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Tete Noire

Bill Tope

He lay on the mattress next
to mine, in the bedroom
that we shared growing up,
more than sixty years ago.
How was it possible? I
wondered.

I stared at Joey in surprise;
he looked 19, which made
me only 12. Where had all
the time gone? His hair was
just as coal-black as it always
was.

I was besotted with filial
affection, with the love and
trust and pride that only a
brother can have for his
older male sibling.

I attempted small talk but,
that failing, I tried earnestly
telling Joey how much he’d
always meant to me, how
much he still meant to me.

The years fell away. The
years in the war; the prison
years; the years of sibling
rivalry; the years of feigned
inattentiveness.

The thing is, there was no
pretense on Joey’s part. Never
more than marginally tolerant,
he remained, even in this
fantasy, brutally indifferent.

I peered into his eyes, saw
the hazel reflection regarding
me with nothing like love or
affection; with no sort of
personal regard at all. I didn’t
know at that moment if he
even liked me.

At some point I recognized this
for the dream that it was. Joey
had been dead for more than
four decades; he died early at 39.
I heaved a great sigh. This was, I
decided, upon second thought,
just another nightmare.

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