The Monocle Man Read online

  Garrison ponders a moment the last time he saw his brother peek around the corner of the house. His internal timer keeps track. He knows if he comes down from the porch too soon, his brother will surely be waiting for him, arm cocked and hand loaded with a face full of white. It’s possible, having seen his older brother duck behind the patio furniture that Brent thinks he’ll be safe along the side of the house; provided necessary cover. Garrison bets his little brother is digging in, even now. Time for a change of plans.

  He collects the four snow balls he has left, and slinks off the porch, quiet save for the slight crunch of snow beneath his boots. Garrison turns to his right. Planning to go around the opposite side of the house and catch Brent unaware, he jogs with his back against the wall and rounds the building. He’ll sneak up on Brent from behind while the boy patiently waits for his big brother to show. But surprise, surprise!

  Garrison walks the length of both the right side of the house and the back, ducking as he approaches the rear deck, in case Brent set up shop on the back porch. Satisfied the porch is empty, he continues along his way. At the edge of the house he pauses, taking in a big, deep breath, hefting a snowball in his right, his throwing arm. All at once he spins around, turning the corner and unleashes three of the four snowballs before realizing he’s throwing at a non-existent target. He stops short of throwing the last and turns on heel, expecting Brent to come from nowhere with an assault of his own. But Brent isn’t there. Garrison takes the opportunity to bend down and constructs several more. Crouching down, taking his time assembling the perfect snowball, he looks around the back yard. The wood sits thirty or forty feet out, its tree line gradually darkening. To his left a barrage of play sets, from swings to monkey bars to all kinds of homemade, wooden designs his father assembled years ago. Just to his right, that cursed wood pile, newly stacked and ready for winter. But Brent is nowhere to be found.

  Garrison stands and takes a deeper look around. He’s accosted with an overwhelming nervousness, the kind only a fourteen-year-old boy can attain, as if the world around him might swallow him whole and painfully devour his soul. It’s the kind of nervousness birthed from a dad who tanned his hide a time or two when he was younger after getting into mischief.

  “Brent?” Garrison calls the name out, loud enough that his little brother might hear, but not so loud his mother might catch wind. “Brent? Where are you?”

  Other than the chilly wind, silence fills Garrison’s surroundings. He drops the few snowballs clutched in his hands, now feeling frantic. He walks back around the house, thankful to not see the headlights of his father’s SUV coming down the drive yet. In the front of the house he calls out his brother’s name again, more in whispers this time. He knows his mother, with her hawklike ear might hear him from out front. He checks the front porch. Nothing. He walks around the side of the house. Nothing. Out back again, he checks the back porch. No sign of his little brother. What the h- e- double hockey sticks? He scans the backyard once more as if he hadn’t done it several times already. And then it dawns on him. The woodpile.

  His boots crunch the white as each step hastens while rounding the wood pile. For a moment, he sees nothing. But then, there, nearer to the wood; nearer to where the light and dark converge in one simple line around the perimeter of their dwelling; nearer to the shadows creeping in, stands his brother. Brent’s back is to Garrison, his hands at his side, unmoving. And Garrison is unnerved even more by this than he was by his brother’s first disappearance.

  “Brent?” He calls out again. Brent stands still, unaware. “Brent!” A little louder this time. Nothing. “Brent?” He chokes this last one out as he comes around his little brother’s side, bending to see beneath the kid’s hood.

  Brent is pale; white as the snow on the ground. And he is fixed! His eyes are vacant, pupils dilated to their fullest. They’re almost black. No. That’s not right. Garrison leans closer and sees his brother’s eyes have indeed gone entirely black. But they aren’t just painted. No, they are dripping and swirling. As if gasoline were spilled into a puddle of water. They are alive and dead all the same. Garrison waves a hand in front of Brent’s eyes, but his brother doesn’t blink.

  “You see it, don’t you Gary?” Brent asks out of the blue, in a voice not entirely his, a voice born of maturity. Not the voice of a kid who fell on his head and sometimes has trouble saying his own name. “Don’t you see it Gary?”

  Garrison, startled at first, takes a few steps back. His brother’s voice is not only more pronounced, more mature, but deeper. As if an older Brent has taken hold, puppeteering his little brother. Puppeteering the voice at least as Brent’s posture remains unchanged. Garrison follows Brent’s gaze off into the trees. He sees… nothing. Just the wood. Just the speckles of snow glistening in the remaining day’s light and disappearing into the forest ahead, swallowed by the shadows. He looks back at his brother and at the wood again. No. There is nothing there to see.

  Garrison turns back around to tell his brother that no, he sees nothing. What should he be seeing? But Brent is walking now. Has turned back toward the house, trudging through the snow. Garrison shakes his head. What the?

  “C’mon Gary! I betcha time ta eat!” Brent tosses over his shoulder, sounding as he should, a young boy, hijacked by an even younger boy’s speech.

  “Brent! “Hey kiddo! Wait, a sec!”

  “Catchya can Gary! Catchya can!” Brent excitedly trots off, daring his older brother to catch up.

  2

  2.

  “So…” Their father begins, scooping a huge helping of mashed potatoes from a bowl with a big wooden spoon. The spoons clangs with the plate as he heaps it next to his pork chop. “What adventures did we get up to today?” He drops the bowl back near the center of the table, looking from one of his boys to the next. Then scoops another helping with the spoon.

  “Not much really,” Garrison answers. He looks across the table at his younger brother. Brent is enraptured by the pork chop on his plate, and unlike the rest of the family, has an issue with picking it up and gnawing it from the bone. Instead, he picks at it with two forks, gently pulling the tender meat into little strips which he sets to the side near his green beans. Not touching. No! That would cause something of a stir in the young boy’s mind. Never touching.

  “Nothing much? Brent?” His father sits, his hand poised with some potatoes on the spoon above his son’s plate. The boy doesn’t answer, but sits back in his chair a little. An invitation. Carefully, his father drops the starch unto the plate, making sure it doesn’t come into contact with the rest of the food. “Did you do anything exciting today?” Brent simply shrugs.

  “What about Annalise?” His mother asks jovially. “It seems like forever since we’ve seen her!”

  “Maybe,” Garrison says, stuffing food into his mouth and hoping they can’t see the skin flush on his face. “But it hasn’t really been forever,” he adds while chewing.

  “You know…” His mother starts trailing off a bit as if he were supposed to get the hint on his own. “You could always call her up sometime. It’s not like she has to come over. You two could just… talk?” Garrison lowers his head like a dog who’s been caught peeing in the house, and peeks out from under his eyebrows.

  “And what would we talk about Ma?”

  “I don’t know. Stuff?” Garrison lowers his eyes, and his mother looks over at their father, giving him a wink and a smile. Their father shakes his head, and returns a smile, somewhat amused at the discomfort at the table. “You could talk about school.”

  “School? Come on Ma! We don’t even go to the same school!”

  “No, but you both still go to school.” She giggles.

  “Yeah, and then what?”

  “All I’m saying is. It might be nice to give a call once in a while and chat. That’s all. No harm, no foul.”

  No harm, no foul. How many times growing up had Garrison heard her use that phrase? And what did it mean, really? He thought it meant to
suggest that giving it the ole’ college try would always end amiably. Bah! Doubt it! No harm… no foul. Seemed silly. There’s always harm and foul. Especially when dealing with girls. He’s sure of this! And just call her? From out of the blue? What was his mother? Crazy? Yes, this he was sure off. That woman was off her rocker! As his Gram used to say.

  And if he called… what would they talk about? Other than playing dragons and wizards and such in the backyard, and going for the occasional bike ride, he wasn’t sure they had anything in common. In all the years they had known each other and been friends, they’d never really spoken. Not about, other stuff, anyway. Where would he start? Surely he would cock the whole thing up if he tried!

  Feeling a little warm under the collar, Garrison’s palms and pits start sweating. Surely, someone snuck off while his mind reeled about Annalise, and cranked the thermostat . Ha! That would be a laugh. Unless his dad had done it. Nobody in the house, let alone the rest of the universe was even allowed to come within several feet of that thing. His father clung to complete and utter control of the thermostat, with promises of torture and misery to anyone who dared challenge him on the matter! But still, Garrison was sweating.

  “Well anyway, she’s a nice girl.”

  “Give it a rest Trish, won’t ya?” His father calls from the end of the table. “Leave the boy alone. See how uncomfortable he looks!”

  His father gives him a wink as if he just saved the day, instead of shining a big, bright spotlight on the subject instead. Garrison could just die! Especially when his mother smiles at him from the side, raising her eyebrows as if she knows better. As if, she knows every secret wish he harbors about Annalise.

  3

  3.

  The boys finish dinner and help their mother clear the table. Mostly Garrison that is, as tonight, Brent seems further away than usual. But there is no cause for alarm. Sometimes the kid just gets like this. Brent strolls into the living room after dropping his plate in the sink, and sets himself on the recliner. The tv plays, but Brent’s gaze goes beyond the screen. Lost in his own thoughts. The doctors say it’ll happen from time to time. In that event, their prognosis is right. But somehow, Garrison feels this differs greatly from those other times. There seems to be a disconnect that isn’t typically present. No, but even that isn’t right. With Brent, when he goes into one of his little “spells”… he just seems out of it. As if his mind launched into the stratosphere for a few moments. Tonight however, he doesn’t seem as aloof, or disjointed. He appears quite present in his mind, as if he were working out the answer to a vexing mathematical equation, and has little time for anything else. He goes through the motions of being somewhat present. But clearly, he is altogether, somewhere else.

  The family nestles up to the television, having gone through the usual questions about whether homework is done. Of course it is. Their parents know this. But still they ask. Have they cleaned their rooms? Of course. They hardly ever leave it a mess. Garrison is not a fan of tripping over things, and Brent? Well, Brent likes things in their place. And his older brother tries to stick to the norm as much as he can for the sake of his little brother.

  The television holds little entertainment as usual, but the family is glued there, watching this and that, in their “winter family time” as the clock ticks on. Eventually, Brent’s eyes start to droop, seated in the big easy chair. Garrison knows it’s time to get him up to bed. Their mother feels the need to bring up the matter of calling Annalise one last time, as the boys trot up the stairs to their second-floor bedroom. Garrison shakes his head in disbelief, glad the dimly lit stairs hide the redness creeping up his neck and ears.

  Once upstairs, Garrison helps his brother with their nightly rituals. The brushing teeth, and putting dirty clothes in the hamper, and pulling on pajamas. Sometimes Garrison reads to his little brother from books of his own. Garrison is a fan of the classics, especially the scary ones like Dracula and Frankenstein. But also gets a kick out of the likes of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, The Time Machine and such. He doesn’t know if Brent enjoys them or not. But the kid never complains when being read to. Tonight will be different though. There’ll be no book for Brent. He’s locked into that equation in his head something fierce. And so be it. No harm, no foul, as his mother would say.

  Garrison tucks his little brother into bed, wondering what the hell the kid is thinking. But knows it’s of little use to try. He could ask, but he’s confident Brent will have little or nothing to say. Garrison leaves the room, the door open a crack and heads back downstairs for a little more television. Hell, it’s only just after seven-thirty. His mother, as usual is thanking him for putting Brent to bed. She argued once how it wasn’t his responsibility to do such a thing, regardless of the guilt he put on himself for the accident. But Garrison said he didn’t mind. And really, he had already convinced himself he would spend the rest of his life looking after his baby brother. Whatever it takes! That’s what big brothers are for!

  It’s sometime in the middle the night. Garrison drags his eyes open, sleep having collected in their corners. There’s a noise he’s not entirely familiar with, which pulls him from slumber. It emanates from across the hallway; from Brent’s bedroom. But he is dreadfully tired. And so, closes his eyes, listening for a time. He assumes the sound is something else, something born of the house, or of the winter blowing outside, soon to dissipate. His breathing grows heavy as sleep drifts in little by little. But the sound never wanes. It continues, and so he opens his eyes once more and rolls onto his back.

  Looking through the window above his headboard, Garrison sees the night has cleared. It is no longer snowing, he guesses, as there doesn’t appear a cloud in the sky. The crescent moon, though out of view, sends streaks of light across the tree tops. The stars are bright. Orion looms overhead. His bow aloft, poised and ready; his three starred belt glowing in the night sky. Garrison knows it’s just about midnight, maybe a little later, as Orion sits in the right-hand side of his window frame. Had it been earlier, the constellation would be positioned more to the left.

  The sound still echoes across the hallway; low, droning, somewhat vocal. A mantra really. Incoherent, bereft of discernible words, but reverberating none-the-less. Garrison pulls his covers up tighter for the briefest of moments. He doesn’t want to get out of bed. He’s found that coveted spot where everything is either cool or warm enough, and his limbs are nearing a pleasant numbness. Besides, his parents must be listening. They must hear it? Soon, they’ll jump from their beds and scamper down the hall to Brent’s room to investigate. The clock ticks seconds away. Minutes. No. Maybe they don’t hear. They aren’t coming.

  A little guilt-ridden for not climbing from bed sooner, Garrison pulls himself from it and shuffles along the rug a few feet until his toes find the openings to his slippers. He walks the length of his room and tugs on the door handle. As the door widens, the droning sound coming from his brother’s room increases volume. It vibrates through the small opening of Brent’s door, coming in loud and clear.

  Garrison crosses the hall on tip-toes, though he’s not sure why exactly. For beginners, the floor is carpeted. And of course, the journey is only a matter of a few feet, hardly enough to arouse the suspicion of anyone in the house so enraptured by sleep they couldn’t possibly hear it, let alone save Garrison the trouble so he could just go back to bed. He pushes the bedroom door open and steps in. It dawns on him that he’s not sure if Brent is sleeping. The noise might be coming from a bad dream. Maybe it is something else entirely. And if Brent is unaware, he’d hate to be the one to wake him up. Especially because, the way Brent is now, after the accident, a jolt from sleep can lead to a few moments of intense panic and screaming. There’s a little light in the room, coming from the dark glow of the LED nightlight on the fish tank near Brent’s bed. A soft blue hue, caressing the beige carpet and neutral walls, lighting the bed, which sits empty. Garrison blinks a little more sleep away, staring at the covers in disarray; the cockeyed pillow and
empty mattress.

  The sharp sting of a bitter chill pricks at his skin. It blows through the bedroom at odd intervals. And when Garrison scans the room, he finds the reason soon enough. Reason for both. The sound, and the cold.

  Brent stands at one of the windows. The window itself sits wide open, the nighttime air pushing the curtains inwards. They may snap and crack with the wind, but Garrison can’t discern it over the droning coming from his little brother. At the window, with his hands at his sides, Brent stares straight ahead into the wood beyond. Though he can’t discern whether the boy is staring at anything of interest. How far could he see? Ten, maybe twenty yards at this time of night? Maybe he sees nothing. Chances are, Brent is just sleep walking. Or, sleep moaning? Is that a thing?