The Little Brother Read Online Free PDF

Dad’s tilted-back recliner, his feet stretched before him.
    I walked over and sat near him, emboldened by our earlier bonding.
    He looked over at me and in the weak light from the lamp, I saw his glazed and bloodshot eyes. He was shirtless with his boxers and socks on; one of his hands lay idle on his stomach, the other flopped on the recliner’s arm. On the table beside him next to the remote was a bottle of Michelob. It took him a few seconds to speak. “Hey,” he said, thick-tongued. “Hey there.” He set the chair more upright and muted the TV.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked stupidly.
    â€œIt’s the only one you don’t have to pay for,” he said, slurring his words a bit. He swallowed noticeably and added, “Tongue feels weird.” With his thumb and forefinger, he pinched his tongue and pulled it from his mouth.
    â€œLike how?”
    â€œIcanthfeelith,” he said, and then he released his tongue and gave me a smile.
    I shifted closer to him. We watched the muted TV without speaking for a few minutes. He lifted the Michelob to his lips, made a point to smack its bottom to get the final drops, and then set the empty back. It wobbled on the table and before it tipped I leaned forward and steadied it with my hand.
    Another oil-slicked woman joined the couple on-screen, her legs crossed so that you couldn’t fully see her pubis. She watched the couple while rubbing her breasts, and then the man pulled her down onto the floor, and she began to fondle his chest and watch over his shoulder, kneeling behind him. I realized that they were in an office space, with filing cabinets and a desk.
    â€œSo much for getting any work done,” I said.
    Gabe looked at me with a blank expression, his mouth slightly open.
    â€œIt’s a joke,” I offered.
    His eyes widened; he said, “Ahh,” looking at the screen, and he laughed with comprehension.
    â€œGabe?” I said.
    â€œWhat?” he said, without looking away from the screen.
    â€œAre you mad at me for leaving you with Mom?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œAre you mad,” I repeated, “that I left you with Mom?”
    He didn’t answer. The TV light shone on his face, and he looked empty and emotionless. It bothered me so much that I glanced back at the screen.
    â€œI had to leave,” I said. “I had to.” I paused, stared back at him. “I know she blames me but I hope that you don’t.”
    He turned to me, glassy-eyed, and I thought for a second he was going to tell me to shut the fuck up, but instead he said, “Can I have that”—gesturing at my glass of water.
    â€œSure,” I said, handing it to him.
    He drank it down in one pull, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he said, “Ahhh, good,” and set the glass next to his Michelob.
    He stretched, turned toward me, fetus-like in the recliner. Serious, he said, “You don’t know what it’s like, Even. She makes me rub her feet, her back. You should see the meds she’s on.” A pause, then, “She says she’s dying. I hear her crying at night, sometimes all night. I cook, clean, pick up after her. It’s like I’m her caretaker.”
    â€œGod, sorry,” I said. “I had no idea it was that bad. Can’t you tell her no? Tell her to leave you alone.”
    He turned back to the TV. “Dad’s a shit,” he said. Petulant, irritated, his eyes shining. “I hate him.”
    â€œMom’s a shit, too,” I said after a long pause. But he didn’t seem to hear me or acknowledge Mom’s fault.
    â€œI mean,” he said, his voice rising, “he’s a fucking shit.”
    â€œHe’s not perfect,” I said, uncertain. “I know that.”
    â€œYou’re naïve, Even,” he said in monotone. He kept staring at the TV. “Open your eyes. He thinks he can buy