Chapter Thirty-One: My Brother’s Dilemma

After Dad left, Joe got up from where he’d been sitting silently behind me and went to shut the door. Dad had left it half-open, probably on purpose. Then he came to sit beside me again. “Eat anything yet?”

“Not hungry,” I answered, trying not to let my residual feelings overflow at him. “Thanks for coming in,” I added more calmly, carefully laying down on the bed. “How’d you know?”

“Know what?”

It’s hard to tell, sometimes, whether Joe is playing innocent, pretending to be dense, or genuinely not understanding me.

“What made you decide to come in and give me moral support?” I rephrased the question.

“Oh. I heard what you said about Mom- you kinda raised your voice a bit, and I was just in the bathroom. Cleaning out the tub.”

I nodded and wondered at his diffidence. It was like he was going out of his way to make sure I knew he hadn’t been eavesdropping. “Well, I’m glad you did,” I assured him, placing my hand on his for a moment. Not so much for a ‘thank you’ as an expression of closeness. He smiled, but didn’t say anything, which seemed odd. I’d expected him to ask me what was going on, but for several minutes there was only the sound of the rain beating on the roof and the wind whipping it against the window. “What’s on your mind?” I asked at length.

Joe looked at me, his brow creasing in a slight frown. He was wearing a faded yellow and white t-shirt that showed his summer tan; not as dark as usual for him, but at least he had more color now than he’d had two weeks ago. His faded black jeans were splattered with darker spots; water from the tub. His hair was getting long, almost covering his eyebrows. Mom would be after him to cut it soon. Somehow, he looked younger than fifteen, sitting there and obviously thinking hard.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said at last, rubbing at the side of his chin. “It’s kinda- I want to help, but- I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it- but I don’t really know what’s going on. And if you don’t, that’s okay, I understand, but if you do- I mean, it’s not that I’m curious- like, I don’t want to be nosy or anything. But- well, I am curious, kind of, but that’s not why I’m asking. Except I’m not asking, ‘cause I’m not sure I should. But I don’t want you to think I don’t care, either.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, not sure whether to laugh or groan in frustration. “I got that last part, and I can say for sure that, whatever else, I know you care about me,” I offered, re-opening my eyes. “But I’m afraid the rest of it didn’t make any sense to me at all.”

Joe sighed and ran both hands up his face and over his hair, then let them drop with a grimace. “Bleach, yuck.”

“Great, now you’ll be a bleached-blond… Spit it out, little brother, and then explain it. Don’t explain it while you’re telling it.”

“Okay…” He took a deep breath. “Okay, I want to help. But I don’t know what will help. So if you want, I’ll leave you alone- I mean, by not asking any questions or stuff, not by actually staying away from you. But if I do that, I don’t want you going around thinking, ‘oh, he doesn’t care what’s going on with me, he’s not interested’. But then if I do ask questions and you don’t feel like answering- I don’t want to be all nosy and have you wishing I’d just let it go and saying it’s none of my business anyway.” He stopped, took another breath, and asked rather plaintively, “Did that work any better?

“Somewhat,” I said slowly, feeling my way through it. “You’re trying to decide whether to ask me what’s going on or not.”

“Right, but not ‘cause I’m curious- maybe I am a little, but mostly I just thought, you know- if you need to let off some steam or something. But I know you like keeping stuff to yourself, mostly, and then vent about it later, so…I just don’t want to be sending mixed messages.”

I had to laugh at that. “Kiddo-”

“I know, I know! I’m not very good at it, am I?”

I sat up. “Joe, you may have mixed your message a bit, but I do appreciate you asking in the first place. And you certainly did cover all the possible aspects of the situation; I thought I was the one who dealt with multiple perspectives of a single problem.”

“I’ve been trying to branch out on that lately,” Joe explained seriously. I tried not to laugh again, but it felt good and I couldn’t help it.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s not really that funny,” I managed, a moment later. “And it is good to try and see different aspects. All you need to work on is conveying them.”

“Should I try again?” he asked dolefully.

“No, I’ve got it. You want to know what form of moral support I need; someone to sit with me and just be there, or someone to lend me an ear so I can get it all off my back. And you’re trying to avoid the catch-22, too. The ‘if I say something, I’m intrusive, but if I don’t say something I’m indifferent.’ Yeah?”

Joe gazed at me, his expression somewhere between admiring and rueful. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s exactly it.”

I considered for a moment. It was definitely not like Joe to be so wary, hesitant, circuitous, and I thought I knew why he was doing it now. My temper had been unpredictable lately, and he was probably worrying about becoming the focus of it. But I wasn’t going to do that to him. “I don’t mind telling you what’s going on,” I answered slowly. “But I’m not going to be venting my feelings and frustrations on you. I told you how rotten it makes me feel when I do that, and I’ve done more than enough of it this summer as it is.”

“But that’s what brothers are for-”

“No, Joe. It’s not. I know you want to help, and I really appreciate it- but letting me holler at you, take all my anger and- and negative feelings out on you- it’s not right. Heck, brother, we talked about this just the other night, when I got on your case for not telling me about Callie’s phone calls. Bad enough I’ve been picking on you without meaning to; the last thing I want to do is pick on you deliberately.”

Joe looked startled for a second or two; then he lowered his gaze and nodded slightly. “I just- I want to help somehow, and I thought…”

“You do help,” I told him, putting my arms around him. “You do- you’re the only part of my life that hasn’t changed beyond recognition. It’s like- it’s like I’m in the Sleuth and the sea’s all stormy and the waves are throwing the boat all over the place. And you, Joe, you’re the pier, the strong, solid wood that I can tie the boat to and ride out the storm. Now am I gonna pull out an axe and start chopping away at the pier? Not very likely!”

He lifted his head and looked up at me, and his blue eyes were incredibly eloquent. I smiled and leaned down till my forehead touched his, and felt his hand brush the back of my head. “I’m glad you told me that,” he said in almost a whisper. “I feel so- helpless sometimes. I’m glad I’ve managed to help, even if I’m not quite sure what I’m doing that’s done it.”

“Just be you,” I answered quietly. “Be my brother, that’s what I need more than anything.”

“Oh, well, you couldn’t get me to stop doing that if you tried for the next millennium,” he retorted, smiling suddenly and sitting up straight. “That’s my specialty; but if you wanted a great-grandfather, I’m afraid you’d be out of luck.”

I laughed and gave him a gentle cuff; it really did feel good to laugh again. “Not to mention you’d have to grow a long beard, get a bunch of wrinkles, walk with a cane, and talk in a creaky old voice,” I teased.

“Well, I’m working on the beard part,” he began, rubbing his cheek ruefully.

“Be grateful. Shaving every day is not all it’s cracked up to be,” I retorted.

“I’m not talking about every day; once a month would make me very happy.”

“This is one of those, ‘be careful what you ask for, you’ll likely get it’ things,” I mused. “Once you’ve got it, you’ll begin to wish you hadn’t. And then, it will be too late.”

“Oh, gloom and doom, why don’t you?” Joe snorted, gave me an unexpected squeeze, and then slid off the bed. “Back to the tub and the bleach and…yick. And you-” He pointed at me. “You eat something, okay? I can feel your ribs, and that’s not good.”

“Blame the liquid diet.”

“How’s the pain?”

“It hasn’t been bothering me much. I took your advice and had only half a tablet, and it seems to be doing the job. But it’s probably why I’m not hungry.”

“If I go get you something, will you eat it?”

“Persistent, aren’t you?” I commented, propping the pillow against the head of the bed and leaning against it.

“My middle name. Just a glass of milk? Chocolate?”

Joe knows my weak spots- too well.

“And you won’t even have to stand over me with a whip,” I agreed, smiling.

“That’s just as well, since I don’t remember where I left it,” my brother remarked, and trotted out of the room. He came back a minute later with the glass of milk, well saturated with chocolate syrup, handed it to me, then went to finish the bathroom. I drank the milk, left the glass on the nightstand, and went down to the bathroom to watch him. I was tired of the gloomy view from my window, tired of brooding, and even a little tired of resting, if that wasn’t a contradiction. Besides, it didn’t seem right to be laying around while everyone else was doing chores.

And if Mom can’t find me, she can’t try to make me talk to her.

As I’d expected, Mom did try to talk to me a little later that afternoon. After Joe finished scrubbing the bathroom- with a bit of help here and there from me- we went into his room and started getting that into order. I was wiping off his bookshelf and remarking about dust elephants when Mom rolled the vacuum cleaner in and suggested he use it. Then she saw me and said blandly, “If you’re willing to help out, Frank, you could dust in the dining room.” I wasn’t entirely willing, but decided that protesting wouldn’t do much good. Starting another argument over the fact that I didn’t mind helping Joe but wasn’t inclined to assist Mom seemed rather extreme, even if it was only reverse-favoritism. I nodded, taking in Joe’s frown, and followed his mother out of the room and down the stairs.

The dining room doesn’t get much sun; there’s no windows in that part of the house, and the wall between it and the living room blocks the light from the front windows. It does help that the table, chairs and sideboard are all of light wood, but even so you have to turn on the overhead light to do just about anything in there. I did this, then took the rags and furniture-polish can from the table and got to work. The table has ornate legs; the chair legs are more plain, but the backs of them are individual rungs and the dust gets between them. The sideboard and table are easy, just flat tops, but the oak China cabinet in the corner is a pain- all those shelves and scrollwork to wipe down.

I was kneeling on the floor beside the corner cabinet, nearly finished, when I heard the vacuum go on upstairs. A bare minute later, Mom came into the dining room and walked straight over to me, crouching opposite me. I scowled, realizing her timing was deliberate; if we did start raising our voices, Joe would not hear and come hurrying down to defend me.

“Frank, I think we need to talk.”

“I can’t.” I gave a final swipe of the rag, put it down, and reached for the polish-cap.

“What do you mean, you can’t? Obviously you’re talking-”

“I can’t,” I repeated, averting my gaze. “I can’t take anymore. First Joe came in and wanted to talk; then Dad came in and wanted to talk; now you want to talk. Typical of your selfishness, both of you- all you and your husband care about is getting your opinions into my head, no matter how upset or stressed-out I might be feeling. No one bothers to ask if I want to talk, or if I’m able to handle it. I’m not. I’m about this far from emotional overload-” I held up my hand, fingers practically touching, “and right now the only solutions I see are convincing people to leave me alone or leaving myself. And if I walk out that door again, Mrs. Hardy, I’m not coming back. I didn’t want to come back last night, I don’t want to be here now, and if it wasn’t for Joe, I wouldn’t be.”

It felt so good to get that out of my system- all the anger and misery and spite that I’d refused to dump on Joe’s unsuspecting head. I didn’t look at my aunt, only stood up with a wince, the rags in one hand and the furniture-polish in the other. I heard her sigh, though, and wondered with some surprise if she was going to let me get away with that. “All right,” she murmured, standing as well. “When you feel you’re ready to talk to me, you come and tell me and we’ll try to work this out.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Now I glanced at her, wondering how far I dared push this. “What if I decide I’m perfectly happy with things as they are?” She didn’t answer, only closed her eyes, shook her head and turned away. I waited till she’d reached the doorway, then asked casually, “Where are they, anyway?”

“Who?”

“My parents- where are they buried?”

Laura’s shoulders hunched as if I’d hit her and she replied without turning. “Stan and Phoebe are buried in New York City, not far from where we used to live.” She was out of the room before I could ask where that was. I went to put the cleaning stuff away, musing over the possibility of checking out that whole line of thinking.

 

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The Hardy Boys Fan Fiction authors of the Hardy Detective Agency have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.