Bill

It always blows my mind when the best of us are also the worst of us. My stepbrother Bill fit that bill.

Bill was smarter than 99% of the people around him. He was witty. Charming. Handsome. Sharp. Too sharp—cuttingly sharp, so much so that he’d hurt you on purpose. He’d hurt those closest to him, probably because he felt so terrible inside. And he’d been this way even as a young person.

Bill grew up in a chaotic home after a messy divorce. His mom had mental health issues and would pull him out of school whenever she or he had problems. Bill started using tobacco, alcohol, and drugs early, probably by age 13 or before.

To some, it might seem strange that my mom eventually married into this family, but the inner circles of Houston can be a small town in their own way. My dad died by suicide when I was 9. That’s a whole other story. We lived in a nice neighborhood in Houston, River Oaks. Bill’s family—my step-family—lived a block away on the same street. Bill’s dad and my mom had known each other since childhood, growing up in River Oaks. In those days, all the neighborhood kids went to the same preschools, played in the same church leagues, and were members of the same country clubs. I was in the same grade as one of Bill’s brothers and Bill was the same age as my oldest sister.

About a month after my dad died, Bill and his younger brother toilet-papered our house and covered the walkway in shaving cream, writing “Die Skanky Bitches” in chalk on our front step. My mom freaked out. Bill’s dad—now my stepdad—was mortified and made them apologize. I didn’t think about them much in the years that followed because I pretty much blacked out the years from 9 to 13, living in a haze in the wake of suicide. Recently, though, I was talking to my other stepbrother, and he told me his side of the story. Apparently, his mother encouraged them to do it. Its where Bill’s cruelty came from. Bill was 13, his brother 10. Who would have their kids do something like that to a family grieving a father’s suicide?

Life moved on for all of us. We had to sell our house and we moved two blocks away to a smaller home. My grandmother moved in to help and because she had breast cancer. My mom cared for her with help from hospice until she passed away in our home. Eventually, my mom began dating again. Most guys weren’t the right fit. We struggled, but we were a family: my mom, my two sisters, and me. We lived simply. No more big vacations or country clubs. We still went to private school but with support from our grandparents estates and support from the schools, but we lived modestly, using welfare until my mom remarried. When I was 15, my mom started dating my now-stepdad. She married my stepdad when I was 17.

That’s when our families began to merge. Bill had dropped out of high school but seemed cooler. He smoked cigarettes with my mom and was in and out of trouble, but he was at his sharpest during those years. All the cool kids from private schools knew him socially. He was an impressive painter. I’d hang out with his brother at their house a block over, and it was wild in there. The house looked beautiful outside, but inside, it was like a frat house. Four men with no woman in their lives. There were holes in the walls from angry punches, miles of computer cables for projects, a pool table in the living room, fast food wrappers everywhere, and cigarette ashes all over the back porch—first from Bill, then from my stepbrother, even at 15. It was Texas, after all. We started early.

Things changed when my stepdad proposed. Bill knew my mom didn’t want us too close to his world. She knew he was using harder drugs, and she knew he was getting into trouble. A few days before the wedding, Bill came over and said to her, “I know you killed your husband.” It wounded her deeply, to the point she nearly called off the wedding. She’d grown close with Bill, and this accusation blindsided her. He’d said it to hurt her, probably to keep her from interfering in his life or changing how he chose to live. By then, I’d started going out socially, and I’d see Bill at parties. He was 19, I was 15, and he’d always been cool with me. We celebrated holidays together, went out to eat. But after that accusation, everything was ruined.

Bill moved out. We moved in. My mom patched the holes, cleaned up the ash, and made the house a home. We lived there for three or four years before moving to a new home as a combined family. My stepdad fought a multi-year custody battle with his ex-wife over my youngest stepbrother, which was painful for everyone, especially them. But we got through it, and our family grew stronger. Bill, however, was always in the background, waiting to hurt us again. I was in college in Houston when I’d hear he’d been arrested, gone to rehab, or done something outrageous.

At 18, Bill received a trust fund from his great-grandfather. He didn’t graduate high school but suddenly had a small fortune. He blew through it in just a few years. We’d get tickets for abandoned cars in different cities or bills from the Bellagio. He was supposed to move to San Francisco for art school, but he never enrolled. Soon after, he’d get in trouble with the law, usually tied to drugs, and his dad would take him to rehab. He’d get sober, come back into our world, and then destroy it again.

One Christmas Day, we were at our new house, a few blocks from the old “frat house.” My mom had made Christmas dinner: beef tenderloin, popovers, and crackers with hats. Bill showed up wearing a pink boa, with ruddy cheeks and sunken eyes. I was a sophomore in college. Bill mumbled through dinner, unable to hold a conversation. Then he turned to me and said, “You got fat.” I shot back, “You’re on drugs,” and grabbed him by the collar to throw him out. His dad stepped in before things escalated. My sisters found powder in the bathroom after he left. Fat or not, I’ve always been strong, and I knew I could take him down if consequences didn’t matter—after all he’d put us through.

More rehabs. More jail. More women who fell for his charm, only to end up hurt or in chaotic situations.

About ten years ago, Bill reappeared, totally broke. His dad had stopped helping financially, but his grandmother wanted to. She took him to church, met with him several times a week. He put on the good-boy act for her but whatever drugs he had been on had taken a toll. He was worn down.

Then, when I was in my early 30s and working at a startup in Brooklyn, I got a call from my mom. Bill had gotten into a fight with his girlfriend and shot himself in front of her.

Bill hurt those who who loved him. His dad drove him across the country for rehab so many times. He wounded his brothers, his step-family, his girlfriends. I used to think he was so cool. God, he was so hurt inside.

The saddest part of Bill’s story is the relief that came after he passed. I know his grandmother felt pain, having tried to help him. She died shortly after. But for those of us who’d witnessed the trouble and the torment he caused, the relief was undeniable. It’s hard not to feel guilty, but it’s true. People in his orbit didn’t have to weather the storm he brought with him anymore. It’s sad to be glad someone is gone.

The best of us can be the worst of us. Bill had so much potential. So sharp. So charming. So handsome. And yet, so tragic, so sick, so toxic. I truly hope he’s at peace in death. He was anything but in life.

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Recently i’ve been thinking of Bill. My step-father has been putting up more pictures of him since my mom has passed. I know it’s my step-father’s girlfriend who has been helping with this. I believe I understand this better now. Particularly because I have son’s now myself. When my mom was around, Bill was so toxic to her. She hated him for all he had put us through over the years, and from my perspective, rightly. I won’t turn him into someone he wasn’t to me. But from my step-dad’s perspective, he was his first son. His first baby boy. His first. Man as a father I get that so much more now. That is who he wants to remember. His bright brilliant boy. The sharp one. The handsome one. The witty, pithy one who everyone loved. His boy. His first born. Man I get and I support that. For him. Because our son’s are ourselves in part, and Bill was a part of him. And he deserves to remember the best of him in a good light, even if there was a lot of dark too. It is a truly beautiful and correct and human thing to do. Honor our loved ones. Even if there was pain.