would itch for weeks, maybe months.
Nicky gave in.
“Let me out!” he yelled, pounding the door.
In the hall, I stood back, unsmiling, my eyes on the doorknob, ready to spring for safety or seize Nicky at the slightest indication the catch wouldn’t hold.
“Lemme out. Lemme out. Lemme out.”
His voice got higher and quieter, almost singsong.
I pretended I wasn’t there, willing my ears to concentrate on the whir of a lawnmower next door. I considered tiptoeing down the stairs then sneaking back. Or just staying away. I had never gone that far. He might die if I did that. I was about to dare myself when a wail came from the closet, followed by a roar. My ears tingled. Maybe I should let him out. As I reached for the doorknob, I heard a thud. The shrill noise continued, sounding like a wheeze or a nasal guffaw.
I hit the door.
“Stop laughing, you idiot. I know it’s fake.”
Inside I wasn’t so sure. Where was my mom? Nicky’s laughing was loud. Usually Sylvia interrupted any loud games, telling us to pipe down.
Regular thumps began. I rested my palms on the clock wallpaper, my breath coming in pants. I knew exactly where my mom was: in the kitchen smoking or more likely, asleep on the couch.
I quietly lifted the hook and was halfway to the stairs when both the keening and thumping stopped. I listened for a few moments longer then stole back. When Nicky was through playing dead and rattled the doorknob, he would burst into the hall and I could stand with my arms crossed and say, “What’s your problem? It wasn’t even locked.”
I hung back, smirk in place, shaking from my shoulders down. Outside the lawnmower stopped; the air was motionless. From the closet came silence.
Maybe he really was dead. I curled my hand around the doorknob, ready to attack if need be. If he were dead, I’d be mad.
When I opened the door a few inches, Nicky flopped into the hall, arms raised over his head, armpits stained with sweat, his weight flipping the door all the way open. It swung back against Nicky’s shoulder. His eyes had rolled back so I could only see the whites and the pink line of his inner eyelid. A froth lined his lips. It was white and frilled with yellow and purple and smelled curdled, like Pablum.
I refused to believe it. Wishing something couldn’t make it come true. Besides, I hadn’t really wished it. Not deep down. I wanted only to see what would happen. I pushed at Nicky’s knee with my toes.
“Get up, Nicky. Stop faking.”
No response. I willed his eyes to open. Fear clutched my shoulder blades.
A few seconds later, Nicky’s eyes did open. He gazed straight up at me with hatred and non-recognition. Then he closed his eyes and his body twitched. The twitches turned to shudders and soon his legs and arms were thrashing against the walls of the narrow hallway. A thin stream of liquid spilled from the corner of his mouth and his head thumped against the floor. I screamed and ran downstairs. It didn’t matter any more about my mother. By locking Nicky into the closet I had made him a monster.
Sylvia was in the kitchen.
“Mama, there’s something wrong with Nicky, he’s on the floor hitting the wall. With his head. He’s out of control.” It was hard to get the words out for sobs. “I didn’t mean to do anything,” I said after a minute.
Sylvia’s face seemed to click back into focus. She dropped her cigarette and charged out of the room, her legs taking impossibly long strides. I was right behind her.
When we got to the top of the stairs, Nicky was sitting up straight, his hands on his knees.
Sylvia lurched down beside him, folding him in long arms like prehistoric bird wings.
“He’s okay, right?” I said, standing back at the top of the stairs.
She sat back and held Nicky’s face in both hands. “Get a cloth!” she yelled, not taking her eyes off Nicky’s.
I grabbed a facecloth and held it under lukewarm water, then wrung it out. Sylvia reached her hand out and I dropped the cloth into it. She swiped Nicky’s mouth a few times. Using the corner of the cloth, she patted the foam off his lips and dabbed at his shirt.
Nicky croaked. Slowly he recognized me. He didn’t seem to notice Sylvia.
“What?” he said.
“Did you call emergency? You have to call the volunteer fire department out here. The ambulance is too far,” Sylvia said, clutching Nicky to her chest again.
“Not yet,” I said. “I didn’t think he was sick. It just happened.” I didn’t say I’d thought he was faking. It was wrong not to tell what had happened but it sounded stupid to say it; I was a horrible person for making him play the closet game.
“Don’t bother calling anyone. He looks fine now.” Sylvia rocked Nicky, her movements solid, her grip tight.
“But you didn’t see him. He was rolling on the floor. He was out of control.”
“What happened? Why was he doing that? Was it a game?” Sylvia’s smile was the kind that made me feel like I had no idea what I was talking about. I doubted what I’d seen and felt worse for having caused it. If something was wrong with Nicky, we wouldn’t know because Sylvia didn’t think he needed to go to the hospital. My chest got all hard as if I’d swallowed a big piece of meat. I had put Nicky’s life in danger. Then I’d laughed at him. What was wrong with me that I could do such things to my brother? I’d locked him in the closet because I thought it was fun. It was fun when he didn’t get sick. In the dim hallway my mother’s eyes were vacant hollows boring into me with full knowledge of my games, of my evil ways, and the scary thing was that those eyes didn’t care one bit.
Nicky blinked as if he was coming out of a long, much-needed afternoon nap. Later he said he remembered nothing about the closet and was conscious only of a light bruise on the crown of his head. Nothing similar ever happened to him again. He shook his head and seemed surprised to be in our mother’s arms. His eyes held a hatred so clean I could mistake it for love. Nothing I did would taint it; he could survive anything.
Sylvia released him. He sat back against the closet door, mouth closed. Sylvia stood up, arms trembling.
“I don’t know what to do with you two,” she said. “You are wild. I wouldn’t be shocked if you killed each other one day, if you don’t kill me first.” She walked past me and went back downstairs.
I couldn’t look at Nicky or even speak. But I didn’t want to leave him. What if he had another fit? Then for sure I would call the fire department even if Sylvia told me not to. I would run down the street myself and pull the alarm. Nobody would get in the way now of me protecting my brother even though I was as aware as he was that the opportunity to protect him was over. He had grown past me and was strong in a way I had never expected, a way that magnified my own weakness: my meanness.
I asked him if he wanted to sit in the garage loft to watch the storm. The sky was near black so it was time.
Nicky didn’t resist. Normally he avoided the storms, huddling
