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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 hope I can pull something out of this for the essay on faith. I keep getting distracted as I sit here trying to write it on Christmas Eve. I was searching the Net and I looked up Harrison. Harrison Stirrat. I have been looking at his pictures, and I wasn’t prepared. The pictures are horrific. There was an old one, up on a French photo agency Web site, of a little boy holding up a pair of hands to the camera. The boy has an assault rifle hanging over his back and an oversized T-shirt down to his knees, like the kind I wore to bed when I was a little boy. He is almost waving the hands at the camera, with their bracelets of dried blood. I could just imagine Harrison, short, bald Harrison, standing in front of that kid and taking the picture, and then telling a story about it later in some bar.

What I couldn’t take were Harrison’s new pictures. A photo essay about the yaa baa life in Bangkok. They were very ordinary, actually, except for the access. Just simple pictures of stoned young Thais, and some mundane shots from inside a factory. The images looked almost serene, and seeing them made me feel like a liar. Maybe I made the whole thing up. I feel like I’ve been telling the same stories again and again, lying. That is part of why I was so quiet this semester. I am very tired of lying.

Lyle told me that he saw our mother kill our father and herself before the house burned down. Before he burned it down. But I don’t know if I believed him. He wasn’t killed in the 9/11 attack. He jumped off the roof. He killed himself. I didn’t believe him and went to get water, and when I came back, he had jumped off the roof. Maybe if I had believed him it would have been different, but you’re supposed to tell people the truth, right? You can’t just go along with whatever lies they make up. Otherwise you can never live right.

Lyle told me he burned down the house because of what he saw. So I wouldn’t have to see. I’m telling you so we won’t forget. And who else could I tell? Anyway, you should know, he blamed the fire on you, Brother.

I’m leaving. That’s what my parents would have done, and what Tweety did, and what our brother Lyle would say to do. I’m walking out through the snow to the highway just beyond campus and I am walking back into the world. I am walking across the highway, just as I am, and getting out. Even if I see a girl, holding a baby, flying down the snowy highway on her motorcycle.