Prologue 1999 It started with a phone call from his ex-girlfriend, the sweet, beautiful woman he dumped when he got into UC Davis Veterinary School. "He’s drinking again," she told me. "I'm worried about him." But when I asked him about it, he said he'd gone to a couple of Friday night keg parties. "Everybody does it," he said. "It’s no big deal." I didn't think it was a big deal, either. He'd been sober for ten years. He'd worked hard to get into veterinary school. I was proud of him. I knew he could handle it. We were fifteen years apart in age, but I considered him my best friend. He lived with me while he attended undergraduate school at Hayward State. We spent all our holidays together hiking, skiing, camping, sharing a tent. He …show more content…
He'd moved in with his new girlfriend. They were having a party. There was lots of booze. His classmates struck me as wild, heavy drinkers, big partiers. But they were all going to be doctors. You couldn't get into UC Davis if you were a fuck-up. A few months later, he was arrested for assaulting two men with a deadly weapon – a broken beer bottle. I offered to post bail and help with attorney fees. "No need,” he said. "My girl’s bailing me out. Those guys were white trash. They deserved it." "Those guys" had uttered an ethnic slur while my brother and his girl were playing pool in a local, dive bar. I didn't question why two veterinary students were getting into barroom brawls on a weekday night. What did I know about the pressures of vet school? He wore an ankle bracelet during his last year at Davis and was called in for random drug testing. He passed every time. He graduated with a degree, but without a license. Because of the felony charges, the Dean of the Veterinary School had personally made sure my brother couldn’t practice medicine on dogs and …show more content…
You can just make out the words they wrote with the stones. It says ‘fuck you’. You can’t see that?” I shake my head, pull back from the blinds, and look at my brother. “I don’t see it,” I say softly. “Sorry.” “Fuck you,” he says to me. “What?” “Fuck you,” he repeats. “Get outta here. You’re no fuckin’ help.” I get up off my knees and gather my things. He beats me to the front door and opens it. His face is red and sweaty. His eyes look as if they’re about to pop out of his head. I hope he doesn’t punch me, but he looks like he might. I step on to the front stoop and he slams the door behind me. I gaze at his front yard. It’s bare ground, mud, ruts, and an occasional puddle. He told me he hired the paving crew to backhoe his lawn. He wants concrete instead of grass so that he has a place to park his cars – the recently acquired minivan to accommodate his growing family, and the old pickup truck that barely runs, presently on the street, pressed against the curb. The front windshield is covered in parking tickets. I tiptoe across the mud and go to my car. I don’t understand what just happened. I look back and see someone peering at me through the cracks in the blinds. The eyes disappear, the slats slam shut, and the sad, little green house goes