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I wonder at the racism that Faulkner himself writes so much about, about swallowing a public rage and shame and then passing it privately on.
My story catches another reflective gleam of Faulkner, as incest, real or fabricated, is a major theme in his work. I don’t know what really happened in Faulkner’s life or how far back along our joint tree the abuse coils and springs, but I do know that the author thought about it a lot. Caddy Compson’s brother only imagines the incest in The Sound and The Fury, but he also shows that even fabrications have the power to drive one to mania.
After all, when I was 9 years old my mother gave me a lock for my bedroom door and told me to use it, forcing me to imagine my way into the demons only she could see. Around the same time, she yelled out the story about her grandfather raping her. Back then I couldn’t confirm the story, and later she forgot she had even told me about it.
I learned then that there wasn’t much distance between a myth and its validation.
I hadn’t seen my brother for almost a year before we learned our mother had died. After all, estrangement runs in our family. But after we discovered our mother had passed away, he invited me to his apartment in Brooklyn. Despite my misgivings, I went.
For two years before our mother’s death, I’d been trying to connect with my brother, unsuccessfully. He’d been very angry with me, he said. One of the problems was that he felt I didn’t respect his boundaries. I had mothered him as a child, he said. Now I had to let him grow up. One of the problems was that I talked about our mother to him after my breakdown at 30, when I was looking for validation of my memories, and he didn’t like talking about her. I had invaded his psyche, so he shut down. Still, we agreed then on the big pieces of our history, on the way she acted and the way she cut us out. But he was done with Mom, he said then. He didn’t think about her anymore.
Mom’s death changed things. We decided we’d spend some time together, mourning in our own way. I met my brother on Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg, two blocks from his apartment. We walked to the river. As we walked, we talked about our work, looked at the Canadian geese pecking at snow behind a wire fence. He’d taken a few days off from his job as a designer at an advertising agency, though he felt strange, like I did, telling people why. The standard gush of compassion felt unwarranted, undeserved: We weren’t like other people with dead mothers, and no, we weren’t leaving town for the funeral.
We went back to his apartment: It was filled with his wooden carvings and paintings and stringed instruments of all types. My brother is an artist and musician. Ever since he was a young child, his imagination was wild and bright; he’s since parlayed that into a successful career. Andrew made tea. His cat, Mothra, was in heat and gurgling on the floor. She tried to hump his dog.
We tried to talk about Mom again as we sat in his place, but we didn’t know how. I played with the rim of my teacup and watched the animals, and my brother posited a theory. “I think Candy had a lot of pain in her life, especially in utero,” he said, and then paused, getting me to meet his eyes. “I think she wasn’t wanted when Gwen”—our grandmother—“got pregnant with her. In fact, she was hated.”
My brother, like me, was looking for answers. He was looking for a singular reason, a starting place for her strangeness, a wounding that preceded and absolved us. I told him how sad I felt that we didn’t say good-bye, that nothing had been resolved.
“It is sad,” he continued. “But I think for Mom it’s all OK now. All of this doesn’t matter anymore.”
I felt suddenly, utterly alone. I picked up the cat, but I didn’t have what she needed either: She clawed her way out of my arms to look for the dog.
While my brother and I agreed on our past, we couldn’t find the same present. Andrew felt a kind of spiritual connection to our mother in her passing, while I couldn’t feel her at all. “I believe Mom still loves Dad,” he said. “And he—he still loves her.”
I flashed to a childhood memory: our father dropping us off after a weekend visit. We would return home to find our mother hiding behind her bed, crying and refusing to come out, until she was sure he had driven several miles away.
There was no love between them, as far as I could remember.
“Are you sure that’s not a wish?” I asked him.
My brother didn’t think so; now he wanted peace, whereas I still wanted answers. He could say good-bye. After our talk, my brother remembered my mom’s fondness for the Mamas and the Papas, so he played a rendition of “Dream a Little Dream of Me” on his ukulele for my mother and recorded it. It’s a very sweet version, high-pitched and twangy. I cried as I listened to it, for the yearning and the gentleness. It’s this softness I love in my brother, and he seemed especially so right then, longing for a mom and dad to love each other.

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