Brandon’s parents dragged him back to the States, leaving Barra to his own devices. Brandon wrote letters but didn’t receive an answer until about six months later. It was block-printed, like a child’s hand, full of misspelled words and words missing letters. Brandon didn’t write him anymore.
He joined cross-country track and lacrosse, doing well in both sports. He joined the Science club (which was very much into pyrotechnics), the Chess club, and the Christian Fellowship in town. He skirted joining the Gay Rights group starting up in the school, even though his heart wanted to join in memory of Barra.
After he graduated high school, his parents gave him a choice. He could get a fancy car or go on vacation somewhere in Europe.
He went back to Ireland, with the full intention to look for Barra. During his senior year, he wrote in his journal as if they were letters to Barra. He wrote about the things he wanted to do – how he wanted to go into Sociology and become a social worker or politics because politicians changed laws. His parents wanted him to go into computers, because that’s where the money was, and were prepared to send him after his junior year in the state college to a college near Silicon Valley so he could get his foot in the door at one of the startups. At 18, he didn’t want to pay attention to his parents anymore. He wanted to finally listen to his heart.
He had the old address from when he visited, but there were strangers living there now. He found the hospital that the batch of letters had been written from. The man at the medical records department didn’t want to give Brandon any information, but after fifty dollars, he pulled Barra’s record. The address was a rehabilitation hospital, so he probably was going to have no luck there, either. He went there anyway.
That man at the records department didn’t seem to mind giving out the information. It was to a shelter for men on the dole. “He’s probably dead, lad,” said the man sadly. He looked through the records. “Never had any visitors. Nobody came to get him.” Inside the record, Brandon saw his letters, taped into the record itself. His heart broke.
“He was a different man, that he was,” the man continued. “He’d start the day all fine, and then something little ‘d set him off, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Downhill for the rest of the day. We were gonna transfer him to the asylum.”
Brandon looked down. It was probably his fault. Was it his fault? His father paid for the ticket. He couldn’t just not go home. He should have stayed to take care of him. He could have finished school in Ireland. He read through the journals he had brought, and wrote a new line for the frustrations of the day.
The next day, he went walking in a light rain to the shelter. It had a locked gate and a well-maintained garden and house just beyond. At the gate was an intercom. He pressed the button and waited. “C’n I help ye?”
“I’m here looking for someone,” said Brandon, trying to sound like the adult he wasn’t. “I’m from America.”
The lock clicked and he went inside. The lawn and garden were beautiful, with a fountain in the middle. Flowers bloomed all around, and he had to sidestep a turtle crossing the gravel path. He got to the door, as an older woman stood there, holding it open for him. “You’re from America,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She laughed, and he stepped inside. It was much darker, with dark wood paneling in the foyer that made the place look very ’70’s. She brought him down the hall to the kitchen. “Nobody here right now. We kick ’em all out to go find jobs during the day, but they’re mostly drinkin’ their dole, if they have any left, bein’ this is Thursday. Can I get you anything?”
“Whatever you have will be fine.”
“Whiskey?” She laughed at the surprised look on his face. “Lemonade, then.”
She explained that the shelter was run by the Seventh Day Adventists and they didn’t believe in using liquor. Wine was only used in church services, of which there were none here. They didn’t even cook with any liquor. Or pepper. Or mustard.
Brandon let her talk, and then finally she asked him who he was looking for. “Barra Rouche,” he said.
“Ah, Barra,” she said, rolling her R’s. “Nice most of the time, but we had to place him.”
Asylum was the first thing he thought of.
“He was a mutant. Used to set things on fire. We couldn’t keep him here.”
“There’s a special place for mutants?”
She nodded. She got up, checked something int he oven, then got a pad and paper. She wrote out the name and address. “The Red Ivy Manor,” she said. “Best place for him.”
The bus didn’t directly go there, so he had to hail a taxi from the bus station. The place was aptly name, with red ivy all over its main building. He pulled open the heavy glass and mahogany doors and stepped inside the cool marble and wood halls. In front of him was a round receptionist’s desk, so he went there. He stood at the desk for a while before the receptionist looked up at him. He smiled, turned the charm up a notch, and said, “I’m looking for Barra Rouche.”
She looked him up and down. “You are?”
“His nephew. Brandon Rusk. From America.”
“Please take a seat.”
He turned to look at the line of leather chairs that looked like they hadn’t been used in years, since they were hard and polished to a dull gleam of their own. He unhitched his backpack full of the journals, and sat down at the edge of the chair, holding hte bag close to his chest. He looked up at the clock with the Roman numerals and watched the big hand move slowly and distinctly to the left. It moved ever so slowly, until it almost went to the ten. The door opened, and Brandon looked up expectantly. A man strode by, carrying a briefcase. Brandon looked down. This happened a few times, after the clock somewhere struck the hour. Brandon settled into the seat, uncomfortable and unyielding, and studied the wooden details in the lobby.
The door to the side opened again and a man in a dark blue suit and light blue tie stepped out. He wore round glasses, had salt and pepper hair, and even under the suit, the man was ripped. “You’re here for Mr. Rouche?”
Brandon jumped up, holding the backpack. “Yes, I am.”
The man held out his hand. “Tag O’Maillen. I’m his case worker.”
Brandon wiped his hands on his jeans so he wouldn’t get accelerant on the man’s hand.
They shook hands, the man was strong. “Sorry about the wait.” He held the door open for Brandon, letting him in. “We’ll just go right in here.” He brought him to a conference room with more comfortable chairs, softly lit by a bedside lamp. Tag shut the door.
Brandon looked around the room. “Nice place for an asylum.”
Tag laughed. “We like to think so. Especially for the clientele we have.”
“Mutants?”
“Mostly, yes.” Tag sat down, and Brandon took a seat across from him. “So you know he’s a torch.”
Brandon nodded. “So am I, of a sort. Brother of Brigid’s Forge, he used to call me.”
“I’ve heard him refer to himself as that,” said Tag, leaning back in his chair. “So have you come to take him back to the States?”
“How bad is he?”
“He needs constant care. Not in the physical sense, but in the mental sense. He feels he was abandoned.”
Brandon looked at the floor. “I had to go home,” he said.
“It wasn’t just you, lad, but his whole family that was here, his friends.” Tag sat up. “You do know he has homosexual tendencies, right?”
Brandon nodded, looking up. “Is that illegal here?”
Tag smiled, “We allow same-sex marriages now here. It’s not like America.”
“We’re working on it,”Brandon said firmly, and a weight fell off his shoulders.
Tag nodded, still with that smile. “Do you want to take him back to America with you?”
“I don’t know if I can take care of him,” Brandon said. “I’ll be going to college.”
“Don’t they have people who come visit houses and be companions? He needs to have some social interaction or he will feel abandoned again and act out.”
Brandon thought for a minute about the corner diner where his father would go on Sundays and meet up with some men for bullshit sessions. Maybe there would be the same kind of thing in the college town he was going to. Or maybe some college kids would take pity on him. Or maybe he could take him to an assisted living facility nearby and he could join the people there on trips.
“…enough?”
Brandon looked up, blinking. “Huh?”
“I was saying, Do you think that what he gets on the dole would be enough? He won’t get anything from America, unless he’s a citizen.”
“I’ll figure something out,” said Brandon. “Illegal aliens come to the states all the time and they get free everything.”
“We can get the government to send you some money for as long as his visa lasts. But if you vouch for him, maybe he can stay. I haven’t done immigration to America since before 9/11.”
“We can get him a visa?”
“As long as you’re 18 and an adult, and will take care of him.”
Brandon nodded. Tag got up. “I’ll ask him tomorrow if he wants to see you. Then we’ll talk about visas.” He stood, regarding Brandon. “How did you get here?”
“Took a taxi,” he said.
“I can give you a ride home if you don’t mind waiting a half-hour.”
“Sure, that’ll be great.”
“We can do dinner, too. My treat.”
Brandon looked the man over. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
Tag opened the door. He grinned at Brandon. “As obvious as a brick to the head, I am,” he said. “See you in half an hour.”
Brandon adjusted himself just before he went to sit down at the lobby.