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Back The Third Brother Save as PDF
Chapters (116)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by the Author
  3. The Third Brother
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. PART I
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. PART II
  67. 60
  68. 61
  69. 62
  70. 63
  71. 64
  72. 65
  73. 66
  74. 67
  75. 68
  76. 69
  77. 70
  78. 71
  79. 72
  80. 73
  81. 74
  82. 75
  83. 76
  84. 77
  85. 78
  86. 79
  87. 80
  88. 81
  89. 82
  90. 83
  91. 84
  92. 85
  93. 86
  94. 87
  95. 88
  96. PART III
  97. 89
  98. 90
  99. 91
  100. 92
  101. 93
  102. 94
  103. 95
  104. 96
  105. 97
  106. 98
  107. 99
  108. 100
  109. 101
  110. 102
  111. 103
  112. 104
  113. 105
  114. 106
  115. 107
  116. 108

I should have prepared a letter to leave for him. Or maybe finished the paper and left that. Or I could have left this, whatever it is I am writing now, but of course I am not finished with it.

106

Walking back from Dr. Hunt’s empty office, I imagined that it wasn’t Christmas Eve and people were around, but everyone was frozen, suffocated under the snow. It was a very beautiful a scene.

It was twilight, with snow falling. The students would have frozen as they walked, then been covered by the falling snow as it drifted around their striped sneakers and up along their jeans, until the drifts reached their peacoats and drifted up their torsos to their elbows, around their messenger bags, and up along their arms to their cell phones as their mouths were covered. The cell phones would die, and the snow would silently and slowly reach up to their eyes, and stick to their open irises. Finally they would all disappear under the snow. Only Tweety and I would be left, and we would stand in the middle of this storm and catch snowflakes on our tongues.

I am beginning to regret, now that they are frozen, the fear that I wished upon them.

107

I have this letter I have been saving:

Dear Mike,

I’m not dumb. I know it’s time for me to get better. You can’t be a bum anymore, is what Dad would have said. Bums don’t get anything done. A bum doesn’t write the essays. A bum would pretend to be sick to leave school and live off his charred parents.

There is no justification for bums. They come in a million varieties and each one’s got a different excuse. There’s the Sick Bum, the Heartbroken Bum, the Betrayed Bum, the Bum Who Doesn’t Care—because he’s an Atheist Bum or a Shell-Shocked Bum or a Bum Who’s Too Smart For His Own Good. There are the Invisible Bums whom nobody notices and the Bums Living Underground. There’re no criteria for a bum except that he doesn’t do the work, and like our father said, there’s salvation in work.

That’s what bums don’t understand, that the greatest virtue in the world is action. Not being a bum. I just don’t know what I’m going to do about that. Bums drop out and don’t do the work.

It’s all lack of action. Inaction, that’s being a bum. Death. Inaction. That’s what I’m worried about. We’re all bums when we’re dead.

The letter was signed by Lyle and dated September 9, but I didn’t find it until October.

108