Brother-in-law
We’d been sitting in Dale’s living room for over two hours. I must’ve flipped through his lone coffee table book a hundred times over the years. It was a National Geographic pictorial on various tribes of South America. Someone had circled the native women’s bare breasts and genitalia with a red sharpie. A few of these women also had checkmarks next to their bodies. I was reminded of learning that Native Americans didn’t want their photos taken because they thought it would steal their soul. I’m not sure if that’s apocryphal—I was in elementary school. I’m also not sure they weren’t onto something.
I was, however, pretty sure Dale had masturbated to some of the photos in that book. I tried not to think about potential residue. If I acknowledged that, then I’d have to address the couch I was sitting on and the filthy cup I’d been sipping tepid water from.
Dale was my brother-in-law and there are certain things you do for family. My wife had never been very close to him, but when she got sick, we talked about all kinds of things that would have to be done. In case. Or things that would have to be tried at least. One of them was getting Dale back into the world. Maybe enroll him in some community college courses or get him to attend events at the local public library. He was very smart and very damaged. The nature of that damage was something we could only speculate on. He refused to see any kind of doctor and managed to do just enough to stay afloat. But he wasn’t living a full life—he had no friends and his last romantic relationship began and ended in high school some twenty years prior.
Someone knocked on the door and the novelty of it raised my spirits momentarily. Dale got up from his Barcalounger and shuffled toward the doorway. He leaned over and pulled a wig from an androgynous mannequin that terminated at the waist. My wife and I had witnessed this ritual during our first visit (back then he didn’t have a coffee table book—or a coffee table for that matter). Dale didn’t seem to be vain, but if he was, the wig wasn’t doing him any favors. And yet, for whatever reason, he refused to answer the door without it. He rarely even bothered to put it on correctly. I’m not sure he knew there was a right or wrong way to it.
The visitor was the mailman and he had a package that needed signing for. Once signed, Dale thanked the man, closed the door, and put the wig back on the mannequin. Dale lived simply for the most part, but he had a bit of a commemorative plate addiction. There was no television in the living room, but he had a small black and white portable in his bedroom. He’d managed to hook cable up to it and always had the shopping channel running in the background. My wife had purchased him a new TV for Christmas once, but he refused it. He said he didn’t want to become reliant upon it. I offered again after Denise passed and he refused me as well. I suggested giving him one of our old ones that I wasn’t even using—it wasn’t much bigger than his portable—but he wouldn’t have it. It was something of a marvel that he was able to get the antiquated tech to work with modern signals. He managed this with adapters-adapting-adapters which grew from the back of the small set like a solid-state tumor. That he would pay for even the most basic of cable packages for that tiny black and white was ridiculous to me, but Dale was Dale and I wasn’t going to change him.
I could, however, keep him company. So I came over, about every other week, though sometimes only once a month. I tried to get him to go out with me, but he had no interest. He wouldn’t even come over to the house—it always had to be his place. I did my best not to get frustrated, but intrusive thoughts would pop up now and again. Like why did Denise die when Dale was the one who didn’t seem to even care about living? He ate raw hot dogs and cold cheese sandwiches with Miracle Whip and drank copious amounts of soda. But it wasn’t his fault Denise died. There was no “fault” in any of it. In the end, Dale was her blood—and strange as it was, he was the closest thing to her I had left.
He seemed to be fine with my visits, even if we didn’t talk much or really do anything. We’d sit in the living room, the tinny sounds of incredible deals buzzing away in his bedroom. I told him about things going on in my life and he’d listen, never interrupting. He didn’t seem to mind if I spoke or not. I tried to tell colorful stories involving meaningful social interactions in the hope of planting seeds. If he reacted at all to any of the things I told him it was usually with a simple and neutral “okay.” I tried to get him to talk about his life, about his job at the St Vincent de Paul thrift store, dreams he had, memories from his childhood, or anything about Denise. On rare occasions there’d be a spark and he’d share something, but most of the time he claimed not to remember anything or that nothing interesting had happened.
He didn’t even like talking about his plate collection. Denise had put a few up on display for him, but most were still in their boxes. I asked if he hoped to resell them one day.
“No. I just like having them,” he said.
I asked Dale if I could see the new plate. He said he wasn’t ready to open it yet. The three-hour mark was usually my max for a visit and it was approaching. There was so much unspoken between us and there always would be. I suddenly felt a strong desire to close that gap, just a little.
“Dale? Can I ask you something kind of personal?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“You, uh...you don’t seem like the kind of person who gets hung up on appearances.”
“Okay.”
“I had an uncle who was bald. He wore a toupee, but you know how there’s those famous actors who embraced their baldness? And it, like, looked good on them?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s like a distinguished look. And a lot of women like it too.”
“Right.”
“Yeah, so eventually my uncle stopped wearing his.”
Dale didn’t say anything. I pushed on.
“I guess I’m just surprised you wear a wig and...I’m sort of curious about it. You never wore it for me or Denise.”
“That’s different,” he said.
“Different how?”
“Cuz’ we’re related.”
“Yeah, but what do you care if the mailman sees you’re bald? Or some teenage delivery boy?” A part of me worried I was pushing him too much. Denise always felt that there was a breaking point for Dale and she did not want to see it. I didn’t either, but I didn’t sense any agitation.
Dale smiled, a rare thing. He met my eyes—another rarity. “Yeah, but those people don’t know I’m bald though,” he said, shaking his head.
For a split second, a counter to this logic was on my lips, but I knew it would be at best useless and at worst cruel. If he thought that wig fooled anyone and it meant something to him to keep up that illusion, who was I to break it? Or question it.
Dale’s grin grew wider and he started laughing. It was uninhibited and infectious. I started laughing too and that made Dale snort and laugh even harder. I wasn’t sure what was so funny, but I couldn’t stop. Dale held my eye and nodded his head, like we were on the same wavelength and knew or understood something profound. Then his laughter turned into a coughing fit, which brought me back to my senses. He bent over and spit some phlegm into a little trash bin next to his Barcalounger. He looked at me, still nodding his head.
I saw no chance of getting Dale back into a classroom. I doubted I could ever get him to go out to a bar for a drink. I couldn’t imagine him dating much more than I could see myself dating again. In a lot of ways, this was probably it for both of us. I still had friends and a career though. There was less light in my life, but there was still life. Maybe this was all Dale needed though. Who was I to say? All I could do was keep him company every now and then. He seemed to enjoy that somewhat at least.
I vowed, however, to bring him more books. Big ones, with pictures—that’s what Denise said he liked. As much for me, if not more.
About Jerry White Jr.
Jerry is a filmmaker, musician, writer. He began making films as a teenager through home movies and public access television in Metro Detroit, later studied at USC’s School of Cinematic Arts, and has continued to move across film, writing, music, and collaborative creative communities.
About TANGENTS
TANGENTS is a new recurring literary section for flash fiction, short prose, and fragments that move outside fixed categories, published by STRATUM. It is a dedicated space for compressed narratives, strange turns, and writing that sits ambiguously between fiction, memory, humor, unease, and dream logic.
Edited By Yuyang Hu
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