Our First Love (9 page)

Life went on as usual outside 207 Circle Drive. But inside—behind its suppressive doors, windows, and walls—Caleb was realizing a frightening truth: Death was the absence of a life and not the end of all life.

Two seconds earlier, Caleb stepped off the armrest of his dad's black recliner. A minute before that, he took his shoes off, stood on the recliner, and tied the loose end of a twisted bed sheet around his neck. Thirty seconds before that he dragged the recliner from its post by the window to the middle of the floor. It took twenty-two minutes to disconnect the ceiling fan from the beam, then attach the sheet to the beam. About a minute and a half to compose a note to Nigel stating,
I love you Nigel. Live.
And six minutes to build up the courage to go through with the decision he'd contemplated for nearly two months. So it had been nearly a half hour since Caleb decided he could no longer live inside a coffin.

It was two hours before noon.

Caleb did not die a physical death that morning, but he finally lay to rest the hope that he would one day disremember the malignant taste of fear. Ironically, it was his fear that saved him that morning. Two seconds after stepping off the armrest, when he saw his life flash before him, a grotesquely rendered picture emerged of an eternity spent outside these walls. Of never-ending freezing and breathing water. Of an end to his story. Of the look on Nigel's face when he opened the front door. Of Nigel alone. Until that moment, Caleb saw death as his way out—his ticket to a life without fear. But trying to die showed him that death was merely a conclusion and the only thing afterward was a future without him…at least in this world. He would cease to exist, but life and
time would not. So he decided to keep living. He grabbed the noose and fought desperately to get his legs around the backrest of the recliner. The noose, anticipating his change of mind, tightened around his neck. His lungs were about to implode. He used his legs to pull himself on top of the backrest and loosen the tension on the bedspread. He fell off the recliner during his rush to untie the noose. Then he struggled to fill his deprived lungs. He clung to the floor for nearly a minute, trying to erase the picture inside his head. It took fifteen seconds to push the recliner back over by the window. Forty minutes to untie the sheet and reattach the ceiling fan to the beam. Thirty-two seconds to burn his note to Nigel in the kitchen sink. Less than a second to resolve that Nigel never needed to know about the hanging man. Another five minutes to put the navy blue and white sheet back on his bed, then make the bed. And the rest of his life to live with the morning, he tried to exorcise his fear.

It was still an hour before noon.

Caleb spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in his dad's black recliner staring out the window. He wasn't sure whether he or the world outside had changed but something was different. Everything looked the same. People frolicked about at the park. Cars barely missed each other as they jostled on Circle Drive. Professor Childers, wearing a gray tweed jacket and matching cap, waved at passing motorists as he strolled to his mailbox. The world out there was still the same. Caleb held his hand in front of his face. The burrowed lifelines in his palms were still shaped like a
W.
Both hands still had the small nubs of sixth fingers that were cut off at birth. He pressed his hands against the window and realized how fear can exaggerate—turn inches into miles. The distance
between his hands and the other side of the window had become immeasurable.

Caleb decided right then to forget everything that transpired that morning. He felt he was entitled to purposefully erase this attempt at dying since God fixed it so he didn't have to remember his first death. He began to tell himself all the things he would no longer remember. As he selectively uttered the words aloud, one behind the other, the words disseminated into syllables, letters, sounds, thoughts, then into nothingness.

“…was tired.”

“The ceiling…”

“…tied…”

“B-r-e-a-t-h-i-n-g…”

“…D-e…”

“.”

He forgot the ineffable agony of a constricting noose around the neck of a hanging man. Then he released the anger that he deemed tangible, flowing as fluidly as blood. Caleb made the choice to be happy living in his world with its sequestered walls and telescopic windows; its flinty hardwood floors and crumbling sky; and the canned meadows and mountains and oceans that colored its vapid air. He didn't fool himself into believing everything he hated about his world had suddenly become appealing. Instead, he gratefully accepted his friable life for what it was, because now he knew that ending the story was way harder than living it.

CHAPTER 10
CALEB

M
y world was unchanging. I could paint these walls every color in the heavens, but I would still be living within a dungeon of reachable moons and planets and stars inside galaxies that go on and on forever.

Our life was turning Nigel into an old man way before his time. And as much as I hated to take the blame for it, my condition had a lot to do with his premature aging. Don't get me wrong, he didn't look bad for his age. What's breaking down was Nigel's spirit. He had the spirit of a man who knew he'd lived too long and the only thing he had to look forward to was the rare night his dreams transported him back to one of the few happy moments of his prior life. Something akin to catching a Hail Mary pass and scoring a touchdown during the last seconds of the game to win the district championship for his high school football team, or seeing the smile on our mother's face at the surprise party we gave her on her forty-third birthday, or fishing in Flatley Creek with Dad and me. Nigel had a long life ahead of him, but he acted like all his happy moments have already been lived and captured in the framed portraits lining our hallway and living room walls.

I hoped this new job as an assistant professor of journalism at FAMU would lift his spirits. I sent out seven resumes and, within a week, Nigel received five calls for interviews. The call I was hoping for came first. Nigel was sitting by the phone when Dr. Hubert Alexander, FAMU's journalism department chairperson,
called but he didn't budge. I answered the phone and pretended I was Nigel. Dr. Alexander said he admired our work for the
Capitol Sentinel
and he was extremely interested in meeting with us to discuss the assistant professor position. I, well me as Nigel, told Dr. Alexander I could meet with him the next day. He asked if ten-thirty would be a good time, and I told him ten-thirty was fine. When I hung up the phone, Nigel, who was playing tic-tac-toe with the TV remote, asked who I was talking to. I answered him with a question, “What did you say, Professor Greene?”

“So I've got an interview at FAMU tomorrow?”

“The interview is only a formality. Trust me. You've already got the job.”

“We'll see,” Nigel responded in his drabbest tone.

I wasn't about to let Nigel spoil my excitement, so I pretended not to hear his cynicism. Besides, I had to get him ready for the interview—make sure he looked the part.

His bedroom was dark even with the light on, so I opened the curtains and blinds. The sunlight poured in. That's when I noticed the wastebasket next to the nightstand. It was filled with wads of used paper tape. A nearly empty roll of tape was on the nightstand. Paper tape is Nigel's constant bedmate. A few years ago, when Nigel was cuddling with regular Scotch tape, he went around for months without any eyebrows or lashes. I never said anything to him about it, but from the despairing expression on his face, it had been a long time since sleep delivered a pleasant dream. I was not blind, regardless of what Nigel might believe, that I don't see the incessant hurt he lives with, but I see everything. I simply pretend not to. I had to pretend for his sake and for my own. To see Nigel's life—our life—for what it really was would mean having to ask myself what had happened to make me so fearful of the world outside our door.

I turned the light on in Nigel's closet and walked inside. Everything was in place. The twelve shoe boxes were stacked neatly against the wall. On the front of each box was a Polaroid of the shoes inside. Putting a Polaroid on the outside of each box was an organizing tip I picked up from a guest on
Oprah
. Nigel's dress and work clothes took up one side of the closet. Seven hangers on the other side of the closet held his casual clothes, a few pairs of jeans and khakis with button-up shirts to match. Everything in the closet was black, gray, navy, khaki, or blue jeans. I selected a two-piece gray suit that I ordered a few months ago from Dillard's for Nigel to wear to a local media awards banquet. The suit would be okay for the interview with Dr. Alexander, but I knew I was going to have to revamp my brother's look before he started his new job. I couldn't have him on the Hill looking shabby.

I picked up the cordless phone and walked to my bedroom as soon as I saw Nigel get out of the car. It was ten minutes after two. The interview was at 10:30. FAMU was a fifteen-minute drive from here, which meant Nigel left the campus about five minutes before two. I'm guessing it took him fifteen minutes to walk from the School of Journalism to his car. So at 1:40, Nigel shook hands with Dr. Alexander, thanked him, then said good-bye. The interview lasted from 10:30 until 1:40. That's over three hours. A three-hour interview and Nigel's uneasy smile let me know that it was okay to call and politely cancel the other four interviews I had scheduled for him.

I yelled from the kitchen. “Nigel, it's six-thirty and the clock's ticking. You better get a move on it.”

Breakfast—hash browns, bacon, scrambled eggs, buttered toast, orange juice, and coffee—was ready, and Nigel's plate was on the kitchen counter waiting to be devoured.

“You shouldn't have gotten dressed until after you ate breakfast,” I said when he walked in the kitchen. “You might get something on your clothes.”

“I'm not hungry,” he responded. “I'll have a glass of juice.”

I gave Nigel a quick looking over. I trimmed his hair the night before so his hair was straight. He was wearing an olive-colored shirt, tie, and pants set by Sean John that I purchased online last week since I didn't have the company's catalog. I told Nigel, “You look tight.”

He smiled and thanked me. Outwardly, Nigel didn't appear nervous, but the irresolute tone of his voice told the real truth: He was scared to death.

“Nigel, we can do this with our eyes closed.”

He nodded, picking up a glass of juice as he walked out the kitchen. “I'm getting the newspaper,” he said.

I poured a cup of coffee and went to my bedroom. I leaned against the door and listened as Nigel stepped outside into a new, uncharted world. When I heard the front door close behind him, I ran over to my bedroom window, flung the curtains open, nearly snatched the blinds down trying to wind them up, then I watched in awe as the inaugural rays of sunlight scratched and clawed their way across the primordial shag draped over 207 Circle Drive. The first day of our new life had begun.

I wanted to be a teacher when I was growing up. I couldn't remember way back then, but if I could, I'd bet you that's what I wanted to be.

Our third week as professors ended Friday with mid-term exams. We composed the exam together earlier during the week. A third of the exam—twenty multiple choice questions—focused on Associated Press guidelines and style. Another third of the exam was short answer questions. And the last part required the students to write a short news article based on an actual police report and interview notes that we provided. I'd spent most of the weekend grading the 123 exams. Last night I was up until nearly 2 a.m. I couldn't believe I enjoyed doing this as much as I did. Nigel could take it or leave. He would sit down and grade two, three, maybe even four exams, creating a reason to stop and find something else to do for a couple of hours. Today, he did our laundry, which he never did. He watched the Dolphins lose to the Patriots. After that, he watched the Titans and Broncos play a down-to-the-buzzer game that the Titans won by a field goal. He spent an hour thumbing through the four scrapbooks of articles we wrote for the
Sentinel.
He even cooked dinner. I can't remember the last time Nigel cooked anything that called for more than five minutes of microwaving, but a mouth-watering dinner—roast beef, buttered red potatoes, green beans, and yeast rolls—was served promptly at 7 o'clock.

After dinner, Nigel sat on the sofa watching
60 Minutes.
I sat in the recliner, using an end table as my desk. I'd finished the last of the exams earlier in the day, but I felt compelled to look over the short answer and writing portion of the twenty or so exams Nigel graded because he was way too heavy-handed with the red pen. Red ink dripped off of some of the exams he graded. The problem with Nigel's grading was he didn't allow for too much deviation. He expected every article to read the way he would have written it.