ONE
As a child, Devon had often fantasized about moving away from his hometown. He’d watch movies set in New York, wishing he could transport himself there. He’d commit entire JAY-Z albums to memory— especially the lines about Brooklyn. The music would carry Devon off to that electrifying city, and he’d imagine a life far more exciting than in Macon, Georgia.
After high school, Mama Lee had all but pleaded for Devon to stay nearby for college. She enlisted Butch for help, her brother-in-law and Devon’s favorite of his many uncles. Uncle Butch had taken a handful of classes at Macon State College but didn’t finish. Devon succumbed to the pressure to stay local and became the first on either side of the family to earn a degree. She again beseeched him to stay and study at Middle Georgia Law School.
The scant market for new grads in Macon gave Devon the perfect excuse to finally leave the town he had long outgrown. Many of his classmates accepted positions in Atlanta, Birmingham, Tallahassee, and other cities in the region. The top third of the class had been offered coveted judge clerkships and impressive jobs at big-name firms as early as the summer before their last year. But since Devon graduated number thirteen from the bottom of his class, no one was exactly knocking down his door to offer him a hundred-and-fiftythousand-dollar junior associateship. He knew this and didn’t waste his
time applying.
Devon instead took a position as a legislative aide for a Republican congressman in Washington, D.C., three weeks after graduation. It wasn’t New York City, but it wasn’t Macon, either.
The job paid exactly $35,620 per year. But most importantly, it was away—with brownie points for being in a metropolitan city outside of the cultural South.
Over the six years since Devon had left Macon for Washington, he’d only returned three times, each for a wedding or funeral. •••
It was about eleven in the morning. Devon shifted his weight on a wooden pew in his childhood church. The memorial service should’ve started an hour prior.
Next to him, Uncle Butch sat with legs spread wide, pinning Devon to the bench end.
Devon reclined in a pensive trance, arms crossed over his stomach. If he could snag a few hours of sleep and hit the road by midnight, he could be out of Macon and back to D.C. in time for the Sunday brunch scene.
But first, he needed to eat. There was a Zaxby’s on Zebulon Road, just a mile from his parent’s home in south Macon, which was minutes from Interstate 75. To Devon, this fast-casual chain was Macon’s only redeeming quality. They had opened one in Chantilly, Virginia, about a year ago, and Devon had dragged Bethany out of bed for the hour-long drive from his Southeast D.C. efficiency to attend the grand opening. They brought back days’ worth of chicken strips and crinkle fries. Out of sheer nostalgia, Devon snacked on the cold, stale fries for the better part of a week.
Barely conscious, Devon jumped at the vibration of one of his two iPhones, snapping out of his daydream. He pulled one of them from his inside breast pocket. He tapped the red button to decline the call and sent a text instead.
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Devon: What’s up, Bethany?
Uncle Butch nudged Devon with his bony knee, gesturing for him to put his phone away. The service had begun. A compromise, Devon instead hunched forward, his forehead resting on the back of the pew in front of him.
Bethany: What’s wrong, babe?
Devon: What do you mean?
Bethany: You only call me by my full name when something’s bothering you.
Devon: What’s up, Beth?
Bethany: Too late, Devon. What’s the problem? Are you okay?
Devon: I’m good, babe. Just a little tired.
Bethany: Well, I know we’ve only been together for a couple of months, but I’m still upset that you didn’t bring me to Georgia with you for your family reunion.
Devon: I told you, baby. I need to move at my own pace. It’s just not time yet.
Bethany: I know, Devon. And I respect that. I don’t want to pressure you. But I feel like if I’m good enough to share your bed, I’m good enough to meet your mother. Are you even in Georgia? Are you cheating on me?
Devon: Babe, I don’t make enough money to cheat on you.
Bethany: Touché :)
Bethany: Well, did you tell them about me?
Devon: Yes, babe. They know all about you.
Bethany: You know what I mean, Devon. Did you TELL them?
Devon closed out the text conversation and swiped through
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Instagram. Uncle Butch’s sharp elbow jab to the ribs jolted him to attention. Butch, with a grunt and puff of halitosis, nodded toward the pulpit. Devon’s mom, using the podium for support, managed to control her sobbing briefly to again summon her remaining son forward to say a few words.
He rose slowly, carefully climbing over Uncle Butch, who made no effort to make passing space. As he walked down the center aisle toward the stage, Devon feigned his sorrow. With a bowed head, he embraced his mom. A full foot shorter, she buried her face into his chest, her mascara permanently staining one of Devon’s three dingy, off-white dress shirts.
Mama Lee interlocked her arm with his, clutching him at the elbow. He tilted his head back to think about the best way to begin his off-thecuff speech. Last-minute adjustments to the microphone bought him a few more seconds. He cleared his throat, and in a subdued tone, Devon eulogized his brother:
“Losing a sibling is unbearable. Losing a twin brother is unthinkable. We shared the same womb, at the same time. The same birthday. Part of me is literally gone. And I miss him sorely.
“Don’t get me wrong, Damo was no saint. He disappointed a lot of pe—”
Mama Lee’s already tight hold suddenly felt like a boa constrictor. He got the hint and backtracked.
“But he was my brother,” Devon continued.
“As many of you know, identical twin boys run heavily in the Lee family. Damo and I were the fourth-known generation of twins in this family. Of course, there was Dad—God rest his soul—and Uncle Butch, his twin. Grandad was a twin, and so was his father.
“It was he, Great Granddaddy Lee, who authored a poem a hundred years ago about twin brotherhood, and the bond we share. I recall Dad drilling this poem into Damo and me as kids, requiring that we recite it on demand. Damo and I always thought it was corny. And I haven’t uttered these words since Dad was in the hospital, days before he died. Damo and I were barely twenty-one then. I had just graduated from undergrad, and Damo had just finished his first tour in Afghanistan.”
Devon swallowed hard, and for the first time all day, true sadness
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overcame him as he recited the poem:
I am not my brother’s keeper. I know this may seem strange. Though we have different names, We are one and the same. My shortfalls are his, And his strengths, mine. We ponder the same thoughts, Because we share the same mind. He is I. I am He. How can you not see?
No, I am not my brother’s keeper.
I AM MY BROTHER. And my brother is me.
“The poem is called ‘I Am My Brother.’ And I didn’t appreciate these words when Dad and Damion were alive, but they mean so much to me today.”
Mama Lee erupted in sobs. Her knees weakened, and Devon ushered her down the stairs to her seat.
He glanced down at the bronze urn that contained his twin brother’s ashes. Mama Lee was devastated when she learned that the Army had burned her son’s body instead of releasing it to the family for a proper burial. Damion had signed the cremation paperwork from the hospital bed at Fort Leavenworth. She was convinced he had done this to spite the family.
It had been nearly a year since she’d seen him in the flesh. Because of the coronavirus, hospital protocol had prohibited in-person visitation. Mama Lee called the hospital incessantly until she finally got a nurse to facilitate a phone call between her and Damion.
Army unit patches lay at the urn’s base. Some of his old Army buddies, all but one dressed sharply in their dress service uniforms, sat stone-faced in the third pew. Two of the soldiers later donned white cotton gloves and presented Mama Lee a crisply folded American flag—although this is typically an honor reserved only for veterans who
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received an honorable discharge, not a dishonorable one, as Damion had. So, the soldiers weren’t there on official orders, but just as friends. There were two large, suited middle-aged white men standing in the back. Their suits were too nice for them to be cops, not even feds. And they certainly didn’t seem like friends of Damion.
With the soldiers, the mysterious men in suits, Uncle Butch, and a handful of other close family members whose attendance was mandatory, the audience count was exactly twenty. That was the church’s cap, for social distancing purposes. If anything, the cap did more in the way of allowing Mama Lee to save face. People weren’t necessarily breaking down the church door for Damion Lee’s memorial service. •••
Devon ordered fifty chicken strips and negotiated with the drivethru cashier for thirty packets of Zaxby’s special sauce, down from his original request of a hundred.
He savored the first bite and ignored two back-to-back calls from Mama Lee. Surely, she only called to guilt-trip him for leaving for D.C. so soon after his brother’s memorial service.
His twenty-year-old Mitsubishi Galant could make it all the way to Florence, South Carolina, before needing a refill. Dad had bought the car for Damion and Devon to share in high school. Nevertheless, it had been Damion who’d always kept the key. Damion would wax the silver paint to shine as if small crystals were in the paint. He’d outfitted it with rims, window tints, a sound system, and a GPS tracker.
He’d claimed it was his car alone. And on the rare occasion he’d allowed Devon to use the car, Devon was considered to be borrowing it. He’d even taken the key with him when he left for basic training at Fort Benning at seventeen. Devon had been forced to pay five hundred dollars to get the dealership to cut him a new one.
Devon drove through his old housing projects. Streetlights flickered. Some were out completely. A plastic bag blew across the street like a tumbleweed in the desert. He passed the intersection near the Splash
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and Dash laundromat where he and Damion would sell ice-cold bottled water and Gatorade as kids. He merged onto I-75 North, putting the car and his mind on cruise control. Devon resolved to only stop for gas and the number two; he had two empty liter-and-a-half water bottles in the back seat that he would pee in when he needed to.
He toggled between music, podcasts, and audiobooks. At times, he just drove in silence, absorbed in his thoughts.
Windows down a quarter of the way, the crisp air against his face and down his collar kept him alert for much of the ten-hour, overnight drive. By the time he’d reached Richmond, his ears and nose had started to numb, so he rolled the windows up and started the heater. But by that point the sun had already crested the horizon, giving Devon a burst of new energy that would carry him the rest of the way.
Despite the 12-degree January frost, Devon always found warmth in driving north on I-395 and being greeted by the Washington Monument and the Jefferson Memorial, just over the Tidal Basin.
D.C. was home to him. It wasn’t New York- or L.A.-big, but it certainly wasn’t Middle Georgia, where they rolled the sidewalks up at seven o’clock. Although, in the Black professional D.C. scene, he often grew annoyed that everybody knew everybody. So, in some ways, it wasn’t that different.
And what D.C. lacked in Zaxby restaurants, it more than made up for in carry-out spots. Good Hope Carry-Out was Devon’s favorite: five wings and fries, ketchup and mumbo sauce on “errything”—that’s how the locals would say it. Mumbo sauce was a D.C. delicacy, and Good Hope was two blocks away from his apartment in Anacostia, a neighborhood that was on the slight uptick with gentrification but was still one of the roughest in the city.
Luckily there was a parking spot directly in front of his apartment building. Devon grabbed the drab olive green Army duffle bag that once belonged to Damion and did a once-over to make sure the car was clear of anything inside that might be attractive to crackheads or mischievous kids. And he dragged himself and the duffle bag to his second-floor efficiency, silenced his phones, and slept the Sunday away.
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