Two Cans and a String

When Will charges down the staircase, having obviously taken the window route to get inside, I’m sitting cross-legged in front of Jameson, gently wiping the dried blood off his face with a warm dish cloth. He stops abruptly at the bottom and stares down at the scene in front of him. There’d been no time for me to change my shirt or clean up any of the residual blood. With his hand still resting atop the banister, a mix of emotions shades over his face, the dominant one being panic.

For my tenth birthday, my parents had given me responsibility. Their perpetual financial issues were even more prevalent that year, so they had to get creative. On that day, I was allowed to ride my bike five blocks to the nearest playground without any adult supervision. One of the proudest moments of my life.

Of course, I could only go if Will could go with me, having already seven months of being ten years old under his belt. And Will could only go if he brought Jameson because that’s what older brothers do: they take their little brothers to the park. Also because his parents enjoyed a quiet house almost as much as a strict one. So we’d each packed a backpack. Mine full of food, Will’s full of props, and set off on our first real life adventure together.

The playground was our castle. Our lookout towers were four slides connected by four swinging bridges. The wall of tires meant for climbing was the main entrance, while the fire poll was to be used only for emergencies. A moat of sand surrounded our property. Back then we had crowns perched atop our heads and cardboard swords tucked into our belts, and we’d whisper pretend commands at each other through a string pulled taut between two metal cans.

Pull back the draw bridge, Lieutenant! The invaders are coming!, I’d call. He’d reply with, Weapons ready, Captain!

Jameson would follow us. We’d make him do the brute work, like fixing a wall of sand that’d been kicked over or turning the flag made of extra fabric from one of my old dance costumes so that the wind would catch it.

However, that day he’d followed us too far and during an emergency evacuation we’d leapt onto the fire pole with mock terror on our faces. Jameson, though, didn’t know how to use it properly and ended up plummeting onto the packed sand beneath the platform. He’d hit his head hard and split open his knee, too.

The look on Will’s face now is a reminder of the look I observed on my tenth birthday. Dark and broken, like he’s ashamed of himself for somehow failing his little brother when it’s not really his fault. “What happened?” He whispers thickly. His sky eyes are glazed behind his thick framed glasses.

“He was drunk and came to my house because he thought it was yours,” I reply quietly. Then I add, “It looks worse than it is,” both because it’s true and because I can’t bear to see the disheartenment on my friend’s face and want it to go away.

As I clean up the boy, I explain the rest of what happened. Will drops down beside me, sitting in the same position and dolefully watching as I blot away the blood and patch up all that could possibly be patched. When I begin to describe Jameson’s once bloodstained chin, Will presses his forehead against my shoulder, squeezing his eyelids together and I find it funny how even when I’m the one speaking I am also the one providing comfort.

“I should probably take him home,” Will utters once I set down the cloth for the final time. His breath his warm mist fanning across my naked arm. Then he glances at me, only ephemerally, but his eyes hold an intensity that I’ve never noticed before. I find, weirdly enough, that I want to push the tendrils of his raven hair that have fallen onto his forehead away from his face but I decide against it. “I’ll meet you at the window?”