The sudden loud hiss as the doors closed on the Greyhound bus brought me back to now. The lurch forward (although in fairness to Greyhound, it was probably amplified by my condition), confirmed that the trip was real.

     I had been reading -- for the fifth time at least -- the letter that I had received from a Father Sorenson. This letter had caused my thoughts to retreat to earlier, warmer times. Jack was my older brother, and I couldn't recall a time when there hadn't been a Jack. However, as he had always reminded me there had been a time when there was no Teddy -- which was me.

     Jack and I had endured much together; mostly, due to sibling rivalry, much to our need for competition -- to be the better in our parents eyes. Some of what we had endured was just for plain old childhood survival. Brotherly love seemed largely an oxymoron in our case. But there were also times of peaceful coexistence; times when we actually got along and worked together. The letter was plain and straight forward, written on the letterhead of the Greater St. Louis Rescue Mission, and signed by a Father Joe Sorenson.

Mr. Theodore Burton,
4715 Champlain St. Apt. 7
Farnsworth, MO

Dear Mr. Burton:

     I have been talking with one of our residents, a Mr. Jack Burton. During our conversations, I have learned that he has a brother, a Mr. Theodore Burton. After some time, I have located your name and address. It is my hope that you are his brother. Jack says that he and his brother drifted apart in their adult years, and he is not sure where his brother resides now.

     I have enclosed a photograph that Jack says you will recognize if you are his brother.

     Jack is in need of family comfort and support, and I would plead with you, that if you are his brother, that you visit him here at the Rescue Mission. The address is at the top of this letter.

     If you are not his brother, I have enclosed a stamped envelope for your response, and the return of the photograph. The photograph is one of Jack's few possessions.
With God's Love,

Father Joe Sorenson

     The photograph, a grainy black and white one, showed the abuse of being carried in a wallet for many years. And there we were. Jack on the left, frowning into the camera; standing a head taller than me on the right, with a simple smile on my face. Our clothes were plain, but in good repair. Mine most certainly had the greater wear being formerly worn by Jack. It would be many years later before I noticed, or cared to have my own clothes. The house was behind us, with that still familiar porch, and diagonally across, on the ground was one of the few reminders of our father -- his shadow -- as he took the picture. Dad was always the one to take the picture, so he was rarely in any of them. Mom, never wanting to be seen like this always managed to avoid being photographed too.

     The house was gone now, a victim of progress. Mom and Dad were gone as well -- many years ago. Jack went to Viet Nam in 1965; I began a long series of very short jobs; and we did not keep in touch.

     "Going all the way to Louie?"

     "All the way." I replied, looking out the bus window. I was not in the mood for conversation, particularly from a fat stranger taking more than his fair share of the seat.

     "I'm going to visit my sister." He went on, not taking the hint. "She is a teacher."

     "That's good." I watched the traffic, slowly making it's way towards so many individual destinations. Then we were on the interstate.

     "Teaches third grade."

     "My brother." I gave in, not having the resolve to hold my ground. Besides, the scenery whirring past was hurting my eyes. I am not normally much of a drinker, however the occasion had seemed to spring itself upon me -- to my current regret.

     "Your brother teach?"

     "No."

     He waited, expecting more of an answer I suppose.

     "I don't know what he does. We haven't been in touch for years."

     Somehow this prompted the stranger, and he related a story about himself and his sister. Something from their childhood, though the details escaped me. It was particularly uninteresting to me. I nodded politely at the appropriate times, pretending mild interest.

     I thought back, recalling the now almost forgotten events that made up my relationship with my brother. I recalled the time ...

     "There was this time, I guess I was fifteen, my brother would have been ... oh, seventeen and a half. It was after school. A nice warm day, almost summer vacation. The school bus was letting us off at our mailbox. Jack -- my brother, had gotten off first. He always rode towards the front of the bus. I was way in the back, and I guess I thought the driver wasn't going to hold the door. So I jumped up and shouted gangway, and ran down the aisle towards the front of the bus.

     "Unfortunately, there was a lunch pail -- belonging to one of the football players -- just sticking out into the aisle. Well, I kicked that lunch pail clear to the front of the bus.

     "I kept going, and grabbing the post at the door, I swung out, and landed on the ground.

     "The next thing I knew, the bus had pulled away. But standing behind me was Ronnie Jackson -- the football player.

     "I don't recall that clearly what happened next. I remember being flat on my back, Ronnie setting on my stomach, and punching me in the face. Quit it! I heard myself yelling out -- though it was as though it was not me yelling. You're gonna pay for bustin' my thermos Ronnie was shouting. The pounding seemed to go on forever, and then suddenly Ronnie was off me.

     "Jack pulled Ronnie up, and held him square by the collar. They just glared at each other. Then Ronnie shook loose, and started walking down the road saying under his breath You owe me a thermos. Jack looked at me with contempt. Get yourself cleaned up before Mom and Dad get home."

     "He should have just asked you to pay for his thermos."

     "That wasn't the point, besides he knew I didn't have any money. The point was that my brother --"

     The stranger began another story about his sister, and I returned to my thoughts

#

     "Jack has his good times, and then he has his bad times." Father Sorenson went on, preparing me I suppose for my meeting with Jack.

     We walked side by side, through a courtyard, to one of the two dormitories that were part of the Greater St. Louis Rescue Mission. We paused for a moment outside the door.

     "He is not well."

     Inside, it was clean I suppose, in a hygienic way. There were three rows of beds along the side and rear walls. The center of the room was made into a sitting area, and there was a television set, going mostly unnoticed as the evening news gave the latest stock market report. Several residents were seated in this area, some reading donated paperback books, one just sat there. As we walked by they made hopeful glances towards us, then back down to what they were doing. I looked around for Jack, expectantly I suppose.

     We went to the back corner on the left, where one resident was lying down on a bed, his arm across his forehead. There we stopped. I looked at him, tall and gaunt. Shabby drab clothes brought no illusion of completeness to him.

     "Jack?" Father Sorenson prompted. "Jack, you have a visitor."

     "A visitor?" The hazy reply. Then raising up, his arms reaching out to support his body.

     "Jack, it's me -- Ted." I greeted him. Then I took a closer look. I stared, with shock, at this person that Father Sorenson had brought me to. "That's not my brother." I continued simply.

     "Who the hell are you?" This person questioned, trying to steady his head.

     "I'm sorry, but that isn't my brother." I explained to Father Sorenson as we left the dormitory. The person had simply laid back down, having no further interest in us.

     "But the photograph?"

     "I can't explain the photograph. I thought it was us, but it's old. I'm old, must be my memory. Sorry to have bothered you." I struggled with words to explain. Then I left.

#

     It was too late to catch a bus heading back to Farnsworth, so I looked around for a place to stay. The area surrounding the Rescue Mission was not the better part of town, and I was on foot. There were a number of places where I could find a room for the night, most at very reasonable prices. None of them would have received a star in any tourbook. Being of small means, that was not of great concern to me, and I found a room for the night.

     The room, overlooking a gray street, was illuminated from outside by a poorly placed streetlamp. This did not make it any easier to sleep; and my experience of this day made it impossible. I admit that I thought of turning to the comfort of drink for assistance in this matter, but I was of stronger character, and besides, I still regretted my earlier bout with the bottle.

     So instead, I tossed and turned, a feverish gnawing tore at my stomach, at my mind, and at my soul. I thought back to childhood memories. The fights between me and Jack, other good times. Memories of going in the family car on a picnic. Jack leaving to war, Mom and Dad giving him a hug. My senior year in high school, with the graduation and the promise. Stupid memories really, I reminded myself, things to be left in the past where they belonged.

     I thought of this person, this hideous person that Father Sorenson had tried to convince me was my brother -- yet still, there was the photograph. And try as I had, I could not deny it. Perhaps this was my brother. I decided to stay for another day.

#

     "What happened to him?"

     "The details are not clear, most of what I have learned, I learned from Jack. And, as you will find, he is not the most reliable source for information."

     I had accepted that this must be Jack, my brother. But before I saw him again, I needed to learn what I could from Father Sorenson.

     "There was a bar, Jack can't recall where or when. For some reason, he was involved in a very serious fight. Jack thinks he may have killed someone, but he is not sure. Perhaps there was a woman, maybe not. Maybe it was drunken rage. Jack was very badly injured. He lost his left eye and the left side of his skull was caved in. He may have been hit with a club, a broken bottle, possibly stomped and kicked.

     "Jack never received proper medical attention, someone -- who was a doctor I assume -- patched him up. He was not a plastic surgeon as you surely noticed yesterday. Much of the flesh and skin around Jack's left eye, and his forehead must have been missing because of the fight. So, the doctor pulled together what he could and stitched it together. As a result, he has no eye, no eyebrow, and no forehead on that side. There was surely brain damage too.

     "Jack has lucid moments -- more than moments really. Sometimes he goes for several days. He can remember his childhood, and he remembers current things. But that time in his life when he was injured is very sketchy to him. Other times ... well Jack can be very ... different.

     "But Jack needs support. He needs the love of family, and he also needs medical attention. The Rescue Mission does what it can, but Jack is only one, and our means are limited."

     "I don't have the means to take care of him either. I live in a small apartment, Social Security, a little savings -- not much."

     "There is always public assistance, it's not much, but you might try that."

     "And what if Jack did kill someone in that fight? He might be wanted, I don't think I should draw attention to him." I was grasping for reasons to just leave, but I knew that I couldn't.

     "I'm ready to see him again."

#

     "So you're Teddy. I wondered how you would look all grown up."

     I sat on Jack's right, focusing on the good side of his head. Jack cooperated, surely aware of his appearance, by remaining in profile to me.

     "When you are done visiting, just sign out at the front desk, I have to leave now and attend to some of our other residents." With that Father Sorenson left the dormitory.

     "Jack. So many years -- I don't know where to begin. What even to talk about."

     "What about you? You married, kids? What have you been doing." The effort showed in Jack's speech. Not so much in the delivery, but somehow I could feel it.

     "No, never got married -- no kids. There were a few times -- different women I knew. Never worked out. Mostly working for a living -- that never amounted to much either. I'm retired now, I don't do much of anything.

     "What about you? Viet Nam -- it bother you much? Ever married?"

     "Nam? Nah! I didn't have any problems with that. Other guys I knew -- they had problems. Me, it was just a dirty job. When I got out, I forgot about it. Married? Not that I can recall -- probably not, I would remember something like that.

     "Wanta go for a walk? Let's get out of here, I could use the fresh air."

     "We can go, just like that?"

     "Teddy, I'm not in jail or anything. I'm free to come and go, this is my home, not a prison."

     "Yeah, sorry. I didn't think." I replied, somewhat embarrassed by my assumptions. Outside it was a nice warm sunny day. We left the mission and went down Sixteenth Street. Jack stayed on my left side, so he would appear more normal to me. He walked with a limping gait, and we walked slowly. For a while neither of us spoke. I realized that we had been avoiding the real subject -- Jack's condition. And for me -- more importantly -- what sort of commitment I could, or would make for my brother. We had walked silently for several blocks.

     "I just wanted a beer."

     "You want a beer? OK, I guess. Any liquor stores around here?"

     "No, I don't drink. Can't drink -- because of my condition."

     "Then why --"

     "I went into the bar because I wanted a beer!" Jack replied impatiently. "It was a hot day."

     "Oh, is that when --"

     "Stop!" Jack was becoming agitated.

     I stopped talking. Then I saw that Jack was looking up the street.

     "In here, now!"

     We turned into an alley.

     "Why, what's the matter."

     "Stay with me." Jack began to run. "Have to hide, around the corner, a dumpster. They won't look in there." I caught up to Jack, who was very agitated. His eye darted about, and he was trembling.

     "Who?"

     "Hey Cyclops! We know you're in there. Better come out, and bring your fairy friend too!"

     "Toughs! They pick on people. You don't want to know what they do. Trust me. They won't look in the dumpster!" Jack was very agitated by now, so I followed him to the dumpster. I lifted the lid, and though it stank, it was not very full -- except for the flies. I hesitated, and Jack cried out "Now!"

     I managed to boost Jack up, and he went over and in. In a panic, I managed to step up onto the ribs around the dumpster, and I went head first into it. The heavy lid banged down. Moments later, I heard the shuffling of feet running past. The clicking indicated that there were steel taps on their shoes. The shouting and cursing gave me a clear picture of what we had been in for -- perhaps still were. I could hear Jack's labored breathing over my own labored breath, and my pounding heart.

     Then it was silent, save for my own breath, which was returning to normal.

     "I think they have gone." I whispered. Jack did not answer, so I waited a few moments more. By now I was certain they had gone on. But then I heard a loud banging on the side of the dumpster; a rhythmic thump thump thump. I held my breath in fear. After a few moments, when the lid had not been thrown open, I realized that it was Jack, kicking the side of the dumpster. I braced my courage, stood and opened the lid -- the light shone in to reveal Jack.

     "Jack, what's the matter?" I shouted. Jack's one eye stared straight ahead. Jack's head was rolling from side to side, and he was thrashing wildly with his hands. Fearing that some of the trash might harm him, I tried to hold him still. But it was as though he had the strength of two men. "Jack stop!" I repeated over and over, but I knew he could not hear me. Finally Jack did stop, and he began to tremble. "Jack, are you all right?"

     "Huh, who's there?"

     "Me, Teddy."

     "Oh ..."

#

     "A seizure. Jack has them, usually when he becomes agitated or upset. It's brought on by his brain damage." Father Sorenson explained as we watched Jack, sleeping and breathing deeply on his bed.

     I had not had the strength to pull Jack from the dumpster, so I had to leave him there. Then I ran back to the mission, and to Father Sorenson. He rounded up two of the younger and healthier residents and they brought Jack back to the mission.

     "He will be OK now, he will probably sleep for six or seven hours more."

     "Will he remember me?'

     "Yes, but he won't remember the incident. All that was short term memory, it will be gone. It's a good thing you were able to hide, there is no telling what would have happened otherwise. You probably would have been raped at least -- I know that sounds unbelievable to you, but it has happened around here more than once. I called the police, and there will be extra patrols for a few days. These guys will move on for now."

     "I guess we were lucky that they didn't check the dumpster."

     Father Sorenson looked at me for a moment. "Not lucky, blessed.

     "Jack knew where to hide, that they would not look in the dumpster. That is something that Jack can do, see something that he could not possibly know.

     "Jack lost something, and it was replaced with something else to compensate. I can't explain it other than that. Perhaps God wanted to make it up to Jack that he lost so much. I like to think that is the case."

     I looked at Father Sorenson in disbelief. "You're trying to say that Jack can predict the future? Like some fortune teller?"

     "I am just saying that Jack has been able to see things in a way that can't be explained logically. No, he can't predict the future -- not reliably, not on demand. There just seems to be some separation of time from understanding for him -- almost like we are the ones with limited vision, constrained by our perception of time."

     "Pardon me Father, but that sounds like a lot of baloney. Time is time, you can't get around it!"

     "Of course, neither can you. But Jack? I am only telling you what I have observed."

     "Then if that's the case, why doesn't he play the stock market or something? Why doesn't he use this talent?"

     "For Jack, there is no talent. The only times I know of that Jack has done this, he has gone into a seizure right afterwards -- he never remembers anything."

#

     The next morning, I stopped at the corner diner for breakfast. I had gone over in my mind every possible way that I could help Jack. The result was that I knew I could not. I lived in a small studio apartment, the most I could afford. There simply was not room for another person. My thoughts were tormented by memories of me and Jack in our childhood. More and more the memories returned of times that Jack had helped me. My older brother, not always my friend, had nonetheless watched over me. Now, I could not return the favor.

     At the diner, I used up several napkins, trying to figure out a way; all to no avail, it simply was not possible. I put my pen back in my pocket in frustration, paid the check and left. I started for the mission, going over what I would say to Jack by way of a good-bye.

     Jack just sat there as I explained my situation. Then he reached under the mattress and pulled out a tattered notebook. "What's the date?"

     I told him, and he searched through the notebook.

     "The Funky Four! Got a dollar?"

     "Yeah, why?"

     "The Funky Four!" Jack said impatiently. "That's tonight, bet a buck on the Funky Four -- use these numbers!" Angrily "The State Lottery, these are the numbers! He wrote them in for me."

     Jack continued to become more agitated, and began to ignore me. He began fumbling through the notebook, turning pages, finally he found a blank page and wrote something down. Then he replaced the notebook under the mattress, and staring wildly with that one eye, he began another seizure.

     Some of the residents, seated in the sitting area turned to watch. "Looks like Jack One Eye is havin' another fit." One of them said.

     "Hold him down!" Another advised.

     "Just keep him straight so he don't cut off his air. He'll be OK."

     When Jack settled down into a deep sleep, I went out for a walk. I could not bring myself to just leave as I had planned. I guess I wanted to complete my good-bye at a time that Jack would remember it. I passed a liquor store, and the words Funky Four caught my eye. I went in, more out of curiosity than anything else, and saw that the jackpot was $10,000. Reason abandoned me, and like a fool, I took one of my remaining dollars and bet the numbers that Jack had given me.

#

     I returned to the mission in the afternoon to find Jack awake and coherent.

     "Teddy, I didn't see you leave. Get some lunch or something?"

     I nodded. "Look, Jack ... It's been good seeing you. But I have to get back home. I just about used up the cash I brought with me. I hope everything works out for you, I uh ..." there were no more words for me to say.

     Jack nodded back. "Teddy, it was great for me too. Take care of yourself."

     I shook his hand and turned to leave.

     "Just a beer, that was all. But they had you down on the floor. Had to help ... no, not you. Somebody, I don't know ... but I had to help -- some help I was. Look at me."

     I should have turned back around, but I just said "Good-bye Jack."

     The bus wasn't ready to board yet, so I decided to get a cup of coffee. I put my suitcase in a locker, and I went outside the terminal to the all night diner on the corner. A TV was going at one end of the diner, and I heard the words Funky Four from someone in the diner as he turned to watch as the lottery results were being announced. Out of curiosity, I turned my attention to the TV and watched as the numbers that Jack had given me appeared at the bottom of the screen.

     "Jack!" I yelled as I made my way through the dormitory. Several residents looked up as I went by. Jack's bed was empty.

     "Your friend isn't there."

     "Where is he?"

     "Ask Father Sorenson." One of them volunteered with a shrug.

     "It was a massive seizure, he suffocated when his windpipe collapsed. For whatever comfort you can gather from it, I am sure he felt nothing. It was God's will, nothing any of us could have done." Father Sorenson filled me in. "I thought you had left, what brought you back?"

#

     I had an open casket ceremony for Jack; Father Sorenson graciously agreed to do the service. I spent part of our winnings, Jack's and mine, for some cosmetic work on Jack's face. It was very good work, and at least in death Jack would again be presentable. Understandably, there were only a few attendees, from the rescue mission -- and probably they came for the food. It was no matter to me, I was there and that was all that mattered -- me and Jack together one last time.

     I kept out a thousand dollars, and donated the rest to the mission. I am sure Jack would have wanted that. Then I returned home with Jack's worldly possessions. One photograph, an empty wallet, and his notebook. Jack had scribbled one last entry in the notebook -- dated five years from now. I will remain curious over these next five years as to whether Jack actually predicted the winning numbers for the Power Ball Lottery.

The End