IT WAS A LITTLE UNSETTLING not knowing when your older brother was going to try to take you down in the middle of the night. I didn’t know what made it scarier: that he had a three-inch height and thirty-pound weight advantage, or that he wasn’t working with a full deck.
My solution was to keep my old Little League bat nearby. At night I kept it wedged between the mattress and bed frame. When Caleb came at me in the pitch black, I gripped it high up the barrel like a club. If I smacked him on his back a couple of times, he usually rolled off me, and if that didn’t work, I pinched and pulled his ears and hair. Usually that was enough to make him retreat. Sometimes he jumped around the room for a few minutes before settling back into his bed. Other times we were both so wound up that I had to head out for another night run. One way or another we always went through the same remorse ritual.
“Sorry, Leo,” he’d say.
It was only at these times that his voice lost its robotic quality. He actually sounded like he was truly sorry, maybe even scared. Though it was dark in the room, I could see him lying on his bed on top of the covers, still heated with rage. When he spoke, he held his hands up toward the ceiling, and his thumbs and fingers clicked like marionettes in unison with his voice.
I was usually too angry to respond the first time he’d apologize.
“Sorry, Leo,” he’d repeat.
I always caved eventually. “It’s all right, Caleb.”
“God not punish you, Leo?” he’d ask.
“You” was him, and for some reason he seemed to have a fear of God—even after we stopped attending church. How did someone like Caleb, who often struggled to understand the world around him, become so concerned about God—some abstract, invisible force that we barely mentioned in this house?
“God not punish you, Caleb,” I’d assure him.
“God not punish you,” he’d repeat each time, but now as a statement.
“Never hit Leo again. Right?”
“That would be great, Caleb.”
“Don’t poke Leo in eye,” he’d say.
“Let’s get some sleep, Caleb,” I’d say.
“Good night, Leo.”
“Good night, Caleb.”
A few nights later, it would happen all over again.
I began to anticipate when Caleb was off-kilter. I would catch him with his back to me, shaking his hand in front of his face, or I’d notice the sudden skip to his step when he was walking across the room—some gesture that showed he was unsettled about something, that the fuse had been lit and time was ticking.
It could take place anytime: daytime, evening, or the middle of the night. So I began to keep my clothes on and my running shoes by the back door when I went to sleep. If I woke to find Caleb shaking both his hands frantically in front of his face, I was ready. If he bit his wrist or began to jump up and down, I knew it was time to slip out and run far.
I ran until the tension seeped out of my chest and shoulders. I ran until I felt my face relax and I no longer clenched my teeth. I ran until my fists unwound and my fingers felt loose. I ran until my anger was gone. I ran until I was alone with just the steady rhythm of my feet tapping the pavement, my breath a soft, steady flow of energy in and out of my lungs, and my sweat releasing the heat from my body.
I was alone, away from him, away from home. It was at times like this I’d feel the runner’s high again.
By the time I returned, Caleb would be calm, like nothing had ever happened. I’d wipe down with a wet towel and crawl back into my bed, and I’d forgive him. I knew deep down that he couldn’t control himself. It wasn’t his fault.