Lamentation (9 page)

I was eight years old when my parents died. I should’ve had more than enough time to put the loss behind me. Only I hadn’t. The tragedy was woven into my very person, like cigarette smoke on a cable-knit after a long night at the bar. I couldn’t put the accident behind me because small-town innuendo wouldn’t let me, and I knew this latest fiasco with Chris would only grease the rumor mill wheels. Turley wasn’t the only one. Everyone had heard that goddamn story, and even when people didn’t bring it up, you could still tell they were thinking it, which made it just as bad. Sometimes what
isn’t
said can be every bit as damning as what
is
.

For a while, it was just Chris and I living in the house. He had a good job at Hank Miller’s garage. Chris was a pro when it came to fixing cars. Wasn’t a motor he couldn’t put back together blindfolded. He’d had a shot to attend college on a wrestling scholarship, but he stuck around. He stuck around, in part, to help take care of me, which is something you don’t forget, no matter how bad someone turns out.

That Chris and our father had fought so much publicly didn’t help the situation. They were always at each other’s throats. Once, at a wrestling meet, they had to be physically separated. Another time, they got into a shoving match in the DQ parking lot. Chris was messing with drugs even then. Mostly pot, I think. Hash. Acid. I hated being in the middle of it. Like our mom, I steered clear and tried not to pick sides. Maybe I was a coward. What did I really know? Like the drowning story, I couldn’t trust my own memories. Chris never wanted to talk about
it, except to call the old man an asshole, and there was no point poking that dog now. We were way past the talking stage.

All kinds of shit happens when your parents die and you’re still a kid—executors, creditors, social services, mortgages and banks, court orders, insurance claims—a bureaucratic nightmare that neither Chris nor I had been equipped to handle, not that it should’ve been my responsibility at all.

I didn’t blame my brother. He’d done his best. He was just a kid out of high school, and he’d always been off somewhat, head screwy, easily rattled. Chris began drinking more, getting high more, fighting with everyone. Honestly, it was almost a relief when the bank finally tacked up that notice. When my Aunt Dee Dee brought me down to Concord, I worried about leaving Chris behind.

They never talked about Chris living with us in Concord. The police had spoken with Dee Dee plenty, and already people were regarding my brother as a lost cause. I doubt Chris would’ve accepted an offer anyway. Dee Dee was our father’s sister and the spitting image of him, and Chris hated her too. Chris still had his job, girlfriends; he got an apartment in town. He liked living in Ashton. How could I know he’d end up on the street?

Every time I came back, he seemed further gone. I worried about him constantly, which made it hard to concentrate on my future. I’d always been good at school, got straight As, just came naturally, didn’t need to study much or anything. Guidance counselors and my aunt pushed me to apply to colleges. I even flew to check out a couple. In the end, though, I felt I needed to get home.

When I moved back after graduation and saw how bad Chris had gotten, I did everything I could to make it right. I could still talk to him then, and I thought I could fix him. I’d convince him to try and sober up. I’d drag him into detox units, plead with rehab counselors, begging them to help him. They’d calmly explain that you can’t help someone who isn’t willing to help himself. I’d get so angry, screaming, accusing them of callousness and not doing their jobs. Of course, they were right.

I woke in a cold, dark place, empty cans and plastic rings littering my lap, head clogged like I’d just landed after a long, turbulent flight and had forgotten
the chewing gum. I thumbed on my cell. 10:41. A few lousy beers shouldn’t have been able to knock me out like that. Probably the stress. These last couple days hadn’t been easy.

Stumbling to the bathroom, I set the landline on the hook. A second later it rang.

“What the hell?” Charlie said. “I’ve been calling for two hours. Who you been talking to this long?”

“Nobody.”

“Listen, what are you doing right now?”

“Going to sleep.” From the background chatter, I could tell he was calling me from the bar. I knew he was going to try and drag me down there.

“Any luck finding your brother?”

“No.” I dug my cigarettes from my jeans pocket. My nameless cat rubbed against my leg. I took a drag. “Honestly, he could be dead in a ditch like Pete. Wouldn’t even know it.”

“Come down to the Dubliner, meet me for a drink.”

My head throbbed. My bones ached. The biting north winds swirled outside, rattling the windowpanes. No way was I going out in that cold.

“Not tonight, man.”

“What?” Charlie scoffed. “You got something better to do?”

“It’s late. It’s been a long day. I need to get some sleep.”

“C’mon, one beer,” Charlie pleaded. “I’ve been working on how to solve your problem.”

“What problem?”

He paused for an exaggerated moment. “Chris! What do you think I’m talking about?”

“I don’t know, Charlie, you called me.”

I thought I heard someone outside my door.

“For me? Please? Just one beer. You’ll be glad you did. Promise.”

Someone rapped lightly. Then tried the handle.

“Okay,” I said under my breath. “Half an hour.” I quickly hung up.

The handle jiggled harder this time.

I hadn’t turned on the lights in the apartment, the room blacked
out, but I could see shadows moving beneath the front door gap from the bulb that blazed all night in the stairwell. I walked softly across the floor, peering out the living room window into the street. Through the halo of streetlamp and drifting snow, I didn’t see any recently parked cars; each one was covered with a good few inches of fresh powder.

Who the hell would visit this time of night? Without calling first? I didn’t believe my brother would risk coming here, not with everyone on his ass. Hank Miller lived in the house next door, but he never stopped by without a heads up. One of the reasons I kept renting from the guy; he respected my privacy. Then I remembered those junkie bikers from the shop.

“Open up. I know you’re home,” Jenny said, voice muffled behind the door. “I can hear you tiptoeing around in there.”

Christ, I was acting as fidgety as my brother.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, flicking on the lights and opening the door.

“That’s a nice way to greet someone,” Jenny said as she slipped past. She was bundled up head to toe, like a little kid with an overprotective mom on a snow day, button nose wind-nipped and pink. “I wouldn’t have to come out in the freezing cold if you’d answer your phone.”

“Where’s Aiden?”

“At my mom’s.”

“You scared me,” I said. “I thought something was wrong.”

“No, our son is fine. A terror. But fine.” She smiled weakly. “He dropped Brody’s keys in the toilet today. And then flushed.” She waited for me to say something. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We were able to fish them out.”

“Glad to hear it.”

She furiously rubbed her hands together. “It’s an icebox in here. Is the heat even on?”

“Sorry,” I said, and reached behind her and cranked up the radiator. The old pipes sputtered and coughed like an old man with a chest infection. “Gas bills, y’know?”

“If you need to take back some of that money, Jay—”

“I’m good.”

I kicked out a chair for her. Only had the one. Leg had broken on the other, and even though I worked with used furniture practically every day, I hadn’t gotten around to replacing it. Wasn’t exactly hosting a lot of dinner parties.

“Have a seat,” I said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Which was a ridiculous thing to say, and her face screwed up, letting me know it. I didn’t understand how she could still make me so nervous after all we’d been through together. It was like, whenever I got around her, I instantly reverted to a fourth grade dweeb, stomach knotted, scared to hold hands on the jungle gym because my palms might get sweaty. It also made me defensive, which could make me sound like a dick. Plus, I was still pissed off about the move. I wasn’t going to bring it up first and give her the satisfaction. I’d just wait for an opening when it would do the most damage. I knew I should be bigger than that. But I wasn’t going to be.

“Can’t I stop by and say hello?” she asked, peeling back the hood of her parka. For a moment, the way her long, brown hair fell so softly, her playful smile etched on pretty lips, it made me forget how angry I was at her for taking my son to Rutland with that dillweed hillbilly. In that instant, she was just that girl I had fallen in love with all those years ago, drinking beer on the banks of Coal Creek as the summer slipped away and we dreamt big.

“I read about your brother,” she said. “How are you doing?”

I went to the fridge, grabbed a beer. I held it up behind my back.

“No thanks,” Jenny said.

“Suit yourself.” I cracked it open and took a hearty slug, then wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve and belched. It was the most bachelor thing I could think to do.

“What are your plans?” she asked.

“For what?”

I started gathering dishes shellacked with food scraps and empty to-go containers off the table, dropping crusted pots and stained coffee mugs in the sink, soaping hot water to let them soak. The place was a pigsty. It stank. I hadn’t done laundry in a month. I balled soiled tees and chucked them in the corner. Then dragged the trashcan from
under the sink and started dumping ashtrays and plastic lids overflowing with cigarette butts.

Jenny crossed over and took my hands in hers. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like? Cleaning up my apartment. You should be happy. You’re always bitching about what a slob I am.”

She stared empathetically. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You must be worried about your brother.”

“What do you care? It’s not your problem anymore.”

“Don’t be stupid. I still care what happens to you.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do, Jay.”

I broke from her grip. “But that’s not stopping you from moving five hours away, is it?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair? You mean, like not discussing moving with my son to another state? Like buying a house with some rebound fuck. Like not giving me a chance—”

“A chance? I’ve given you nothing
but
chances. To spend more time with Aiden. To catch up on payments. To fix us. And what have you done? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“I just gave you money.”

“It’s not about money.”

“What’s it about then?”

“Your priorities, Jay. How you chose to focus your energy and spend your time. It’s about you not settling for less when you’re worth so much more.”

“I know you think you’re paying me some twisted compliment when you say stuff like that, like you’re building up my self-worth or something. But you’re not. All I hear is that I’m not good enough.”

“Then you’re mishearing me—because that is
not
what I am saying.”

“This is a really rotten time to be laying this on me. I’m in the middle of this shit with my brother.”

“What do you think I’m talking about?”

“Here it comes.”

“Here
what
comes?”

“You hate my brother. You’ve always hated him.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Bullshit.”

Jenny stepped back, arms akimbo. “That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t hate Chris. I actually like your brother. When he’s not all fucked up. I think he’s sick, and I feel sorry for him. I see how hard it is on you. I think he needs help. But you can’t be the one to fix him.”

“I gave up trying to fix him a long time ago. But I’m not abandoning him, either.”

“No one is asking you to. You have to find a way to distance yourself, though. You can’t keep making
his
habit
your
problem. Whatever he’s done this time—”

“He didn’t
do
anything,” I said, “other than be his usual screw-up self. Wrong place. Wrong time.”

“Then let him answer for himself. You can’t shoulder that stone.”

“What do you suggest I do?”

“Let Chris deal with Chris’ mess.”

“Nice, Jenny. When they fish him out of a dumpster behind the truck stop, I hope you feel good.”

“No, I won’t feel good,” she said. “But I won’t feel guilty, either.”

“He’s family.”

She stared at me, urgently. “You keep saying that. Don’t you see? We’re your family too. And you shut us out.”

“My family? And what are you doing with
my
family, huh? Packing up and running off with that shitheel to Vermont. You know damn well I’ll never get down there. I have a hard enough time making it five miles down the road as it is.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“I work, Jenny. I don’t have some cushy union job with four weeks’ paid vacation. I have to cull a million different projects together, hustle and bust my balls to cobble a halfway decent payday just to keep creditors off my ass. My schedule is irregular; I never know when the work
is going to dry up. I need to take advantage of it when I can get it. That means long hours, that means I don’t always get weekends off.”