“Bones” by Jon Michaud
--page 7

         Bones suffered a broken leg, two cracked ribs and a concussion. During his time in the hospital and throughout his months on crutches, he completely ignored me. He would not even look at me when we were in the same room and I was astonished at how quickly it came to seem normal that my brother did not acknowledge my existence. The exception was during the Grammy broadcast in January. This was just after his cast had come off. The three of us sat in our living room in Washington Heights while Loup’s students performed in their masks of comedy and tragedy to a medley of nominated classical recordings onstage at Radio City, a hundred and thirty blocks away. It might as well have been a hundred and thirty thousand miles. During the performance, I became aware that Bones was looking at me with a seething glare. Through the remainder of the act, he stared at me wordlessly and when it was over he stood up and limped to his room. He limped because his leg had not been properly set in the cast. The bone healed slightly out of alignment. He could walk, but it hurt him to run--let alone to dance. The only way to fix it was to break it again.
         Mami, on the other hand, chose to blame Papi for everything. “You see, I was right to be worried about him all these years,” she said. I’d given her an edited version of events, downplaying my own lies and not mentioning Papi’s request to be taken back. We did not see Papi again for many years, and once the Grammys were over, the only reminder of the whole affair was Bones’s limp--and the abiding silence between us.

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