Astronomers find a gaping hole in the universe.
The Beazer family is having it rough. Their boys have a nasty habit of falling. Last summer Gord, the elder son, took a dive head first off the Courthouse roof as a deal went a little shady. Instant coma, they had to very delicately scrape his shattered head off the ground. The doctors were certain, after removing shards of his skull from his brain, that he would never wake up. Three days later, he did. A miracle, they said. He’s not as good at remembering numbers as he was, and sometimes his directions are wrong, but all he really has to show for the accident is an intensely amazing scar spider-webbing pale out of his left temple. Barely noticeable if he wears a cap.
This time, though, it’s the younger, John. This time, it was three stories. He tumbled off scaffolding, landing hard on his feet into a pile of gravel. The other way, it would have been raw cement. Another miracle. Brothers cursed and blessed all at once. The proverbial protection of drunks and fools. He’s been in surgery the past two days as they try to screw his spine back together. The doctors don’t know if he’ll ever walk again.
In a lot of ways, this news surprised me not at all. I’ve known them since I was approximately three. They have always been growing up poor, chewing-gum social, fighting, beating me at races, boosting me up into trees, but mostly being cliché, rough-and-tumble, stupid boys. They’ve both been hit by cars multiple times, and once Gord was shot-gunned with rock-salt at five paces. (And possibly deserved it, neither one has ever been good at sticking to licit employment). But past all that, Gord bought me my first real slingshot, and John I found when he was missing when no one else could. We dealt with Brenda’s death together and always make sure to see each other at least once a year. We’ve made the shift from friends to family. These boys will never be heroes, never change the world, but I need them to be alive and as well as can be.
Here’s hoping.