Breadcrumb #564
MERCY TULLIS-BUKHARI
My brother was, again, drunk, lying on the top step of the big church on the hill, the one with the bright bronze doors. He lifted his head to say, fuck you, to the bright bronze doors of the church, then he put his head back down on the step, closed his eyes, and cradled an empty bottle of Bacardi the way he cradled his stuffed elephant toy when he was a child. Our neighbor told my mother over the phone, your son is drunk again. Find your drunk son on the steps of that big church on the hill, the one with the bright bronze doors. No one walked towards him to shush him, said the neighbor, and the priest did not stop watching child porn in his private quarters to offer my brother forgiveness, and Jesus did not step down from his cross to make my brother a disciple, or even share a bottle of wine with him. That’s why he said, fuck you, to the big bronze doors of the church on the hill, the neighbor said. Jesus turned water into wine for people who could have had a wedding without wine, but my brother needed that wine to keep living. This ain’t no wedding; this is life.
My mother, begged my father for a ride to the big church on the hill. Fuck no, he said. Fuck that drunk. You see, my brother was not my father’s son, so he washed his hands of any responsibility for him. My father did not have any guilt, of what he could have done wrong with my brother, if a wrong decision in his childhood made my brother so broken that he had to say, fuck you, to the doors of a church, the one on the hill, then fall asleep cradling a bottle, the way he cradled his stuffed elephant when he was a child. My mother, she lived with some guilt, I am sure, so she begged my father. Please, take me to him. I need help carrying him to his bed. Please, drive me to him. Fuck that, my father said. I may lose my parking spot. I need to wake up early in the morning. What would that teach him, if his mother constantly runs to him whenever he falls drunk on the steps of a church. My father still drove her, though. My father really was saying fuck you to the man who never responded to my brother’s letters. That man sent that stuffed elephant to my brother with a promise of connection, then cut that connection as soon as my brother said, I love you, Pop. Thank you for the elephant, Pop. I love you.
“Please, take me to him. I need help carrying him to his bed.”
He was on the top step of the church, cradling his stuffed elephant, I mean empty Bacardi bottle. The gold doors shined behind my brother, and my mother, walked up the hill, then step by step by step by step by step, to the doors of the church to get to my brother. In that bible story, the son returns to the family, but at this church, the mother was returning to the son. My mother, went to him and pulled the bottle away from his arms. Startled, he yelled, fuck you, when the stuffed elephant, I mean the Bacardi bottle, was out of his arms. My mother said, this is your mother. Watch your mouth. Get up now. Someone may see you. He said, fuck you, again. My mother said, we don’t want people talking about you being a drunk outside of a church. He said fuck you again, then cried. My mother said, don’t cry out here, son. Let’s go to your bed. She carried the stuffed elephant, I mean, the empty bottle, I mean the stuffed elephant, I mean the empty bottle, because leaving an empty Bacardi bottle at the church would be an affront to Jesus and crosses and saints and solid bronze doors and priests who watch child porn. She placed his arm around her shoulder, placed her arm around his waist, then walked to the car. My mother, walked my brother and the elephant, I mean the empty bottle, to the car. The car running, my father looked ahead waiting patiently to hear the backseat car door close. My mother knew her burden, but she loved him. If she was the only person who did love him, she was going to love him.