Twenty-six years ago

“Mommy said to wait here.”

That was Petey talking, or as Alex liked to call him, “Little Pee.”

When their mother wasn’t drunk or high she would poke Alex in his chest. “Don’t call him that! Be nice to your brother.”

“He’s not my brother; he’s my half-brother. And that’s what he is: a little pee! A little puddle of pee!” Alex would laugh at his own good joke.

“Don’t be mean. Be sweet, Alex. Be sweet like Petey.” Then, as an afterthought, “Anyway, he’s pissing the bed less these days.”

“He’s STILL a Little Pee.”

At that current moment, Jeannie was neither drunk nor stoned.

She was just plain gone. Nowhere to be seen. The last sunlight descended into the sky. No one remained in the playground but Alex and Petey. There they were, sitting on a bench. The park at dusk is a desolate place. Silent, devoid of children’s laughter and squeals of play. The swings were empty, swaying slightly in the wind.

The boys continued to wait. They didn’t know what else to do. Though it was early October, they wore only windbreaker jackets over short-sleeved t-shirts. The chill of the autumn twilight went right through their thin clothing, and into their flesh. Petey was shivering. He rubbed his four-year-old hands together in an exaggerated gesture, just like he saw in cartoons.

Alex wrapped his arm around Petey’s shoulder, rubbing it to help keep him warm. Petey, in turn, leaned into Alex. Alex tilted his head down toward him and took a deep sniff. Yup. Still smells like pee.

The wind picked up, making dead brown leaves rustle and skip across the rubber-padded floor of the slide and monkey bars area. Alex watched their motion and wondered.

Where was their mother?

 

She had been jonesing so bad. She just wanted a bump.

One little bump. To take the edge off.

Jeannie figured she had been good for a while. Days now, right? One little bump couldn’t do any harm. She had looked over at Petey on the swing, learning to pump himself.

“You’re doing so good, Baby,” she called out. “See, you don’t need Mommy to push you!” Then she looked around for Alex. He and that kid who always had a runny nose were on the monkey bars hanging upside down. She went over to him. “Watch your brother. I’ll be right back.”

As she was leaving, she waved at Petey. “You stay here, Baby. Mommy will be right back.”

Vinnie T’s was only 2 blocks away, and he was always home. Plus, Vinnie had a thing for Jeannie. He would always give her a bump and not ask her to pay up front. She would give him the money on payday.

Vinnie and Jeannie did a tiny bit of heroin together. Jeannie stretched out on his couch and let the waves of well-being flow through her. She felt so chill! Damn, that was exactly what she needed. And then she got a crazy strong craving for a red Slurpee. Vinnie said he could go for one, too. And maybe he’d put some vodka in it. They headed over to the 7-11 on 123rd and 3rd.

When they got there, Jeannie made a beeline for the self-service machine and made herself a large cherry Slurpee. Ah, that first sip of the cold, grainy sweetness! Motherfuck, that was good!

She wanted to get something for her boys, too. Alex liked those little packages of crackers with the spreadable cheese, and Petey liked Twizzlers. He could nibble on one of those things for hours. The next part was just a misunderstanding that just got way louder than it ever should have. Jeannie thought Vinnie paid for her stuff, and Vinnie T. thought she paid for his stuff.

The guy at the counter didn’t have to be such a dick about it.

Then Vinnie T got so mad he knocked over the Energy Drink display, and accidentally knocked into Jeannie, sloshing her Splurpee all over the front of her jacket. It all turned into a thing, and before she knew it, the cops were there, and she was being handcuffed and escorted into the police car by some burly cop who placed his hand on the top of Jeannie’s head with a surprising gentleness as slid into the back seat, making sure she didn’t hit her head. Despite everything, Jeannie was still a looker, you see. Doe eyes, large and soft, and long wavy hair that went down to her waist.

 

It was Alex’s decision to try to walk home. He was older, after all, so he got to make the decision. Alex was only 6 1/2 years old but he was smart! He knew that they lived on 127th street, and that the park was on 130th Street. He knew that they had to walk three blocks up, and one block over. There it was! There was their building!

See, Petey! I told you I could get us home! Then Alex realized that he couldn’t open the front door of the building. It needed a key. Alex didn’t have any keys. So, he and Petey sat on the front step and waited.

They waited and waited. They waited for a long time. People went out, people came in, all passing by the two little boys sitting on the step. Some ignore them, some give them a passing look of curiosity. By the time Mrs. Walker from Apt 58 came home from babysitting her grandchildren, Alex and Petey were crying. She brought Alex and Petey up to her apartment, made them bologna and cheese sandwiches and called the police.

The officer had a name tag that read “O’Brien.”  He put Alex and Peter in the back seat of the police car and drove them to Precinct 87.

O’Brien entered the information into the system as Alex provided it. He got a hit on their mother’s name. The system showed that the little boys’ mother was at that very moment in a holding cell one flight up. He looked at the little boys sitting on the hard wooden chairs that were alongside his desk, their little legs swinging above the ground. The littler one was still sniffling.

Officer O’Brien picked up the phone and called Child Protective Services.

 

Today

In the kitchen of his delightful new apartment, Alex was in his boxer briefs and nothing else. He glanced at the wall clock as he pulled his clothes out of the dryer, piling them on top of the washing machine. Even with the idlest of glances, pleasure washed through him. He loved seeing the expanse of exposed brick that extended from the living room to the kitchen.

Exposed brick. It warmed a place up, gave it personality. It was one of the details that sold him on the condo. That, along with the restored original light fixtures, the bay windows, and the restored wood flooring. And the great laundry alcove that just off the kitchen.

He gave the dryer drum one final spin to make sure a stray sock wasn’t lurking behind one of the drum fins. A soft rustling sound, and then a single dollar bill fell to the bottom of the barrel. Alex fished the bill out of the dryer. Instinctively brought it up to his face and inhaled. The scent of dryer heat and Tide detergent made him smile. Incidental aromatherapy, he thought to himself. He pulled a pair of freshly washed jeans from the pile of clean clothes and put them on. And then he shoved the clean, dry dollar bill into his back pocket.

His cell phone started ringing. It’s probably the social worker guy, he thought to himself, surveying the kitchen for his phone. It was actually on his coffee table, still ringing, and the caller ID proved his guess incorrect.

He picked up the phone and hit the green “Accept Call.”

“Hi, Mom.” As his foster mother for three years, then his adoptive mother for all the years after that, calling Laura di Carlo “Mom” was as real and natural and right—as breathing oxygen.

“Hi, Sweetheart. Just checking in. Wanted to wish you luck. Are you nervous?”

Alex walked over to the window and looked down at West End Avenue. The wide expanse of street and line of gracious pre-war buildings reminded him of Europe.

“No, not nervous. Maybe a little apprehensive. I’m okay.” In truth, he had gotten roped into this. When he had gotten that call last week from a woman who said she was Petey’s social worker, and said Petey wanted to see him after all these years, Alex wanted to decline, but he couldn’t figure out how to do it without seeming like a colossal asshole.

“Where are you meeting him?”

“Just at French Roast. Nothing too fancy. I don’t want to overwhelm him. Make it casual.”

“That sounds good. Well, let me know how it goes.”

“I will, Ma. I’ll call you later.”

Laura sighed. “It’s so sad. If only—”

Alex nodded even though Laura couldn’t see him. “I know, Ma. I know.” Silence fell between them. A simpatico silence: of understanding, as they both considered the potential sorrows and joys of luck of the draw, and how Alex had happened to luck out in the biggest lottery of them all.

“I better go. I have some things to do before I meet him.”

“‘Kay, Sweetie. Love you.”

 

The cappuccino at French Roast was liquid joy. Alex, always a prompt person, had expressly arrived early, so he could drink his coffee alone and get centered before the appointed time.

But two sips in, a figure appeared alongside his table.

“Alex?”

Alex looked up.

The figure took a step back as Alex stood up.

The two men looked at each other. Though only half-brothers, they resembled one another strongly. Both tall and lanky, with light brown hair and brown eyes. Peter was an inch or so taller, and so skinny as to be gangly. His cheeks were hollow, and his complexion had a greyish cast. And his eyes—so many things in there. Bewilderment. Fear, and sadness. A little bit of crazy.

He looks exactly like what he is, Alex thought.

A recovering drug addict.

Alex hesitated, then wrapped his arms around him. “Petey,” he affirmed, his voice soft.

At first, stiff with surprise, Peter relaxed into the hug. “Little Pee,” he mumbled.

An embarrassed chuckle from Alex. “Shit, you remember that.”

Peter nodded but said nothing. Just silent in his brother’s arms.

Alex could feel Peter’s chest shaking against his. He realized Peter was crying.

Twenty-six years melted away. In an instant, they were once again those little boys abandoned in a darkened playground. Alex tightened his arms around him.

“It’s going to be okay, little brother.” And then they sat down, and for the first time in just over two decades, Alex and Petey talked. There was a shakiness to Petey, and his speech was halting. And he kept pulling at the sleeves of his sweatshirt, trying to cover the scars on his wrists, faded but still visible. They looked like cigarette burns.

Petey told him about rehab, and the next steps of looking for a job, and he listened intently as Alex told him about his job at the law firm. It was a life completely alien to Petey, and he had no idea how prestigious Blake & Showalter was.

A couple of times during the conversation, Petey said, “Sorry, could you say that again?”

The first time he said it, he pointed to his right ear. “Bad ear.”

And Alex remembered that way back, when he was still just being fostered by Laura and Dan, he overheard them whispering, saying that Peter was being re-situated, because his last foster father had hit him on the side of the head and burst his ear drum.

Alex felt embarrassed and guilty talking about his life.

“Enough about me. We’re here to celebrate your finishing rehab. It’s a great new start for you.”

Petey shrugged. “I have a lot of catching up to do. I’m pretty far behind in life.”

“It’s not your fault, Pete. You got dealt a really bad hand.” Alex hesitated. “How many foster homes were you in?”

Petey flinched… “I never counted.” Then, “14.”

“Geez.”

“And two group homes.” Peter squinted, thinking back. “Well, first my dad’s sister took me, but her husband didn’t want me there. And then the foster homes started, and each one was worse than the last.”

Alex wondered if Petey had been sexually abused but didn’t ask.

“I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you.”

Petey nodded. “It happened. It all really happened, and there’s nothing I can do about that.” He exhaled. “Pam said—Pam, you know. My social worker. She also counsels our group. She told us the story of the hundred-dollar bill. She said you could take a hundred-dollar bill, and step on it, and get it all dirty. You could drop it on the ground, and a dog could take a dump on it. But you still wouldn’t throw that Benjamin away. You’d keep it and wash it off. Because it was still worth a hundred dollars.

“It still has its value, you know? That never changes. She told us in group that that’s all of us, that’s each one of us. All of the shitty things that have happened, it doesn’t change our value. I just have to keep reminding myself of that, you know? I just have to take it one day at a time.”

“And Mom loved us,” Alex reminded him. “As fucked up as she was—” and then he stopped, embarrassed. Petey was an addict, like Mom.

Petey nodded, letting him know it was okay. “Mom loved us. I remember that.” And the boys-now-men both fell silent, each lost in their personal memory of where they were when they learned that their mother died of an accidental overdose.

The waitress came over and asked if they needed anything else.

“Just the check,” Alex said, accompanied with a hand motion.

As he reached in his back pocket for his credit card, he remembered the dollar bill in his pocket, freshly washed and dried.

“Hey. This seems all too apropos.”

Petey squinted, not understanding.

“It’s fortui—” Alex stopped again, searching for another word. “Here is something fitting. I was doing the laundry this morning, and this must’ve been in a jeans pocket that went into the wash.”

He handed Petey the dollar bill.

“It’s freshly washed and dried. Brand spanking clean. Like the hundred-dollar bill in your story.

“Keep it for luck.”

Petey took the bill and smiled. “Thanks, big brother.”

They walked out of French Roast and ended their reunion with a hug, and a promise to keep in touch.

“If you need anything. I swear—anything. Please call me. Don’t hesitate.”

Petey nodded. “I will, Alex. Thank you.”

Alex watched Petey head down the street, down toward the 79th and Broadway train station. He didn’t leave until Petey disappeared down the stairs. Then he turned and commenced his walk home.

As he walked, a memory nagged at the back of his mind, trying to push its way forward.

It was when he was 9 and a half. Just after Laura and David diCarlo had officially adopted him.

They had sat him down in the living room.

“Alex, we have something to ask you. It’s something important.”

Alex was scared. They looked so serious. Did they change their mind about adopting him?

“Your half-brother’s case worker contacted us. She said that Peter is in a very bad position. He’s in his fifth foster home and he’s being treated badly. Very badly.

“They need to re-situate him, and the social worker was asking us if we would like to foster him. And if things worked out, we would adopt him, too.

“Would you like that, Alex? To be with your brother again?”

Something white and hot inside of Alex grabbed his stomach and squeezed. And that white hot thing had a voice. It screamed “NO!”

Alex burst into tears. “I don’t want him here! Don’t bring him here!”

And his new mom and dad swooped in, covering him with hugs and kisses, and words of comfort.

“Don’t you want to be with your brother again?”

Alex was silent.

“What’s wrong, Sweetie?

Alex took a deep breath and said, “Petey is scary. He hurts little animals. People don’t know about it.”

Total lie. It was just something Alex saw on a tv show about a crazy murderer.

Later that night, Alex overheard his parents talking about it.

“Should we tell the social worker? That must be why Peter is so difficult to place.”

“They probably already know. Maybe we should just leave it alone, Laura.”

Each time that his lie pushed its way up to the surface, Alex pushed it back down. He didn’t want to think about it. It was a long time ago, and he had just been a kid.

Alex arrived at the front entrance of his brownstone.

He reached into his front pocket for his keys and let himself in.

He was home.