I’d have to sit down for a bit. He was bigger than I was, so I had to use whatever advantages I had. In the end we just called a truce and resolved to train like they did in the movie. Heavy running, lifting things around the house; a wooden chair, escalating numbers of Britannica encyclopedias, an old dusty desk lamp, with our arms, our legs. We promised to fight after the training period was done but knew that time wouldn’t come and I think we were both okay with that. Sometimes on weekend nights we’d convince our parents to let us have sleepovers. We’d always invite Kevin and Alan and a couple of other neighborhood kids but everyone knew they’d never show so it’d just be Matt and me. My mom would cook up two meals on those nights, macaroni and cheese for us, with spaghetti sauce on top for Matt because he liked it that way; dal and shak for her, Dad, and my baby brother. The house smelled like the house always did but Matt sneezed too much so mom would break out her best potpourri instead of opening windows to the slow cleanse of fresh air. It was weird but worth it. Dad would engage us with stories about war heroes, General Douglas MacArthur usually, sometimes the Battle of Midway and on nights he was in the best mood, D-Day. After they all went to bed, we’d be up all night, Matt and I. I had this room in the corner of the house upstairs that the lamppost on the street illuminated, like dimmed moonlight stuck in a basket. Three-D images emerged out of the rings and patterns nature and history had etched into my dark wooden walls. Animated imaginary stories were born overnight, lost kingdoms of Atlantis, blind carnivorous elephants, all to the soundtrack of the creaky wood that made up the floors and stairs of our home. It was nice to not be alone. Sometimes though, when we ran out of things to say I’d bring up Hemendra uncle and how when they found his body in the basement there was a huge pool of bright red blood that had what looked like a frozen reflection of his face afraid of death; spattered palm prints wallpapered the room, desperately reaching. For dignity, imprinting identity, establishing legacy. They said they had to call in at least three different teams to clean the blood because each group left more terrified than the next. It was his eyes, they insisted. The moment they’d put a mop into the corner of the pool, a ripple would circle around itself, in perfect symmetry, creating just the slightest vibration along his timeless, fearful face; but then, just when harmony and peace were again established, his pupils would flicker like a persevering light bulb, pivot, and penetrate their disbelieving eyes. In the end, the guys who finally cleaned it needed to be blindfolded, or else he’d still be awake in that concrete basement room. Restless waiting. I’d draw it out for Matt and his red eyes always stopped shaking. The only time I can ever remember stillness in his eyes was when he cried. I’d TLR
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