Weeks before my older brother Chris fled to St. Louis, to live with the father who abused him as a child, he and I and my little brother Kirk and my sister Dana had our last rowdy-dowdow.

Our final Irish fight.

My brothers and I lived with my mom, who was occasionally home. We had no furniture to speak of. Kirk was 11, I was 13, Chris was 15, and my sister had just started college.

Feature this: one night I took all the food in the house -- a box of orange Jello, a can of gooseberries in heavy syrup, and a little bottle of green food dye -- and made dinner for me and Kirk.

See it: hard rubber orange around the edges and along the bottom of the stained Farberware, and a wet soup of gooseberries and blobby un-gel in the squarish middle. I added too much dye, and too late, so there were tar pits of green-black spotting the whole mess.

Saturday morning, in a sad-sack rental in the affluent KC suburbs. Sweltering Johnson County. My sister was supposed to be home for the weekend.

But she actually went to our Nana's, who had a small, elegant apartment near the Plaza, a block from the Atkins Museum and the University of Missouri, down the street from Volcker, KC's hippie park, and across from the divine Winstead's, a genuine art deco diner de-luxe. Nana had a window AC.

She kept her fridge stocked with cream soda and vanilla ice cream, in case any of us came by.

(Ring, ring)

Kirk picks up; says in his false-basso voice: "Um, hello?"

Dana: "Hi sweetie!"

Kirk: " Oh, hi hey I thought you were coming for the weekend and is your boyfriend coming for the weekend? and who is your boyfriend now? and can you take me to Katz without them today? and..."

(Excited, his voice rises twice, into its normal higher register, and twice he deliberately lowers it.)

Dana: "Hi, Kirk! Oh I miss you guys! How are you, sweetie-pie?"

Chris, draped on the room's only cushioned seat, the collapsing faux-colonial sofa: "Is that Dana?"

Kirk: " I have it I am on the phone now I am talking to her..."

Me: "Is that Dana?" I am rolling a fatty on the back step, outside the screen door.

Chris leaps up and he and Kirk begin wrestling for the heavy black phone, the curled cord entangling them.

Variously: "No!" "Give it!" "No, quit  it!" "I'm already talking to her!" "Let me have it!" -- Dana giggling, saying "Boys!" -- "No! Give it!" "Why do you need to talk to her?" and "I had it!"

I carefully pick out two seeds and a little 'y'-shaped stem, drop them in the open baggy under me.

Me: "Hey, guys! Is she coming home!"

Kirk has a heart condition since always, so no punching. A lot of shoulder shoving, grip-twists, and leveraging, instead.

More: "She is going to hang up!" "I have it!" "Give it!" etc.

Me: "Is she coming here?"

I pat the blue-green red-furred bud bits so there's slightly less in the center of the double-folded, tan, 1.5x length Bambu. Rolling will push it back to the middle, so this compensates. I don't make peppermint candy twist joints no mo'.

Kirk in a pretzel, Chris snaking in his long arms; both holler into the phone, the void: "Tell Chris to stop!" "Tell Kirk to give it!"

See, Kirk was the baby for 14 years until Eric, the last one, came along. Kirk was frail, with dark brown, curly hair, and chocolate eyes, the re-emergent genes of my half-black Nana, and cute as cobbler. So he was Dana's favorite. Sort of.

Chris gets the phone, of course.

Chris: "Dana! Are you coming? What."

(This is a verbal tic for Chris. He declared 'what' a lot, like a prompt. Like 'go!')

Dana: "Hi, sweetie-pie! How are you guys?"

Chris: "I thought you were coming. Are you coming? What."

Three-fourths of everything pissed Chris off. The rest of the time he was either confused or laughing. When he laughed his nostrils pulsed and his eyes turned Chinese. Also, they did this when he got mad and pounded on me. He couldn't pound Kirk 'cause of his heart and he couldn't really pound Dana, not anymore, anyway, so he usually pounded me.

He used to laugh so hard milk or whatnot came out of his nose, and if my Dad saw it he would smack him. It embarrassed my Dad; actually everything Chris did embarrassed him.

But we kids tried to get Chris to laugh; it was hilarious, and besides always better than getting pounded.

Dana coming was a big deal. Dana was girly and sentimental and effusive and all 'sweetie-pie', when she wasn't being imperious and controlling. So we missed her. She was a change of pace. We had nothing going on, normally.

Chris: "No, where are you?" Chris also had the verbal tic of starting questions and statements with, 'no', no matter what, as in: 'No, give me the rest of the slushie' and 'No, where is my sock?'

He also had advanced BS radar. Then again, Dana was always up to something when she said 'sweetie-pie' too much. Plus she paused, and thought. A dead giveaway. From her I learned to start talking, just say anything, always, or else don't talk at all.

Dana: "Oh, sweetie-pie, I have--I am going to stay here this weekend..."

Chris: "No, where are you?"

Dana: "...and I'll talk to you now and Kirk and Greg and I want to know how..."

Chris (eyes suddenly narrow): "You can't stay there."

Here's the deal: we were always inventing new rules and fine-tuning old ones, out loud, at each other. We were forever the cops casing the other's endless robberies, stealing anything we could from each other, policing every utterance and deed.

As kids I saw 3.5-way fights break out daily (Kirk was exempt, partially, with his heart deal, though he learned how to provoke from a distance; I mean: he was exceptionally good at it). Some of these fights would last an hour on the hard, cool concrete floor of the 'toy room' in the basement, and allegiances would change 100 times in 6o minutes: one against two, two against one, one against one against one, and I swear: three against every toy and game in that small space. OK-if-I-don't-get-to-use-it-no-one-gets-it smashcrackshatter.

Dana: (long pause) "Nana's at work today, then she goes to the church..."

Chris: "No! You can't stay there while she's gone; she, you, while she's gone..."

Dana: "Just tell me how you guys are doing! and..."

Chris: "No, you come home!"

I wet my tongue, not too much, and prop my elbows on my bare original-1968-hippie-but-actually-poverty-knee-hole-in-jeans knees; I lick the long gum edge. For about two years, there? 67, 68? hard-core poverty looked like hard-core hippie if you knew how to style it.

Hot day, already.

Dana: "My Greyhound came into downtown this morning and I took the Main Street bus to, the, um, transfer..."

Chris: "Come here, now. You don't get to stay there. No. Nana's not there. We can't stay there when she's not there and you, you, you, we can't just stay there..."

Me: "She can't stay there."

I tuck my tongue tight into the corner of my mouth; I roll the paper straight and true, not too tight, prissy-pinch the ends. I put the whole thing in my mouth and pull it slowly put, make it uniformly damp so it will burn evenly. The smell intoxicates. I turn my head, loud whisper to Chris through the screen: "Hey! Chris! Let's do this!"

Chris is going on and on. Kirk sits in the straight-back chair, sipping water. He sometimes says: "I want to talk to her when you're done."

Chris: "You can't, don't get to..."

Me: "Right!" -- loud, to stay on Chris' good side. I sniff the joint.

Chris and Dana: "Uh-uh." "Listen..." "No, you listen!" "I don't care if you guys want to come here..." "You can't. What." "Listen..." "Come home now, we'll talk about it!" "I have to leave tomorrow anyway, to go back to school, this is closer..." "What about Kirk? he wants to see you!"

Kirk, close by: "What is that?" -- I jerk around. He scared the bejeebers out of me. His slender hands rest on the thin splintered cross piece of the screen door, inside. I quick-tuck the baggy under my crotch.

Me: "Reddamn. Um, Redman. Tobacco."

Kirk: "No it isn't." Hell, we all had exquisite BS radar.

Chris, inside, variations of "No!" "No, Now. What." and "Uh-uh."

Kirk: "I'm going to tell Mom when she gets home."

Me: "She gives me her Virginia Slims." I add: "When she's home." I steal all left-behind cigarettes; her VS's are my at-home cigs. No point giving Kirk ammo.

Kirk: "That's not tobacco."

I'm not worried.

I can't light up without Chris, so I go inside. Chris stalks the room, the black phone case hung on bent fingers, barking at her. I fall, cool style, on the sofa, the side without visible springs.  She was wearing him down. At her 'prim' stage. He stops near me every third pace or so, leans in, so I can add my support.

Me: "Right!" "Just come home, Dana!" and "Listen to Chris!"

She knows she is wrong. Well, actually, the problem was, we lacked specific 'wrong' terminology. She was definitely guilty of having it good, having AC, having more, but none of us had actually established 'no AC' or 'staying at Nana's after you start college' as case law. Chris' effort was pure retort reform, post hoc ergo propter hoc.

Chris: "It's not fair to Nana! Listen to me!"

He tries variations of this 'unfair' idea but it suffers from not actually being true. Nana loved to see us, always, even when she didn't.

Dana, variations of: "No, listen..."

Finally, this becomes "No, YOU listen", and the next and lower level of engagement formally commences.

I elaborately pat the joint in my hand-decorated denim shirt pocket. Chris sees me and ignores me.

His eyes light up suddenly: "You can't stay this long on Nana's party line!" Ahhhh. Pay dirt. He gets That Look. "You have to come home, you have to hang up now and come home, no!"

Dana changes the subject. This is easy to do with Chris. He's always trying so hard to prove he's following along AND sees the steps ahead he doesn't see the lump just under the rug. Later we figured out Chris had shaken baby syndrome.

He is dogged, though, and crafty, at times.

Also Dana was now an adult, technically. This sort-of stymies us.

They go round and round. At one point he goes to pee and find his sandals so I talk to her. Less vitriol but more formality. I can tell she is now chin-out, no-way, can't make-me, hatter-mad. No more sweetie-pie.

Me: "What if we did come over? We would all be in trouble" "How do we bring Kirk?" and "Just come here today, go back in the morning", and she goes: "OK, fine!" "No, WE wouldn't, YOU would" "I don't care, but you can't bring Kirk, it's too hot" and "That's the same thing!"

Chris comes back and grabs the phone, drops it, grabs and drops it again, snags the gnarled cord, reels it in. Dana is laughing loud in his ear. Kirk is laughing. "Shut-up!" he hollers at Kirk but Dana pretends it's at her so she says "Make me!"

Chris, purple, screams: "You can't stay on her party line! hang up!"

Chris makes this mistake, often: switches from losing battle to some lost cause, then gets madder.

Dana, supreme: "Make me!"

Chris: "Hang up!"

So now the fight is about hanging up. This has definable features, the virtue of simplicity. Dana refuses. We of course begin to imagine her sitting in book-lined comfort, the waft of freon air on her calm brow, sipping at her ill-gotten, soda fountain delight. She is 35 miles away.

Kirk can't take it anymore, goes off to his sweltering back bedroom and closes the door.

I pull out the J and let it dangle from my pursed lips, pretend to take a big hit, groucho my eyebrows at Chris. He doesn't -- won't -- see me.

Chris finally says a Dreadful Thing, adds a hissed no-we're-coming-I-swear-to-kick-you-out and slams the phone down. Those old units could take it.

We rant, him and I, mostly him, for about 5 minutes. Then I fetch my soiled yellow and purple silk scarf and tie it around my upper arm, Jimi-style, comb my long unwashed hair. Change into my hip-hugger elephant bells, retrieved from the almost-too-dirty pile next to my cot mattress on the floor.

Chris changes too. Jean bells, well-frayed at the back, under the heel. Thin T-shirt with a crude drawing of a tree on it. We decide to call Mike for a ride and see if he wants to pick up the girls, Rosie and Patty, and go out to the Lawrence or somewhere.

He picks up the phone. Dana is still on the line.

See, in those days, on party lines, if one end doesn't hang up? then the call continues. Like, indefinitely.

After about an hour, during which Chris, Kirk and I each pick up and hang up the phone about twelve times, and during which a lot of Bad Language is used, Chris and I decide to Go To Nana's.

This whole ploy by Dana was shrewd, up to a point; it kept us there, AND we couldn't stop her. It was payback of sorts. But none of us ever learned to see far enough ahead, back then.

Chris, last call: "We're coming!"

Dana, smug: "I took the extra key from the hall."

Chris just smiles, That Smile: "No. We're coming."

He hangs up, them stomps to my Mom's room, wades through the mess to her dresser, fishes out her old key ring. Mom never throws away keys when we are evicted or move. He comes out, jungles it in triumph: "Nana's. The little brown one."

We cross state line, walk the few blocks to Ward Parkway. Chris strides ahead. I walk backwards, thumb out. One of us has to make eye contact.

We look like hippie shit.

The first ride is with a housewife in a station wagon. She makes us sit in back with the groceries. Chris carries on, animated; she doesn't realize his super-friendly rattle-on is high-octane revenge at play, stoking itself. I peek in the bags, steal a can of tuna. She takes us 8 blocks.

Chris: "No, OK, thanks!"

Me: "Peace!"

The next and final ride, after blocks of walking, is a Comet with a bad knock. Two Art Institute girls. They figured we had grass. We're holding just the one joint so we stall, but finally we light up, where the parkway goes east, and get so wasted. I pinch the joint, half-smoked, when they drop us of in front of Nana's. They want us to go with them to Volcker. I want to go with them to Volcker. These are ART students.

Chris: "Maybe we'll see you there" and gets out.

At the front stoop we glance up at the front windows: empty. I whisper anyway: "Wait. What if her boyfriend's there?"

Chris: "They broke up."

He's in the front door.

Me: "Wait!"

He's up the stairs, rounding the bend, soft-footed. I was way too stoned.

Me: "Wait!"

Chris: "Shh!"

I tiptoe up to the third landing, leaning against the far wall railing.

He grins That Grin; puts the key in, turns, and we burst in.

We sit on the the edge of Volcker fountain, cleaning our feet. We couldn't find those co-ed artist girls. It was Saturday afternoon, so the park was filling up: couples, a small group around a guitar player, teeny-boppers in leather headbands and white bellbottoms, speedfreaks wandering and mumbling, some university students with a frisbee. A large group of bikers in a big pile at the south end, near us.

We finish the reefer. I swallow the tarry end; it leaves a burnt taste in my throat. Chris leans back. The spray covers us whenever the wind shifts.

Dana had been agog. She was still on the line. Kirk hadn't picked up and spilled the beans. For a moment she looked afraid, then pissed that she hadn't believed us and thought to throw the chain.

See this, see what my stock is, why my genetic line survives ice ages but never has money: Dana sat there, phone in hand, on a short cord, for the hour and a half it took us to hitch to Nana's, just so she could say, again: "I'm still here."

Chris, he walked over, snatched the phone from her and hung it up, precisely. Dana recovered quickly: "I'm not leaving."

Chris just went to the fridge and collected all four of the glass, 12 ounce bottles of cream soda. Without a word we left. As I closed the door I flipped her the bird.

So we sit. Two cream sodas empty. It's hot. The fountain feels fine.

A sharp zing, like a wasp sting, in the middle of my back. I straighten, arc, invert. My arms crab up and around.

Me: "Ow! Shit! What the fuck!"

Chris: "What?"

Me: "I got stung!"

He looks. Pulls my shirt around some, brushes my back.

Plunk.

I twist around, we both stare.

Chris: "It's a BB."

We look up, around. The bikers are empty-faced, looking elsewhere, except one fat guy in a leather vest, his hands busy, grinning at me. Wolf eyes, long back goatee.

Chris gets up quick. I get up.

Chris: "No, they hit you right, they, they hit you in the peace sign in, the peace sign you drew, right in the middle." Louder, at them: "What."

I grab our last two sodas, tuck one under my arm. "Let's go" I say pulling him.

Chris: "WHAT?"

All of the bikers are looking at us now. The wolf grin is gone. Something empty, hoarfrost cold, replaces it. I look all around: their beer, the choppers, the rucksacks, in the grass. I see a bat.

Me: "Come. On."

He lets me drag him by one thin sleeve. I pull him like a dog cart pulls the wounded across the steppe, across a thousand treacherous balkas; him backwards, with That Look. Away from Barbarossa, into the vast motherland, I haul him. Behind us: laughter, broken glass.

Me: "C'mon."

He finally turns around, stops. Puts his hands in his pockets. His red eyes. My red eyes. Too stoned.

Me: "Let's panhandle at the museum. Maybe we'll get enough to get into The Sign, score some tabs."

He doesn't answer. He looks at the ground.

Me: "Let's go."

We start up, side by side. He bumps into me, then does it again.

Chris: "We dropped last week." This is him looking out for me.

Me: "So?"

We get halfway up the great lawn. Just us, between the dense rows of hedge and pine. I stop.

Me: "Hey. I left my tuna in the girls' car."

Chris stops, too. Smiles. "No. What tuna?"

I make a face: "Myy Tuuu-naaa!"

Chris laughs, then harder. His nostrils pulse, his eyes go Chinese. He pushes me onto the thick green velvet.

Me: "Ow."

|~