I took a sip of coffee, keeping my eyes alert for any deer that might spring from the underbrush. It was nearly a year ago, along this very stretch, that I nailed an eight-point buck, smashing in the entire front end of my car. The last thing that I needed was another go-round with the insurance Gestapo.
A mile further along, the woods gave way to sprawling fields, subdivided by white wooden fences. Sleek, long-legged horses grazed in the distance. Willow Grove was just up ahead.
Willow Grove was an institution for the mentally impaired. My brother Greg was in residence there, had been for the past twenty-odd years. I brought him home for his birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and took him out for lunch and some shopping on the first Saturday of every month; invariably to a mall. Greg loved his malls. I probably should have done more, but with a family of my own, it was the best I could offer.
Our dear old dad had been a military man. Major John P. Hendrix, lifer, United States Army. Five-foot-six and one-hundred-fifty pounds of solid muscle, he stood ramrod-straight with a face that looked as though it had been fashioned from stone with a jackhammer. His stern, smoky-gray eyes never blinked; at least not in the eighteen years I had lived at home.
As a young Lieutenant, he had been wounded and left for dead at the Chosin Reservoir during the Korean War; nearly freezing to death as he walked to safety on his own, earning a Purple Heart and Silver Star. Then came four tours of duty in Vietnam, the earliest in March of '58: two more Purple Hearts and the Distinguished Service Cross. It wouldn't be a stretch to say that he was an Audie Murphy and a Sergeant York, all wrapped into one.
My mother, Greg, and I bounced from one military base to another, living in those Army-built, cookie-cutter homes with neat front lawns and white picket fences. Major Dad called us his "home front troops" and regimented our lives as rigidly as those of the men under his command. He conducted white glove inspections every Saturday morning, bounced quarters off our beds to see if they were properly made, and woke us up at the crack of dawn for calisthenics in the living room. Mom and I managed to cut the mustard, but poor Greg always lagged sorrowfully behind, drawing KP duty or extra housework.
My father, so perfect of mind, body and soul, had never fully accepted Greg. He was a fly in the proverbial soup; a tear in an otherwise perfect Rembrandt. So, finally, to purify the Hendrix name, he had shipped twelve-year-old Greg off to Willow Grove. My mother, totally heartbroken over the decision, visited him every chance that she got, bringing him snacks, clothing and tons of useless bric-a-brac. Out of sight, out of mind, the Major never visited at all. And once we moved to another base, clear across the country, even my mother was unable to visit, causing her to fall into a depression that lasted for years.
When the Major died from stomach cancer in '86, Greg wept uncontrollably at his funeral, nearly drowning out the twenty-one-gun salute. But when our beloved mother passed away a short year later, he never shed a tear. No matter how hard I tried, I could never figure that one out.
I followed a long avenue of oaks to the three-storied Victorian, parked in the visitor's lot and walked beneath a dark and forbidding sky to the front door. As usual, I couldn't help wondering; with so darn many oaks, why the name Willow Grove? Helen Corso, the old gray sentinel, was at her station at the front desk.
"Ah, good morning, Henry. Looks as though we're in for a bit of rain."
"No problem. One doesn't get wet in a mall."
She chuckled. "Of course; the mall. Well, take a seat and I'll have Gregory sent down." Helen fingered a button on an intercom, spoke a few words and looked up. "It'll just be a few minutes."
I was halfway through an article in the Tribune when I heard the familiar plod of Greg's feet. I had always thought that he walked like a drunken penguin with three herniated discs. Looking up from the paper, I saw him heading across the lobby, a silly, lopsided grin stretching from ear-to-ear. As usual, his clothes were outrageously mismatched; a striped shirt, plaid polyester trousers, red sneakers with Velcro fasteners, and a belt with an artificial turquoise buckle as big as my fist. Under his arm was his constant companion; a six-hundred-thirty page book entitled "The Mysteries of the Human Body" by Doctor T.L. Liggett. He had rescued the outdated book from the thrash some five years ago and began to carry it everywhere that he went. He took it to bed like a teddy bear. He took it to the bathroom, to his counseling sessions, to breakfast, lunch and dinner, and unfortunately, along on our trips to the mall. One time, an orderly had tried to take it from him and had wound up with a black eye and three fractured ribs.
"Hi, Henwy! How's my liddle bro'ter?"
"I'm just wonderful. And how are you?"
He wrapped his powerful arms around me and squeezed until I felt the air whooshing from my lungs. Then he lolled his head on my shoulder, his saliva soaking through my shirt.
"Enough, Greg, enough. You're getting my shoulder wet."
"Uh, sowwy. I didn't mean to." Yanking a handkerchief from his pocket, he began to dab at my shirt. "I'm sowwy, Henwy. I didn't mean to. I really didn't."
"Okay, okay. No problem."
Helen Corso watched us with an amused smile. "Remember, Henry; no later than six."
"Yes, ma'am. Six it is."
"Have a good time. And, Greg, you behave."
We walked to the parking lot, Greg far out in front. Opening the rear door of my car, he positioned himself in the middle of the seat, pretending, as usual, that he was the rich guy and I, his chauffeur.
"Where to, Mister Hendrix?"
"Da mall."
"Which one, sir?"
"Southpert."
"You mean Southport, don't you?"
"I call it Southpert."
"Anything you say, sir. Buckle up, now, for safety. And off we go."
A half-hour later, I pulled into the parking lot of the largest mall in the Northern Hemisphere, getting as close to the entrance as I possibly could. Clicking my heels, I held open the rear door for Greg. Beaming with self-importance, he scrambled from the rear seat and surveyed the sprawling complex as though it were the White House, the Superdome and the Taj Mahal all in one.
"Well, here we are, Mister Hendrix."
"I wanna go to Prettykins, Henwy."
"Pitkins?" Frowning, I tried to remember how much money I had brought. "I don't know, Greg. The prices there are a little steep."
He stomped his feet like a spoiled child, a small whine building deep in his chest.
"C'mon, Greg. Maybe somewhere else."
"I wanna go to Prettykins. I wanna go dere first ting."
As with my wife, I had never won an argument with Greg. Off to Pitkins we went, where the price tags had larger numbers than my checking account. I tried to steer Greg toward what passed as the bargain department, but shouting in glee, he dashed straight for a rack of imported silk ties. Choosing a monstrosity with palm trees and cockatoos, he held it up for my approval.
"Well it's not bad, but -----."
"I knew you'd like it, Henwy! I jus' knew it! Maybe I'll get two."
"No way, partner. One is quite enough."
Hell, he needed an imported silk tie like a nun needed a bikini.
"In fact, I think that K-Mart has a much better selection."
Spinning the rack round and round, he picked out another vulgarity and held it up to his shirt. This one had splashes of pink, orange and purple that reminded me, right off, of some old Wurlitzer juke box.
"How's dis one, Henwy?"
By this time, I had pretty much given up on changing his mind. I began to visualize my money sprouting wings and flying south like a flock of geese. The only difference was, my greenbacks wouldn't be returning home for the summer.
A clerk, sporting a knowing smile, moved in quickly for the kill. "Those ties are a splendid choice, sir. They are definitely you. I can see that you have the eye of a true connoisseur."
"See dat, Henwy. I'm a sewer."
I flashed the clerk a look that could have spot-welded two pieces of scrap iron.
"Sir, please step this way and I'll tally up your purchases." At the desk the clerk glanced at the price tags and entered the amounts into the register. "With tax, it comes to one-hundred and fifty-three dollars and fourteen cents" A smug smile played at the corners of his mouth. "And, sir; it will be my pleasure to put one of these ties on for you. Believe me; you'll need a bull whip to keep the ladies at bay."
Greg blinked. "Uh ----- do you sell whips here?"
"No, sir; unfortunately we don't. Perhaps one of our alligator-skin belts would suffice."
"No way!" I said, reaching for my wallet. "You know, Greg; these two strips of silk cost more than my entire wardrobe."
The clerk's eyes scanned me from head-to-foot. "That's readily apparent. Maybe you'd be interested in some of our latest fashions."
I hurriedly paid, and, after the clerk expertly affixed Greg's tie, I grabbed hold of his arm and rushed him out of the store. Our next stop was to eat and I hoped that my charge card wasn't maxed out. Greg chose La Maison Rouge. I opted for the Burger Barn. I was seriously starting to wonder whether I should start picking Greg up on the first Saturday of every other month.
"I wanna sit in da smoking section, Henwy."
"Why? Neither of us smoke." At the first sign of a pout, I again let him have his way. "Okay, okay. We'll sit in the smoking section."
We waited in our booth without mishap until our burgers and fries arrived. And, then, just as I was about to take my first bite, I saw Greg glowering at a man who was lighting up across the aisle. I knew what was about to happen and I knew equally as well that I was powerless to stop it.
"No, Greg, please."
Greg started to fan away imaginary clouds of smoke. "Mister – cough, gasp – would you put dat cigarette out while I'm eatin'."
The man ignored him, but I could see that his face was turning red.
"Please, mister." Greg opened his book and flipped some pages until he found the picture he was looking for. "It says, right here, dat smoking is bad for you. The Sturgeon General says dat -----."
"Hey, kiddo! If you don't like smoke, you should be sitting in the no-smoking section."
The man's wife was frantically making eye signals at him.
"Give me a break, Dorothy. I'm not causing any trouble here. If I wanna smoke, I'll smoke." The man took one last puff, ground out his cigarette in an ashtray and stomped off to the register, muttering under his breath.
His wife blushed, giving me an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. My husband can be a bit difficult at times."
"Please, ma'am. My brother's the one who should do the apologizing."
Greg took a generous bite out of his cheeseburger, shifting the wad to the left side of his mouth while he spoke out of the right. "Ya like my tie? Henwy bought it for me." A tendril of lettuce, complete with mayonnaise, clung to his lower lip. "But I got no whip to beat you off."
"Uh ----- yes ----- it's very nice." The woman stood, placed a two dollar tip on the table and hustled off to join her husband."
"Greg, I swear to God; if you ever pull another stunt like that, it'll be a cold day in hell before I bring you to another mall."
"Dere ain't any cold days in hell, Henwy. It's all fire."
"That's exactly my point."
Greg finished off his cheeseburger in one more bite, chewing with his mouth open. And, then, with dollar signs flashing before my eyes, he polished off three sundaes and three chocolate shakes. As a coup de grace, he let out the loudest belch I had ever heard, drawing the attention of everyone in the restaurant. Nearby, a little boy tried to imitate him, unleashing a small burp of his own. I considered picking Greg up on the first Saturday of every third month.
Next, as was our custom, we headed for the movie theaters at the far end of the mall. As we neared a McDonalds, I spotted a group of teenagers hanging out front. They were all dressed in the uniform of their era; caps worn backwards, oversized football jerseys and baggy pants, worn over their hips. I knew what was going to happen before it happened. One of them spotted us and rallied the attention of his pals. They all turned in our direction, laughing and imitating Greg's penguin walk.
"Hey, man; where'd you get those crazy duds?"
"Get a load of that walk. Dump-de-dump. Dump-de-dump-dump!"
Greg sensed my irritation and grabbed hold of my arm. "Hurry, Henwy. We don't wanna miss the perviews."
"That's previews."
We watched two movies in a row as was our custom; "Independence Day" and "Escape from New York." If Greg didn't have enough to eat at the Burger Barn, he polished off three large buttered pop corns, two boxes of Junior Mints, three of Milk Duds, two of Swedish Fish and three packages of Strawberry Twizlers! There were no problems, except for when Greg beaned a guy off the head with a Milk Dud and pointed at me when he turned around. When the second movie ended, I figured it was time to head back to Willow Grove while I still had some change clinking in my pocket.
"I really liked Indigestion Day, Henwy."
"That's Independence. In-de-pen-dence."
"Yeah, Indigestion."
With that, Greg began to sway from side-to-side as though he was a pilot of a jet fighter, trembling every few seconds to simulate turbulence. As his thumb moved up and down on an imaginary trigger, he started to make loud whooshing noises as he launched missiles at passing shoppers. Alarmed, people began to scurry aside in order to give us a wide berth.
"Please, Greg, that's enough."
"I can never have any fun wid you, Henwy. I gotta blow up the space ship to save da world."
"Okay, okay. But do it in the car."
Suddenly, as we were heading for the exit, I heard a scream that stopped everyone dead in their tracks. Whirling in the direction it had come from, I saw a woman in a state of panic, her eyes as big as saucers and her arms waving in the air. Next to her was a little boy, probably her son; he was gagging on something, his face turning an ugly shade of blue. Before I could realize or react to what was happening, Greg handed me his book and hurried over to help, lifting the boy and placing his hands just below his solar plexus. He gave a small squeeze and a gum ball shot from the kid's mouth and went bouncing across the floor. My God, my brother knew the Heimlich maneuver! How in the world? Gently placing the boy on the floor, he tousled his hair and smiled. I stood there, stunned, not quite knowing what to do.
With tears rolling down her cheeks, the mother comforted her son for a few seconds then turned to Greg, smothering his face with kisses. "Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You saved Robbie's life! You saved my son's life!"
Accepting her praise with an ear-to-ear grin, Greg hustled back and snatched his book.
"Holy cow, Greg! Where in the hell did you learn the Heimlich maneuver?"
"Da what?"
"The Heimlich maneuver. You know; what you did with the kid."
"Uh ----- I saw Doctor Spivey do it at Widow Grove, when Tommy was chokin' on a chicken bone."
I gave Greg a quick hug. "Wow! You're a hero, bud. You are an absolute hero."
"Naw."
"Oh yeah, you most certainly are."
As we continued on our way to the exit, everyone started to applaud, giving Greg the thumbs-up, some rushing over to pat him on the shoulder. Man, I wish there'd been a reporter around. His picture would have wound up on the front page of the local paper. Although he couldn't read, I felt like buying him a whole library full of medical books! I was proud of him, damn proud! And maybe, just maybe, if the Major was still alive, he would have been proud of him too.
As we reached the exit, Greg stopped short, taking notice that it was raining outside. Unbuttoning his shirt, he stuffed his book inside and refastened the buttons. "I don't want it to get wet. Da pages will crinkle."
We dashed to my car in the downpour, Greg laughing and stomping his feet in the puddles.