Three Weeks With My Brother(17)
Author: Nicholas Sparks

“I think you broke something,” mom finally said.

“Nah,” we said, “it’ll be fine. Give it time—it’ll go back to normal.”

“Your dad’s going to be mad.”

“He won’t even notice,” we reassured her. “But even if he does, he won’t care.”

Of course my dad noticed, and the DEFCON countdown started after he got home, though we were smart enough to be long gone by then. Thankfully, by the time we got home, he had calmed down, since the van seemed to run fine, despite the crazy way it looked. And if it ran fine, that meant there was really no reason to fix it. That would be spending money we didn’t have. So in the end, the van was never repaired, and for the next three years—until we traded it in for the new, improved Volkswagen van—we drove around town looking as if we were hauling baby whales to the zoo.

Our new house was small. A single-story ranch with a converted garage, it had four bedrooms, an office, a living room, and a kitchen. Two of the rooms (the office and master bedroom) had been converted from the garage. The house was twenty-five years old and in dire need of repairs. Even with the garage conversion, it was less than 1,300 square feet.

But to us, it was awesome. My brother, sister, and I each had our own room for the first time in our lives, and we all took time decorating them in our own style. My mom was tremendously proud to finally have a home she could call her own, and she spent much of the next few years fixing the place up and adding her own splashes of personality. There were sixteen walls all painted in different colors—my mom changed wall paint more often than some people change their toothbrushes—and every weekend, Micah and I had to finish our mother’s “list” before we could head off to play. We spent our Saturday mornings building fences, painting walls over and over, planting bushes and trees, sanding kitchen cabinets, and executing whatever plan she happened to come up with while at work.

Because the family had little extra money to spend on such things, it was a slow process. To build the fence, for instance, my mom would buy a dozen planks of wood every week, all she could spare from her paycheck. It took her nearly five months to accumulate all the wood we needed to build the fence, but thankfully—in her opinion anyway—the labor was free. Micah and I—no doubt drawing on our roofing experience in Nebraska—were put in charge of constructing the fence, and we did. That it ended up sloping noticeably—as opposed to being straight across the top—was simply one of the outcomes my brother and I assumed our mother had foreseen before deciding to delegate the project to us.

Knowing we’d continue to do most of the work on the house, our parents began giving us tools for Christmas. It was a way of killing two birds with one stone. Not only did we get something unexpected (how could I expect to receive a hammer for Christmas if I didn’t want one?), but they would save money at the same time. And it was much better than offering us weapons again. Late one Christmas morning, I sat beside Micah on the couch.

“What did you think of Christmas this year?” he asked.

“It was great,” I said, “for a carpenter.” I nodded toward my gifts. “What am I going to do with a dowel hammer? Do they want me to start building furniture next?”

Micah shook his head and sighed. “Yeah, I know what you mean. But at least you got a lot of them. I got a jigsaw. What is mom going to make me use that for? I wanted a pair of Levi’s, for God’s sake.”

We sat in silence.

“Our parents are weird, aren’t they?” I asked.

Micah didn’t answer. When I glanced at him, I saw him staring at the jigsaw.

“What?”

He shook his head, his brow furrowed. “Nothing really. It just says on the box here that this thing can cut through hardwood, like oak.”

“So.”

“Isn’t the hardwood in my bedroom oak?”

“I think so.”

He pondered the situation. “And wouldn’t you agree that our parents are a little heavy-handed?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “They’re like guards at the Gulag.”

He blinked as if suddenly in the presence of a Martian. “What are you talking about, Nick?”

“Never mind.”

“You’re weird sometimes, too.”

“I know.” I’d heard this before. “But what were you saying?”

“Well, what if we use this thing to our advantage?”

“What do you mean?”

He leaned in and whispered his plan, and I had to admit he was definitely on to something. And sure enough, as soon as my parents had left for work—we were still on school break—my brother used the jigsaw to cut a hole in his closet floor that led to the crawl space beneath the house. That way, after he’d supposedly gone to bed, he could sneak out at night via his bedroom without our parents ever knowing about it.

And, of course, he did.

It was around this time that my mom decided she was tired of working full-time, and doing all the cooking and cleaning around the house. My dad was thus drafted into becoming the chef.

I remember hearing about it when I got home from school one afternoon, and I honestly believed that my dad was excited about it. He told us that he was going to make one of his favorite meals, one that he used to eat when he was a kid. He forbade us from coming into the kitchen to see what he was preparing.

“It’s a surprise.”

Neither Micah, Dana, nor I knew what to make of it. The only thing our dad ever cooked on his own was chicken gizzards. Not wings, not legs or br**sts, but gizzards. My dad simply loved those things. He would fry up a plateful, and while we eventually acquired a taste for them, it was obvious that gizzards wasn’t on the menu that night.

Frying gizzards—frying anything—made for a pleasant aroma in the kitchen. But all we could smell was something burned and scorchy—like flour that caught on fire—and more than once, I heard my dad yell, “Whoops!” and race to open the back slider, so the smoke could clear the kitchen. Then, popping his head back into the living room, he’d say, “You guys are going to love this!” or, “Cooking for you guys is going to be great! I can’t wait to share more of my childhood recipes. I’m really getting the hang of it now!”

Eventually, after three or four “Whoops!” he called us to the table. Mom wasn’t home from work yet, and we took our seats. My dad brought the food over from the stove and set it before us.

There were two items. A plate of toast, and . . . and . . .

We looked closer, but still couldn’t tell. It was in a bowl, whatever it was. Gray and brown and lumpy, sort of gravylike, with specks of black mixed in. The spoon was resting on the slowly solidifying mass.

“I might have burned it a little, but it should be fine. Eat up.”

None of us moved.

“What is it, Daddy?” Dana finally asked.

“It’s beans,” he said. “I cooked them up using a secret recipe.”

We looked at the bowl again. It sure didn’t look like beans. And it didn’t smell like beans, either. It smelled almost . . . unnatural. It reminded me of something the dog ate, partially digested, then offered up again. But okay, beans and toast and . . .

“What’s for the main course?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Like hamburger? Or chicken?”

“Don’t need it. Not with this meal.”

“What is this meal?” Micah asked.

“Beans on toast,” he said, his voice ringing with pride. “Your mom never made this for you, did she?”

We glanced at each other, then shook our heads.

My dad reached for the bowl. “Who’s going to be first?”

Neither Micah nor I moved a muscle. Dana finally cleared her throat.

“I will, Daddy.”

He beamed. Placing a piece of toast on her plate, he started to scoop from the bowl. It was thick and hard, and my dad had to really work the spoon. The smell only got worse as he began to penetrate the substance. I saw my dad’s nose wrinkle.

“Like I said, I might have burned it a little,” he said. “But it should be fine. Enjoy.”

“Are you going to eat some, Daddy?” Dana asked.

“No, you three go ahead. I’ll just watch. You guys are still growing and need the energy. Micah?”

My dad dug into the bowl again, grimacing as he worked at the beans, as if he were trying to scoop frozen ice cream.

“No thanks. I’m supposed to be eating at Mark’s tonight. I don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

“You didn’t mention that before.”

“I guess I forgot. But really, I should be getting ready. I was supposed to be there ten minutes ago.”

He quickly rose from the table and vanished.

“Okay. How about you, Nick?”

“Yeah, okay,” I said, raising my plate. I placed a piece of toast on it; the gravy-burned-bean-substance dropped like a baseball onto my plate, nearly rolling off and hitting the table.

“Just spread it out a little,” my dad suggested. “It’s better that way.”

My sister and I began to poke at the dinner—trying to spread it, but getting nowhere—terrified at the thought of actually consuming it. But just when we knew we couldn’t postpone it any longer, my mom walked in the door.

“Hey guys! How are you? It’s great to see you—” She stopped and wrinkled her nose. “What on earth is that stench?”

“It’s dinner,” my dad said. “Come on. We’re waiting for you.”

She moved to the table, took one look at the food, and said, “Kids, bring those plates to the sink.”

“But . . .” my dad said

“No buts. I’ll make spaghetti. You kids want spaghetti instead?”

We nodded eagerly, and quickly rose from the table.

“Okay. Just get the groceries from my baskets. I’ll get it going in a few minutes.”

For whatever reason, my dad wasn’t all that upset. In fact, I think it had been his plan all along, for after that night, he was prohibited from cooking for us. And whenever my mom complained about his failure to assume more domestic responsibility, he could honestly say, “I tried. But you won’t let me.”

Food in general became a strange sort of obsession in our home. Because we couldn’t afford the same sort of treats that other kids seemed to get—cookies, Twinkies, Ho Hos, etc.—we developed a binge mentality when the opportunity presented itself. If we were visiting someone’s house for instance, we’d devour whatever we could, eating until we felt like we would burst. It was nothing for us to consume thirty or forty Oreos in a sitting. At times, we’d leave our friends in their rooms, sneak back to the friend’s kitchen, raid the pantry, and eat even more.

It was the same way whenever my mom was crazy enough to buy anything sweet. Cereal, for instance. As a rule, we had only Cheerios in the house. If she happened to buy Froot Loops or Trix on a whim, we’d eat the whole box, right away. We simply couldn’t fathom saving any for the following morning. Our thinking went, If I don’t eat it now, the other kids will, and I deserve my fair share. We’d eat until we were sick to our stomachs. Once, after consuming five large bowls each of Froot Loops in less than half an hour, Micah and I sat beside each other on the couch, bellies bloated.

“I think there might be enough for one last bowl,” Micah said.

“I know. I was just thinking about that.”

“Should we leave it for Dana?”

“No. Definitely not. She ate the last bowl last time.”

“That’s what I was thinking. But I’m so full. I can’t eat another bite.”

We tried to get comfortable as we shifted around. Finally, Micah turned to me.

“Want to split it? Go half and half?”

“Okay.”

My dad, too, had a sweet tooth. He always kept a stash of Oreos in the house, but knowing us, he would hide them in his office.

This led us to ransack his office in search of them. Usually, we’d find them after a few minutes, and we’d each sneak one or two, so that he wouldn’t notice any were missing. We’d then go back a second and third time, always rearranging the remaining Oreos in the hope that the pack would look as if it hadn’t been disturbed. By the time my dad got home from work, there’d only be a couple of broken cookies left.

Holding the mostly empty bag in front of him, he’d eye the crumbs, his eyes bulging.

“Vultures! My kids are G-D-N vultures!” he’d scream, and we’d hear him searching for his keys. Once he found them, he’d get in the car and drive to the store to buy another pack of Oreos. From his office, he’d give us the evil eye all night.

The next day, the search for the bag of cookies would begin again. And once we found them, we’d eat them compulsively, until only one or two broken cookies were left.

“Vultures!” we’d hear him scream. “You’re all a bunch of G-D-N VULTURES!”

CHAPTER 10

Three Weeks With My Brother

Rarotonga, Cook Islands

January 31

On our final morning on Easter Island, we rose early for breakfast and finished just as the sun was rising.

Early mornings had become typical on our trip. Usually, breakfast began at 6:30, and we’d assemble in the lobby before 8:00 to start visits to the sites. It took hours to move our group anywhere; with nearly ninety people and two hundred bags of luggage, we were more like a slow-moving caravan than a quick-strike task force. Departure time for the plane was usually around 10:00 A.M.; by that time, we’d usually been up for five hours with little to show for it.

These early mornings, late dinners, long days at the sites, and extensive travel in the previous seven days had added up; by the end of our time on Easter Island, most everyone looked tired. Yet we were only a third of the way through the trip.