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Show seen? I sat with no one at lunch, played with no one at recess, lurked at the edges of the small groups the teacher put us into, but I knew that record, knew the angle at which Rudolph flew across the cover, its exact shade of blue, the length of the pause Burl Ives allowed before But do you recall the most famous reindeer of all. Amid the thick trees of Virginia and its endless dark, that record was home. The JPO walked to the back of the bus and handed it to me, amid a chorus of "ohhs" and kids pretending to be disappointed. Rudolph had returned. Only when I got home did I learn that the record had been broken, probably by sitting against it, from, it seemed, loving it too dearly. That night I listened to my parents' voices and sang, You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, into my blankets, the thunk of each acorn like a crack on the roof. \ Bryan lived. And when he finally talked at the age of two, he told my father that his name was not George. In the cold, the grafted skin across his feet would turn purple, something to do with circulation or new tissue or blood vessels that had been scarred, but other than that he was fine. The burn unit at Bethesda was supposed to be named after Bryan, a means of persuading my parents not to sue, and we became a family of five. Pele, however, was not done with us. I am seven, Bryan, not one. We are sitting in the bedroom that we share, the crib against one wall, my twin bed against another, the dresser that doubles as a changing table covered in bars of Ivory soap stuck by diaper pins and half-used jars of Vaseline. Turns out, I don't mind sharing my room. At the age of one, Bryan takes up little 62 |