The Man Who Came Uptown

“That must have been hard for you,” said Michael. “All those words... you damn near gave a speech just now.”

“Screw you, man.”

“Thomas,” said Doretha.

“My bad,” said Thomas. “Can someone pass me those greens? They’re delicious.”

“I cook ’em in bacon fat,” said their mother.

The siblings knew how she cooked them. She’d been doing greens the same way their whole lives.

Thomas stayed mostly silent for the rest of the meal. He had been the quiet, stoic one since childhood, and his time in the military had not changed him. Judging from his comments, he also seemed to have grown more socially conservative. This sparked no rebuttal from Michael, who was basically apolitical. Plus, it was a matter of respect to let Thomas say whatever was on his mind. Their father had been in and out of their lives, mostly out, due to issues with alcohol, so Thomas, several years Michael’s senior, had played the paternal role. With his steely, insular manner, he had always seemed like a man to Michael, even when they were kids.

After dinner they went to the living room and watched a Dallas — Green Bay football contest on the cable channel that showed old games. It had been played on the frozen tundra, in the snow, and the Pack was handing Dallas its ass. They were a Redskins house, united in their hatred for the Cowboys. For Michael, it was a nice cap to an already good day.

Later, up in their old bedroom, Thomas took Michael aside for the inevitable talk. He put a large hand on Michael’s shoulder and looked into his eyes.

“You straight now, right?” said Thomas. He was taller than Michael, with very dark skin and hair shaved close to the scalp. Veins wormed across his left temple when his manner grew intense. “You through with all this nonsense?”

“I am.”

“You put the old girl through some grief.”

“I know it. That’s what I regret more than anything. I’m not gonna go down that road again.”

“Okay, then. Bring it in.”

Thomas stepped forward and wrapped his strong arms around Michael. Michael felt his spine shift and heard it crack some too.

“Damn, Thomas, you about to break my back.”

“You fuck up like that again,” said Thomas, “I’m gonna come home and snap you in two.”

Michael knew he meant it. Thomas had always had problems controlling his temper, even now, in his thirties. In fact, it had cost him his marriage. But Michael knew that Thomas’s words were said in love. Michael wasn’t going to mess up again. For his own self, and especially for his mother.

The next morning, Olivia drove down south, and Thomas flew back to Texas. That left Michael, his mother, and Brandy, their aging dog.

The Hudsons had adopted Brandy from the no-kill animal shelter on Oglethorpe Street and Blair Road, in Northeast. Michael, then a sophomore at Cardozo High School, had chosen Brandy, a medium-size mix of indeterminate breeds, when she limped across her cage to lick his hand. She had a cast on her rear right leg, which was healing from a fracture. Her former owner, a D.C. police officer, had broken her leg with the handle of a broom. In a separate incident, he had broken his wife’s nose. In court, he beat the charges of spousal abuse but was later tried and convicted on animal abuse, which was a felony in the District. The Hudsons learned of Brandy’s history only six months after she was adopted, when they read a story in the Washington Post about the officer’s expulsion from the force. Previously, Michael had wondered why the dog ran terrified from the room whenever his mother picked up a broom.

Brandy was now thirteen and Michael was in his late twenties. The dog seemed to have grown old while he’d been away. She was stiff on her right side, as if the injury she had sustained when she was a puppy had returned. She had trouble getting up the stairs at night when it was time to follow Doretha to bed. Her tan coat had faded, she had lost weight, her muzzle was white, and she had gone deaf. But she still had the eyes of a doe.

Two days after his return, Michael filled out a form on his mother’s laptop, printed it out, and left the house. Doretha was already down at the Department of Transportation, where she had worked as an administrative assistant since graduating from Strayer, the business college, thirty years ago. Michael walked up to the Petworth library on Kansas Avenue at Georgia and presented his form and his driver’s license to the bearded man who sat at the desk near the front entrance. The man gave Michael a temporary library card on the spot and told him that a permanent one would be sent to him in the mail. It was his first library card.

Michael looked around him at the intricate inlaid design on the lobby floor and the hanging lights with the large glass bowls. It was a nice, freestanding brick building with a quiet, peaceful vibe. Though it was an old structure, it seemed redone, like one of those cars that had been restored.