Ted

My brother Ted and I stood watching the streams of silver moonlight bob amongst the dark waves. The sudden crashes as the waves reached shore gave way to a soothing retraction. I had always liked to think of this as nature's way of apologizing for Ted's mute existence, for words were lost in the rhythmic roar.

We often visited this beach late at night, when the gulls were sleeping and would not interrupt our thoughts.

"Wanna go skinny-dipping?" I asked him. I didn't wait for him to nod his head; I was already stripping off my shirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him doing the same. This was a nightly ritual of ours. No one was ever around this time of night.

We approached the water, let it lap at our feet for a few seconds before wading in. The water was warm and I could see the silhouettes of fish scatter as we walked. As the waves reached my waist, I dove in and swam out a few yards. I surfaced, watching as Ted lazily floated towards me on his back.

"Let's race to the buoy," I yelled. I turned around and quickly swam out, envisioning a drowning child in dire need of help, a helpless, crying child whose lungs were quickly filling with water whose hands and feet were tangled in seaweed who was pale and decrepit and silent before I could reach him. I treaded water as I waited for Ted to catch up, his stroke smooth and exact.

"We were going for speed, not form," I say with a smile. He gives me the finger and we both start to laugh. "So how are things with Mary or Maria or whatever the hell her name is? Have you guys kissed yet?"

He smiles at me. "For real?" I ask. He nods and we start laughing again. "I told you it would happen, but damn, took you long enough."

As we treaded water, I remembered back to my first kiss. I was in the fifth grade and her name was Grace. We were sitting cross-legged at the top of the slide during recess. It was one of the most awkward moments of my life, but I had felt like I had climbed Mt. Fuji and single-handedly wiped out the Nazi army all at once. I remember boasting to my friends back in the classroom, how they wanted to know what it was like and if I was a good kisser, as if I would know such things. I was made king of the class that day as word got around, but a week later, things returned to normal, I returned to normal, and Grace was found kissing another boy at the top of the slide.

My arms started to burn. We had been treading water for a while. "Let's go back to shore," I said in Ted's general direction. He had drifted a bit and his head looked like a piece of driftwood floating in an endless sea of black water. We swam on our backs towards shore.
We put our pants back on, but remained shirtless. I pulled out a pack of American Spirits and took out two cigarettes, giving Ted one and putting the other between my lips. "You got a light?" I asked Ted. He presented a matchbox and cleanly lit one, offering me the small flame before lighting his, cupping his hand around the match. There was a slight breeze coming from over the lake that hindered our efforts of blowing smoke rings.

I had smoked my first cigarette at the age of thirteen. I snagged a pack from my mother one day. She bought boxes of Malboro Reds that were always around the house. I knew she wouldn't notice, and she didn't. Ted and I would skip sermons at church and smoke them behind the big white building with a big white cross that towered over us. Mother forced us to go to church every Sunday, though she avoided it herself like the black plague. She said it was a good influence on us, and God knows those are hard to come by these days.

We finished our cigarettes, putting them out in the sand, burying them like Ted buried his past. I remembered the day when my mother sat me down for a talk.

"You're going to be a big brother in a few days," she had said. I didn't understand. She didn't look like my friend Ben's mother did, who had the same talk with Ben, which he told me about later that day as we fried ants with my magnifying glass. She was big and round in the belly. Mother looked the same; her stomach was as flat as it always was.

She could see the puzzlement in my eyes. "We are adopting a boy. His parents are not very nice and he needs a new home. His name is Ted, and he is seven, like you. I'm sure you guys will get along. He is coming over later for a few hours to get used to things," she explained. I was about to run off when she added, "There is something else you should know about Ted; he can't talk. When he gets here, be a good boy and don't make fun of him. Take him outside and play with him."

At school, kids would make fun of Ted, call him dumb, taunt him. My friends would join in, asking me why my mother adopted him. I avoided him at recess, sat as far away as I could in class. I resented him, taking sides with the other kids.

One day after school we were waiting for the bus and the name calling began. Before I knew it, kids were picking up small stones and throwing them at him, trying to get him to yelp, to acknowledge them and their superiority. I watched for a moment before picking up a stone, throwing it as hard as I could. It hit his face, the side of his forehead. Blood started to trickle down his cheek, his eyes locked into mine. My heart rose to my throat, cutting off my voice. He turned around, running as fast as he could away from us, away from home. I sprinted after him, finally catching up after a few blocks. I grabbed his shoulder, spun him around. The blood had started to cake onto his skin. I started sobbing and, not knowing what else to do, put my arms around him.

I did not speak at all the rest of the day. We walked for hours, ending up at the beach. We sat down and watched the waves crash against the shore.

The next day at school, I avoided everyone, taking my seat next to Ted. At recess, two boys, Billy and Ben, approached us, starting their daily name-calling. I stared at them, my small fists clenching. A few more kids walked up to watch. Billy leaned over, picking up a handful of pebbles. I glanced at Ted before rushing Billy. Ted followed, tackling Ben. They cowered underneath us as we pinned them. Our fists were blurs as we hit the boys over and over, bloodying their lips.

We were suspended for three days, but when we came back, no one messed with us. Ted was my brother now. We looked after each other. I came to understand him, knew what he wanted or what was bothering him. We would have conversations that lasted for hours without him ever saying a word. We became inseparable. Ten years later and no amount of disagreement could sway us, his past irrelevant.

We sat on the beach for another hour, smoking cigarettes and watching the waves. We laid on our backs and looked for shooting stars amongst the static of the sky, pointing every time one would rocket across our vision.

I glanced at my cell-phone for the time. It read 2:56. I was starting to get sleepy, and my stomach growled loudly every so often. "Ready to get outta here?" I asked Ted. He nodded and we put on our shirts.

The walk back to our house was close to two miles. The crickets and occasional katydid kept us company. Halfway home, I stopped in the middle of the trail, Ted looking back at me inquisitively. The crickets were corresponding chorus lines on either side of us. I closed my eyes for a minute, feeling my way through the sea of chirps. The crickets were deafening now, leaving no room for silence, and I found myself unable to discern up from down, left from right, myself from them. I felt free. Ted tapped me on the shoulder, jolting me back to reality. We started walking back again as I attempted to describe what had happened.
When we got back to the house, the lights were off and the door was locked. I felt underneath the mat by the front door till my fingers grazed the spare key mother always hid there. I unlocked the door and I made my way to the upstairs bathroom to take a shower. Ted did the same, except downstairs.

With the smell of dead fish gone, we lay in our bunk-beds, Ted taking the top bunk tonight. I got up and opened the window, letting the warm, clean air circulate. I took out two more cigarettes and Ted and I lay in our beds smoking. I took out the ashtray I hid underneath my bed, holding it up when Ted kicked the bed, signaling that he needed to ash. I finished my Spirit before him, grinding it out in the ash and cigarette butts. I handed him the tray and he did the same.

I stashed the ashtray back in its place under the bed and rested my head against my pillow.

"Goodnight Ted. Love ya." He kicked the mattress in reply. I nodded off to sleep, dreaming of buoys and waves and the small child who always seemed to drown before I could reach him.