AFTER THE LAST STRAGGLERS LEFT, stumble drunk and one at a time, after Barb wiped the bar and washed the glasses and made a fresh pot of coffee, and after Anton pulled the chain on the neon OPEN sign and it flickered off, and walked the last dancer and Barb out to their cars, and brushed them free of the foot of snow, he came in and punched several numbers into the jukebox and dimmed the lights and manned the bar while The Rolling Stones’ “Dead Flowers” twanged into the air.
He took our orders and poured our drinks (I had a cup of that hot coffee) and the five of us—Sheb and Anton, Kristi and Chloe and myself—sat on our assorted bar stools and sipped our drinks. Sheb lit a cigar and offered them around but found no takers. Anton and the women lit cigarettes and it wasn’t long before our end of the bar clouded with sweet-smelling smoke.
“Hard to imagine the two of you together,” Sheb said, without any of the bitterness or recrimination that usually accompanied his speech. “Jake would be happy as hell about this.”
Anton and I exchanged glances and nods and I said, “I’m happy, too. Despite the occasion.”
Anton only sipped his drink.
“Your old man always said he wished he could get the three of you together again. Father and sons. He didn’t have many regrets in life, but that was one of them.” Sheb looked at me. “That you’d gone so far away.”
“I’m just up the road, Sheb.”
To the women he said, “You two would’ve loved Jake. Just a sweetheart. A perfect gentleman. I never knew a harder working guy. Relished the simple things.”
“He was too scrawny for my taste,” Chloe said, then turned to Anton and added, “I like a little meat on my man.”
“Sweetheart,” Sheb said, “there’s only about ten pounds difference between Anton and you, and you’re a goddamn waif.”
“He’s got it where it counts,” she said.
Everyone laughed while Anton blushed. We quieted into a momentary lull. They smoked and we drank and some very particular half-light in the bar filtered my thoughts. Finally, I said, “About Pops there’s one thing we can say for sure: without him, none of us would be here.”
“I’d be here,” Chloe said.
“He means me and Sheb,” Anton said. “And he’s right. And he’s not just talking about Pops’s meat.”
Even Sheb smiled at this, staring into his aquavit through the haze of his cigar smoke. “He wanted a certain life, and he took it.” He swirled the glass and put it to his lips and then swirled it again. “I wouldn’t be me without him. I’m not too proud to say.” He finally had a sip of his drink. “I can’t believe that little fucker’s gone.”
Pops’s passing was a loss for Sheb just like it was for us. Whatever I thought of him, Sheb was Pops’s cousin and best friend. And Pops was probably the only real friend Sheb had, and for as much as Sheb strutted and cocked, he must have known that. Must’ve known that the only person who truly tethered him to the Earth was now above it.
“Tell us something we don’t know about him, Sheb?” The words were out of my mouth before I realized I’d spoken, and the look on Sheb’s face suggested he was as surprised as I was.
“Well,” he said, “let me think about that for a minute.” He seriously considered the question, and I thought I could see him skipping over several things he might say. After a while, he continued, “He was in love with your mother—with Bett—from the first time he saw her. Lena, and all that”—he glanced at me and nodded in some way I understood to be furtive, suggestive of the secret kept between us—“well, he didn’t know what to do. He was on the wrong side of Lyng Street and couldn’t get across.”
Anton looked at me. “The wrong side of Lyng Street?”
“How to get across?” I said.
“You know what I mean,” Sheb said, sitting back and puffing on his cigar. “I remember the day he met her—the day Lena introduced them. After he visited their apartment for the first time, we met for a beer down at Marge’s Still. He walked in like he was running from the cops, all flustered and suspect. And goddamn if he didn’t say then and there he had a problem. A big one. I guess you could say a tall and gangly one.” He smiled at his own cleverness, but the sincerity was pouring off him. Sheb never seemed less himself. “ ‘I know I’m stuck,’ he told me, ‘and I’ll be good to Lena, but I’m in a world of confusion, brother. And if Lena’s sister is gonna live with us forever, you might as well hang me out to dry now.’ ”
“The way Pops always told that story, she was like a strange, tall shadow from the start. Didn’t talk much,” I said, recalling the many times we’d heard about how they had met in that apartment on Halsted. “He described her as ghostlike. More than once he did.”
“She was. According to him. I believe he said it was almost like she was invisible. But—and this describes Jake to a T—he also thought there was something mysterious about her. Later in life, and I mean way later in life, he admitted that Lena was nothing but a pretty face, and he knew he was nothing more to her than a taste of normal life. But he felt something with Bett. And he wasn’t goddamn wrong, was he? The two of them were damn happy together.”
“Ma’s about to be a ghost again,” Anton said, his voice a whisper barely heard over the music. Like the smoke floating all around. “I keep trying not to think about what this is gonna do to her.”
“We’ll take care of Bett,” Sheb said. “She’s like a sister to me, and she’s got you, too.” This he said to Anton, who appeared genuinely lost in the prospect of her grief.
“The last time I talked to Pops was just last Thursday,” Anton said. “The day before he passed.” He grew paler with each word and for the first time all night I felt like he was finally in the moment, with all its unyielding weight. He pressed a thumb to each eye before he spoke again. “He was going on and on about his snow blower, and what a piece of shit it was, and how if he’d only followed through on one or two of his damn dreams, he might’ve invented a new and better snow blower, then all the chumps like him wouldn’t have to grapple with them all winter long. They could just go out and start it like their car. It’d be as easy as that. He must’ve talked at me for a half-hour about it.” He smiled, but also stifled a sob. “Then he changed the topic as if he’d just shut the fucking garage door. ‘How’s Angel?’ ” Again his breath caught and again he thumbed his eyes. “He asked about her every single time I saw him. Every single time.” He repeated those three words slowly, almost as if he couldn’t believe them.
“He was fond of that girl,” Sheb said. There was more he could have said—about my own children and how Pops barely knew them, about my own absence from the rest of my family, about how I barely knew Angel—but didn’t. I might even have given him a knowing glance. A look of thanks.
“You guys are all so serious,” Chloe said, her words slurred. “Who picked this sad music?”
Now “Moonlight Mile” was mingling with the smoke. Even though Chloe was right, the sadness of the music made everything somehow more bearable.
“Hey, Britt, it’s a blue night.” Anton’s voice came gently from behind the bar, and the way he looked at her suggested a feeling more complicated than he let on.
She answered him by hopping on the bar, swinging her legs over, and landing in his arms. “I’m sorry, baby. Let’s dance to this blue song, then.”
They swayed together for a moment before she turned her face up and kissed him. Kristi watched, tapping her ash onto the floor. If the scene inspired anything in her, it wasn’t plain to see. But I watched her watching them all the same until she said, “Hey, Sheb, tell us about your dad.”
It sounded almost like a taunt, coming from her sweet voice—like she wanted him to suffer the memory. But Sheb turned solemn in the way Anton had, and he opened up without any prodding. “He was a butcher, down in Chicago. Worked at a shop off Logan Square owned by the most cantankerous son of a bitch I ever knew. My old man wasn’t far behind him. He drank too much. He beat the hell out of my mom. He had untold girlfriends and except for the occasional Sunday evening supper, he wasn’t around much. That was fine with me.” I could see him calling up memories long dormant. He studied his own hand through the cigar smoke rising between his fingers. “He had these motherfucking hands. You couldn’t believe them. Each finger like a number-eight hex bolt. His nails were always long.” He pushed the sleeve of his shirt up. “And his forearms—Jesus Christ. They were like the slabs of pork loin. All muscle. I remember that about him.” He rolled his sleeve back into place and puffed his cigar. “He had tinnitus, and after long days at the shop he’d sometimes have to sit in a dark room until the ringing stopped. Those days were the worst. His temper was goddamn volcanic, and you better not catch him when the ringing was bad, or he’d beat you silly. He once hit me so hard I had ringing in my own ears for days after.”
He looked up at us as though startled by his memory. Balling his fists, considering them, he added, “You can see why I left. Fifteen years old and out on my own. Got a job bussing tables at The Valhalla. Never looked back.” He nodded. “The only thing that stayed the same for all these years was Jake.”
Everyone nodded in silent agreement while the song ended and another began. “Sway” this time.
Sheb shrugged his shoulders. “Another sad song, Chloe . . .” Whether he meant his story or the music, who could say?
Before anyone spoke again, the office door swung open and a woman walked in. I startled, but no one else did. She walked right up to the bar and sat next to Sheb and said, “This must be Jake’s other son?”
“The one and only,” Sheb said. “Jon, this is Norma.”
“Hey,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
She wore a Patagonia parka, the shoulders dusted with snow; she unzipped it and hung it on the back of her chair. The black Western shirt underneath, with roses embroidered above the pockets, was skin tight and revealed a slender, slight physique. Anton poured her an aquavit without her requesting one, and as soon as she had it Norma raised the glass and said, “To Jake. Sorry I couldn’t be at the funeral.”
Anton raised his glass and nodded and said not to sweat it.
“I suppose I missed the party?” Norma said, then turned to Chloe. “Look at you, you sexy bitch. You have a line for Auntie Norma?”
Chloe flipped open her purse and took her vial of coke out, then cut a line on the mirror of her compact. Norma snorted it and her eyes fluttered and she wiped her nose and said, “Thank you, you dirty whore. Now come give me a kiss.”
Chloe extended her cheek and Norma kissed her and then turned to Sheb and kissed him, too. “Now I’m ready for another drink. How’s my Mag?” She twirled into Sheb’s lap.
“We’re telling stories about our fathers,” Sheb said.
“My daddy liked dick,” Norma said, feigning embarrassment. “It’s a wonder I’m here at all!”
“Thank god you are,” Chloe said. “Who else would take care of Sheb?”
Sheb smiled up at Norma’s face, which was ageless and free of wrinkles. “Who takes care of who?” Sheb asked.
“Daddy, you take care of us all.” Norma slid from Sheb’s lap and danced over to the jukebox. Over her shoulder she said, “I know who picked this music, and it ain’t any of you bitches sitting over there.” She put reading glasses on and started flipping through the selections.
Sheb watched her for a moment, then turned to me. “She’s the same as any of us. Orphans all around.”
“The sins of our fathers, right, Sheb?” I said, meaning nothing.
But he considered it thoughtfully for a long moment before he winked at me. “More like the sins of the sons.”
“What’s this all about?” Anton said.
“The Bitch Is Back” replaced the Stones, and before Sheb or I could fake an answer, Norma high-stepped up to the stage, gripped the brass pole, and spun around with as much flair as any of the women had throughout the evening. She sang along as she preened and teased and locked her eyes on Sheb, who chuckled and pretended to look away.
Chloe, in a move I might already have predicted, ran up on the stage with Norma and peacocked around with her.
Anton looked at me and shrugged. “What can I tell you?” he said.
“Is this Sheb’s steady?”
Kristi, who had seemed bored and ready to call it a night, perked up. “He’s as likely to offer me a thousand dollars for a blow job as he is to take one for free from her.”
Again Anton shrugged.
“Don’t they live together?” she asked.
“Not many people know that,” he said. “Sheb keeps this part of his life pretty quiet. And Norma?” He nodded at her on the stage, now waltzing with Chloe and cachinnating at some shared secret. “She’s the perfect foil to his bachelorhood, which he pretends is his defining feature. She owns one of the salvage yards over here. If she came in during the day she’d be wearing a reflective vest and a hard hat like the men she employs. She’d be ordering High Lifes and pizzas and acting like she didn’t know Sheb from the governor. She was probably babysitting her grandson tonight. Her daughter works at one of the clubs downtown.”
I studied Norma again. She was holding hands with Chloe as they sat, their backs against the red velvet curtains. Sheb was talking and they were both listening intently and I was glad not to be able to hear.
“When can we get out of here?” I asked Anton.
Anton looked at his watch and winced and then reached under the counter and turned the music down. “Hey, Sheb, it’s closing time.”
“Talk about a party pooper!” Chloe yelled.
Sheb turned around, his face raised in a questioning look.
“The cleaners will be here soon,” Anton said. “And it’s two o’clock in the morning.”
“Don’t you bitches know it’s never closing time when Norma’s around?” Norma said. But even her voice was subdued. She pointed at Anton. “Unless you want to let me take your girlfriend home tonight.”
“Please do,” Anton said.
“I’ll go,” she said.
Anton shrugged, then said to me, “That coffee gonna keep you up all night?”
“Probably,” I said, and yawned big. “But I’d be asleep on this bar right now without it.”
“Hey, Norma,” he called across the bar. “Is it still snowing out?”
“If only all that snow was blow,” she answered.
Again, my brother looked at me. “Cool with you if Britt and Missy crash at my place? I can’t send them out in this.”
“Of course,” I said, then looked at Missy, who had laid her head on the bar facing away from us. Her hair shimmered in the bar light. As soon as I observed it, the lights went up. Fluorescent and static and matching the snow on the security monitor under the bar. The footage showed the parking lot and four cars still in it, three of them submerged beneath dollops of blown and fallen snow.
Anton put the dirty glasses next to the sink and wiped the bar where we sat. When he got to Missy, he leaned down and said, “Hey, sleepyhead.”
She rolled her head without lifting it and smiled at him as if she’d just been dreaming of his face. “Hey.”
“You really were sleeping,” he said. “Why don’t you and Britt crash at my place? Jon and I will sleep on the couch.”
“Is it still snowing?”
He nodded. Time would prove that what I suspected happening in those moments was true: their looks passed tender and fond between them. For the first time. Right then. I was drunk and it made me happy, and when Anton nudged her with the rag and said “Come on” and then wiped where her face had just been, he gave her a questioning look that said as much in its simplicity as all the night’s chaos had said in its confusion.
Norma buttoned her shirt and left the stage, Chloe following and finally showing some signs of slowing down. She even covered her mouth with the back of her hand and stifled a yawn. Sheb followed the two of them back to their chairs at the bar and helped Norma with her puffy coat and Chloe with her faux fur. We stood there in a stupor while Anton checked that the doors were locked, turned off the lights, and finally killed the music. Then the six of us passed through the office, where Anton checked the safe under the desk, unbolted the deadlock, and let us out in the driveway between his apartment building and the back of Boff’s.
The snow had let up but still fell, grabbing light from the parking lot lamps thirty feet up. Sheb said goodnight to the women, then Anton gave Britt the key to his apartment and told her we’d be right up. Britt and Missy trudged through the snow in those ridiculous boots, disappeared behind the wall separating the buildings, then reappeared on the staircase heading to the back of Anton’s place.
It was then that Sheb turned to me. He seemed to be regarding me honestly and without malice for the first time all night. “I’ve been giving you hell, Jon, but with all guard down, I want to tell you I’m sorry about Pops.”
“I know you are. And I’m sorry for you, too.”
He nodded and removed his glove and offered his hand and we shook. “Take care.”
“Yeah, you take care, too, Sheb.”
We stood there for a minute, my brother and I, watching Magnus Skjebne and his girlfriend walk over to his truck. He opened the door and started it and emerged with a brush to clear the windows. After he’d worked his way around it, he waved once more and backed out of the parking spot, idling past us and onto Washington Avenue. The snow reflected his taillights even after the truck had disappeared around the bar.
“I’ll probably never see him again,” I said, a prognostication that came true.
“What a fucking relief.”
“I should feel that way.”
“But you don’t?”
“I’m not sure what I feel, but it’s not relief.”
Anton looked at me and smiled and shook his head. “It’s always some goddamn drama with you.”
“I’m cursed that way.”
He checked the door, switched a key for a second deadbolt and levered it locked, then set an alarm system with an electric fob.
As we crossed the alley he said, “Almost every night I close this place down. And almost every night I swear I’m going to quit. Tonight, I don’t feel like that.”
“Maybe I’m more fun than you thought.”
He looked over his shoulder and smiled as we passed through the wall and climbed the staircase. Inside his apartment, Missy and Britt had collapsed on his couch, each on one end, their feet meeting in the middle. In the kitchen, Anton dropped his keys in a bowl and dimmed the lights and poured glasses of water. He handed one to me and brought them to Britt and Missy.
“Anyone want something to eat? I’ve got leftover Chinese food or frozen waffles or cereal.”
“Why don’t you take me to bed, baby?” Britt said.
“You and Missy go get changed. Come out and say goodnight?”
“Let’s go,” Missy said. “I’m so tired.”
They rose from the couch in unison, all limp and liquefactive, like a waterfall in reverse, and went into the bedroom. Anton watched them as they passed and shook his head when they disappeared into his room. Without saying anything he turned on the oven and opened the freezer and removed a pint of ice cream and a frozen pizza.
“How do you stay so skinny?” I asked.
“I snort a fucking eight-ball every day.”
“Do you really?”
“Not every day.” He risked a glance, no doubt expecting my disapproval, but it was too late for that. “Plus I hardly ever eat. That sandwich at Ma’s is the only thing I put in my stomach all day.” He cut the wrapper off the pizza and set it on a cutting board. “Well, that and a few drinks.” He cracked the seal on the pint of ice cream and dug a spoon in. “You want some?” he said.
“Nah.”
“Are you as tired as you look?”
“I probably shouldn’t have drunk that coffee. I won’t be able to sleep despite how tired I am.”
“Hey,” he said, changing the subject without warning. “What was all that shit about the sins of fathers and sons?”
It wasn’t the first time I deflected the topic, but it was the first time I paused, and wanted to tell him the truth, but still didn’t. Instead I merely shrugged and said, “Who knows what Sheb was talking about.”
“You’re full of shit.” He jumped to sit on the counter and took another bite of ice cream. “But if you’ve got secrets, please keep them. I’ve finally found my balance and I’d like to keep upright.”
“I’m not full of shit. And I’m glad you feel that way. I wish I did.”
“It’s there for the taking, man.” He scooped another bite. “I gotta say, this whole night”—he spread his arms as though to encompass everything—“it’s been good. Really good, even as sad as I am.”
“Are you flirting with me?” I said.
“Fuck you. I’m being serious. It’s good to see you.”
I sat on the counter opposite him. “I agree. It’s better than good.”
A round of laughter came from the bedroom, and we both looked toward the closed door. Anton kept his gaze there longer than I did, and when he finally turned back he said, “I’ve got trouble on my hands.”
“I saw that.”
“What did you see?”
“When you woke Missy up. Missy? Kristi?”
He shook his head and bit his lip, glanced at the bedroom door again. “I wasn’t making that shit up? Whatever that was?”
“If you’re talking about the look you two exchanged, I don’t think there’s much to be confused about.”
“Why, why, why? Why does it happen with these women, one right after the next?”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“I’m sure you do,” he said, but without the passive aggressive resentment that would usually have accompanied such a dig.
“She’s cool, if you want my two cents.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Good luck to me breaking things off with Chloe. I can’t even imagine.”
“I guess you don’t have to have that conversation tonight?”
“I certainly do not.”
As though our gossiping had a summonsing power, Missy walked out of the bedroom in a pair of Anton’s sweatpants and a T-shirt with the Captain Morgan pirate spread across the front. She came into the kitchen, telling Anton that Britt wanted to talk to him.
“I’m sorry,” he said to her, then hopped off the counter and went into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
“He’s gonna break things off with her,” I said.
“Look at you, gossiping like a schoolgirl.”
“I just thought you might like to know.”
“Why would I like to know?” She filled her glass with water and traipsed over to the couch. “Come over here.”
I obeyed, not unlike a schoolboy myself. When I sat down, she pointed at the projector and said, “What’s up with this? Some vintage porn?”
“Something like that,” I said. “It’s an old movie of our dad ski jumping.”
“Very cool,” she said, putting her head back and yawning. Without looking at me she said, “You got a good taste of your brother’s life tonight.”
“Yes, I did.”
Now she lifted her head. “He’s a really good guy.” She finished her water and set the empty glass on the table and looked toward the bedroom door. “It’s like prom night when you and your date are only friends.”
“I never went to prom,” I said.
“Seriously? How’s that possible? I guarantee you girls in your high school wanted to go to prom with you.”
“By the time senior year came around, I was living in a boardinghouse by the U. It’s a long story, but basically my mom and I didn’t get along. We still don’t.”
“Moms,” she said, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. “I never went to prom either.”
“No way.”
“I was like the goth girl. Fuck the man, that kind of thing. I was drunk for half of senior year. It’s a miracle I graduated.”
There was laughter from the bedroom—Britt’s—and we both glanced at the door.
“I bet Britt went to prom,” I said.
“She probably went to six of them.”
“A boy in every port,” I said.
“Or at least every school. Do you know she went to college? A good college, too.”
“Really?”
“Tulane. She was a psych major.”
“That explains the mind games.”
“She’s diabolical. She’s also just crazy.” As if to prove Missy right, another shriek of Britt’s laughter peeled from the bedroom. “Was she fucking with you?”
“I think she was trying to get Anton’s attention.”
“She’s got it now.” I thought I detected a note of envy in her voice. As I sat there in the unlit apartment, watching the snow taper outside, drunk and sobering, edgy from two cups of coffee, sitting beside that bewitching woman, listening also to the intermittent laughter staccato from the bedroom, I felt I was on the precipice of two states I couldn’t name. Somewhere between dream and longing and sadness and hope.
“Can I ask you something?” Missy said, her voice barely rising above the ones in my imagination.
“Of course.”
“I’m sure I’ll sound like an idiot, but I really want to know.”
“Okay.”
She sat up, tucked her legs under her, and pulled her hair back. “Do you think it’s possible your books are ever meant for someone? I mean someone in particular.”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“I guess I felt like A Lesser Light could have been written for me. Not like I’m a muse or something. Obviously. Just, holy shit, it’s like I was her.” She covered her face with her arm and laughed at herself. “Never mind. I’m drunk and rambling.”
I was flattered, of course, and curious. But I was also mystified, truly and simply, that this woman I’d not known six hours earlier could have felt the connection she was trying to describe.
“How in the world did you come across that book in the first place?”
“Anton. He saw me reading another book one day before my shift and asked me about it. Then he told me about you, and about your new book. I went out and got it the next day.”
“What’d he say about me?”
She nudged me with her bare foot. “Look at you, fishing around for compliments.”
“It’s not that. I just can’t believe that he ever paid attention. Even as little as we talk, he’s never so much as mentioned my books. It seems strange he’d be telling people to read them.”
“He told me it was weirdly sexy. In a corset and bonnet sort of way.”
“He used those words? Really?”
“I remember exactly.”
“I wish I could’ve had that blurb on the jacket. That’s perfect.”
“But you didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t know the answer. I’m flattered you felt that way, but the truth is I hardly knew what was happening when I was writing that book. Those characters just kind of sailed off on a sea of their own language. Their lives came to me altogether and completely and I hardly had to do anything more than sit around and listen to them. The lighthouse keeper—Theodulf is his name—I saw a lot of Anton in him. And Willa, his wife, the one you called a bad ass, well, I don’t even know what to say about her.”
“I fucking loved her.”
“I can see that.”
“Are you kidding?” She wedged herself up and leaned on her elbow. “Maybe if you’re like me, you’re always searching for people you wish you could be. I wish I could’ve been Willa. I especially wish I could’ve lived that long ago.” She lay back down and put her arm up over her eyes again. “I wish I got fucked like that.”
This was not an invitation. I knew that surely. But still I blushed, even while she shielded her face.
“I wish they’d finish fucking so I could go to bed,” she said, then rolled on her side.
I got up and took a blanket draped over a chair by the window and spread it across her. She didn’t say anything, only nestled into the soft leather of the couch and sighed.
I walked over and looked again at the picture of Anton in flight on the ski flying hill in Harrachov. I stood there staring at it, wondering at my memory of him and the conversations we’d shared earlier that night. And though in the days and weeks after, I’d come to realize we spent the night of Pops’s funeral becoming friends and confidants again, in that surreal hour while the snow stopped falling outside, while Missy fell asleep on the couch and Anton finished his business in the bedroom, I regarded that picture of him as though he were a character like the lighthouse keeper in A Lesser Light. Like I knew him better than anyone in the world, but also that I could never know him as well as I wanted to. I’d lost that opportunity in our childhood, even as much as I’d loved him.
I don’t know how long I was standing there, caught in the eddy of my emotions, before he came up behind me and said, “Sorry about that.”
I startled, like someone had jumped out from a shadow, but then smiled at the sight of him. “Sorry about what?” I asked.
He pointed his thumb at the bedroom door. “About Britt. She’s blind drunk and in a mood to fight.”
“You don’t have to babysit me. Just throw me a pillow and I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“No way. I’m not going to go fight with her some more. Want to eat that pizza?”
“Sure.”
We went to the kitchen and he put the pizza in the oven.
“I see you put Missy to sleep. Did you sing her lullabies or just bore her with college professor shit?”
“It’s two-thirty in the morning. Everyone’s supposed to be asleep.”
He turned the oven light on and sat on the counter. “I won’t be asleep before five. Never am. It’s fucking awful.”
“I get up every morning at five.”
“I guess there’s always a Bargaard on watch.”
“I guess there is.”
“What the hell do you get up at five for?”
“It’s when I write. Started when the kids were little—when there was no other time for it—but I’m so habituated that it happens now even without an alarm clock.”
“That’s some old man shit.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You were getting after it tonight, though.”
“Following your lead, brother.”
“About damn time,” he said, but then seemed to sober all at once. He looked over his shoulder at Missy sleeping on the couch. Watched her a few moments. When he spoke, he did so in her direction. “I have to find someone outside the business. This is just”—he searched his conscience for a beat—“obscene. Dating these women twenty years younger than me just because we get drunk in the same bar every weekend.”
“Missy is thirty-five years old.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me. We talked about all kinds of life.”
“You filthy dog.”
“Not even,” I said. “And besides, she’s got designs on the boss man.”
He glanced at her once more, then shook his head and changed the subject again. “Sorry to drop that bomb about Ma on you. I guess it’s been a hell of a reunion.”
“I’m glad you told me about Bett. It’s good that I know.” My thinking sped up again, caught in the whirlwind of all the secrets I still kept from him. Secrets, no doubt, that would have helped him in his own way. And I wanted to tell him. About Pops and Patollo and how that all went down. The time and mood were right for it. But as I took a deep breath and imagined the rest of the night and the next morning, I saw the easiness that was on offer, and thought, for the moment, that that would be better than more truth saying. It had been almost forty years since Anton and I passed an evening together, and I wanted it to stay that way, our spending time together. To finish that way. I convinced myself I could tell him another time. Any time, really, now that we were mending our bond.
“I’m glad you’re glad,” he said. “And I’m not going to tell you how to feel about Ma. But I hope you give her a break. She’s an old lady. And though she’s tough as an ax handle, she’s not gonna be around forever.”
I conjured her then, from only hours before, standing in her kitchen making sandwiches. She no more resembled the woman who raised me than I did the boy who had once called her Ma. Nor did she know me very well. Certainly, I knew her even less, considering how Pops had kept her in the loop on me and my family’s lives without telling me much about her in return. That was our agreement, and if he tried from time to time to coax me back to her, he also knew that doing so risked pushing me further away from him, and so whenever he sensed my temperature rising, he’d change the subject. For all my adult life, I harbored those feelings for her. And for all those years, they’d been predicated on a false assumption.
And yet, I still wasn’t ready to forgive her. Or accept her. Or do anything more than have a sandwich in her company.
All I could say to my brother was “You’re right, she’s tough.”
A couple minutes later he removed the pizza from the oven and sliced it into triangles. We sat at his dining room table wolfing it down. To my surprise, Anton brought up the winter we spent at the Torrs’ place on Lake Forsone.
“Someday you’ll have to tell me about it,” he said.
“You don’t remember?”
“Not really.” He shoved half a piece of pizza into his mouth and washed it down with a drink of ice water. It was the easiest he’d seemed all night. As though he’d been through another gauntlet and could finally rest on a subject we both loved.
“Seriously?” I said. “We were there three months.”
“I know we were there, just not much else.” He took another bite. “I guess I remember being scared.”
“You don’t remember ski jumping? We must’ve taken a thousand jumps that winter.”
“I remember we jumped.”
“That’s the winter you got good. You were only eleven.”
Anton took another bite of pizza and smiled and said, “Brother, I was good before then.”
We stifled our laughter and wiped pizza grease from our fingertips. “Okay, but that was the winter you got fearless.”
“I was fearless only on that jump. In the rest of life, I was terrified.”
“We both were.”
He wiped his fingers again and then deliberately set the napkin down without looking at me. “I don’t remember you being scared.”
“You don’t remember much about the ski jumping either, though.” I gave him a little kick under the table. “I only did what I thought best. And I’d do it again now, if everything was the same.” He hadn’t looked up, so I nudged him a second time. “We’ve been through a lot. More than most. And if we fucked up—if I fucked up—I’m sorry.” Now he did look up. “But what I’ve chosen to remember is the fun we had jumping. And watching you get good. Like, way beyond your years good.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Jon. It was so long ago.”
“What are you talking about? It was only five minutes ago.”
He got up and brought the plates to the kitchen. Instead of returning to the table, he wandered over to the living room window. He looked up and down Washington Avenue and then checked his wristwatch. Like he was making some very earnest calculation. He tilted his head at Missy asleep on his couch, then tilted it at me. As he came back to the table he said, “I have a great idea.”