Lamb of God: a novel of the love and sacrifice of two brothers

By Paul Dueweke

I’m Michael Tether. LAMB OF GOD is my story, though that title describes my twin, Joe. He was killed just before the end of World War II—in the kitchen of our upper flat in Detroit. He was eleven. Mom and Dad and I were all there. But I was the only one who could have saved him.
But I did have a life before that turning point. There were some great times then as we made a playground out of war-frenzied Detroit. They called our hometown The Arsenal of Democracy. And I guess it was. What a wild place during The War. Our father taught us the rights and wrongs of the race riots, even though we lived in the wrong part of town. We learned that white was right, no matter where you live. If only his hatred could have been consumed on the world outside our family, we might have had a chance. But his temper and rage seemed to merge on his family.
The "we" includes our little sister, Susie. All three of us were victims of our parents, though in very different ways. But when the three of us were together—that time was so special and memorable. I'll tell you about those happy and sometimes crazy adventures. And I'll tell you about our wonderful, wonderful grandpa—our rosary-selling, window-washing, horse-and-wagon-driving, and most of all, loving, grandpa. If only he hadn't been so weak. He was no match for Father and Mother. And yet without his love, I can't imagine any of us kids surviving. I guess I inherited my weakness from him. But not his love.
And then there's my mother's fanatic Old Testament mission to make me a general in her crusade against Satan. Why couldn't she see that Joe was the real soldier? What a fighter! What a brother! Did I tell you he died? For me?
LAMB OF GOD is kind of a war story, but with no guns. A year after Joe's murder, I was the only one left in our family. I wasn't sure I wanted to survive. But I did—on my aunt and uncle's farm north of Detroit. My new family saved me. You'll meet Lily and Margo, my saviors. Lily's a man. Margo's just a girl. But somehow I could confess my past—my sins—only to her.
Finally, you'll return to Detroit with me a half century later to make peace with those ghosts and my lifelong guilt, and to forgive and find forgiveness, and maybe happiness and hope. That was my second salvation. And yes, Lily, Margo, Susie, and my mother all figured in it. I found out that you can't be happy without a future. All those years, all I had was a past. And what a past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Dueweke
• Release date: Sep 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370986422

Paul Dueweke

I was a research physicist long before I turned to writing. But I’ve written five novels and am presently working on numbers six through twenty-seven. My first was an autobiography, MY LIFE AS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN — a memoir for readers who find memoirs disagreeable and reality tedious, inspired by my lifelong obsession with Don Quixote and his ingenious view of reality. It took first place in the 2002 Independent E-book Awards - Humor Division. THE MEDIA CANDIDATE is a near-future, speculative science-fiction thriller inspired by watching too much TV. PRIONA is a multi-cultural, multi-generational story of love, poetry, music, and the dividing waters of race, set in the Jemez Pueblo of northern New Mexico. LAMB OF GOD is a psychological drama of how a young boy, surrounded by the racial and commercial tensions of the Arsenal of Democracy, Detroit during World War II, deals with the guilt of being too weak to save his twin from tragedy. It won second place in the 2003 Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards in a field of 370 entries. Finally, HORSE CAMP WEST is a modern western drama set on a dying ranch in the highlands of southern New Mexico. It was a 2002 EPPIE Award finalist. These books should be available at Smashwords later in 2016, but for the time being, you can get a taste of them at my website fictionQ.com. If you would like me to notify you when my next books hit the ground at Smashwords, drop me a line at editor at fictionQ. I have spent forty years as a physicist in Ohio, New Mexico, and California. Some of those years I did basic physics research at The University of Dayton in the areas of ionizing radiation detectors, shock waves in solids, and infrared measurements. This stuff probably doesn’t excite very many of you, but it has been breathtaking for me. Call me a nerd, but I love science. I spent some years at a beltway bandit* doing a funny thing they called system studies. Then I evolved into a mid-level manager for a big defense hardware company. I learned pretty quickly that upper management is really, really hungry. That's why middle management has to run so fast. Now I have become an even higher lifeform. I work off and on for an itsy bitsy company right in the bosom of Silicon Valley. My business card has a blank under my name so I can be anything I want. And I haven't needed a security clearance for the last twenty years. I’m a firm believer in second careers. When I was doing physics research, I had to do mostly what other people wanted me to do. That was still great because it was such exciting stuff. But now I can write whatever I want to. Maybe that’s just as good, in a way. I think every writer should write as a second career, not as a first. It gives my writing roots and a unique point-of-view beyond writer. I married Marilyn where we met at the University of Dayton. We moved to Alburquerque** where our two daughters grew up; and now we all live in the San Francisco Bay Area. FOOTNOTES: * Beltway Bandit — For those not conversant in Government Speak, a Beltway Bandit is one of the companies clustered around the Washington, DC Beltway that sells “professional services,” which is stuff the Government could do itself if they had any idea what they wanted done or if they weren’t fighting among themselves about who should do it. ** Alburquerque — Most of you traditionally educated readers are probably under the mistaken opinion that the dusty little town in central New Mexico is Albuquerque, not Alburquerque. It was, however, named after Don Francisco Fernandez de la Cueva Enriquez, Duke of Alburquerque, Spain, and Viceroy of New Spain in 1706. About a hundred years later, it was misspelled to its present form. I, in the spirit of Don Quixote de la Mancha, have taken up the cause to redress the evil of misspelling the name of one so highly born.

Book preview

LAMB OF GOD

a psychological, family drama

Paul Dueweke

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting my hard work.

Copyright ©2016 by Paul Dueweke

Electronically published by Smashwords

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PROLOGUE

My mother designated me the general in her struggle against Satan, a war she inherited from her mother. She trained me and prayed for me to someday lead men in this holy cause. I failed her.

My brother, Joe, was Strength. He wasn’t the chosen twin, but he was the real soldier—and playing my role for me cost him his life. Our little sister, Susie, was Innocence, the glue that held our young trio together. Mother and Father played their roles exceptionally well. My father was Treachery, a crusher of wills—and bones. Mother was Comfort, the cunning confidant. Her treachery exceeded even my father’s, but subtlety wove through it, softened it. Then there was Grandpa, my wonderful grandfather. He was Love. But he had neither the strength nor the resolve to save us from our parents.

I alone had no real role—except Survivor. First, Innocence was borne away in conspiracy, destroying our vital trio. Then Strength was crushed by the fears of a father and the weakness of a twin. But weakness bends and survives long after strength has broken.

* * *

One by one, glass panels of the elevator flashed by and disappeared beneath me. As I rose in Detroit’s tallest skyscraper, I watched the city transform from urban decay at the ground level to a vast world of twinkling lights that seemed to merge with the real stars above. My eyes swept a cityscape they hadn’t seen for half a century as it slowly mellowed below me.

When my gaze happened upon its own reflection, it halted. Had I never looked into a mirror before? How then could I have overlooked the resemblance? Grandpa stared back at me. My eyes, fogged by a lifetime of guilt, showed glimmers of Grandpa’s playfulness. A life of washing windows had seasoned his face and weathered his lips that now whispered to me. I once more felt his stubble beard scratch my tender face and felt his tangle finger and the bronzed neck we gripped like a life ring.

My thoughts leapt back fifty years. We were here in Detroit in 1943, in an elevator—Grandpa, Susie, Joe, and I. It was Grandpa’s elevator ride. As another glass panel flashed by, I heard him say, I wouldn’t have no cause to go in an elevator. They don’t have windows that need cleaning, right? The corners of my mouth briefly turned up to meet his.

Then I looked at my hands. They showed the normal burden of age, but not the furrows and canyons that Grandpa’s always had. But the veins—they flowed together between the first and second knuckle just like on his hands. I remembered tracing those veins with my young fingers as we listened to his stories. He sometimes told us about pilots, although he’d never flown and had probably never been closer to an airplane than when they flew over him as he washed windows all over the city. His hero was Colonel Lindbergh, and we knew the story of that Atlantic crossing long before we could recite the alphabet.

Grandpa believed that flying was the most magical thing a person could do. If he’d lived to see astronauts, they would have been angels to him, not bound by the physics of men and ladders. He spent much of his life either on a ladder or driving his wagon behind Pal, whose reins draped over his palms as a world of motors challenged them. Daydreams probably filled his mind as he washed away a mighty city’s grime. He would tell us about his days and his dreams when we converged on him, submerging him with questions and begging for stories.

* * *

It was August, 1943. My twin, Joe, and I were nine and Susie was six. It was our happiest summer. Grandpa told us once more about the famous thirty-three-hour flight that changed the world.

Would you like to fly an airplane, Grandpa? Susie asked.

Oh, now, Susie, that’s something I couldn’t even dream of. You know I’m just an old window-washing man. Takes a whole lot of training to be one of them pilots. I don’t think the good Lord meant for me to get any higher off the ground than just the top of my ladder. But sometimes I get up there to a third-story window, and I look up and see one of them airplanes going over, and, you know, I can feel myself flying. That’s plenty good enough for an old joker like me.

Grandpa, Joe said. I saw this ad in a magazine, and it had a cartoon about a guy showing a lady how easy it is to learn how to fly this little airplane. I forget what kind, but—

A s-s-single engine Piper Cub, I said.

Anyway, Joe continued, this guy said all you need is about an hour of practice, and you could fly one yourself.

It takes e-eight hours of ground and flying instruction before you can s-solo, I corrected.

I’m the one that saw the ad, Mike. How do you know so darn much about something you didn’t even see?

"The ad was in L-Life a couple weeks ago, I said. You aren’t the only one around h-h-h—around here who knows how to read, you know."

Anyway, Joe said, glaring at me, it says if you learn to fly this little plane—maybe it was a Piper Cub—but you could join the Army Air Corps. And then you’d be a Thunderbolt pilot in a month.

I shook my head but didn’t try to butt in again.

And they really need them for killing Japs. Joe stood up and blasted me with all eight .50-caliber wing-guns. That’s what I want to do, Grandpa. Think this war will still be going on when I’m old enough? Sure hope so.

Grandpa’s smile faded and he looked at the floor for a minute. You know, they make some of them big airplanes right around here somewheres. Maybe Ford.

But Ford makes cars, Joe said.

Not any more. I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. They used to make c-cars. Ever hear of World War Two?

And I hear Colonel Lindbergh hisself actually works there, Grandpa said. Sort of makes sure they’re making them planes just so.

I think they’re B-24s, Grandpa, I said.

Susie pushed away from Grandpa and flew in a circle around us with her wings out straight and her engine at full throttle. She executed a perfect landing back into Grandpa’s lap. There, you see, Grandpa? Even I can fly!

You sure can, Susie. But you’re a right piece smarter that your Grandpa.

Hey, Grandpa, I-I’ve got a great idea. You can go up almost as high as an a-a-a—

Grandpa! Susie shouted. Help me take off again!

Now, Susie, Grandpa said, you just wait your turn. Mike has something to tell us. Go ahead, Mike.

Well, Grandpa, you could go up almost as high as an airplane if you ride up an …. My eyes squinted shut as I struggled. … elevator. It’s not e-e-exactly like flying, but it gets you way up in the sky just like an airplane.

Now that’s real smart, Joe said. Standing in a box up in a building is just like flying, huh?

I didn’t say it was j-j-just like flying, but it’s kind of like it. You can feel the elevator push you down when you take off and push you u-up when you stop, right? And if you close your eyes, you can imagine you’re in an airplane doing all kinds of ma-ma-maneuvers. It’s probably closer to flying than Grandpa ever did before.

What we gonna do up there, Mike? Susie asked. You say manures or something?

Ma-maneuvers, Susie. It means tricks.

Then why didn’t you just say tricks, Joe said, instead of making up some fancy-sounding word?

Because maneuvers is what the pilots say when they mean making b-banks and loops and dives and stuff. Remember when we read that story about J-Jimmy Doolittle in reading class, and he was teaching his pilots how to do maneuvers?

No, I don’t remember, Mr. Smarty. Don’t remember anything about any Doolittle guy. I think you made the whole thing up.

I wagged my head that my brother could be so stupid. Remember the B-25s? How they bombed T-Tokyo?

Yeah. They took off from an aircraft carrier—

"The Hornet."

And bombed the heck out of Japan, he continued. And then flew to China.

Well, that was Jimmy Doolittle.

How was I supposed to know that? Our book didn’t—

Grandpa interrupted our quarrel. "You know, maybe Mike has something with that elevator thing. Maybe an elevator ride would be like an airplane, or maybe like one of them rockets! But I wouldn’t have no cause to go in an elevator. They don’t have windows that need cleaning, right? So I wouldn’t have no cause to be there."

But Grandpa, you don’t have to just go places where you wash windows, Susie said. They’ve got all these big skyscrapers downtown. And we can show you ‘cause we know where they are and what bus to take and everything.

I shook my head to Susie and mouthed the word no over and over. Joe interrupted me. It’s okay, Mike. Grandpa can know about our trips downtown. He won’t tell anybody. You wouldn’t tell Mom or Dad, would you Grandpa? We sometimes sneak on the streetcar and go downtown.

Susie threw her arms around Grandpa’s neck. Please don’t tell, Grandpa! Please! Dad might lock us up or something.

I’ll say, Joe said. After he beat us with a chain. Then Joe threw a smirking glance at me. "At least some of us."

I retreated into silence.

You mean you little kids go downtown all by yourselves? But you don’t even have any money. Don’t it cost to ride streetcars?

I eagerly shook my head yes and then no and started to reply, but Susie beat me to it. We’ll show you, Grandpa, she said. We’ll show you how to do it for free!

Joe’s interest started to come alive as the adventure mounted.

The next morning, we showed Grandpa our trick of sneaking through the back door of the streetcar when the driver was busy checking fares at the crowded Grand Boulevard stop. He scolded us for our dishonesty, then grinned as we showed him how to hang on when the streetcar took off.

Before long, the four of us stood on Woodward Avenue looking up at the tallest building in Detroit. We couldn’t imagine how any building anywhere could be taller.

Okay, Joe said as we approached the front door. All we have to do is act natural, and when the elevator guy asks, Grandpa, you just say forty-five. Got it? He won’t argue with you because you’re an adult.

But what if he a-asks us where we’re going? Grandpa can’t just s-say he’s going on an airplane ride. You thought about that?

Don’t worry so much, Mike, said Joe. All you got to do is get on and tell him what floor you want. That guy doesn’t care why you’re going there.

We walked up Fort Street with what seemed like half the population of the country. The wartime bustle of downtown Detroit was crushing and magnificent. But it did not compare to the great stone archway with the polished brass letters a foot tall reading: PENOBSCOT BUILDING. People hurried past us entering and leaving the building. Others shouted for taxis or ran to catch the Woodward Number Ten.

I was the first to spot the sign we didn’t expect: US ARMY WAR MATERIEL COMMAND CENTER — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

I wonder what that means, Grandpa said.

It means we c-can’t go in there, Grandpa, It’s an Army place, probably full of secrets. They have to make sure that spies d-d-d—

But we aren’t spies, Mike, Susie said. Who ever heard of a third-grade spy, anyway?

But they don’t know that, I said. We could have been smuggled in on a U-boat right from G-Germany. Grandpa could be in the SS. They can’t be too c-careful.

Look, kids, Grandpa said. Maybe this elevator ride thing ain’t such a good idea after all. Maybe we should head back home. You know, I’m pretty happy just being up on top of my ladder. I don’t need no fancy elevator ride. He tried to usher us away from the building entrance, but Joe stalled.

No! It’s just not right! he said. Grandpa’s not a spy! He’s a loyal American! And all he wants is one little ride on their elevator! I’m going to find out about this right now!

Before anyone could stop him, he walked right up to the revolving door and marched inside. He couldn’t have gone ten steps inside when we saw him dash back out through the same door.

He charged past and said, Let’s get out of here, you guys!

We followed him as fast as we could. After about a half block, Grandpa tugged him to a stop.

Joe! Joe! Susie shouted. What happened in there?

Jeez! You should’ve seen it in there. Joe looked back toward the entrance. Is anybody coming?

We all looked back and saw nothing unusual.

There were all these army guys with helmets and rifles and bayonets! And this one really big guy had this rifle that was twice as big as the others, and he just looked at me when I got through the doors. I stood there and this one guy said, ‘Looks like another spy, Captain.’ And you saw what happened then. I about knocked over this one lady trying to get back through the door.

Wow! Susie shouted. My brother’s a spy!

Quiet, Susie! You want to get us all a-a-arrested? I knew this wasn’t a good idea.

What? Joe said. What the heck are you talking about? This was your idea! Did you just forget that?

Okay, Grandpa said. This looks like it wasn’t one of your best ideas, Mike, so I guess we just ought to go home now.

We stood in a circle, disappointment bonding us to that spot, waiting for someone to make a move. Finally, Joe broke the silence. That was just bad luck. We picked the wrong place. That’s all. There’s still lots of skyscrapers around. And with elevators, too. And I bet there won’t be any soldiers. Least not at all of them. They’re here ‘cause they made this into a fort or something. Let’s just find another place.

Joe looked at me. I shifted my eyes to the sidewalk. He turned his head toward the crowds at the Penobscot Building entrance. Grandpa won’t ever get his ride if we don’t do it today.

Look, Joe, Grandpa said. Maybe we should wait ‘til after the war and then go for our ride.

No, Grandpa. It’s real important. We should do it now. Or we might never do it.

Come on, Grandpa! Susie said as she tugged on him. Let’s find an elevator.

I looked from Susie to Grandpa and nodded yes.

After a while of walking and regaining our courage, we stopped in front of a likely candidate. Carved in stone beside the entrance, it simply said: Dime Building. We looked up and judged it high enough for our purposes, and not a soldier in sight. We entered the marble lobby and saw an elevator open and waiting.

Look. There’s n-nobody running it like at Hudson’s.

We watched a man walk in, push a button, and wait as the door jerked closed. The dial over the door reached eighteen and stopped. Another elevator door opened and several people walked out. Joe pulled Grandpa toward it. Come on! This is our chance! We followed. Come on! Before somebody else comes.

Look at all the buttons, Susie said. What’s the right one?

I shrugged my shoulders.

Well, we’ve got to push one, Joe said

It’s your r-ride, Grandpa, I said.

So I should push the button, huh? His hand reached for twenty-two at the very top, and pressed it. The doors closed halfway, hesitated, and then clunked shut. Grandpa blinked and forced a smile. Here we go, kids. Your Grandpa’s first airplane ride.

He squeezed Susie’s hand. The elevator started with a lurch, and we all steadied ourselves against a handrail. Once under way, the ride was smooth. We gently swayed to the song of the cables overhead.

What if the elevator doesn’t stop at the top? Susie said. What if it’s going so fast it just shoots right out the top? Then what?

It couldn’t do that, Joe said. It couldn’t, could it Mike? I mean if it’s going too fast, and maybe it can’t stop on time at the top. What would happen then?

I don’t think it could shoot out the top, but maybe it could b-break the stuff up there that holds it up.

Just then, a loud clank scared us and our hands grasped for something. The elevator slowed and bumped to a stop, but the doors didn’t open. Grandpa’s eyes opened as I said, You know what’s u-u-under us right now?

Don’t be stupid, Joe said. This elevator has a real strong floor.

Maybe, but just think about what’s under us—this floor and a h-h-hole twenty-two stories deep.

Mike, said Susie. This floor is real strong. Look! With that, she jumped and shook the elevator.

Three voices shouted, Susie!

Then the elevator lurched and stopped once more, and the doors squeaked open. We stepped out, relieved at the feel of stone under foot.

Many offices lined the hallway. Each was hidden by a door, but the door windows were like those bathroom windows that only let you see shapes. One door was open, and it was a very small room with about a dozen school desks and a table in the front.

Is this some kind of high-up school we’re in? Grandpa asked.

Could be, Grandpa, I said. M-Maybe we ought to get out of here.

Well, maybe we shouldn’t run off quite so quick, Grandpa said. I don’t suppose this here teacher would care if we just took a look out his window. Since we’re here, anyway.

That was Joe’s cue. I think we should. We haven’t been up this high before, not even at Hudson’s. He led us into the room. We approached the lone window slowly. After our nerves steadied, we crowded around the window. What a spectacular view.

I bet you can see a thousand miles, Susie said.

Farther than that, added Joe.

C-Can we see our house?

Which way is our house from here, Grandpa? Joe asked.

Huh? Oh, I don’t know, Joe.

I noticed Grandpa looking at the window and I poked Susie.

What you looking at, Grandpa? she asked.

Oh, nothing much. But I was just thinking that the feller that washed these windows done a real good job. He must of used a squeegee ‘cause there ain’t no lint anywhere on the glass. And he didn’t leave no dirty water marks on the sill, in fact the whole sash is clean as a whistle. He’s a real particular window washer. Takes a lot of pride in his work. You got to have a lot of pride. Yup, a lot of pride. When you got as many windows as in this here building, you got to have a lot of pride in your work to do this good of a job.

We kids looked at each other and then at Grandpa as he ran his hand over the clean white sill and then looked straight down to the street below. He lifted his head and inspected each corner of the window. His mouth curled upward as he shook his head and mumbled, Pretty good job. I wonder how he did it way up here without killing hisself.

Joe’s foot touched mine. I looked at him and he at me. In that look we told each other that we understood Grandpa in a way that we never had before.

Once home again, we didn’t share our adventure with anyone else. It was our secret for the short time that remained for us to be together. When we later relived that day with Grandpa, he said he admired that unknown man who could keep all those windows so spotless way out of the reach of ladders. Maybe he saw that mystical window washer as somehow related to the pilots of his daydreams.

* * *

Grandpa and I were a maze of opposites. His simplicity, maybe aided by fantasies, bore him above a defective world where those defects could not overwhelm him. He daily climbed his ladder and washed life’s windows with easy strokes. He did it so naturally, and he did it with pride.

I tried to climb the ladder my mother, the Old Testament zealot, erected for me to fulfill some failed mission she had inherited from her mother, Grandpa’s bride. But I never made it past the first rung in spite of all the coaxing from my mother. Why did Grandpa never warn me about that? Did he even recognize the damaging force of her crusade, a force that could ultimately destroy his grandchildren? How could he not? As an adult, I see a naivety in my grandfather than I could not see as a child.

The essential thing I inherited from him was the one thing that prevented me from saving my strong twin and my innocent sister. It was his weakness. My misfortune has been that I inherited his weakness, but never acquired his vital ability to love.

Had I loved Joe, I could have found some way to save him when his strength was spent. Had I loved my mother, I could have forgiven her for loving me more than Joe—or for hating me less. Had I loved Susie, I would not have befriended her greatest enemies, her parents. I was blessed with intelligence, but lacked the dedication supplied by love.

In the end, you’ll return to Detroit with me to help me finally conquer that weakness, a frailty that held me in chains for so long. It might seem like a small victory for most men. But if only I’d been lucky enough to face the trials of most men.

My story abounds with the adventures of kids growing up in the world’s mightiest city, a city at war with half the world. But there was another war, not fought with B-29s and Sherman tanks, but with the lives of children held hostage. You’ll face the rage of a father frustrated by a lifetime of failure. You’ll suffer the sweet kisses and toxic lessons of a mother trying to fulfill Old Testament prophecies. But there were others crucial to those early years, others who tried to teach me love after that lonely escape from my war in Detroit. And you will know Grandpa as I knew him.

My story is sometimes funny, sometimes sad—but always as I remember it. I can promise no more than that.

PART ONE

ONE

Donnie slept in the bed behind me as I looked out the upstairs window of this old farmhouse, my new home. I rested my elbows on the low sill, which was already beginning to warm in the morning sun. The scene before me was wonderful, and frightening—so different from the first twelve years of my life. If only I could share this place with Joe.

A swallow went down hard as an image of Joe raced into my thoughts. He would help me figure this out—if he were here, if he could ever be with me again. I hugged him, then chased him out of my mind. He could never help me again. I had to forget. He wasn’t real anymore.

But this place was real, and it was really me kneeling on these worn planks. Just yesterday, in another world, I had dreamed of a better place. But this new home was even beyond what I could have imagined. The window in my old world of Detroit stared out through a web of telephone wires at a rat-infested cinder alley lined with leaking, reeking garbage cans.

This morning, I missed the sound and smell of Detroit. Doves replaced diesels; crowing roosters replaced screeching streetcars. In the distance, a tiny tractor pulled slowly across an endless maze of green and brown stripes, followed by a dust cloud that couldn’t quite catch up.

Uncle Johnny was already at work in the yard. He whistled and sang while he struggled one of the giant wheels off the faded red International Harvester tractor. He wasn’t very tall and seemed even smaller as he rolled a giant lugged wheel toward the barn.

He was singing, and a few of the words reached my ears—something about a June field. Later, I learned from him that the song was about a jeune fille, a young girl in a land even farther away than Detroit.

The weather vane on the roof of the barn pointed northeast. During the next two years, I would see it point every possible direction. The giant black barn doors stood open, framed against the dull red of the barn. Every other barn around was red with white doors. Uncle Johnny liked black doors. On one end of the barn, just visible by stretching to see past the maple tree in the yard, was a fading Mail Pouch Tobacco billboard.

The deep breathing behind me had now stopped, and a voice interrupted my thoughts, What’s so interesting out there?

Nothing, I replied, moving only my mouth.

Well, if it’s nothing, how come you can’t take your eyes off it?

Just looking around.

Okay. Wake me up for the Fourth of July. I don’t want to miss the fireworks. Donnie yawned at me as he rolled over.

I studied the yard again, taking in one sight, then meeting the next, always comparing, never really trusting. At any minute, they could take me back to that other world, the real world. Everything here was so different. At least yesterday I understood my world.

To Donnie, burrowed in the bed, this was all ordinary. It would never be ordinary to me.

My eyes scanned the room. It could have been anywhere. But who was this new boy? My new brother. I slept with him last night, like I used to sleep with Joe.

I dressed and crossed the creaky planks to the hallway, then went down the steep steps, deeply worn from a million feet before me. Stopping at the bottom, I listened through the door between the dining room and me. There were two voices in the kitchen, but I could make out only a few words. It was Aunt Rachel and Margaret.

I pushed the door silently until it squeaked about half way open. Aunt Rae turned and looked through the dining room at me. Margo was around the corner in the kitchen out of site. She stopped in mid sentence.

I thought maybe you two were going to spend the whole summer in bed, Aunt Rae said. Is Donnie up? I thought I heard his voice. Did he say something about the Fourth of July?

Yes, I said to the floor. He just said to make sure we wake him up for the Fourth of July.

He’s so lazy, Aunt Rae, Margo’s voice rounded the corner. Gets worse all the time, too. Why do I have to have the most worthless brother on earth?

Well, I don’t think he has to worry about sleeping through the 4th, Aunt Rae said with a chuckle. "He’s got a lot of miles of beans to hoe before then. I