What Brothers Are For

          My best memory is from an early spring evening when I was nine. I had a ballet recital, which called for hot curlers twisted through my hair, and a little bit of my mother's bright red lipstick. I wiped my palms against a white tutu as the curtain raised, and plastered on my biggest smile. That's when I saw him, my big brother James, seated next to my parents in the second row. His appearance at something this girlish was unheard of; he'd have been much more pleased with me had I been born a boy, which he had no problem mentioning over games of catch in our backyard. I nearly forgot my routine. But James was there, and I was going to impress him.
         When the performance was over, I found him waiting by stage door.
         "We're going to get ice cream!" He announced. There's a spark in his eyes.
         "What about mama and daddy?" I couldn't find our parents anywhere, and mama always made sure to wipe off my lipstick after recitals. Until I was older, it was only supposed to be worn on stage.
         "They're having a date night." He answered, almost laughing.
         Normally Jamie hated their date nights, they meant him spending a Saturday night with me, instead of at the cinema with his friends. But he sounded happy enough, and I wasn't going to question his willingness to buy me ice cream.
         He told me silly jokes as we walked the two blocks to the ice cream shop. I don't remember any of them now, but I remember laughing so much that my sides hurt by the time we got there. And I remember the thrill of being told that tonight, I could have two scoops. I was even allowed to have a sip of his root beer float, and our mother never let me drink soda!
         We cut through the park to get home, talking about my friends at school and ballet lessons. Usually we just talked about baseball, so it was no surprise when the conversation rolled around to the White Sox and their season-opening loss against St. Louis. I loved baseball, and that was about the only redeeming quality James could find in a little sister. As we reached our front gate, he declared that he had something to give me. In his hand was a treasure I had envied as long as I could remember: a Luke Appling baseball card.
         "Keep it safe for me." That was all he said, before ushering me through the front door and disappearing up the stairs. I remember wondering what exactly I needed to keep a baseball card safe from. A week later, I would find out. That, is my worst memory.
         I woke up to the sound of the neighbor's dog barking. It was early morning, pale light shown through the lilac curtains against my window. The morning chill lingered in the air; I slipped socks onto my feet before opening my bedroom door. I heard them from the top of the staircase, my parents, all hushed whispers and shushing. I perched on the top stair, my favorite eavesdropping spot, with a perfect view of the hall that led from the kitchen to the front door. I could tell something was wrong. There I was, peering through the rails, when James walked by. But- he was dressed like a soldier, with a bag slung over his shoulder. They followed him, mama clinging to daddy's arm. They didn't say anything, but her eyes were red. Daddy squared his shoulders, and I watched as he shook Jamie's hand. And then he was gone, closing the heavy oak door behind him.
         Our father had told me about the war, how there were bad people who had attacked Hawaii, and a lot of the men we knew would leave to fight them and keep us safe. No. My brother was not going to fight people. He couldn't. And then I was running. Down the stairs, past my parents, out the front door, across the lawn, through the gate. He was at the corner by old Ms. Figgins house when I pitched myself forward, little arms and legs latching onto his knees.
         "You quit that crying right now, Alice." He said, half-heartedly, as he pried my fingers from his pant legs.
         "You can't go! I'll do anything you want. Please! You just can't go I don't want the bad guys to hurt you." I could hear the whine in my voice, eyes and throat stinging from the sobs I was struggling to talk through.
         "Nobody's gonna hurt me, Alice." He assured me with a grin. "If I don't go, those people might come here and hurt you, or mama, or dad."
         He held his arms open, and I ran to him, tear-stained cheek pressed against his shirt. That's the only time I can recall hugging him.
         "You keep that card safe for me." He whispered before releasing me. I watched him walk up the street, growing smaller until he turned by the Jackson's house, headed for the train station. That was the last time I ever saw James; and the White Sox lost again that day.


         A few years later, Luke Appling left the White Sox to join the United States Army. After his service, he returned to baseball, earning a spot in the Hall of Fame. I guess he was lucky. Or maybe God likes baseball too.