Every girl needs a good brother - a brother who will protect her, love her - even give his life for her.
Mick, however, has fine tuned sister torture with sheer creative genius. One day he drags ten-year-old Debbie to the house of a complete stranger and ties her to the railing of the front porch with a jump rope. Then he rings the doorbell and runs.
During one of our endless hide and go seek games in the house, he realizes that Mary has ingeniously hidden herself in the clothes dryer. Gleefully, he turns it on and sends her on a quick rotation or two.
My sisters and I are not familiar with those brothers. Joe, Mick and Rick make it their sole mission in life to torture us. As sister abuse goes, they're pretty much at the top of the heap. The name calling is superior: Four Eyes, Moose, Stick Legs, Zit Face, Mommy Dearest. It's all spot on.
They master tried and true methods - pinning us down to spit in our mouths, slipping asparagus into our milk glasses, yanking their dirty underwear over our heads - just the regular stuff.
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| Mick, the terrible brother |
During one of our endless hide and go seek games in the house, he realizes that Mary has ingeniously hidden herself in the clothes dryer. Gleefully, he turns it on and sends her on a quick rotation or two.
He bounces six year old Terri on Mom and Dad's big bed so high, she flies across the room and sustains a wound to the head which requires seven stitches. Mick is warned within an inch of his life to stop using our parents' bed as a trampoline. Nevertheless, he ignores the warning and shortly afterward bounces Debbie through a window.
"Does it never occur to you that you might kill one of your sisters?" Dad shouts in exasperation.
"Hold it, Dad. Hold it," Mick pleads patiently over and over as if a perfectly logical explanation is forthcoming. "You gotta admit the screen broke her fall."
Our parents don't know what to do with a 14-year-old son who thrives on practical jokes and dangerous stunts. Only recently, rather than weed Mom's enormous garden by hand, he wonders if the best way to destroy weeds might not be just to set them on fire. Thoughtfully, he douses every weed with gasoline and strikes a match. Instantaneously, the entire garden explodes in flames and almost takes Mick with it. Dad is so livid he grounds him for a month.
Both our parents are exhausted, which explains their deaf ears to our own complaints. My sisters and I have had it with our terrible brother. We are at the end of our rope. One day all five of us descend on Mom to scream and wail in communal despair.
"That's enough," Mom throws up her hands. Mick has destroyed her beloved garden, after all. She has problems of her own.
"There are five of you," she sighs wearily. "Surely you can figure out how to handle one 14-year-old boy." Then she turns back to the stove and ignores us. We point neither to her own failure to analyze Mick's psyche nor to the smoldering garden outside the back door.
"Fine!" I hiss. "We'll figure it out ourselves."
Mom has great faith that we will put our collective heads together to choose wisely. She urges us to employ the virtues of compromise, intelligence, forgiveness and even prayer to solve the problem of Mick. Maybe, she suggests later when cooler heads prevail, Mick doesn't feel that we appreciate him and needs more affirmation. We carefully consider that.
But in the end we decide to beat the hell out of him.
For a good week we devise our plan. Mick must be caught off guard, and it's critical that we time our assault precisely. Mom and Dad and Joe and Rick, all of whom will defend Mick, cannot be within hearing distance. We stockpile our weapons and wait for the perfect moment. One afternoon a few weeks later, Mom departs with our baby brothers Tommy and Jeff to pick up Dad from work. Joe and Rick are mowing the lawn. We understand our moment has come.
Mick has just rolled the trash barrels out to the street and will shortly walk through the front door. In tense anticipation, we set the plan in motion. Deb and I hide behind the book case, Carry has squirreled her four-year-old self behind the big living room chair, and Mary and Terri wait in the main hall bathroom. As soon as Mick walks five steps into the door, I shout the marching order.
"GET HIM!"
We scream like banshees and spring from all directions. Mick, for once in his life, is shocked and on the defensive. Because I am the oldest and the biggest, I fling myself on his back, and together we take him to the ground. I immediately sit on him and and pin his arms to the floor. Deb falls quickly over the back of his legs, and Mary, Terri and Carry go in for the kill. Terri and Mary, who wield a hairbrush and a ping pong paddle, land blows on his arms and legs while Carry pounds her tiny fists on his shoulders and occasionally grabs for a fistful of hair.
"Wait!" Deb screams. "His glasses!"
Mary bolts upright, drops her hairbrush, then removes with some difficulty Mick's glasses from his thrashing head. She folds them carefully and gently places them on the coffee table. Then she picks up her hairbrush, shrieks, and resumes beating.
"Get offa me!" Mick bellows. "What'd I do! I didn't do anything!"
None of us can say how long it takes to vent every last bit of our rage and frustration. We do not stop, however, until our anger is spent and Mick is finally subdued. At last, breathing hard, we relent and pull ourselves slowly away. Mick lies for a long time, dazed and humiliated. He hoists himself up, rests his hands on his hips, and stares at the floor.
"How's that feel, huh?" our tiny sister Carry is infused with a second wind. She dances around on her toes like a miniature Muhammad Ali.
It's Mary, though, the sweetest and most saintly of all of us, who surprises us. Eyes sparking, she wags her finger at Mick. "Don't you ever," she growls with vehemence, "EVER mess with us again!"
Then she reaches behind her. "And don't forget your glasses."
Mick accepts the proffered glasses without speaking. He does not move, however, and to our horror, we see silent tears stream down his cheeks. We stare at each other, shocked to the core. We have never seen Mick cry. At last, he turns away and goes off to his room.
Any satisfaction we enjoy suddenly vanishes. Without saying a word, we put the room to rights. We don't speak of what has happened.
Later that evening, Mom is puzzled. "What's the matter with all of you?" Even Mick, to her surprise, is subdued. We don't say anything and Mick doesn't say anything. But my sisters and I wonder if we've done a terrible wrong. Maybe Mom was right all along. Maybe Mick needs us more than we realize.
A few nights later, I'm doing homework in my room when Mick knocks politely and comes through the door. He's carrying a package of fig newtons, my favorite.
"Hey," he smiles shyly. "I know you like these. Want one?"
He holds out the cookies, and I am touched and immensely relieved.
"Thanks, Mick."
He nods. "Sorry about everything," he says.
"It's okay," I shake my head and bite into the cookie only to experience what feels like electric shock. I stare down at the fig newton. Mick has buried a quarter in the center of it. Laughing defiantly, he slams the door behind him.
I shake my head. No need to agonize that we've broken Mick's spirit.
The Terrible Brother is alive and well. And he's here to stay.
"Hold it, Dad. Hold it," Mick pleads patiently over and over as if a perfectly logical explanation is forthcoming. "You gotta admit the screen broke her fall."
Our parents don't know what to do with a 14-year-old son who thrives on practical jokes and dangerous stunts. Only recently, rather than weed Mom's enormous garden by hand, he wonders if the best way to destroy weeds might not be just to set them on fire. Thoughtfully, he douses every weed with gasoline and strikes a match. Instantaneously, the entire garden explodes in flames and almost takes Mick with it. Dad is so livid he grounds him for a month.
Both our parents are exhausted, which explains their deaf ears to our own complaints. My sisters and I have had it with our terrible brother. We are at the end of our rope. One day all five of us descend on Mom to scream and wail in communal despair.
"That's enough," Mom throws up her hands. Mick has destroyed her beloved garden, after all. She has problems of her own.
"There are five of you," she sighs wearily. "Surely you can figure out how to handle one 14-year-old boy." Then she turns back to the stove and ignores us. We point neither to her own failure to analyze Mick's psyche nor to the smoldering garden outside the back door.
"Fine!" I hiss. "We'll figure it out ourselves."
Mom has great faith that we will put our collective heads together to choose wisely. She urges us to employ the virtues of compromise, intelligence, forgiveness and even prayer to solve the problem of Mick. Maybe, she suggests later when cooler heads prevail, Mick doesn't feel that we appreciate him and needs more affirmation. We carefully consider that.
But in the end we decide to beat the hell out of him.
For a good week we devise our plan. Mick must be caught off guard, and it's critical that we time our assault precisely. Mom and Dad and Joe and Rick, all of whom will defend Mick, cannot be within hearing distance. We stockpile our weapons and wait for the perfect moment. One afternoon a few weeks later, Mom departs with our baby brothers Tommy and Jeff to pick up Dad from work. Joe and Rick are mowing the lawn. We understand our moment has come.
Mick has just rolled the trash barrels out to the street and will shortly walk through the front door. In tense anticipation, we set the plan in motion. Deb and I hide behind the book case, Carry has squirreled her four-year-old self behind the big living room chair, and Mary and Terri wait in the main hall bathroom. As soon as Mick walks five steps into the door, I shout the marching order.
"GET HIM!"
We scream like banshees and spring from all directions. Mick, for once in his life, is shocked and on the defensive. Because I am the oldest and the biggest, I fling myself on his back, and together we take him to the ground. I immediately sit on him and and pin his arms to the floor. Deb falls quickly over the back of his legs, and Mary, Terri and Carry go in for the kill. Terri and Mary, who wield a hairbrush and a ping pong paddle, land blows on his arms and legs while Carry pounds her tiny fists on his shoulders and occasionally grabs for a fistful of hair.
"Wait!" Deb screams. "His glasses!"
Mary bolts upright, drops her hairbrush, then removes with some difficulty Mick's glasses from his thrashing head. She folds them carefully and gently places them on the coffee table. Then she picks up her hairbrush, shrieks, and resumes beating.
"Get offa me!" Mick bellows. "What'd I do! I didn't do anything!"
None of us can say how long it takes to vent every last bit of our rage and frustration. We do not stop, however, until our anger is spent and Mick is finally subdued. At last, breathing hard, we relent and pull ourselves slowly away. Mick lies for a long time, dazed and humiliated. He hoists himself up, rests his hands on his hips, and stares at the floor.
"How's that feel, huh?" our tiny sister Carry is infused with a second wind. She dances around on her toes like a miniature Muhammad Ali.
It's Mary, though, the sweetest and most saintly of all of us, who surprises us. Eyes sparking, she wags her finger at Mick. "Don't you ever," she growls with vehemence, "EVER mess with us again!"
Then she reaches behind her. "And don't forget your glasses."
Mick accepts the proffered glasses without speaking. He does not move, however, and to our horror, we see silent tears stream down his cheeks. We stare at each other, shocked to the core. We have never seen Mick cry. At last, he turns away and goes off to his room.
Any satisfaction we enjoy suddenly vanishes. Without saying a word, we put the room to rights. We don't speak of what has happened.
Later that evening, Mom is puzzled. "What's the matter with all of you?" Even Mick, to her surprise, is subdued. We don't say anything and Mick doesn't say anything. But my sisters and I wonder if we've done a terrible wrong. Maybe Mom was right all along. Maybe Mick needs us more than we realize.
A few nights later, I'm doing homework in my room when Mick knocks politely and comes through the door. He's carrying a package of fig newtons, my favorite.
"Hey," he smiles shyly. "I know you like these. Want one?"
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| Joe, Rick and Mick - Joe's 60th birthday, Oct. 11th, 2016. |
"Thanks, Mick."
He nods. "Sorry about everything," he says.
"It's okay," I shake my head and bite into the cookie only to experience what feels like electric shock. I stare down at the fig newton. Mick has buried a quarter in the center of it. Laughing defiantly, he slams the door behind him.
I shake my head. No need to agonize that we've broken Mick's spirit.
The Terrible Brother is alive and well. And he's here to stay.
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