Halfway Home Page 11

  The dollar amounts went right by me, as well as the intricate three-card monte by which the money was siphoned off. For the first time I actually took it in that my brother was a crook. No depth of slime surprised me when it came to Jerry Curran, but Brian—Eagle Scout of Eagle Scouts, darling of whole orders of Brothers. Say it ain't so.

  Gray snorted and reached to poke the fire. "Sounds like Brian found out he was gonna be left holding the bag. So he decided to sing. And ol' Jerry killed the canary." The gumshoe cadence was filtered through a layer of black irony. Nonetheless, his grasp of the gangster modalities amazed me. I was still groping to catch up, trying to figure where my brother's trip to L.A. fit in.

  "Oh yes, and Curran's made a statement," Mona declared. "Leslie saw it on the local channel. He's choking back the tears, and he blames the killings on secret forces out to destroy them both. I guess that would be like the Black Hand."

  I shook my head. "Poor Brian. He should've kept playing baseball."

  "Leslie's going to fax all the coverage in the morning. Daphne's got a machine in her office." The dyke underground strikes again.

  "Tom," said Gray, discreet as a vicar himself, "is there someone in the family you can call?"

  Why, I nearly asked, for it was all over now but the useless tears and bad dreams. Then I realized somebody might want to know my feelings about the death arrangements. I recalled how good Gray was at funerals. And sat there trying to think of the cousins and uncles by name, but they were all gone, or at least I was. Let Susan's family take care of all that, I thought. I knew right then I wasn't going. I didn't care if everyone thought it was terribly bad form.

  "No," I said, shaking my head slowly, "but someone should probably call my mother."

  I knew of course that the someone was I. So did Gray and Mona. We stood up all three, no further ado, as if we had no time to waste. It was going on eight o'clock, almost too late to call back East. We straggled out through the kitchen, Gray foisting a banana on me, which I ate as we strolled to Mona's car. Then I remembered I didn't have the number, and had to duck back in.

  My chewed and battered Filofax was stowed in the drawer of the zinc table. I lifted it out, crammed with prescriptions and lab results, and turned to the phone index. These days it was mostly a log of dead friends and specialists. I flipped to S, and there she was: Nora Shaheen, 130 West Hill Road in Chester. Though I hadn't dialed the number in seven or eight years, it printed itself anew on my brain like a serial number from an old prison term.

  I tossed the organizer back in the drawer and the banana peel in the sink. I spun around to go and caught a glimpse of white on the counter. Then stared: the slip of paper with Brian's address, curled up next to the coffee maker. Haltingly I reached for it. The butt end of the banana was sticking out of my mouth, like a retard monkey. I read the scrap of his handwriting and thought of the unfinished letter I wrote on the beach.

  The missed connection stung my eyes. A sob was in my throat, till I nearly choked on the fruit. Brian, I'm sorry, I pleaded in my head. Feeling him really dead for the first time. The apology was for him and me, for what I had kept from happening between us a week ago, because of my stubborn resentment.

  I was weepy when I reached the car, and Gray and Mona said nothing as we drove to the Chevron station. Mona parked up snug beside the phone booth, but they waited in the car while I made the call. Gray had written out his credit card number for me, which I accepted without complaint, since it would have been pretty tacky to call collect. My stomach knotted as I punched the number in. I don't have a son, I could hear her saying.

  The nurse/companion was hostile, right from the start. She'd been fielding calls from the cops and the distant cousins all day long. She was querulous when I gave my name, resistant to my assertions of family ties. "He was my brother," I stated emphatically, at last eliciting a disoriented "Oh." She obviously hadn't a clue that there was another one out there.

  "I'm sorry for your loss," she said, straightening the collar of her dignity. Catholic, without a doubt. "We thought it was better not to tell her."

  "Who thought?" I demanded crisply, but secretly relieved. At least I wouldn't have to hear my mother cry again.

  "Me and the doctor," she replied, at once apologetic and defensive. "Mr. Shaheen, she don't know any of 'em when they come. She likes the boy, but it don't register who he is."

  I pulled back from her use of the present tense, wincing as if I'd burned myself. I could hear Brian at the beach house, talking about the kid and his grandma. "Yes, well that's fine," I said, suddenly feeling stuffy in the booth's close quarters. "And what are your plans? I mean—"

  "Money-wise?" Miss Mary Alice Lynch had clearly given this some thought. "The lawyer called. He says I'll be paid by your brother's estate, but it might take a couple weeks before it starts coming. Well, I can't wait like that. I'm a woman alone." Even through the tension I wanted to bleat with laughter at the phrase. "Besides, without family around, it's too much responsibility. I'm elderly myself. She's probably better off in a home."

  Sweat had sprung out on my forehead, and I could feel the shirt clammy against my torso. The terror of suddenly having the Problem dropped in my lap made me want to scream. But I did the right and gutless thing, purring and kissing her ass with compliments, begging her not to act hastily, wheedling from her the lawyer's number.

  "Please—Mary Alice, you can't leave now," I beseeched her, cozy and desperate. "I'll make sure you're paid. But I hope you understand, this is a very hard time right now." I practically gagged on these sentiments, and hoped she'd put it down to the choke of grief.

  "Well, all right," she replied in a martyred tone. "You'll be coming in for the funeral?"

  "Actually, no." I could feel her stiffen three thousand miles away. "See, I'm in the hospital myself. My doctor won't let me."

  "Mm," she replied primly. I imagined she could hear the traffic whizzing by on the coast road.

  "But I'll be checking in," I assured her, oozing spunk. "I'll get right on this, I promise. Thanks for everything. Brian always said you were a saint. Bye now."

  But she wasn't finished with me, was Mary Alice Lynch. "Don't you want to know how she is?"

  The curdle of contempt reminded me of every nun in grammar school. But she had all the marbles, and she knew it. "Oh sure," I replied, suitably chastened. "She doing all right?"

  "No, she's slipping," sighed Mary Alice, taking a noisy sip of something vile like Postum. "Hardly gets out of bed anymore. And she doesn't always get to the bathroom, if you know what I mean."

  I stared glassily out of the booth to where Gray and Mona waited. Mona was smoking, sending a billowing stream out the side window as she and Gray talked gravely, bending close. I ached to be with them.

  "But you know what?" asked the nurse/companion, her voice suddenly pregnant with feeling. "I think she knows. She's been agitated all day. I had to double her medication and give her a good massage. It's like she knows her boy is dead."

  I could hear the tears begin to gather in her voice, sloppy as an Irish wake. "Look, I'll have to call you later," I said quickly. "My doctor just walked in—I'm having a spinal tap. Don't worry, I'll see that you're taken care of. Bye."

  I set the receiver back in the cradle and leaned my forehead against the glass wall beside me, squirming at the awfulness of what had just transpired. Then I pulled open the accordion door and walked out, stunned to think I might actually have to get involved. Almost in answer my knee began to throb, sending tendrils of pain along the nerves to my ankle. As I hobbled toward the car I berated myself with a sneer: Whatever made me think I wouldn't be stuck with the problem now? As if through a crack in a wall I started to see what Brian had shielded me from. I opened the rear door and slumped in Mona's backseat, on total overload.

  The two of them were terrific, of course. As soon as I'd related the details of my chat with Mary Alice, Gray piped up that he would call the lawyer. Then, as Mona swung around onto the coast ro
ad again, she called back over her shoulder: "I hope you're not thinking of going, Tom, because we don't think it's a good idea." I perked up instantly, pathetic with relief. The pain in my knee reduced by half. But because I was silent, Mona seemed to think I needed more convincing. "I mean, if your mom doesn't even know about it. Who are you going for? You can cry all you want to here. Besides, we don't think you should breathe all that airplane shit."

  "Yeah, you're probably right," I replied, subdued and laconic, and the two of them in front smiled at their small victory.

  We drove the rest of the way in silence, and I thought about the weird team of my mother and her nurse. Put-upon and self-vindicating, Mary Alice was clearly a carbon-copy version of the type. That thin whine of martyrdom had skirled at the edges of every sitdown meal of my childhood. Now my mother herself, it sounded, lay in an ever deeper fog, the pictures on her dressing table mocking her like total strangers. Mary Alice did all the living in the house. It was utterly grotesque, the perfect end to our luckless nuclear family. And the final twist would be the shell of my mother surviving me.

  Mona turned in at the drive and let us out, promising to be back in the morning with all the faxes. She leaned out the window to hug me, pulling me down to plant a smeary kiss of cherry Revlon on my cheek. Then she gave a husky whisper in my ear. "You've got to live now," Mona said staunchly. "That's all you've got to do. First things first."

  I gave her back a watery smile, not quite sure if I was being given advice about grief or AIDS or what. We waved her away as she lurched off, spitting gravel, then turned and made for the house. It had never been stated specifically that Gray would stay the night, but now it was a foregone conclusion, for we were earless. No more did we have plans for dinner, or any agenda at all. Yet it seemed both right and proper, almost a ritual, as he moved about the kitchen, pulling ice cream from the freezer, bowls, bananas, Hershey's sauce. I sat on the stool by the zinc table, lazily watching.

  He hadn't asked if I wanted the dizzying sundae he now constructed, one for each of us, but I was happy to go with the drift. The wordlessness between us was as comforting as the piling on of ingredients. And when the confections were done, sprinkled pecans and bananas sliced on top—he's got this thing about me and bananas, goosing my potassium—Gray drew up a second rickety stool, and we dug in. Numb and atavistic, like beasts at a trough. It was very, very soothing.

  I was down to scraping the bowl before I spoke. "It's like there's two Brians," I said, not sure at all I could draw this picture. "And the one that got killed is the one who was here last week. That guy could die like anyone else. But the other one—Brian the god, with his perfect body, who couldn't make a wrong move if he tried—that one's still back in Chester. Like nothing's changed."

  Gray nodded pensively, licking his spoon.

  "And I'm sad for the one that died, him and his poor decent family. He was sweet to me, you know? Made me breakfast." A flush of tears caught me unawares, making me gulp and bat at my eyes. "But the other one—I can still smell his sweat. It's like we're still sharing the same room. And I hate him because he won't look at me. To him I don't even exist."

  A long silence, since Gray had nothing pithy to say in reply, for which I was grateful. After a while he reached across with his napkin and rubbed at my cheek, wiping the lipstick off. Then he sided the dishes into the sink. Again without consultation, we headed upstairs to call it a day, dousing lights as we went. When we reached the upstairs landing he headed across to Cora's room, not stopping to hug me, but I didn't mind. Instead he turned at the door and smiled: "Now don't forget, I'm right here."

  I nodded as he stepped inside, and found myself touched beyond measure by his delicacy and restraint. Whatever upheaval he'd caused me earlier, down by the beach, had dissipated. I wanted nothing from him now but his clear head and his instinct for empathy. The jealousy I'd felt over Merle, and the consequent seizure of need, seemed for the moment completely mad. But then I'd always been very good at curing myself of love.

  I closed the door to Foo's room and started to get undressed. Out of my pants pocket I pulled the square of paper with Brian's address. I stared at the scribble of writing, running a finger across it like Braille. I was struck by a certain morbid fascination, to think the address on Pequod Lane no longer existed, blown to bits like the people who lived there. So much for suburban calm. Then I had a sudden pang, wondering what happened to the pair of retrievers. Were they playing outside when it happened, chasing rabbits? And when the big explosion came, did they run away in terror? Would they ever come back, or would they go wild, trusting nothing of man again?

  I was so weary I was punchy. I tucked the paper in the corner of the mirror above the dresser, then shrugged my clothes to the floor. I took a step toward the bathroom—and heard the water go on in the sink. It wasn't that I'd forgotten Gray was there, but what slapped my face was the memory of Brian. I sat down heavily on the bed, dazed by the proximity of the water's hum, the sudden shadow of the night we shared. The noise seemed like an awful mockery of how close we almost came. Then, just as abruptly, the faucet turned off. I actually clutched the blanket with both hands, dreading what would come next.

  There was a dribble of hesitation, probably because he's so modest. Then the full stream, drumming the bowl. I couldn't bear the intimacy of it. A wave of shame burned my face, for all the carnal thoughts I'd ever had about my brother. This was the proof of how dead he was, another man pissing, what seemed so raw and disturbingly alive about Brian himself, only a week ago. I felt more than a little nuts just then, because at the same time I shrank from the rawness of Gray. Almost as if I didn't want to know he had a dick.

  The toilet flushed, and I heard him padding back to Cora's room. But the drama wasn't over. I had to go myself, but couldn't stand that Gray would hear me. It wasn't just irrational, it was right back to being twelve years old. Hating to show myself naked in front of Brian, especially my clumsy member, terrified he'd see my morning hard-on. I stared at the bathroom door, my bladder throbbing.

  Then, acutely aware of how surreal this all was, even in some way soothed by it, I got up and slipped out onto my balcony. Instantly the crisp of a winter's night raised gooseflesh on my arms and legs. The wind was up from the ocean, shivering all the trees. I thought about everyone fussing around me, always trying to get me to bundle up, as if a chill might carry me away.

  I stepped to the railing, my skin like wax in the moonlight, looking across the slope of lawn to the sycamore grove and the secret garden. I held my dick and thrust my hips forward like a naughty puto, feeling the muscles unclench. I let it out with a shudder of release, and a moment later could hear it falling on the oleander, just outside the dining room.

  Truly it sounded like rain, a most specific and concentrated squall, like a small memory of last week's downpour. By now I had quite forgotten the excess of shyness that drove me out here. It seemed nothing more nor less, as I let it go in the wind, than a proper tribute to Brian, man to man. I hated to come to the end of it. There's so little that really connects you to the dead, you cling to whatever works, no matter how bizarre. Death wins anyway, but sometimes you give it a squirt.

  When I came inside again, a glimmer of Brian stayed with me, something to do with the naked freedom of my body on the balcony and how it echoed him. Because when Brian walked naked—in the locker room after a shutout—he moved like something unearthly free, untouchable by years. And I climbed into bed holding that image close, without any envy for once. I didn't hate him, want him, or even miss him. Because I had him right then in the exact center of my mind, still as the eye of a storm.

  Dreams are another matter, of course, and the night had its own psychodrama waiting in the wings. I'm never very good at dreams, coming in late and leaving early, usually speechless and all alone. But not tonight. The scene was crystal clear as Chekhov, without any woozy edges at all. Brian and I in our room in the house on West Hill Road, him in his baseball whites and me buck na
ked. He was trying to coax me out to play, pulling me toward the door and laughing, no roughhouse at all. That was the most vivid feeling, my certainty that he wouldn't hurt me. And we definitely wouldn't be playing a sport, so there was nothing to win or lose. He wasn't out to best me.

  "Come on," he kept saying, tugging me irresistibly.

  I swear I could smell the funk of his sweat. But I wasn't laughing, because I had this terribly urgent thing to tell him. "Let me go first," I insisted, groping to get past him to the door. I couldn't have said what was out there; maybe it was nothing. But if it turned out to be the monstrous force I feared, an annihilation ravenous for blood and bone and soul, then I was the one it wanted.

  And Brian wouldn't listen. He pulled me into the crook of his arm and reached for the doorknob, ready to tumble out onto the lawn. "Please—you stay here," I begged him, tears of impotence choking my throat. Only one of us needed to go, and I was the one prepared for it. Then he opened the door to a crack of blinding light, and suddenly seemed to understand. He shoved me back and fell out into the light like a skydiver. I woke as the door shut in my face.

  I was shivering and very confused, and my head on the pillow was bathed in sweat. Almost by reflex I stumbled out of bed, pulling off the clammy T-shirt. I staggered into the bathroom and grabbed a towel behind the door, hooding it over my head, rubbing the damp from my hair. The dream was sharp inside me; I was still shaken that Brian had gone out that door, but couldn't connect it to anything actual.

  A night sweat brings its own aura of unreality, turning you into a strange hybrid, half-somnambulist, half-nurse. Part of my brain was trying to recall if there were any dry pillowcases, but I didn't want to turn on the light and jar myself too far awake. I groped in the linen cupboard, hounded by Brian's fall and a piercing sense of having missed my chance to play with him. And then I remembered—he was in the next room!