Alligator Candy by David Kushner Read Free Book Online

David. Oh God, let them remember Jon, his sweetness, their brother. It feels good, though, I cry, to write about him, to gather my thoughts and memories together about him. I need to hang on to the memories, the special little things, the everyday feelings we had for him. To forget these things would add to our loss. What do we have but some pictures, the things he made set in his room, our little den now, throughout the house. When will we be able to put up his pictures . . . How many more birthdays (my last one was so painful without him) before I begin to not miss him or think—“he’s not here.” Will that ever happen? Do I want that to happen? Yet how long can we live—I live—having the pain of it happening?
    I want more memories to come to me. I want those who loved him, played with him, got a kick out of him, to write down some memories of him, to add to these.
    I see him wiping his finger across his nose. I did that, too. Did he learn that from me? I see him sniffing up, lip slightly down in a sort of habit-like manner. I see his twinkling, twinkling brown yes. I see the little blackhead on his right cheek near his ear. I long for this kid, my Jon, part of me.
    I think that my grief might keep me from Andy and David, lessen my time and commitments to them. That would be so unfair, not right. But my grief separates me from my wholeness now. Maybe time will help. More memories: Our stay at the Sandcastle, St. Pete. He and Andy running from pool to pool, enjoying.
    Lying in the back of the wagon (on pillows for a while) taking lots of books, comics to read whenever we would drive somewhere. Andy did that, too. Now David does.
    The time Gil, Andy, David, Jon, and I rode our bikes (David on mine) to the park, the ducks, the swings.
    The time I look out the garage and see Andy’s head barely above the Toyota steering wheel with Jon seated next to him driving slowly past the mailbox.
    Trying to play the drums, little quick repetitive hits on it. He wanted to take lessons.
    Last Yom Kippur. He would get so tired at evening services. He begins to fall asleep, his head leans on my shoulder . . .
    His last birthday party, some friends go with him to Shakey’s. He liked that a lot. Presents, his own pizza, a Shakey’s hat. I hear and see his giggles, he walks fast, his arms swinging, his toes pointed in a little.
    Tomorrow is Passover. Last Passover, together here in our new house and Jon here. How many holidays will pass and will his presence not be so missed?
    [Our friend’s] house, one Sunday last summer. Jon went out on their kayak. He paddles and maneuvered around. He dragged it up on the ground. He was so fervently busy and absorbed.
    To remember and see him in all those places. That is what I want now.
    And Busch Gardens, see him and Andy dashing up and around to go on the flume ride.
    Andy said after Jon’s death, “Now I don’t have a brother to do things with.” He also said, “Did he know I loved him?”

14
    S OON I WAS walking down the same sidewalk where I last saw Jon, and wandering to school alongside the woods where he vanished. Jon was gone but everywhere. He was in the woods across the street from our house. He was in the 7-Eleven that we passed frequently. He was at IDS, in the trees and the Dome. He was in our den, where his last school picture hung next to Andy’s and mine against the wood-paneled wall. That picture of him took on great meaning. It was the one that I would see periodically in news stories about his case. My brother wore a red shirt, zipped up to the neck, red like his hair. Red became the color of Jon. Red, the color of his pop art wallpaper. Red like his bike. Red like blood. Red like fire ants. Red was everywhere, and so was my brother. When I was given something of Jon’s as a keepsake, it was his lucky rabbit’s foot. And it was red too.
    It was still the early seventies, and even Jon’s