Two Brothers

July 10, 1871.  A farm in upstate New York.  Two days before the Orange Riot.
   Brendan, the son of Irish immigrants and recent proprietor of this farm, is building a fence.  At thirty-eight years old, the lines and on his face make him appear nearly ten years older.  He would say that he is a happy man, having inherited the farm after his parents’ passing and living in peace with his wife Clara and children James, Joseph, and Madeline, but in this moment, he does not look happy.  The heat of the sun beats down on his bald head and sweat drips down his graying beard as he drives a wooden fence post into the soft earth with an old wood mallet.
   His younger brother Daniel, who he has not spoken to in years, walks up the road towards him at a slow and reluctant pace.  Daniel silently mouths words to himself, as if he is preparing a speech.  He stops a moment, then paces back and forth, dusting up his clean black pants and shoes, but he does not notice, as he is far to wrapped up in whatever words he is not saying.
     Brendan does not yet see him approach, as he continues to focus on the fencepost.  But his exhaustion gets the better of him, and a misplaced swing of his mallet sends it straight into the dirt.  With a muttered curse, he bends over to pick it up, and this is when catches a glimpse of his brother, pacing back and forth on the road.  Brendan and Daniel share a look of surprise before Daniel’s face lights up in a smile, but his eyes betray his expression.
   “Good morning, Brendan!” Daniel yells a little too enthusiastically.
“Hullo, Daniel.  It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Brendan answers with none of his brother’s cheer.  He stares daggers into Daniel.
“Yeah…yeah, I suppose it has.” Daniel’s can’t bring himself to meet his brother’s gaze.  His eyes drop to his feet.
“What’re ya doin’ all the way out here?” Brendan asks.
“I thought I’d just like to see the old place again, that’s all.”
Brendan’s face forms an expression of disbelief, but says nothing of it.  Instead, he bends down and picks up his mallet while he thinks of what to say next. “D’hear abou’ ma and da?” he asks, his Irish brogue becoming apparent.
     Daniel hesitates for a moment. “…I think I heard somethin’ about them.”
     “You weren’t at their funerals.”
     “Christ, man!  I didn’t hear the news till after the fact.  News travels slow to me since you n’ Michael cut me off.” Michael, being the middle child and the favorite of the parents, entered the Catholic priesthood at the age of twenty-five.  Unbeknownst to Daniel, Michael never wanted to leave him with nothing, but Brendan was the one who made the decision to cut him off.
     “Who was the one who wanted to stay in the city ‘n ‘fight for the free Irish folk?’” Brendan retorts.  Daniel says nothing, so Brendan continues, “Tha’s what I thought.  So what’re ya really here for?” he asks. “Nobody comes wanderin’ back to they family after missin’ they ma and da’s funeral.”
Reluctantly, Daniel answers, “Some o’ the boys back in the Five Points heard that them Orangemen are plannin’ another parade on the twelfth.  To celebrate the Battle of the Boyne, y’know.”
     “And?”
     “And they want to do somethin’ about it.”
     Brendan throws his mallet on the ground in frustration. “Ah Jaysus, don’t tell me you’re gettin’ involved with all tha’ shite.  For fuck’s sake, people died in that riot last year!”
     “Yeah, and that’s exactly why they need to be stopped!” Daniel challenges.  “And why shouldn’t I be gettin’ involved?  Them fuckin’ Protestant bastards were the reason we had to leave Ireland for this shithole country!”
     Brendan remains unfazed. “Ya ain’t even old enough to remember why we left Ireland in the first place,” he retorts.
     “So what?  I know our history, and I know what the Protestants deserve.  And now they out walkin’ around flauntin’ their families’ victories over ours, why shouldn’t I be able to put a stop to it?”
     “Ya ever ask Michael what ‘e would think about this?”
Daniel pauses, taken aback. “Nah,” he answers after some consideration.      “Other priests say the Protestants’re outta line ‘n they deserve to have us come down on ‘em.”
     Brendan’s expression softens. “Ya know Michael’d ‘ave a different answer for ya.  ‘E’s your brother, y’know he’d ‘ave your best interests at heart.” He picks up the mallet again and begins to pound the post in again. “He knows more about bein’ a good Catholic than I do, and more’n any o’ your ‘boys’ at the Five Points, and those sorry excuses for priests they ‘ave round there as well.”
     Daniel takes a breath.  This wasn’t how he wanted this conversation to go.  Or was it?  Did he have any idea what he really wanted from his brother?  With these thoughts swirling around in his head, he begins to storm off.  But something inside him makes him stop.  He turns back to Brendan. “I’ll talk to him, sure,” he says with little sincerity in his voice, “but my mind’s made up.  There’s nothin’ you or him could do to change it.”
Brendan shrugs. “Fuck it, I won’ stop ya.” He continues pounding the fencepost while he says under his breath, “I’m sure ya can’t ruin your life anymore ‘an ya already ‘ave.”
     Daniel doesn’t hear this, or at least pretends not to. “Glad I could have this last talk with you, brother,” he says, and begins his walk back down the road.
     “An’ same to you,” Brendan says without looking up from his work.