I'd only known my brother since we were in sixth grade, back when our parents got married. Thinking back, though, I couldn't remember anyone who wasn't related to me who was still around and who had been there for me as long as he had. Not that he and I were always there for each other or anything. In fact, we were quite hostile. But it was, after all was said and done, the hostility that only passes between siblings: the type that when committed by an outsider demands immediate defense of one's counterpart.
I had really tried to be happy for him when he told me he was getting married, but it was difficult. "This time next year, should be around then," his letter said. I wanted to tell him he was a moron, but with him in Iraq all I could really do was accept the news with the best graces possible. If I wrote him what I thought, he'd just throw it away. At least if he'd been here, or I'd been there, I could follow him around and tell him how much of a jerk his wife-to-be was.
Lying in a dark room, waiting for sleep, I tried to ward off thoughts of how miserable he must be over in Hajiworld, or Sandyland, or Dune, or whatever the troops called it. Hell. That's how he referred to it most of the time. "Nothing happened in Hell today," his letters would say, "we just fire our guns ‘for effect.’ New socks would be good. Stamps." I considered suggesting a mail-order bride, and instead just thought out little rhymes to myself.
True love is a gift,
that brings warmth to the heart,
until the bitch marries you,
and your whole world falls apart.
Of course, his whole world already was falling apart. After a year in Hell, his banshee girlfriend probably really did seem like a godsend. I had met her before and not liked her, and meeting her for a second time only reinforced my opinion. A uniformed man who's spent a year in the desert, whether the war was justified or not, should not have to hold a door open for anyone, or be told which restaurant he's going to, or which nights he can see his friends.
Maybe it wasn't so much the thought of him getting married keeping me up as the fact that he was supposed to be heading back to Hell that night. The bastard. He'd promised me that we'd go and enlist together. Promised long before any of the fighting broke out, before anyone even thought about offing some twenty-first century Stalin impersonator in the Middle East. I argued with him about it on more than a few occasions. The last time had been in a letter, pointing out once more that we should both be "over there" in the same place. His concise response was simply, "You wouldn't've made it anyway. And you know it."
In retaliation, his next letter, which contained his birthday card, was inscribed with:
You've taught me many lessons,
as my brother I hold you dear.
Just don't let dad find out
that you wound up a queer.
Happy Birthday!
His response was simply, "Go to hell, Haji." His girlfriend had felt it necessary to point out that no, I would not have passed the physical examination, and besides, if one of us had died, what would the other one do? I didn't see how they thought it would make any difference if one of us died and the other was "over here" or "over there," but I supposed that me being on this side of the water cut the chances of death down drastically.
"Haji." I'd asked him about the term when he was on leave. Everyone who was different was a Haji. Blacks, Asians, Indians...heck, even if he found out you were Canadian, you would instantly become a Haji. If he thought you were stupid, he'd call you a Haji. Once he called the Filipino relief workers in Hell Hajis. I'd asked why he did that when they didn't even look remotely like his enemy and were on his side to boot. He just shrugged and said, "Because they are."
I didn't say what I was thinking. "Hey Adolph, Why hate the Jews or the Russians? Why hate the Brits or the Poles? The Communists or the gypsies?" He'd just have said something about, "Hey, since when was I Catholic?" and I'd have laughed, which would've ruined the whole guilt trip anyway.
Mostly he'd write about what he was looking forward to when he came back home and about all the things he wanted to do. He only wrote twice about unpleasant things. Once was to point out the irony of his barracks location. Since it was directly by the base's gate, the higher ranking officers didn't want to stay there and moved further back in the base. Meanwhile he and many of the other lower ranking officers were placed there, only to hear mortars fly over them and into the deeper parts of the base that the officials had opted to inhabit for safety.
The other time was when his convoy ran over a civilian. He didn't talk about anyone dying on either side again after that.
Talking to him the last time he was here, I could tell that he was desperately trying to justify his existence in Hell. Surely, he must've been thinking, I'm not wasting my time over there. Surely they're not wasting the youth over there. During his two week stay in the States, he encountered a barrage of yellow "Support our troops!" ribbons and silly things like "freedom fries."
"Everywhere you turn now you see yellow ribbons. Where were those people before?" I asked him. "They might as well just paint 'Bandwagon Patriot' on their cars." He tried to look unhappy, but as he shook his head at me, face pointed toward the ground, I caught a smirk.
"You'd better support our troops, Haji," he told me.
"Screw our troops," I said, a bit too much force behind it. "I support my troop. Singular. The bandwagons need shot." He didn't say much through dinner that night.
Later that evening as we walked the town’s Broadway, the freedom fries issue came up. He wanted to know just what, exactly, were they? We found a little bar that had them on the menu and asked for two orders. He asked me if he'd like them, and I nodded. When they arrived, he stared blankly at them for a few seconds in disbelief, then looked at me as I struggled to keep my laughter to a chuckle.
"It's just French fries!" he shouted at me, and I began laughing out loud. The noise of a bar at night does have its upside when trying to mask certain protesters, I suppose. The bartender gave us a sideways look, and I hoped nothing embarrassing would happen. We left the fries on the counter and made our exit without paying before we had time to find ourselves in some sort of unfavorable situation.
"Profiteering bastards," my brother said once we were on the street again.
"No comment on oil reserves," I said. He told me to shove it.
"Americans fall for anything," I began, "the bullshit and the lies."
"Dear God, somebody make him stop," he said in mock agony, calling out to the sky in a pretend showcase of drama.
"They're still working on liberating earth, but they've invented freedom fries," I finished. He wagged his finger at me a couple times as he tried to think of something to say, but surprised me after a couple seconds.
"You know," he said, "that one wasn't bad."
"You love it and you know it," I told him with a dumb grin.
"You're lucky no one's killed you yet and you know it," he retorted immediately.
That was the last time I saw him before his departure for the airport. He'd be leaving for Hell again before dawn. It would be his last night under a real roof for another six months, and he'd opted, or been ordered by his girlfriend, to spend his remaining time with her. I myself, despite it being a Friday, decided to simply stay in and put in some resting time. I wouldn't be able to enjoy going out anyway if he weren't there for a final sendoff from all of his comrades and family.
It was still dark out when the phone rang. I half-opened my eyes for a grand total of two seconds before moaning and pulling my sheets over my head. It had not yet dawned on me that my brother was calling from the airport before he took off, perhaps his flight was delayed and he needed a lift, or he just wanted to give another goodbye before he flew off to Hell. Realizing who it was, I groped for the telephone.
I shouted an idiotic greeting into the mouthpiece, only to have it countered by a feminine voice. Very faint, very hollow.
Brother…
Bus…
Airport hospital…
Accident…
Didn't suffer.
Calmly, without a word, I placed the phone back into its cradle. I took a deep breath. Then a quicker breath. Breathing faster, faster, faster and faster and faster until I grabbed the telephone cradle with both hands and ripped it from the wall. The cord lashed at my leg, and I threw the machine at the ground with all of my strength. When it refused to hurt me, refused to make my brother knock at the door, I kicked it as hard as I could.
But I still could not feel the pain, even as it surged through my toes and up my leg. In the dark I fumbled with a bottle of medication, unable to focus on it through heavy, wet eyes. Unable to open it with shaking, out of control hands.
With a barbaric, primal outcry I collapsed into my bed. This was what would happen if one of us died. And it made no difference whether it was over here or over there.
You fucking Haji. You Haji motherfucker.
I held my pillow over my face, sobbing into it and clenching my teeth to try and suppress audible cries of terror. I finally fell asleep, delirious, wishing I had worn a yellow ribbon for him even once.
