"They've got my brother's long body
in a white tiled room that's embarrassingly like a john.
They say he was struck while wandering in the street.
But Billy doesn't look like a traffic fatality,
he's decrepit but seems unmarked.
I'm surprised how easy it is to look.
This lump's not human, so different
from my massacre paintings.
So unlike my poor dead braves, the noble ones,
the pathetic ones, those pieces sold well.
The attendants watching and I say, it's him,
just give me a minute.
How many years since I saw him?
Maybe 10 maybe 12.
Now, Billy's hair is gone.
From the look of his lips, he's lost some teeth.
I take his long, bony, chilly hand
and hold it until I can cry.
Then I'm with the attendant in an office
and he's handing me a plastic bag.
I dump it out, a shirt and pants,
soiled shorts and socks, two shabby shoes.
In an envelope marked personal effects, one key and a wallet.
There's a 10, a 5, some singles, and an expired driver's
license.
Also three yellowed clippings, tearings actually,
puff pieces for Harry Buck, the famous Tucson millionaire,
a philanthropist and art booster and my personal benefactor.
Back when I got my fellowship, he was the Arts Commission
chairman.
Why are these in Billy's wallet?
One has a thumbnail photo in which Buck oddly
resembles my brother, Harry Buck, Billy Bach.
I'm filled with fresh pity and shame.
It looks as though Billy liked pretending he was Harry Buck.
Reading, I see the temptation.
One clip names Buck a trustee of the Tucson Zoo
which makes crazy sense because Billy loved animals.
My first major drawings were of creatures
he brought home from the woods.
In the second clip, Harry Buck is
a patron of the Tucson symphony and Billy
my brother was gifted with absolute pitch, bang the piano
and he'd yell 'C' or 'B flat' from the next room.
I can't read the yellowest clip which
is fingered to disintegration.
But I've got it at home and know every word.
In this one, the Arts Commission chairman names the year's
creative fellows including Phoenix-based Bud Bach.
The best night of my life.
Alexander Resnikoff walked me around proudly introducing me
to the money people at their tables.
I can remember Harry Buck's handshake, his long head,
and long fingers.
And he did resemble my brother.
I thought so at the time.
The clerk who gave me Billy's effects
is smiling with compassion.
'If you'd please sign showing you've received these and then
we'll need instructions for disposal of remains.'
I tell him, 'I don't know what to do with my own remains,
what do you do with a leftover hot dog.'
His smile gets confused, 'if you'd
rather', he says, 'there's a form'
and I check the box agreeing to Billy's cremation,
his ashes will come to me in the mail.
I escaped the hospital running, Billy's wallet and key
in my pocket, my mind starting to howl
and I know it needs to be unleashed.
In a hotel bar, I swallow a beer and quickly another.
And I remember going out languid and proud
for beers with my brother.
Billy then already a man circling his glass with thick
hands black hair curling on his fingers.
Beer 3, is it just the mustache or does the bartender boy look
like Harper whom I picture in the maddening mall gratefully
entering a boutique.
Inside him, the unfolding of infinite possibility.
I find a quiet corner and hit my code for Alex.
'I've had terrible news,' I tell him, 'My brother died,
I'm down in Tucson.'
'Bud I'm sorry.
I knew, Harper called when you dropped him off.'
'Why'd he do that?'
'Why do you think?
Are you OK?'
So I tell him about the clips in Billy's wallet
but Alex doesn't find them frightening or sad.
'I saw Harry Buck last week' he said.
'He was in Phoenix to pick up a new wheelchair.
We had dinner.' 'He must be 80.
How does he look?
I remember him so well.'
'Very much alive, but he hasn't had the use of his legs
for many years.'
Alex sighs.
He's holding the phone so close, I visualize his windpipe.
'Be easy on yourself Bud, I think you better come home now.
Harper says you're to pick him up in 20 minutes.'"