A nickel for his thoughts

By John M. Angelini

When I was a boy, numbers meant learning to tell time, multiplication tables and how much my allowance would be, if any. But as I grew, one number would haunt me.

My brother Vito, five years older than me, was the family's fifth-eldest sibling. He was also a troubled soul and, as they used to say, a drunkard.

One time, while we were riding the New York subway, Vito spotted his image reflected in the car window. From an apparent hatred for what he saw, Vito made a tight fist and repeatedly punched the glass until his knuckles bled. Unable to stop him, I wept silently, mostly out of fear, while witnessing the tears that refused to drop from his pained eyes.

As I grew older I searched local bars hoping to find Vito before he became entangled in another brawl. On rare occasions, I succeeded.

Then came the war. Vito was inducted into the Army in the fifth month of 1942 and joined me at Fort Dix, N.J. As war separates family, it would be five years before I would see him again.

Five. I began to wonder about that number.

Vito's homecoming was a nightmare. The wife he left behind had also become an alcoholic and died at an early age. Vito's second wife counseled him about the evils of drinking and smoking. He conquered his alcoholism, though he continued to smoke.

Life was good. Vito seemed happy. Then the bomb dropped. Vito was diagnosed with lung cancer. He was 50. I could only conclude that fate would always deal Vito a losing hand.

And the number was always there.

One very early morning the phone rang. I let it ring, fearing the worst if I answered. With reluctance, I picked it up.

"He's dead, he's dead, he's dead," Vito's wife repeated, sobbing.

"John? John?"

"I'm here," I answered, convincing myself that I was dreaming, refusing to accept her words.

Was he finally at peace? Did the fate master decide that Vito had had enough? I struggled to find an answer. There would be none.

"Why," I shouted, hearing my voice echo across the dimly lit room.

At the age of 55, Vito had died. It was my wife's birthday. May 5.

The morgue was silent, somber. Standing behind the glass barrier I could clearly see Vito's pale but still handsome face with his neatly trimmed mustache.

I touched the glass, remembering the good and bad times we shared, the laughter and tears, the hopes and disappointments.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. Five minutes after 5. I struggled to make some sense of my brother's life, and death, and this mystery without a solution.

It has been decades since my brother passed on. These days, whenever I run across the number 5, I often wonder if he is telling me that he's only as distant as memories allow.

I know that a nickel has limited value these days, but it's worth its weight in gold to me as a reminder of a dear but ill-fated brother.