The Gift – 2

by Gary Avacado

I remember it was the same year my Father had lost his job. He had lacked work for a time long enough to leave me with memories of using candles because they had cut off our electricity. Even my only sweater bore holes, and my socks resembled swiss chess. We had never really been poor, but the hurdles of the past year had left us quite bad off. The neighbors offered help, but Dad was proud. He refused charity. I couldn’t understand the whole situation and it seemed to me that my smaller brother Jerry, who had mowed lawns all summer long, owned 80% of the family’s wealth. The money sat in a big piagy bank on top of his dresser drawers. Every once in awhile I’d eneak in and grab a little, whenever I had a worthy cause; I mean, he couldn’t exactly be saving for college. Not in his condition he wasn’t.

You see, Jerry, who was a year younger than I was ~-twelve– was different from other people. He entered this world with Down Syndrome. He looked different in a funny sort of way and had the mentality of a six-year old. He also had a speech problem. His voice was real low and gruff, and he’d pronounce a lot of syllables wrong.

The difference separated us, like weeks separate flowers. Yet, we used to be so close when we were very young, like baby cubs climbing the tree of life. We laughed together, we cried together, we even stumbled together. I had leamed to understand Jerry and couldn’t detect any difference because we had stuck so closely together, and being under our mother’s wing.

But as the years came along with other friends and children, so came the realization; his difference. It became noticeable. His difference was an illness, a disease that took him from me, that changed him continuously until he was no longer my brother, instead, a simple animal. An inhuman thing that caused me enough embarrassment to make me hate him. Often I became cruel towards him.

I remember one time I’d gone to play some ball and as usual he’d shadowed behind me. they wouldn’t let me play, because in order to keep the two teams equal, they’d only let two boys join ot a time. Nobody wanted Jerry, that kept me from playing too. It happened many times. Each time the resentment mounted. Each time I hated him more. There wasn’t a moment that went by without his getting in my way. this time the mountain of hate exploded and I fumed on him. “Look, you stupid looking creep, why you gotta’ follow me around? Leave me alone and g0 home!” Then I slapped him again and again, ‘cause I wished he was dead. Everyone always referred to me as the “one with the MR. for a brother.” I couldn’t go anywhere without being embartassed. I wished he was dead. I didn’t want to be embarrassed. He finally went home crying. I didn’t care. I was too worried about the chewing out I’d get when I got home. Later on I really felt sorry for what I’d done. I felt even worse when I got home and discovered he hadn’t told on what I’d done, instead he came up to me and apologized to me for making me mad.

I also remember one time thet summer we’d gone to the beach. Naturally I had to look out for Jerry. But all the kids started looking at us when they noticed Jerry was different. I couldn’t take it, and I knew that if I ignored him long enough, he’d get lost. Only he got lost for a long time. They’d begun to think he’d drowned. Pitifully enough, I couldn’t care less. Hours later an old man brought him back on top of his shoulders and said he’d found him about two miles down the beach, behind and old outhouse, sitting in the sand and crying. You know, it seemed Jerry did an awful lot of crying.

Well, as time passed, leaves fell, and snow came, everyone looked forward to Christmas. I was looking at a dream. There was this beautiful watch in the jeweler’s window. A watch with a gold band. It really wasn’t too expensive, but too expensive for me. I know it was impossible, but I liked to imagine that Christmas morning would find me wearing it. Every time I passed the shop I’d stare at it forever.

I woke up Christmas moming rushing to open the one gift that was for me by the fireplace. It was a great sweater. I really needed one, too. “Thanks a lot, Dad!” I shouted, and noticed how tired he looked. I asked him, “Did you stay up all night with Jerry again?” “Yes,” he replied. “He’s getting worse.”

You see, about a week before, Jerry and I had gone tubing. Jerry ended up at the bottom of the hill, head down in a snowdrift. He lay there, kicking and yelling for help, but, again, memories of the past embarrassing situations brought out my cruelty, and I watched him actually crying until I was satisfied. When I finaly dug him out, instead of realizing what I had done, the poor dumb idiot, between his gasps for air and his tears, tried fo thank me for saving his life. Anyway, he’d caught pneumonia and my parents had spent the last two nights with him.

“Let’s go join your mother and Jerry,” Dad said. Jerry’s room smelled of medicine and Jerry looked terrible, but his eyes were all lt up. I didn’t know why he was smiling, but mom had been crying. She sniffed softly and said, “Jerry’s got a surprise for you, Jim.” I figured he was gonna’ hit me with another ane of his homemade, butcher paper, water color-type Christmas cards he’d made. He tried to get out of bed, but soon found he was too weak–he could barely lift his head. He wobbled over to his closet and pulled it out: another card; just a flat sheet about a square-foot big and written in red water color.

“TO MY BIG BROTHER, WHOM I LOVE MOST.”

While reading it, I noticed the broken pieces of his piggy bank in the comer. Then he slowly reached under his bed and pulled out a small box. He wiped his eyes with his pajama sleeve, then sat there with his arms stretched out, his eyes lit up and with all the love he could muster up in that low, gruff voice, he said, “Marwy Cwishmash, Shimmy!” I opened the box and there it was, gleaming, radiating the snowflakes through the window. The watch, the beautiful watch with the gold band. The one I thought I’d never see again. I couldn’t stop looking at it. Then he gave me a bear hug and asked, “Shimmy, where’sh my preshent?” I looked up at him, over to the broken pieces of his bank in the comer, the watch, then back to his questioning eyes, I didn’t have the courage to tell him I’d forgotten about him. 1 just grabbed him and started bawling like a baby. He never lived to say, “Happy New Year.” He died two days later.

It’s Christmas Eve again, . . snowing again, too. I’d just gotten off the phone (parents called to say Merry Christmas). I laid back down on my dorm bed (I’m in college, now). I laid down with my arms folded behind me and started to look at the only object on the wall; and old, homemade, water-colored Christmas card. I checked the time on my watch, the one with the gold band, just a few seconds before midnight. I gazed up at the wall again and read the words a loud; “WHOM I LOVE MOST!” Then . .. I could actually hear him say it again. “Marwy Kwishmuch, Shimmy.” Only this time I answered back as loud as I could: “MERRY: CHRISTMAS, JERRY, MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

Dedication: To all who have brothers.