No Solution

I can scrape my fork to the tune of a misfit. I can shift my peas and roast beef around in insignificance, without any contribution to the conversation my family is having about the worker's strike and the local high school football game last night. Every person sitting at this dinner table, sipping thick, syrupy tea and chomping on my mother's cooking is a Garrett. I, myself, am one sixth of that equation. I feel like a variable. The unknown. Someone is always saying, "find the value of x." I am constantly searching for my value in this Garrett equation. I hear this happens sometimes. I hear it's called middle child syndrome.
"James Garrett, quit playing with your food," mother says.
I'm tired of eating the same things over and over. My father and brothers are "meat-and-potato-men". "Potato-men" is more like it. Thick lumps of starchy-fleshed men with eyes that sink back dumbly in their round heads. Hell, they're even smeared with coal. Close enough to dirt. My mother cooks roast beef and meatloaf on alternating nights. Carrots, peas, and green beans for accompaniment. I'd kill someone for something different. Anything.
My younger brother, Mattie, keeps me sane. He's going to be just like my dad and older brothers, but for now, his ability to stick to marbles and stay out of the mines is enough to make him the most valuable of the Garrett's. I'm out of the mine too, for now. It's mostly because I refused to sink down, suffocate even, below the cold earth. That really pissed my dad off and that's part of the reason he is looking at me from over his plate like I murdered one of his more valuable children. I keep a job above ground instead.
After school, I walk over to the hardware store. Lane's Hardware and Mercantile. It has a big wooden sign with red lettering. I count the letters as I come down the sidewalk. 26 characters. The same as the alphabet. There are repeats, though. That messes it up. If there weren't, I could make more words. Today, I think, "sane", "war", "crate."
Inside, work is usually slow. I run the register, making change and shifty glances at the local contractors' daughters. They don't come in very often. The daughters, I mean. When things are really slow, I try fitting scraps from the trimmings together. They usually never fit. I take the screws and nails out. They're just temporary holds.
I don't know how many more nights I can come home to this food and these people. Mr. Lane won't let me stay late at work for the liability. Also, he says he can't pay overtime. Not that there's overtime work to be done.
"James Walter Garrett, what in the world are you doing?" My dad has swallowed his perpetual bite.
I could tell him that I'm planning a new, less monotonous dinner for tomorrow. Instead I just stare directly at the center of his forehead. He tells me to excuse myself until I can be a part of this family.
Upstairs, I have the only bedroom. My two older brothers, Frank and Lawrence, share the basement, and Mattie has his own bedroom down the hall from my parents. The upstairs isn't an upstairs at all, really. It's the attic. After the incident with the mine, I asked if I could convert it into a loft. Nobody objected. It made more room, they said.
There is a big tree that hangs over the gable above my bed. One of the branches scrapes the roof when the wind blows. That tree knocks on my ceiling a lot. I like that knocking because I never know when it's going to happen. That knocking means anticipation. That knocking makes me think. There's someone out there, trying to get in. And there is someone here, sitting in bed, trying to get out. Someone needs to take away the roof.
_________________________________________

Today I woke up and skipped school. I'm tired of trying to solve math problems. I went for a walk instead. The day was pretty gray but I didn't mind. I took in the crispness of the air as I walked along Delaney and down to Mackintosh. I decided to cross over to the mine road. I don't know why. A few yards away, I started to get nervous. I sprinted past but I tripped. As I was getting up, I thought about the time. I thought about how hungry I was.
It was too late to get food. I had to make it to work. I turned around and sprinted back to Lane's. Behind the register, I tried to focus on adding totals but my mind was rejecting numbers. All those numbers. I'm tired of trying to solve math problems. I grabbed my jacket and walked out.
I was so hungry. I thought about dinner. Meatloaf. I couldn't eat meatloaf anymore. I stopped by Miller's convenience store. I stuck my hands in my pockets and pulled out some crinkled bills. I didn't bother to count them. I'm tired of trying to solve math problems. I walked over to a shelf and just started picking up cakes. Yellow cupcakes and brownies. A bag of chocolate chip cookies. Fruit pies. I walked over to the cashier and held out my hand. The wadded cash was moist in my fist and I waited for her to open her hand beneath mine before I turned it free. I left all of the numbers with her as I pushed my way out of the door.
I walked home with that bulk of sweets in my arms. I must have looked like I was embracing them. I wanted to. No more meatloaf. Not tonight. I walked inside and headed straight for my room. I dropped the convenience store stash on my bed.
Mattie must have heard me come in because he came up through my floor and tentatively said, "Hey, James. You better not eat those. You're not gonna want dinner."
I threw an angry glance and a quick, "I'm not eating that shit anymore" his way.
"You shouldn't say that."
Then, I told him to go. I couldn't eat that meatloaf anymore. I couldn't do anymore equations. I wasn't going to try to fit myself in or place myself anywhere anymore.
"No. I'm not going to go. All you do is try to make our family different. You don't eat mom's food and you won't go to work like dad. You can't eat those cakes."
I hit him. I picked up something. I didn't even know what it was. I just picked up the nearest thing and hit Mattie. He fell limply to the floor. I looked down at my hand. One of my blocks with screws in it. I'd brought it home from Lane's. I dropped it from where I stood and stooped down to pick Mattie up. He didn't move.
I placed him delicately on my bed. I picked up the cakes and threw them in the trash. I sat down next to the youngest variable of the Garrett equation, dead beside me, and thought about lowering him into the suffocating cold earth long before his time. I removed one sixth of the Garrett equation. I killed my brother to find the solution. I have found the value of "x". I have found my value.
I sat there, empty until the tree knocked hard on my ceiling. I thought about the separation. Someone needed to take away the roof. I went down and got the box of matches. I brought them up and struck one boldly on the headboard. I sat limply on the floor and dropped the match. The flames rose up. Someone needed to take away the roof. I took in a deep breath and thought about the Garrett's eating dinner. Four-sixths of the Garrett equation. There is no longer a solution.