Of course, there were persons in Portland and farther afield who liked to joke that Tony was dumb as a rock, while his brother was dumb as two rocks, or half a rock, depending on where one stood on the whole dumbness/rock comparison index. They did not offer these opinions to Tony’s face, or not a second time, but Tony was aware that they circulated, and had taken note of the identities of those responsible. It wasn’t so much the aspersions being cast on his intelligence that bothered him as the mockery of his brother. Tony was very protective of Paulie and had promised their mother that he would always look out for him. The world was more confusing to Paulie than it was to Tony. It was frequently too loud, too fast. The unkindness of strangers toward those more vulnerable than themselves, whether human or animal, conspired to rouse Paulie to an excess of righteous indignation that tipped easily into outright violence; yet in all his life, Paulie, like Tony, had never hit anyone smaller than himself, not unless they really, really deserved it. Paulie lived by the principle that a man should punch up, not down. He might have struggled to express the range and complexity of his better feelings, and consequently the unobservant and judgmental concluded that he had no such feelings available to express, but Tony knew better.

When the opportunity presented itself, Tony would have a quiet word with individuals known to have belittled his brother. These conversations typically took place in alleyways or restrooms, and had a tendency to be very one-sided. They also generally resulted in a permanent alteration in behavior, because once Tony Fulci told you something, you stayed told.

To repeat, then: Tony Fulci was not stupid. But he was slow. He did not absorb information quickly, but absorb it he did, in the end. He had learned to listen carefully because he missed crucial details otherwise. Later, in solitude, he would contemplate all that he had heard and try to come to some conclusions about it. He would sit up late into the night when his mother and brother were asleep, his elbows on the kitchen table, his chin in his hands, and stare at the wall, lost in what appeared to be a trance. But the kitchen wall was made of bricks, and on each brick Tony had learned to visualize a word or concept. In his mind, he could then move the bricks around, although it was often sufficient just to leave them in place, having broken a subject down into manageable pieces. For particularly intractable problems, he would resort to writing on the bricks with a piece of chalk, making sure to wipe them clean before he went to bed. Mrs Fulci did not approve of people writing on her walls, not even in chalk.