happening, FeelinBetter, TalkinBetter… SpongeItAll away, boy, ’CauseYouCareAbout me, YouCare and can’t deny it, I KnowIt In MyHeart, you KnowIt In yourss, all these YearssA Putting a roof OverYer head, food in yer stomach, have all GottaCount for ssomething, not perfect, no, NeverPerfect, but a family, RealAndTrue, lookin’ out ForOneAnother like you’re lookin’ out for MeRightNow, and so what if I GetFoul from time to time, who don’t, ButYouCan forgive it right, becausse you understand, YouCare, and I’m grateful for it, Brew… grateful ’cause today you KnowYourPlace on this good earth… your place and YourPurpose, and that’s to ssave me, YourPoorOld Uncle Hoyt, I can feel it all DrainingAway, the numbness, the heaviness… steal it all away, Yeah, That’s It… and I won’t forget it, Brew, and I’ll GiveYou the biggesst shiny marble headsstone and Cody and I will visit WhenWe can, and flowerss on your birthday, and the doors of heaven, they’re flung OpenWide for you ’cause of what you’re doing today, so take it away, take it away from me, Brew, like you’re supposed to…that’s why you’re here.” (VI) I try to speak but my tongue is now fat and lazy, and life starts trailing away, my body giving in…. This can’t be my purpose—to die in my uncle’s place, my flesh shutting down, left leg, left arm, half of me gone, and the other half beginning to follow , a catastrophic collapse, because I care just enough to be trapped—and the thought of him walking out of here free and clear is too much for me to bear—I do not want this—I want MY life, not HIS death, and my only hope is to stop caring—to kill in the depth of my own soul the pity and compassion I feel for the man who raised me for half my life—can I do that to you, Uncle Hoyt, now when it’s either you or, me? Can I find it in my heart to NOT find it in my heart? I dig down, down, down, to make the numbness taking root in my body invade that place in me that still cares about you and purge it so that I can leave you—not love, not hate, but leave you dark and indifferent, in an Arctic cold—I don’t care about you, not now not anymore… and now… and, now… I can slowly feel sensation coming back to my face—I don’t care what happens to you, Uncle Hoyt—I can twitch my legs now—and as your fate sinks back into you, you reach out to grab me—but with my one good hand I do what I could not do before—I swing my fist and connect with your jaw , and you fall away—I see your face—how it’s losing muscle tone as the stroke returns to you, sinking in —a mud slide seeking low ground—I have both my arms back —my legs are still not strong enough to carry me, but I scramble for the door on all fours as you wail incomprehensible fury—your fate is your own again—and if I can get far enough away and keep myself from caring just long enough, your fate will stay bound to you—so I drag myself out the door, falling off the porch, dredging through the mud, still unable to stand, but the farther away I get, the easier it is, until I can rise to my feet, until I am at the edge of the range of my gift—until I can’t feel you anymore, Uncle Hoyt, no, I can’t feel you at all. I can walk now—with a limp, but I can walk, and I stride powerfully across the field toward the gate. Your death is yours alone, Uncle Hoyt; it’s what you created, what you’ve earned. And you’ll know soon enough if God truly has mercy enough to forgive you. Because I can’t. (VII) I look for Cody, One foot almost dragging, And as I cross into a parking lot, I have to squint from the neon glare of the strip mall, And yet I’m relieved to be doused with light. In the ice-cream shop, Cody stirs a molten mess the color of a storm, Watching as I make an emergency call On a borrowed cell phone, Then says nothing as we leave the shop, Nothing as we turn toward home, Nothing, even as distant sirens draw closer. “Hold my hand, Cody.” “I’m not a baby.” “I said, hold my hand!” Because it’s not just for him. It’s for me. (VIII) Cody and I go home, With fear fermenting to dread, For everything has changed. My uncle. Who left me battered Yet never laid a hand on me, The man inside, A wreck and ruin, Losing his battle with time, In that house in a fallow field. Home. Where I must return Shaking in grim anticipation With cold and clammy hands Where death waits.

TENNYSON

41) INCOMMUNICADO

There’s no funeral for Uncle Hoyt.

Instead, his ex-wife has him quietly cremated and the ashes shipped back to her in Atlanta, where she will do whatever angry women do with their ex- husband’s ashes. Even so, the guy has it easier than Brewster, who has to suffer through The Week From Hell.

FRIDAY: Uncle Hoyt dies under mysterious circumstances.

SATURDAY: There’s no word from Brewster, and all we get are rumors from neighborhood kids—not just rumors about how it happened, but where Brew and Cody are now. Bronte and I are completely out of the loop, and it drives us nuts. There’s not a single reliable source of information, and all the possibilities are as nerve-racking as SAT choices:

A) “I hear the Bruiser shot his uncle and ran away.”

B) “I hear the Bruiser strangled his uncle, and the FBI is holding him.”

C) “I hear his uncle was whacked by the Mafia, and now the Bruiser’s in the witness protection program.”

D) “I hear Bruiser never actually had an uncle, and Ralphy Sherman says they found radioactive material in the basement.”

We’re the only ones who know Brew well enough to know the answer is E) None of the above.

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