Brother Monroe spoke four languages, could play classical music note-perfect on piano or cello and had an I.Q. of 130. And yes, there was also that prophetic first name. Get involved with the talkative, inquisitive, and affable Brother and you always came away feeling, well, like you were as close as brothers.

The most amazing thing about Brother was he was only six years old.

You could look at him and tell he was special. There was an aura about him, a light. His mop of golden hair was never out of place, his clothes were always neat (dirt came standard with most six-year-olds), and he always looked you directly in the eye when he spoke.

On the other hand, his seventeen-year-old sister, Mindy, had a lack of sexual restraint that would have made the Marquis de Sade blush, and she seldom saw a classroom. If she hadn't paid me ten dollars per paper for her English and history assignments, she would have been the poster girl for summer school.

Mindy and I were both seventeen, but she dated well above our age group, snagging a few of the local biker toughs, most notably Bartram Resner. We called him "Black Bart" because of his attire, but mostly because of his mood. Lanky and scruffy, with dark, penetrating eyes, Black Bart hit first and asked questions later.

Like most girls her age, Mindy was drawn to Black Bart's bad boy image. Bart may have dropped out of school in tenth grade, but he knew how to sucker good-looking girls into falling for him. And Mindy became his prize, dewy-eyed and dense with flowing amber hair, an athletic figure, and dimples that popped out whenever she smiled.

With the school year ending, I knew my arrangement with Mindy would soon be suspended. I guaranteed her my last two papers were A's or they were free. Mindy insisted I bring the papers to her parent's house. Since she only lived a few doors away, I didn't balk; I walked.

In typical Mindy fashion, she got bored halfway through the first paper.

"It's good, but I don't have any money," Mindy declared, "But I do have something worth more than money."

She began walking toward the back of the house. Turning, she gave me an alluring over-the-shoulder look.

"Aren't you coming with me?"

I drifted behind her, transfixed.

"Sit down," she commanded.

I walked over to the chair behind her desk.

"Not there. On the bed."

Mindy began to shed her clothes. My mouth must have noticeably dropped open when she softly said, "Will this be okay?"

"I'm not in any position to say no."

File the moment under too good to be true.

Of course, that was when Mindy's parents and Brother came home early. I've never seen someone dress so quickly.

"Hide! Get under the bed!"

I heard Mindy's twittering voice greet her parents, followed by the pitter-patter of Brother's sneakers as he headed toward his room.

His footfalls stopped in the doorway. I cursed to myself when I heard him enter the room.

Bending down, he gave me a cherubic grin that seemed to say "Gotcha!"

"Why are you hiding under Mindy's bed?"

"We're playing hide and go seek."

"Really? That's what you're going with?"

"It's all I got," I replied. "How did you know I was hiding here?"

"I saw your boots. The quilt only covers the sides of the bed, not the back. You should have hidden in the closet, that's where most of the guys go."

"You're not going to tell your parents, are you?" I asked.

"My parents are well aware that Mindy's very popular with boys. She's not called the friendliest girl in Mount Kisco because she's funny or smart."

"Do you understand why?"

"I know it's not a compliment," Brother said. "I'm surprised you're one of her boyfriends. I thought you were smarter than that."

"You'll understand why later on when you're a teenager."

"Oh, yes, sex. Glad I'm only six."

"We still friends?"

"Of course. You know I don't have many friends. I'm not going to let my sister's weird habits come between us."

I was both surprised and relieved. "Thanks. I know I promised to teach you how to throw a curveball, maybe I can show you later."

Brother's eyebrows arched into a V. I knew he was hatching a plan.

"I've got a better way you can get over your guilt," he said. "Are you going to work as a camp counselor again this summer?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Mindy usually takes me to camp and picks me up. I can go with you instead."
"I don't have my license yet. I walk to the park."

"Even better, that'll give us more time to talk. You're more interesting than Mindy."

"You're sister's plenty interesting."

"Yeah naked, or at least that's what all the guys say. So, what do you say? You can either walk me to camp every day or I can tell my parents why you were hiding under Mindy's bed."

Walking to camp with Brother was like taking a trip along the astral plane with Henry David Thoreau. He knew more about politics, philosophy, and music than any adult, yet he still retained a child's sense of wonderment.

"What's your favorite album?" he asked.

"The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys by Traffic."

"Hmm. Did you know the verses are in D minor while the choruses modulate to D major with a repeated piano riff in D minor?"

"Show off. Let me ask you, Brother, with all the knowledge you possess, what do you want to do with your life?"

"Research," the man-child replied. "Sometimes my mom gets very sad. She drinks and gets sadder. She gets sad because I'm so smart and Mindy, well, Mom says Mindy's lost. So, I want to invent a pill to make Mom happy all the time."

"How about one to make Mindy smarter?"

"That would be more in line with a miracle," Brother replied.

"Is that all you want to do, research?"

"Of course not. I want to play at Carnegie Hall. Did you know it has the best acoustics in New York City?"

"I do now."

Brother and Mindy's parents made every effort to love both their children, but it was obvious Mrs. Monroe considered her daughter a failure because Mindy lived her life at full throttle. Her conversations with Mindy often ended with her shaking her finger in her daughter's face, telling her she'd never amount to anything.

Irma Monroe was the director of the local library, a conservative who wore dowdy dresses that went down to her knees, black-rimmed glasses, and a stern, studious expression. The only time she smiled was when she was around her husband, David, and Brother.

"I don't know what you see in Mindy," she once said to me.

"Deep down, Mindy's a nice girl."

"There isn't a shovel big enough to dig that deep," Mrs. Monroe parried. "She's a sex
crazed party girl."

I hemmed and hawed, searching for a response that could help defend Mindy.

"Well, at least she's good at something," Mrs. Monroe added.

I cleared my throat. "You still have Brother."

"He's the light of my life. He's going to something special."

"He already is."

Mrs. Monroe flashed a rare smile.


Fortunately for Mindy, her father hadn't given up on her.

"I bet you didn't know that when Mindy was a little girl, she was smarter than Brother," he said to me.

I barely managed to keep from laughing.

"Yep. My little princess caught a rare form of Fibromyalgia when she was seven. We thought she was going to die. She was in a coma for a month. When she came out of it, everything she'd learned was gone. She couldn't even remember her own name. From that point on, Mindy had problems concentrating on her schoolwork. After a while, Irma thought she might be faking it because Mindy wanted to be popular rather than smart. Before her illness, she wanted to be the first woman astronaut in space. Now she just takes up space."

Since I was a counselor for the six-year-olds, Brother happened to be in my group. He couldn't play kickball, couldn't swim, or hit a baseball like the other kids, but he could teach them how to play chess or how to sing a hymn in German, and he inspired the other kids to take art class more seriously. It was like having an extra counselor around.

Watching Brother made me think how proud I'd be to have a son like him. Dealing with the kids who were bullies, whiners or crybabies made me wonder if I cope with being a father. But whenever Brother smiled at me, laughed at one of my stupid jokes, or reached out to take my hand for support, I couldn't wait to be a dad.

Mindy picked us up when camp was over. She'd stash Brother with their Aunt Delia, who lived a few blocks away. A former Metropolitan Opera singer, Aunt Delia gave Brother voice and piano lessons while Mindy gave me more personalized instruction.

I wasn't so sexually enslaved by Mindy to think that I was the only guy gleefully spending afternoons with her. There were afternoons, especially Thursdays when Mindy was conveniently busy. Passing the Monroe's house on my way to play baseball one Thursday, I saw Mindy mounting the back of Black Bart's bike. I knew it wouldn't be long before she'd be mounting him as well.

When I saw Mindy the next day, she was sporting a black eye.

"Did you fall off of Bart's bike or his fist?" I asked.

"None of your business."

"Your folks think I'm tutoring you..."

"Sometimes it's the other way around, isn't it?"

"Let me finish... As your tutor, I'd advise you to stay clear of Black Bart."

"And I'd advise you to shut up unless you want me to tell him the nickname you call him behind his back."

"I'm just trying to look out for you."

"Look out for yourself. Bart's noticed the way you look at me."

"No different from any other guy."

"He doesn't think so," she said. "He gets jealous really easy, you know. So maybe you should keep your distance from now on."

"Are you telling me it's over between us?"

"He's a man. You're a kid. Besides, he's got a bike."

"I do too," I said.

"But yours is a Schwinn."

"He's broken your heart what, twice, three times?"

"He didn't mean to."

"Next it'll be your nose or your jaw that he breaks."

"He wouldn't hit me," Mindy replied.

"So, I'm wrong about your black eye?"

"It was a mistake. He didn't mean to do it."

"Bullies never do, Mindy."

"It was my fault."

"If you believe that Mindy, then you really are as stupid as people say you are."

I immediately felt sorry I'd been so cruel. Mindy turned her back on me, whimpering as she walked away.

Mindy may have cut me off, but I continued to take Brother to camp.

"I didn't know what the saying 'trouble in paradise' meant until now," he said to me one morning.

"So, what do you think it means?"

"You and Mindy. You two were always under the covers, giggling and tickling each other."

"Okay, if that's what you want to call it."

"You haven't done that lately. The only time you're around now is to walk me to camp, and when you come over, Mindy disappears. Is that what happens when people stop loving each other?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, that'll never happen to us."

I decided to call in sick a few days later. It was pouring rain, a monsoon unlike any I'd ever seen before or since. The skies were so black it looked like midnight in the early morning.

I later told anyone who would listen that the raindrops were the tears the Monroe family cried from that day on.

Day camp on a rainy day was like trying to pacify rioting prisoners at Alcatraz. The rain meant the hundreds of day campers who were used to frolicking around in the acres of free space at the park would be crammed into two floors at the Boy's Club.

I called Mindy to tell her she had to drive Brother to camp.

"Why can't you?"

"He's your brother. Besides, I don't drive, remember?"

"But Bart's coming over."

"Then get Bart to take him. No scratch that, you don't want Brother on the back of his
Harley in the rain."

"Brother hates Bart," Mindy whined.

"Well, he is a genius, isn't he?"

While Mindy was cursing at me, Brother put on his rain gear and slipped out the back door. If I wasn't going to walk to his house to pick him up, he was going to come to my place and prod me into walking him to camp.

Mindy suddenly screamed, dropping the receiver.

I glanced at the receiver as if it could provide me with an answer.

"Mindy? Mindy?"

I continued to repeat her name for another minute or so, then slammed the receiver down in disgust.

Mindy had often run off during our conversations to turn off the stove, the bath, or some other appliance she shouldn't have been trying to operate, so I thought she'd been distracted yet again. I went back to bed and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

Minutes later my peaceful slumber was interrupted by a desperate, loud banging on the front door.

I opened the door to see Mindy standing there in the downpour, her makeup running down her cheeks, her light brown hair dripping like a worn kitchen mop.

Despite the heavy rain, I could tell she was crying.

"He got hit! He got hit!" she screamed hysterically.

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"Brother! Brother! He was hit by a car! He's dead!"

Giving in to her grief, Mindy rushed into my arms. She just as quickly pushed me away.

"It's all your fault! He was coming to see you! You killed him!"

"You're not making sense," I said.

"Nothing makes sense now."

Mindy grabbed me by the hand, pulling me out into the rain. We broke into a dead run, splashing through puddles, racing to the crossroad a few doors away.

A police cruiser's flashing lights bathed the scene in a surreal, foreboding light.

A man in a motorcycle jacket was screaming out an explanation to the officer. He cupped his face with his hands, shrieking, "WHY? WHY? WHY?".

I recognized the driver. It was Bart. He'd just traded in his bike for a brand-new Mustang that morning and had been speeding down the street, hoping to surprise Mindy.

"He jumped out in front of the car! I never saw him!"

Mindy began hitting me in the chest.

"Look what you've done! Look what happened!"

By now a neighbor had called Aunt Delia, who had made her way to the scene. She pulled Mindy off me, taking her inside.

I fought the urge to look at Brother, but my eyes drifted toward Bart's Mustang.

A pair of red rain boots poked out from underneath the car. If it had been someone else other than Brother, I would have laughed. The scene reminded me of when Dorothy dropped a house on the Wicked Witch of the East in the "Wizard of Oz." There was just a pair of bright red rubber boots almost comically pointing at us.

Brother Monroe never got to play Carnegie Hall or cure his mother's depression. I blamed myself, and I wasn't alone. If only I'd gone to work, he might have become a beloved leader like John Kennedy, or an icon of social change like Dr. Martin Luther King. Of course, things didn't exactly work out for them either.

I wish I could say that Brother looked like he was sleeping when he was pulled from underneath his death car. The sight of him is something I still clearly see fifty years later. What was left of his once-perfect mop of blonde hair was blood-spattered. The head that had once held the mind of a genius was flattened. His brain matter was in small piles on the pavement and was slowly washed away by the rain.

He was quickly covered up, but when Mrs. Monroe arrived at the scene and pulled back the sheet, everyone's agony increased two-fold. Her shriek started as a slow mournful moan before reaching such a horrific height that even the policemen covered their ears.

I'd always wanted to see Black Bart suffer. Now that he was, it wasn't worth the trade-off.

Bart was the first to leave the area, slipping out of town unannounced the week after the funeral. I heard he developed a taste for hard liquor and sat alone in bars muttering about the little boy he'd killed.

Bart died after falling down a flight of stairs four years after the accident. Some of the witnesses swore he jumped.

After Brother's death, Mrs. Monroe shunned Mindy. They seldom spoke and when they did it always resulted in bruised feelings and the guilt of Brother's death passing between them like a Frisbee.

After Brother's funeral (which Mr. Monroe advised me not to attend), Mrs. Monroe quickly lost her battle with depression. I didn't see Mrs. Monroe for three months, and when I did it was the day she fell asleep behind the wheel of her car, which hit a van parked only a few feet away from where Brother had died. Never a fashion plate but always neat, Mrs. Monroe was now a haggard, hollow-eyed mess in a housecoat and slippers. She'd gone to the liquor store and almost made it back home before her depression meds caught up with her.

Mrs. Monroe dodged an ironic fate that afternoon, coming away with just a broken arm, but two months later, while her husband was at work and Mindy was partying with a gang of bikers, Mrs. Monroe left nothing to chance, swallowing enough pills to kill herself.

Mindy blamed me for Brother's death, saying it was my phone call that distracted her. Every time Mindy saw me, she'd turn her back on me and walk away, whispering to anyone within earshot, "That's the guy that killed my brother."

She may have done her best to point the finger at me publicly, but in private she blamed herself. After Brother's death, she sniffed, snorted, and shot anything she thought was a drug with a vengeance.

Mindy didn't bother with the facade of trying to graduate. Midway through our senior year, Mr. Monroe shipped Mindy off to a relative in New Jersey, hoping if she were away from her biker chums, she'd clean up. Misinterpreting her father's desperate move as abandonment, she overdosed the weekend her father came to visit, a trip that marked the first anniversary of Brother's death.

After Mindy had poisoned the air around her parents, I didn't think it was in anyone's best interests to try and beg for forgiveness. I ran into Mr. Monroe at the corner store shortly after Mindy's death. He'd just gotten off the train from Manhattan and was still dressed impeccably. I was amazed that after all he'd been through in the past year, Mr. Monroe was still going to work as if nothing had happened.

"I was sorry to hear about Mindy." I offered.

"Thank you. I'm surprised you still could feel sorry for her, given the way she treated you after Brother's death. Poor Mindy never found her path. When she started blaming herself for Brother's death, she couldn't face the possibility that life could still go on."

"He was really gifted," I said.

"Gifted. That's a good way to put it. He hated being called special. But you could look at him and see he was going to burn brightly for a little while, then he'd be gone, just like a comet."

A few months later, Mr. Monroe moved to Tennessee. I was told the once dapper salesman had grown a beard, remarried, and started a second family.

My thoughts of being a father died with Brother. I had killed a child. I didn't want to take the chance I might kill another.