THE RECOLLECTIONS OF DORIAN LOOMIS

Sometimes you gotta talk. To anybody. To the air, if that’s what it takes. I know this ain’t my regular routine, but routine can drop you so deep in a hole that you can’t dig out, and you can’t live in a hole your entire life. It’s all my way of saying that I’m done. I’m gone. I tried to do life the regular way, with family and an address. What good did that do?

None. Absolutely none.

I can’t talk to my brother. When we were both really young, we were all right. Got into adventures. Ran all around town causing a ruckus. He was funny. He could be fun.

Not these days. Not these years, actually. Ever since we both went and grew up. Ever since before that.

And his wife? Oh boy, beautiful woman, but I hesitate to even call her my sister-in-law, ’cause she don’t exactly act sisterly. She’s strange. I’ve seen all sorts of darkness in my day, so I know she has a darkness. Anyone who knocks ’em back like she does has gotta have a darkness. Anyone who hides things like she does has gotta have a darkness. Only I don’t know what her darkness is, or where it’s from.

The fact that the two of them could pop out such beautiful children is a testament to … hell, I don’t know. Flowers grow from manure. Best way I can explain it.

I should shut up, though. Talking ill of people who took me in is no way to talk at all. But then again, I also can’t stay with them anymore. Not with the way they handled Ma’s passing, like it wasn’t nothing at all. Not how they dealt with her suffering, like it didn’t matter at all. Not with the way they ignored my niece, with the way they’ve handled everything since she … left.

Yes, left. Call me naïve or clueless if you want, but I don’t think she was taken. I think she left. I know her brother and sister think that too, because they’ve told me. And if we find her … when we find her … I hope that we can figure out what’s best for—

Look at me. Now I’ve gone and said too much. Gotten too personal. I bet many of you can relate, though. Veterans. Guys on the long haul. Family is never easy, but it’s extra tough for ones like us. We live our lives the only way we know how to live ’em. Alone.

Not an excuse. An explanation.

Which makes me think of this other guy. He’s younger, but maybe he’s a bit like us. Maybe he’s more alone than even we could imagine. He had a brother, like I got a brother, but he lost him. It wasn’t his fault, losing his brother, but I know he feels like it was his fault. That’s how it always feels when someone you love is there and then gone. You coulda done something different, something better. It’ll drive you up the wall thinking about the possibilities, and that no doubt got the best of him.

I used to talk about this stuff with my niece. She clued me in to the idea of alternate realities. Like, there are infinite versions of the world. Each a bit different. Existing, I don’t know where … somewhere. And an alternate reality is created every time we make a choice. The choice might be simple. Eggs for breakfast or pancakes? Even that can determine your reality, the entire course of your life.

Not to get all philosophical, but that sort of thinking gets me remembering this day when I was eight and my brother—Neal is his name—was about thirteen and we did one of the stupidest things a coupla kids could’ve ever done. I’m guessing it was his idea, but I don’t know for sure. I wouldn’t put it past me to think up such insanity.

It was summertime, but we got dressed up in our winter clothes. Snowmobile suits, hats, gloves, the whole nine. Even ski goggles. Basically covered every inch of our skin. Like we were wearing armor. Then we went into the garage.

In the garage, there was a bucket of old tennis balls from when Ma took up the sport. She wasn’t using them anymore because she learned pretty quickly that none of the other ladies in Thessaly were into games that make you sweat. So the bucket was sitting there, untouched, right next to the barbecue gear.

My brother and I took a can of lighter fluid and we sprayed a bunch into the bucket, all over the balls. Then we took a candle and attached it with a C-clamp to a sawhorse at the other end of the garage. Then we lit the candle.

This was gonna be a game. A competition. We were five years apart, but still very competitive. Boys will be boys, as Ma used to say.

The point of the game was to throw a ball soaked in lighter fluid through the candle flame and make it catch fire. For every ball that caught fire, the thrower would get a point. After each throw, we’d fetch the flaming ball and smother it. To be clear, we did have a hose nearby to keep things safe. That’s also what all the clothes were for. To keep things safe.

Well, we started chucking the balls and having a great time. The game was to ten points, and after a few minutes, the score was something like four to one, with Neal in the lead. It was my turn and I had this perfect throw. Knocked the candle right from the clamp and set the ball ablaze. I woulda cheered too, but there was hardly any time to do a thing. ’Cause the ball came bouncing back lickety-split and landed right in the bucket. The whole thing went up like flash paper.

You do smart things and stupid things in the thick of a moment, and the first thing I did was pretty damn stupid. I kicked at the bucket to try to put out the fire. Doesn’t take a genius to guess that this tipped the bucket over and sent flaming balls bouncing all across the floor. We started chasing them because we didn’t have any idea where they might end up. Lots of flammable stuff in a garage, ya know.

In all the running around, Neal probably didn’t notice that his pants leg caught on fire. I sure as heck noticed, though. There’s that old rhyme about liar, liar, pants on fire. I don’t know where that comes from, but I think about my brother every time I hear it. The flames were on his legs like ivy on a tree, creeping up and wrapping themselves around. Looking back at it, wearing a whole mess of winter clothes was probably the stupidest part of this stupid game. Sure, it protected our skin a little bit, but it also made us a lot more flammable.

With my brother on fire, I could have run away. I kinda wanted to. To be honest, it scared the dickens out of me. But I did what instinct told me, and instinct this time was smart enough. I jumped on top of him. These days they tell kids to stop, drop, and roll if your clothes are on fire. Not sure if they told us that when I was young. All I knew was that I had to smother the flames.

I was a big guy. A strong guy, even at eight. I managed to tackle Neal and wrap myself around his legs. It worked. The flames were out in a second or two.

But right away he pushed me away and started shouting, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Saving you,” I told him.

He looked down at his legs and he had to’ve seen the charred fabric. Impossible to miss. But he didn’t thank me or say sorry or nothing. He jumped up and hurried over to the garage door and threw it open. Then he ran around the garage kicking the flaming balls out across the driveway into the front yard, where the grass was still wet from a sun shower.

When all the balls were put out, he pointed at me and said, “Why are you so stupid? Why’d you have to go and ruin a perfectly good game?”

I shrugged and said, “Because I’m an idiot.”

Not that I really thought I was an idiot, but he was my big brother and I hated disappointing him.

And that’s when he spat on me.

Right in my face. Right on my cheek.

Which is the most disrespectful thing you can do to a person. Worse than even punching him in the nose. Even an eight-year-old knows that.

Neither of us said anything for a few seconds. Then Neal sneered and stormed off into the house.

I don’t know if he ever thinks back on that day. Probably not.

I do. More often than I’d like. I’m thinking back on it now as I finish packing up the truck. An alternate reality split off that day. But it wasn’t the alternate reality where I let my brother burn. Where I ran away. Because that would’ve never happened, even if the thought had entered my mind.

The path was about what he did. It was about his choice to spit on me.

Life is a series of paths. To helping people. To hurting people. To leaving certain places and certain people behind. For better or worse.

That’s what I’m doing now.

That’s what I hope my niece did.

So I’m gonna go looking for her. She’s too young to be out there alone, and I’m gonna do whatever it takes to find her. When I do find her, I’m gonna listen to her. Really listen. Try to understand her path. Which is maybe what no one has ever done.