Prison in Hawaii

The air raid sirens sounded and my brother Bruno scrambled, demanding to know where my basement was. I didn’t have a basement and informed Bruno it was the monthly test, that there was no attack, but Bruno started stacking canned goods, rifling through cupboards. I told him it was ten a.m., second Wednesday of the month, but Bruno only looked more convinced, said this would be the ideal time for an attack, everyone thinking it was just the test. His arms were full of soup and chili and vegetables, and he said I should coral the dog and all my bottled water, that we could come back up for the radio and first aid kit if we wanted to risk it. I didn’t have a dog but did keep an old iPod and some Band-Aids. The sirens stopped after two minutes like normal, and Bruno announced this was it, the siren tower was kaput, to fuck the radio, that we had to get downstairs ASAP. Bruno had just been in prison in Hawaii and hadn’t been to my house, at least not this one in LA, where no one has basements. A can of corn fell from the top of his stack, and we let it roll. I tried to get Bruno to calm down, but he started with, “Here, boy. Here, boy,” whistling, then switched to, “Here, girl. Come on, girl. Hey, girl,” trying to get the imaginary dog to follow him down a staircase that didn’t exist. I told him I didn’t have a dog, and he said the cat was probably already downstairs, that they’re smart, unlike dogs, and know all the best hiding places. I told him I didn’t have pets, and for the first time, Bruno stopped, or at least slowed down, and said, “Really, Henry?” like I was too sad and pathetic to take care of something, to love something, which may have been true. I asked Bruno what would happen, in prison, if the sirens went off, implying that he’d be in his cell, unable to go to a basement, go anywhere. Bruno looked mad, or maybe hurt, that I brought up prison, but pointed out that Hawaiians called air raid sirens hurricane sirens because they were much more likely to be hit by a hurricane. I thought it was obvious to mention Pearl Harbor but didn’t because that wasn’t the point. Bruno continued, “Since we’re on it, I might as well tell you what I did,” even though just that morning, he’d requested that I never, ever ask him what he did. “Last year, I stole a shit ton of …,” but Bruno was interrupted by an explosion, a massive thundering boom, followed by another and another and another, growing louder and louder and louder, closer and closer and closer. I peeked out the window and could see black smoke billowing, fire in the sky, planes in the distance, flying our way, little black dashes falling from their bellies, triggering more explosions. I picked up the corn and grabbed my glasses and phone charger. I steered Bruno into my bathroom, setting the food on the toilet tank, inviting him to sit with me in the tub. We perched toe to toe. I wondered what that was like, prison in Hawaii, to be so close to all that beauty, to paradise, but to be kept from it. It was worse, I would guess, than prison anywhere else. “I don’t have a basement,” I told my brother, and again, Bruno looked at me like he’d never seen someone so alone.