Joe Brown

My brother Joe is the only one in this world besides me who remembers the clown who came to life in the basement.

Joe was four and I was five when we lived on Vrain Street, and Mick and Rick were mere toddlers.

One day, Dad, who worked for Sealtest Dairy, lugged home a life sized mechanical clown his company had used for an advertising promotion.

Joe and Stef Brown - July 4th, 2014.

"The promotion's over, and I figured the kids would like it!" he explained to my wary-eyed mother, as he excitedly plugged the clown into the basement wall.  With electrical juice swarming through its veins, the clown jumped to life and suddenly lurched side to side as if casing every nook and cranny of the basement.  Its garish red mouth moved silently. Dad beamed.

"Won't this be fun, Kids?"

We were terrified.  Worst of all, the basement was our playground. In the days to come, the clown, observing us quietly from its shadowy corner, ruined the basement for us forever.

Joe and I suffered the same nightmare.  We'd be playing in the basement as usual when the clown, of its own accord, suddenly sprang to life and inched its terrifying way toward us.  Shrieking, we'd pound up the stairs wailing for our mother, only to discover the door at the top of the stairs was locked.  Behind us, the clown made its slow, steady progress up the stairs, step by deadly step. I don't know about Joe, but I always woke at this point scaring my parents to death with my screams.

When it became clear that none of us would ever again venture to the basement, Dad realized his mistake and called a junk dealer to cart the clown away.  Joe and I stood outdoors in our jackets the day the clown was loaded up in the rear of a big rickety truck wobbling precariously as it was trundled away.  But Joe swears before the truck rumbled down the street, the clown turned to fix him with a penetrating gaze.

As close as Joe and I were when we were small and sharing the same nightmare about a phantom clown, we felt like stark opposites as we entered the throes of adolescence. Joe was exceptionally handsome with his blonde hair and my dad's blue, blue eyes.  If that wasn't enough, he was a particularly graceful and talented athlete.

"Joe's one of those lucky kids who skipped right over the awkward adolescent phase," I overheard my mother laugh to my aunt one day.  I had never once heard her say this about me, and I strongly suspected I was in the middle of a very awkward phase even as she spoke.  Maybe a permanent one.

In high school, I remember a girl in Joe's class who struck up a friendship with me hoping that I'd get her in good with my brother.  "You're so lucky," she breathed.  "You get to live in the very same house as Joe Brown!"

I snorted.  That girl would have lasted five minutes at our house.  The first time Joe shoved a pair of his underwear over her head or Mick pinned her down on the floor to spit pickle juice in her mouth, she'd take off like a bat out of hell.

As smart and athletic and handsome as Joe was, however, he didn't always have it easy.  My dad was hard on all my brothers, but he was hardest on Joe.  Dad parented the way he had been parented.

At one of Joe's basketball games, Dad leaned over to whisper to my mother, "Joe is the most gifted athlete I've ever seen."  Sadly, I doubt he ever told Joe.  But by the time our lovely mother had died and Dad had raised the second half of their ten kids alone, he had mellowed considerably.  Just before he passed away, he and Joe resolved a lot of their differences.

I see a lot of my dad in Joe now.  Dad, with almost super human strength, put aside his own grief after Mom died to bolster us up and make us feel safe.  He was one of the strongest, kindest, bravest men I ever knew.

Joe is just like him.

He is a private man, like Dad, and sometimes he'll look long and thoughtfully at the ceiling before he responds to your question or makes a smart alec crack.  Just like Dad.

A smart and savvy businessman, Joe's given me good advice. He put me in contact with all the right people to sell our house and even loaned John and me every stick of furniture he owned to dress the place to sell.  He even offered to help us paint.  "We'll all help!"he reassured me.  "Pick a day, and we'll be over."

That's Joe.  "We're family," he says.  "This is what we do for each other."  It's exactly what Dad would have said.

The only time I ever saw Joe's strong, calm demeanor crack was when his 22-year-old son Gavin nearly died on the operating table three years ago. Joe and his wife Stef agonized for 12 hours in the waiting room pressing nurses for news of Gavin.  "They won't tell us what's happening," he said over the phone, and for the first time in my life, I heard my brother stifle a sob.

Gavin survived, but a year later Joe suffered a heart attack - his second.

"You better come to the hospital fast," my brother Tom called all of us.  "Joe's coded."

All the way to the hospital I prayed, gripping the steering wheel, and prepared myself to hear the news that my brother was gone.  But those good doctors revived him with the paddles and brought him back to us.  When we were able to see him, we marveled that he was alert and able to talk to us.

"Something happened in there," he said to all of us as we crowded around his hospital gurney.  "Something great."  We looked quickly at each other.  Had he seen Mom and Dad?  The big light?  Nothing like that, he explained a few weeks later during a family pizza gathering at my sister Deb's. Joe's never painted glowing narratives of anything, and he didn't tell us much about this experience.  He remembered the emergency physicians frantically working, and then he was gone - in another place.  He didn't see anything much or meet long lost relatives.  "But I was somewhere else," he told us, and the feeling of joy and peace and well being was blissful. It didn't last long - less than a minute. The emergency crew started his heart again quickly, and suddenly Joe was back again in the middle of hospital chaos. At a loss to describe it, he shook his head.

That was all he ever said about the experience.  But I  know he's thought about it.  Especially now.

A few weeks ago, after a trip to the doctor to check out some troubling symptoms, my handsome brother was diagnosed with cancer of the bladder.  It was a shock for both Joe and Stef, and it was a few days before either one of them could talk to us.  But finally, Joe called, upbeat as usual and refusing to betray his fear.

"It's an aggressive tumor that's spread into the muscle of the bladder," he said, when I pressed for details. An MRI scheduled in another week would reveal whether it had spread to other organs in his body.  In the meantime, he said, both he and Stef planned to be at our brother Tom's with the rest of us for our annual fourth of July family celebration, and he didn't want anybody hovering over him.  "I just want to be a normal guy and enjoy Independence Day," he said firmly.

I promised and alerted all my family members who were desperate to hear the news.  "No hovering," I said. "I gave him our word."

I knew what it cost Joe to make that call, and his courage put me to shame.  I remembered the day years ago when I curled up in bed waiting for the pathology report for a lump that turned out to be benign. Paralyzed by fear, I could hardly speak to anyone, even my husband. Joe, on the other hand, was facing his fear and planning to celebrate the 4th of July with all his family in attendance. My younger brother was teaching me how to be brave.

On July 4th, we inhaled burgers and enjoyed unseasonably cool weather.  There was volleyball and a bean bag toss, and we laughed and ate and drank.  Not once did we bring up medical issues or the stressful MRI scheduled in a few days.  But we couldn't take our eyes off Joe who seemed just as cheerful and happy as he always did.

Our sister Terri emailed us.  "Let's say a nine day Novena for Joe!"

Like the good Catholics we are, we said the Novena and prayed fervently for Joe. I watched for reassuring signs.  I'm a big believer in heavenly signs.  When my husband drew me to the bedroom window to see a flaming red Cardinal squawking on a tree branch just feet away, I tucked it away and was comforted.  My sisters reported seeing white Cadillacs - the same brand and model as Dad used to drive.  It was always a reassuring symbol to us that Dad was close by.  We hoped and prayed and waited to hear from Joe.

On the day of the MRI, I was jumpy.  We all were.

"Have you heard anything?" my siblings and I called and texted back and forth.  At three in the afternoon, I could stand it no longer.

"What's the news?" I texted Joe's wife Stef.

Finally she called.  "It hasn't spread!"

It was all I wanted to hear.  Immediately, I alerted my brothers and sisters.

"Thank God!" Carry texted back.

"Thank you, Jesus!" Terri exclaimed.

"Praise God!" my stepmother Kris wrote.

You would have thought it was a religious revival.  We don't usually invoke the name of our good Lord quite so enthusiastically in our text messages, but it seemed the only proper expression for our relief and gratitude.

Joe's journey has only begun.  He will lose his bladder, and life will be very different.  But I know my brother. He's strong and brave, and he'll adapt.  He always has.  He puts one foot in front of the other and does what needs to be done.  Just like Dad.

In the meantime, he has a gorgeous wife who adores him, kids who are devoted to him, and a whole dysfunctional family of siblings that can't do without him. We love him so much, and we refuse to let anything happen to him.

It turns out I need him more than I ever realized. Joe might be 57-years-old, but he's still my little brother.

And he's the only other person on this planet besides me who remembers the clown that came to life in the basement.