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Catharsis(continued) "We have to take you prisoner," said Henry. "Get bit," said Humperschnell, kicking open the gate and
walking out to where Henry was standing. I'd never heard the expression
and was scared. "Drop your guns," said Henry. Henry tapped his sword on the sidewalk. Humperschnell, to my surprise,
handed his Fanner Fifites, handle first, in Henry's direction. But when
Henry reached for them, Humperschnell raised his hand and slammed down
the handle of the steel pistol on the top of Henry's head. I could hear
the sickening crunch of metal and plastic on my brother's skull. Henry winced in pain, and I saw his knees buckle. Humperschnell froze,
staring in a kind of fascination at Henry's face. I think both Humperschnell
and I expected Henry to holler or maybe start crying. Instead, he stood
up straight and gritted his teeth. "You are going to get it now, you big pimp," said Henry.
His anger filled me with something, and I tossed down my bike and ran
forward. To Humperschnell, either the expletive or something in Henry's
face that I couldn't see, made him turn and flee in the direction whence
he came. Henry ran after Humperschnell, his sword in the air, and I ran after
Henry, squeezing the trigger of my dart gun, making springy clicking
sounds, for the single dart had been long at Guadalcanal. But that didn't
matter. My brother, my family had been assaulted, and he was leading
us to the rescue, to redress the wrong. I felt the exhilaration of righteous
battle to destroy a real monster. To avenge for blood. Humperschnell disappeared around the corner of the house, and as Henry
opened the gate to pursue him, a woman in a housedress and slippers
appeared at the end of the gangway. A big, formidable looking woman,
she had Humperschnell's close-set black eyes; Brick reappeared a little
bit behind her, a little bit at her side. Henry stopped. There was no other choice when adults showed up. Except
for one last that Henry made, that surprised everyone present. "You fat yellow coward," he shouted. I was stunned. To name-call in public, in the presence of an adult,
was pretty major in those days. Henry stormed back to where our horses were tied, mounted up, and rode
full speed back home. I tried to keep up, but he outdistanced me and
was already dismounted and rooting around inside the garage when I got
there. I had gotten off my bicycle and was panting, out of breath. Henry didn't
look at me; he seemed to be searching for something on the dusty shelves
and in the dark corners of the two car garage. He saw something higher
up, stood on top of an overturned mop bucket, and lifted my mother's
hedge clippers from a nail. He held them out towards me, opening and closing the blades with a
wrenching jerk I wanted to like the idea. I pictured Henry snapping the oversized
clippers in the air, with Mrs. Humperschnell bearing down on him. But now something else got his attention. He leaned the clippers against
the inside corner of the garage and walked over to the BBQ grill stored
against the far wall. He lifted the rotisserie hood and extracted the
extra long BBQ fork. "How 'bout this?" he said, twirling the long handled fork
like a sword. He carried it out of the garage, marching into the yard
Lancelot-like, the fork diagonally against his chest. He raised and
plunged it deeply into the dirt, screaming like Tarzan. I was afraid of blood, but the serious, two-tonged fork seemed to be
justified after a toy gun had been used the way Sgt. Friday used real
ones. And the gun had been used on Henry's head, which I had nearly
forgotten about. Now, in the sunlight, I could see the swollen bump
puffing out his brown hair just behind the crown. "Okay, Henry. I'll go with," I said. "That fat…
jerk." Henry nodded but seemed preoccupied, poking the fork into the dirt
between the weeds, tracing some kind of illustration with the tips of
the tines. "I know," he said. He went back to the garage, replaced the fork, then came out carrying
the metal snow shovel. He walked the length of the yard and propped
up the shovel against the back fence, bladeside up. Then he extracted
a charcoal briquette from his pocket, and proceeded to draw a face on
the shiny surface of the shovel, explaining that the "ugly mug"
was Humperschnell's. He counted his paces back away from the fence, and then ceremoniously
turned, winging the briquette in the direction of the shovel. He missed,
but then he picked up a landscaping stone, hurled it and then hit the
top part of the shovel, causing it to slide against the fence and onto
the ground. After propping it against the fence once more, he hit the shovel with
another stone, the percussion on sheet metal making an irresistible
smacking sound. I joined in, and we proceeded to pelt the Humperschnell
effigy for a full ten minutes, obliterating the charcoal image, denting
his "skull," and wearing ourselves out panting and cursing
Humperschnell. "Brick, you dick," said Henry, side-arming another stone.
I loved his rhyme and kept repeating it, until he finally told me to
stop. We rested in the grass. After a while, I told Henry I didn't feel much
like sticking Brick with Dad's BBQ fork anymore. "That's because it's a catharsis," Henry said. I was a full three years younger than Henry. I didn't fully understand
his explanation of how we could extract revenge and sate our hatred
for Humperschnell without getting into trouble, or even without leaving
the yard. But I think I learned something about my brother, and about words,
and about a world packed with Humperschnells — things I would not
be forgetting very soon.
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