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My Brother’s Keeper

Kerry Petrichek

    Henry’s thick hair bounced wildly as he moved. Finally the day had come for him to leave the place where nurses and doctors watched his every move. He opened his worn leather suitcase to begin packing the few belongings he had with him – clothing, toiletries and a straightedge razor that he had been allowed to use only in the presence of a nurse. The rest of the time, it had been locked securely in a closet with belts, pens and other objects patients could use to hurt themselves or others.
    Lying on his bed were a white cotton dress shirt, a blue jacket and a pair of tan pants, pressed neatly by a helpful nurse – the clothes Henry would wear as he was readmitted to society. His doctor sat in a chair next to the bed, reading the thick binder that contained Henry’s file. Henry quietly picked up the clothes and the razor and ducked into the bathroom connected to his room. He quickly dressed, then wrapped one of his socks around the razor and slid it into his jacket pocket.
    Henry Smithton had been admitted to the hospital four years earlier on the night his brother, Lonny, had died. He had experienced severe memory loss, blocking out many details of the night, but he had remembered enough to know that Lonny had been shot. On the night of his arrival, he had been extremely upset, demanding to be released in order to find his brother’s murderer and kill him. For the first two years of hospitalization, Henry made little improvement, but in the two years that followed, he had convinced the staff that he was a changed man. They believed he had come to terms with his brother’s death and no longer wished to seek revenge. His homicidal ideas had diminished, and then vanished altogether. He made such significant progress, the doctor determined, that treatment at the inpatient facility was no longer needed. He was scheduled to be released that day.
    Henry returned to the hospital room and began to remove his remaining clothes from the drawers of a small built in closet.
    The doctor closed the file and asked, “How are you feeling, Henry? Excited about going home?”
    “Sure,” Henry answered, giving him the required smile. “It’s been so long, I don’t even remember what my place looks like.” He shifted his weight from one thin leg to the other. “Can’t wait to get on with my life, Doc. I’m just glad to be getting out of here.”
    “I have to admit, I was worried about you for a long time,” the doctor said, leaning back slightly, raising a foot and crossing it over the opposite knee. “I thought you might be here to stay, but you really proved me wrong.”
    Henry nodded his head. He had fooled the staff easily. For a long time, he had told them the truth, but they would never let him go. If he was to ever be released, he finally realized he would have to lie, and so he told them what they wanted to hear – that he no longer planned to kill the man who had taken his brother’s life.
    Henry smoothed the wrinkles on a blue striped shirt before folding it neatly and placing it in his bag. He wished the doctor would leave and allow him to pack in peace, but he made sure to maintain a jovial tone.
    “I had a rough time of it alright, but I got through it. I can finally start living my life again.”
    Henry could not quite remember the night Lonny was killed. He remembered parts of it, but not the whole ordeal. He remembered Lonny was at his house and they were celebrating something, but he could not remember what. He remembered that suddenly a man was there, but could not recall his features. He remembered that he watched as the man shot Lonny square in the chest. And the blood. He could not forget the blood that poured through his fingers as he held on tightly to his brother’s body. He knew he grabbed something sharp with the intent of stabbing the man in the heart, and then he remembered people, having heard the gun shot from outside, rushing into his living room. It was then, he figured, the gunman had slipped away unnoticed. After that, his mind had gone blank until a week after the incident when he realized he was a patient in a psychiatric hospital. The doctor told him he had been in a state of shock.
    The doctor was speaking again. “You’ve made great progress, Henry, I wish you the best.”
    “Thanks, Doc,” Henry answered, carefully laying the last pair of pants inside his case and zipping it up. He was glad when the doctor finally left the room.
    Henry had no relatives that lived in the area, so his medical team had agreed to allow him to make the trip home on a public bus. He was comfortable with the decision, having taken the same bus route to work for twenty years before his hospitalization.
    A nurse’s aid stood beside him as they waited at the bus stop, just outside the hospital grounds. Henry’s body stiffened as he waited on the sidewalk. The killer could be anywhere, and although his doctor had told him his lost memories would most likely never return, Henry was sure that somehow he would recognize the man if ever confronted with him again. He would stay alert and attentive, letting no one go unnoticed.
    A few minutes later, he saw the bus approaching. He held out his hand and it made its way to the curb. He climbed its three steps, walked the narrow path between the seats and sat down toward the back. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the sock-covered blade that would be his weapon. He was ready.
    The bus was almost empty. Only five people were riding, including himself, and only two other men – a tall, muscular man, stuffed into a blue suit, reading the newspaper, and the bus driver. He studied the blue-suited man who sat just one seat ahead of him on the opposite side. His hands, curled around the paper, were large and calloused. Henry’s chest tightened, squeezing his lungs, and a sudden memory came crashing into his head. The man who killed Lonny had skinny, smooth hands. He remembered seeing them tightly grasping the gun. The sudden surge of memory startled Henry, but he welcomed it eagerly. He closed his eyes and begged his mind to reveal more. But it would not. He opened his eyes again and stared at the man in the blue suit. He was not the killer. Henry was disappointed, but not deterred. He turned his attention to the bus driver.
    At first, Henry saw only the back of the driver’s tan uniform and his gray hair peeking out from under his cap, but then he noticed his hands and thickly charged excitement rushed through him. The bus driver had soft, thin hands. Henry raised his arm above his head and grasped the metal bar above the seats, sliding his hand across it as he inched his way to the front of the bus, gripping the blade as he walked, until he was standing directly behind the driver.
    Henry almost fell into the back of the driver’s seat. Another bolt of memory ripped through him. A tattoo! The killer had a tattoo – a red heart with an arrow through it – on his forearm. Henry’s heart beat faster. His memory was returning. The doctor had been wrong. A current of exhilaration shot through his veins. He would find the murderer! He was sure of it now. Henry’s eyes quickly scanned the bus driver’s arms, revealed by a short-sleeve shirt. There was no tattoo. Henry’s head fell to his chest and he released the blade, allowing it to fall to the bottom of his pocket.
    The driver turned and saw Henry standing behind him.
    “Can I help you buddy?” he asked.
    “This . . . this is where I get off.” Henry stammered. He stumbled onto the sidewalk, still a few blocks from his stop, in front of an old time grocery store with an awning hanging over its glass front. Wooden carts, over-flowing with fresh vegetables, lined the sidewalk underneath it. A man was examining the vegetables. He picked up a cucumber and gave it a good squeeze. Dissatisfied, he put it down and picked up another.
    Henry picked up a tomato and examined the man. The tomato spattered to the ground as another memory came coursing into his mind. The killer’s skin was pale, ghostly pale, almost white. The man beside him had dark olive skin. Henry sighed and turned away. He left the grocery store discouraged, but determined. He would not give up.
    After walking for a few minutes, Henry came to his house. The two trees in the front yard had grown tall and ivy he had not seen before had taken over their trunks. But nothing else had changed. The man, who had been hired to maintain Henry’s property in his absence, had done his job well. Henry took the key from his pants pocket, opened the door, and breathed in deeply the scent of pine, from the man’s recent cleaning. He exhaled loudly. At last, he was home. Suddenly, he was very tired; he would continue his search in the morning.
    As Henry walked through the house, the familiarity of each room welcomed him. In the small kitchen, an aluminum table and two chairs were pushed up against the wall. White cabinets that had begun to yellow at the edges hung above almond colored appliances. A doorway led to the living room that housed a green velour couch and a matching chair, both protected by plastic slipcovers. Rabbit ear antennae perched on top of a TV that sat in the corner. A hallway led from the living room to his bedroom.
    He walked through the bedroom’s narrow doorway and sat heavily on the bed. His bedroom had always been a sanctuary to which he had retreated on many occasions, when he needed to get away from the world. And now, it would become his sanctuary again. He needed to rest from his thoughts of the murderer. He would take a nap after unpacking.
    The suitcase. He glanced around the room before he realized that he had left the suitcase on the bus. He shook his head, but he wasn’t really concerned. He still had his most important possession. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the sock-covered razor and unwrapped it, revealing the shining blade. Carefully, he placed it on the nightstand, before lying down under the blanket and waiting for sleep to come.
    The sound of thunder woke Henry in the middle of the night. He grabbed his blanket and flung it over his head. Henry hated storms. He was frightened by the bursts of light and the blasts of thunder that followed them.
    Lifting the covers slightly, he peered into the darkness. Lightning filled the room for an instant and he reached for the lamp bedside his bed. Thunder exploded as he pulled its dangling cord, but the room remained dark. The bulb was burnt out.
    Another splash of light overtook the room and he dashed into the hallway. He flicked the light switch, illuminating the hallway and the living room. And then he screamed. He stood unmoving, staring straight ahead. He could hear his scream – a deep guttural sound that grew to a howling wail, but was unaware he was making the noise. Standing in front of him, in the living room, was the man who had killed Lonny. Fear enveloped him as memories tore through his mind. Suddenly, he remembered everything that had happened the night Lonny had died. Every last detail. His heart beat frantically. His legs trembled and he almost fell. Then, anger replaced his fear and his strength was renewed.
    “You,” his voice vibrated as he yelled. “How could you have done this to me!”
    Running forward, Henry lunged at the killer, punching him with both fists. The man cried out in pain. His blood splattered Henry, as he continued to hit him again and again.
    The razor! Just then, Henry remembered the razor. He turned to retrieve it, crawling over the chair in his way and sprinting for the bedroom. He dove for the weapon and struggled to his feet. The killer made his way into the bedroom, but the blade fell from Henry’s hand. As much as he wanted to, he could not kill this man. Overwhelmed with grief and anger, he could do nothing but expel a deep and anguished sob.
    The police arrived a few minutes later. A neighbor had heard the screams and called them. In the emergency room, Henry lay strapped by his arms, legs and chest to a stretcher. His doctor stood beside him with one hand on his shoulder.
    “Why didn’t you tell me, Doc?” Henry pleaded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “Oh, Henry, the doctor’s voice quivered as he spoke. “We did tell you on several occasions, but you refused to believe us. Remembering had been so unbearable that later you would forget we had even spoken to you about it. You even blocked out the investigation that proved your brother’s death to be an accident.”
    “But, how? Why? If I had blocked it out for so long, what made me remember tonight?”
    “I’m not sure, Henry,” the doctor answered. “But, I’m guessing that being away from the hospital and back into familiar surroundings jogged your memory. I’m sorry, Henry. I was certain your memory wouldn’t return. If I had only known.”
    The doctor shook his head as he examined Henry’s bandages. “You really did a number on yourself when you put your fists through that mirror!”
    Henry’s voice was weak and wavering. “When I came out of the bedroom and saw my reflection in the living room mirror, my first reaction was to destroy it. It was then that I remembered that I was the one who had killed Lonny. It was Christmas day and he had gotten me a present – a 9mm handgun – so we could go to the shooting range together. I loaded it in my living room and it just went off. Henry tried to raise his arm, bandaged from the knuckles to the heart-shaped tattoo just below his elbow, but the buckled straps prevented him. He clutched the stretcher with his pale, thin fingers. “I killed my brother, Doc; I killed my brother.”
    The doctor interrupted him, “It was an accident, Henry. A horrible, horrible accident.”
    The next day, Henry lay tied to his bed screaming and crying. The doctor flicked the syringe containing a sedative, forcing air from the liquid before sliding the needle into Henry’s arm.
    “Doc,” Henry screamed in despair. “You have to let me out of here. I have to find the man who killed Lonny,” He squirmed violently trying to break free from the straps, but they were secured tightly and wouldn’t budge. “He’s out there somewhere, Doc. Please, help me. We can’t let him get away with murder!”

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