Books by John Schembra

My Brother’s Keeper

I loved my brother, in spite of his cruel disposition.

He was four years younger than me, and from the first time I saw him, I knew I had to be his protector, to look after him, keep him from the darker side of life.

I saw his mean streak when he was just a baby, maybe nine or ten months old. He was as cute as could be, with an infectious laugh. I watched him tearing his teddy to shreds while laughing. He seemed to enjoy it, but I knew that couldn’t be true. After all, he was a baby.

As he grew into a toddler, I saw him hitting or biting his playmates, until they screamed in pain, crying. Parents would rush to their child’s side to comfort them, wondering what caused their distress. The bruises didn’t become apparent until an hour or two later. They mostly shrugged it off, saying things like, “Well, that’s gonna happen when they play,” or, “Oh, he’ll be fine. It’s only a bruise. It won’t be the last one he gets.”

They didn’t see what I saw, how my brother seemed to enjoy inflicting pain. He never did anything when an adult was in the room. Even at such a young age, he knew how to avoid being caught in the act, that it was a bad thing he was doing.

That didn’t stop him, though, and as he grew to become a boy, he began inflicting more severe injuries. I once saw him strike the neighbor’s boy with a toy truck, causing a small cut to his scalp. Another time, while playing with our cousin in the sandbox, he threw a handful of sand in her face. Some of the sand went into her eyes, and more into her mouth. As she ran crying to her mother, he laughed.

As the years passed, I tried to prevent him from such acts that were becoming more violent, and the injuries more severe. Scraped knees were blamed on them stumbling and falling while running. No one but me saw him tripping them as they ran past. Deep bruises were attributed to running into the slide or monkey bars. One child he struck on the forehead with a large branch required six stitches to close the wound. The child knew my brother had hit him, but was too afraid of him to say what really happened.   

The summer between the end of grammar school and my move to middle school, I managed to keep his vicious behavior to a minimum. I tried talking to him, as I had done over the years, explaining how his treatment of other children was cruel. I warned him he would be severely punished if caught, but he laughed, replying, “I ain’t been caught yet.” I tried threats, saying I would do to him what he did to others, or tell our parents what he was doing. He shrugged and said, “Go ahead.” He couldn’t care less that there were consequences for his actions.

During that summer he rarely took out his aggression on others, and I thought I had finally gotten through to him. We would go to the park for pick-up basketball or baseball games, went to the movies, or with our parents on day trips to a carnival, museum, or the beach. We had fun, and it seemed we grew closer. We were best friends, and I watched over him. We enjoyed each other’s company.

A few weeks before school started, I noticed he began to go off by himself every so often. After breakfast he would grab his small duffle bag and hike up the hill behind our house to the woods at the top. He would be gone for three or four hours, returning sweaty and flushed. I asked him where he went and what he was doing, and he said, “I like hiking through the woods. It’s peaceful.”

Our parents tried to warn him it wasn’t safe for him to do that. They said he could be kidnapped by a stranger, and hurt—or worse, killed. He smiled at them and told them not to worry. “I’ve seen some older boys in the woods, but I never let them get close to me. They never even know I’m there.”

Something about his “hikes” didn’t seem right to me. He had never, up to this point, exhibited any interest in hiking, or being alone so much. I decided I would follow him the next time and see what he really was doing.

The opportunity came a few days later. On Saturday, I got up early, ate a bowl of cereal, and was out the door before anyone else was awake. I ran up the hill to the woods, and searched for someplace to hide where I could watch the path, and not be seen by anyone coming up. I didn’t have long to wait



The opportunity came a few days later. On Saturday, I got up early, ate a bowl of cereal, and was out the door before anyone else was awake. I ran up the hill to the woods, and searched for someplace to hide where I could watch the path, and not be seen by anyone coming up. I didn’t have long to wait.

Twenty-five minutes later, I saw him leave our back yard and start up the hill. I scrunched down, and when he entered the woods, I followed him, far enough behind so he wouldn’t hear any slight noise I might make. We’d walked for twenty minutes when he entered a small clearing. I crept up to the edge and hid behind a large oak tree. I had a clear view of him and watched as he sat on the dry grass, placed his duffle on the ground and opened it up. Reaching inside, he pulled out a young cat. Cradling the cat to him, he removed a large hunting knife with his other hand. What he did to that cat over the next ten minutes was horrifying. Its pitiful yowls of fear and pain were more than I could take. I clapped my hands over my ears and was in tears. When he finished, he buried the cat, laid back, with his hands behind his head, and hummed softly. I think at one point, he might have fallen asleep. I sat there, not believing what I had seen.

An hour later, he got up, took his duffle, and walked back the way he came. He passed within six feet of me, but I was so well hidden he never saw me. I waited several minutes, making sure he didn’t return, before I got up and went into the clearing. I saw the fresh dirt of the cat’s grave, even though he tried to cover it with the grass. In another hour, the dirt would be dry and look like the rest of the soil. I slowly walked around and saw what appeared to be other small graves, like the cats. I counted eleven of them.

I left the area, walking down the backside of the hill so he wouldn’t see me coming down the path. It took me longer to get to my house, but to my relief, he wasn’t home. That day I became afraid of my brother.

For the next week my mind was in turmoil. Should I tell my parents what I saw? Should I go to the police? I just didn’t know. On the one hand, I didn’t want him to continue killing animals. On the other, I didn’t want to get him in trouble. After all, I was his big brother and his protector. What was I to do? I feared that at some point, he would start on people, instead of animals.

Two weeks later, my brother disappeared. He left on one of his hikes and never came home. My parents called the police when he didn’t show up for dinner. They said to call back in the morning if he was still gone, suggesting he may have met up with some friends and was off playing somewhere. Not an unusual thing for an eleven-year-old.

The next morning, they started searching for him. I told them he liked hiking in the woods behind the house, so they concentrated their efforts there. After two days they had not found him and broadened their search to other parts of the city—a park, open space, creeks—places kids would often go. The T.V. stations showed his photo on their news programs, and a missing person flyer with his picture was distributed all over town.

Many volunteers helped search over the next month, with no results. My parents held out hope he was still alive and being held at an as yet unknown place.

The organized search was discontinued ten days later, though the police assured us they were still actively looking for him. They did admit they had no clues as to what had happened with him.

I missed my brother. A lot, in spite of what he had done. I still had not told anyone about the clearing and what I had seen. I knew that if it ever came out, it would devastate our parents. Our neighbors and friends would never look at us without disgust or pity.  I did not want that to happen. Now, I had to protect my parents.

That’s why I killed him.