low on his nose, and his snow white hair was thick. He had an air of confidence as he told an armed guard at my door, “No, don't worry, I'll be fine,” and he let the door slam shut behind him. He put his briefcase on a wobbly table and told me who he was.

“Antietam Brown, I am the chief psychiatrist at the state hospital in Ithaca, and I have spent quite a while looking into your case, and I'd like to tell you what I think.”

He wasn't cocky, he wasn't rude, but I was bothered by him just the same. I'd had three days to lie in the forensic unit at Cortland General with a cast from my toes up to my waist, a cast up to my elbow, and four splints on my fingers. Armed guards at my door, who revolved on eight-hour shifts, and not a whole lot of medication. I'd been offered but I refused, I wanted my mind clear to do some thinking. And that's exactly what I'd done for four straight days, except for the few hours I gave in to sleep. No books, no games, no TV, just three days for my thoughts to stew. So I really did not need some quack telling me about his thoughts. I thought I'd share with him my own thoughts instead. And I decided that I'd yell them.

“I think my father set me up. I think he wants me in jail. I think he wanted me to hurt him. I think he killed my mother. And I think he wanted me in here. I think he broke my leg all by himself, not by falling down the goddamn stairs. I think that my father is a rapist, and a murderer, and a lousy goddamn father. And I think I want you out of here.”

My chest was heaving in and out by the time my spleen was fully vented. But man, I felt relieved. I looked intently at the doctor, and tried to read his face. What I saw was damn near shocking. Understanding. Kindness. Caring. A little sympathy as well.

“Can I speak for just a moment?” A soft voice, in control. “You may find my thoughts to be of value.”

I nodded my head.

“I think, Antietam, that . . .” He hesitated while he pondered how best to share his thoughts. I was going to object to his using my full name, but I decided not to at that time. In fact I never did. To the chief psychiatrist at the state hospital at Ithaca, I would always be “Antietam.”

“I think that the odds of five fingers and a leg all breaking during the course of falling down one flight of wooden stairs would be quite astronomical.”

“You mean you think he pushed me down the stairs.”

“I would not disagree.”

“After hurting me himself?”

“Again I'm in concurrence.”

“You think he set me up?”

“That is my opinion.”

“So I'm not going to go to jail?”

“Well that part is not so easy.”

“I don't understand.” For just a minute I'd been ecstatic. Like this doctor was an answer to my prayers. Vindication for me. Incarceration for my father. I'd even managed to sit up in bed, no simple feat while a body is in traction. Now, with the doctor's latest words, I lay back down in frustration.

“Well Antietam, there is the matter of the tape.”

“Tape?” I said. “What tape?”

The doctor opened up his briefcase. He had a small recorder placed inside. He pushed a button and I heard my voice. A chill went up my spine.

“I'll kill you, I'll kill you,” my voice sang out, as did my father's anguished cries.

The doctor stopped the tape and looked at me, waiting for some kind of
explanation.
That chill got ever colder as I searched my brain for some kind of reason. But for several moments, I came up blank, until I thought of Tietam's hand. Reaching for my baseball bat? Or something else, instead?

“He set me up! He planted it. He tried to make me snap. He said he'd killed my mother, he knew that I would snap!”

The doctor nodded thoughtfully, as if considering my claim. “Your mother's death is a surprise to me, but it bears investigation. As far as the audiocassette in question, it does seem a bit convenient.”

“So you believe me?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So when can I get out?”

“I fear it's not that simple. There is the other matter that is quite troubling.”

“Which is?”

“Antietam, your father nearly lost his life from the beating that you gave him. His liver was severely lacerated, his body nearly drowned in its own blood. Two ribs were fractured, one of which punctured his lung. A testicle required drainage. Down the road he'll need lots of work on what you did to his teeth.”

I struggled for some logic, a way to let him know about my dad. About his superpowers. But I was afraid I would sound crazy. I said it anyway.

“My father is like Superman. He just lay back and let me beat him. He even smiled a little.”

“I think a jury would have a hard time reaching that conclusion. Taking into consideration the extensive injuries suffered by Clem Baskin. Whose family might still be considering filing charges.”

“But Baskin made me do it too!” Now I really did sound crazy. But the doctor didn't flinch.

“I'm not inclined to disagree with you.”

“About Baskin?”

“He'd been in and out of trouble. My research on your case has unearthed a student who has chosen to be nameless, who said that Mr. Baskin was quite cruel in terms of how he treated you. This student felt that Baskin received his just deserts. However, once again a court of law might see things differently, if Mr. Baskin was a witness.”

“What about my dad?”

“Do you mean do I think he willingly allowed his own body to be sacrificed, so his only son could go to jail?”

I nodded silently, realizing how insane this whole idea must seem.

“Antietam, I'm not . . . completely unfamiliar . . . with your father's . . . superpowers.” He said the last word with an empathetic smile.

“You're not?” Total bewilderment.

“I believe you know Coach Hanrahan?”

“Yeah, yeah, I do.” A small light in the forest. I might avoid jail time after all.

“The coach is under my supervision at the hospital. He doesn't communicate too well, his head suffered quite a trauma at a ball game. But he knows your father's name real well. So this morning, I decided to pay your father a social call.”

“Where, here at the hospital?” I was vaguely aware that two ambulances had been summoned to our house on Elston Court. Just like Creed and Rocky, after their big battle. Father and son after a small spat, each going to Cortland General. For that first day, in all my agony, I thought the guard was there for my protection.

“No, I spoke with him at your residence. The nature of his injuries required a longer duration at the hospital. Much longer in fact. But as you mentioned, and as I have learned, you father is not an average man.”

“What did you find out?” I said.

“Well there were no confessions or revelations of that nature. I don't want to mislead you or raise your expectations. But he made no attempt to hide his intention that as retribution for his injuries, you spend time in jail.”

“Do you think it's going to happen?”

“I think the possibilities were strong. But . . .” He emphasized that word. “I had quite a productive talk with your father, and I think we have reached a compromise that is amenable to all parties.”

“A compromise?” My heart resumed its pounding.

“Your father would consider dropping charges if I take you on as a patient at the hospital.”

Oh my God! I was going to be locked up! “But that's for crazy people,” I pleaded. “I don't belong in there!”

I saw the doctor grimace. He adjusted his glasses slightly, and bit down on his lip. Trying to find a way to tell me that I was going to the funny farm.

“Antietam, I will be honest with you. In comparing your mental state with your father's, I think your father has more issues that need immediate attention. He offered only minimal insight into the past few weeks' occurrences. But from that insight I could see the patterns of a man in need of help.”

“Did he tell you how he raped my neighbor, or how he made the Virgin Mary perform oral sex on me?”

“No, he did not address that first contention, or the second for that matter. But Antietam . . .”

“Yes?”

“You might not want to speak too much about that second thing, because it does make you sound quite crazy.”

The laugh we shared was timely, and it helped create a bond. A bond that would grow strong with time, as I would later share with him all my thoughts.

“Antietam?”

“Yes?”

“He told me about Holly.” He paused, waiting for a response. My alert stare served as one. “About how abandoned he had felt. About the pictures that he saw. And I believe that he interpreted those photographs as some kind of personal attack. Classic narcissism; he believes that the world revolves solely around him. And I believe that he took out his aggressions for this perceived personal attack on an innocent party; that party being you. A classic case of displacement, to cite Freudian methodology. Then he went a little deeper into his past.”

“You mean about my mother?”

“No, I mean about his father.”

“His father?” I said. “You mean the one who died in World War II?”

“Well, he only had one father, and he served in World War II, but this one came home very much alive, in body if not in mind.”

I nodded in befuddlement. This news was kind of stunning.

“He was a prisoner of war in the Philippines, from what your father told me. Now I am not a specialist in history, but I believe the prisoners' treatment was harsh. They were subjected to great amounts of torture and did not receive treatment for their ailments. Which in the case of Antietam Brown the Third meant syphilis. Very common, very treatable. But left untreated, can cause dementia, which seems to be what happened. Apparently it got to the point where the poor soul could barely function. He was admitted to the V.A. hospital in Elmira in 1950, and remained a patient until his death. He died there just eight months ago. In all those years, he was never the beneficiary of a single visit from your father.”

Apparently, Tietam Brown was not the type of guy who could fast forgive a grudge. He wasn't real keen on forgiveness, a fact which had served to shape his life. I had a simple question, one whose answer seemed quite easy. I thought I knew, but I
had to
know,
to best understand my father's actions.

“Who held him captive over there?”

“Why, the Japanese, of course.”

I tried to bask in this glow that enlightenment had offered, but I was quickly cooled by the doctor's voice, in spite of its sincerity.

“Antietam, you are not without issues of your own.”

“I'm not?”

“You possess quite a bit of anger.”

“Well you would too if you'd lived my life!”

“I do not disagree. In and of itself, the anger is not the problem. The problem lies in how you let it out, usually in bursts of great aggression.”

“But each time they deserve it!”

“Upon looking at your case history, I would say there is some basis to your opinion. But Antietam?” He paused and looked at me intently.

“Yes?”

“I want you to ask yourself one simple question.”

“Okay.”

“Who ultimately pays the price for all that anger?”

Wow, he'd hit the nail right on the head. “I uh, guess that would be me.”

“Yes, I think it is. And without some type of treatment, I'm afraid that trend will continue.”

“What kind of treatment?”

“Therapy, some medication.”

“But can't I do that without being—”

“Committed?”

“Yeah, committed.”

I could see the doctor struggle to best explain my situation.

“Yes, Antietam, I think it could. Ordinarily. But yours is not a case where ‘ordinary' springs to mind. There are victims to consider. One who nearly lost his life. One a jury would be prone to find sympathetic. Another victim, a high school senior, a football star, one with a bright future in athletics. Struck down by you, and your aggression. With the aid of a bunch of quarters, no less, which might indeed be considered a weapon. And let us not forget about the Virginia bathroom incident.”

I saw my chances fading as the facts were unveiled. The face of logic was laughing at me. Spitting on me too. The doctor sensed my despondency and helped to ease the pain. Gave me a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down.

“Of course that is not my personal interpretation, but I am afraid it would be the court's. You don't deserve to go to jail. You don't deserve to be committed. What you do deserve is treatment on an outpatient basis, but I'm afraid that we don't have that luxury. So I would like to request a hearing that would allow you admission to our facility. In six months' time you will be assessed, and I am confident of dismissal. Your father was looking for attempted murder. I am doubtful that he'd get it. But even if you reached a plea on a lesser charge, you would be facing jail time. A good deal longer than six months, of that I can assure you. So when we both weigh all those factors, I feel that our compromise is quite beneficial to all parties. Beneficial to your father, because he receives his perceived retribution. I get to make sure that you receive the best of care, so your life won't be squandered by your anger. And you, Antietam, will leave our facility one month before your eighteenth birthday, the master of your fate and the captain of your soul. All in all, I would consider my visit with your father to be an overwhelming victory.”

“Overwhelming victory” was not the way I would phrase it, but it really didn't seem so bad. I would be out midway through the summer, and I could get a good grasp on all my anger with the help of a doctor whose name I did not yet know. A doctor who, despite his age, smiled now like a child as he reached into a sleeve inside his briefcase and said, “I talked him into something else.”