“You have to tell him. You can’t start keeping things from him.”
“Why? He doesn’t tell me everything he does,” he said, startled by this mix of anger and guilt. Talking about the affair made him feel disloyal to his brother, Lisa, and Jilly, and resentful. He had been drawn into their private lives before he’d had a chance to settle into his own. The affair lay between him and Dennis like an invisible wall. He didn’t know what to do but felt sure he should be doing something.
“Dennis just wants to help. He wants to be close to you, Gordon, that’s all. Every trip up there he’d always be saying how wonderful it was going to be when you could all finally be a family again.”
“Dr. Loomis knows you’re here,” the receptionist said. “It shouldn’t be too much longer. He said to go wait in his office.”
“I can wait here,” he said before she could get up. “This is fine. I’ll just sit here and wait.” The last thing he wanted was to disrupt the office routine, but he was desperate. He had to borrow fifty dollars. The electric company’s second notice had thrown him into a panic. It was bad enough eating at Delores’s almost every night this past week, but it was humiliating to show up empty-handed.
The only job he’d been able to get was with a moving company. Thinking his palm had healed, he had worked two days only to have the cut reopen. Blood dripped onto the white-tiled foyer of a house, horrifying the new home owner. “What if he’s got AIDS?” she fumed, pointing down at Gordon. He was on his knees, scrubbing the stained grout and trying to keep paper towels rolled around his hand.
“What about my kids? My baby’s crawling now.”
The foreman’s boot nudged him. “You got AIDS?”
“No.”
The foreman gave him cab fare and sent him home until “the damn thing heals.”
Determined to get the job back, he did everything with one hand. Twelve fifty an hour was good money, and the men had liked him. There hadn’t been anything he couldn’t lift. He sniffed at his hand again. It still ached, and this morning there had been a funny odor from the bandage. The surgical tape and gauze were expensive, so he had been changing the dressing only every few days.
“The chairs in the doctor’s office are a lot more comfortable than those.”
“Oh, I’m comfortable. These chairs are fine.” He patted the wooden arms. “They’re very good, very comfortable.”
“Well . . .” She sighed. “He should be right out.” She returned to her keyboard.
He kept glancing over the magazine at her. Maybe Dennis had broken up with Jilly and this was his new girlfriend. Older, she wasn’t nearly as pretty as Jilly or as classy. She was chewing gum with her front teeth. Her hair was brassy and ragged, not soft and perfectly neat as Jilly’s. An odd pang of jealousy rose in his chest. Why did he feel so agitated? Did he want his brother to still be seeing Jilly? The door opened. An older man arrived and sat across from him. Moments later a nurse led out a gray-haired woman whose mouth was stuffed with bloody gauze packs. The man got up and put his arm around her, asking if she was all right as they left.
“Gordo.”
He followed Dennis into his office. The furniture was massive, with dark, burled surfaces inlaid with bands of golden wood. The blinds were closed and the lampshades were black. Gordon had to squint to see his brother on the other side of the desk. Knowing Dennis’s pride in possessions, he praised the handsome office, taking particular note of the large gilt-framed oil painting above the credenza. It was a portrait of a white-haired gentleman in a black suit and stand-up shirt collar. “I feel like I know him. He looks so familiar,” Gordon said, angling his head for a better perspective.
“Well, he should. That’s Clancy Meldrin.”
“Who’s he?”
“Our great-grandfather. Mom’s grandfather.”
Gordon was amazed at the resemblance. The man was an elderly version of Dennis. His mother used to brag how Clancy Meldrin had owned hundreds of acres in Ireland until an Englishman cheated him out of it. Gordon asked where he had gotten the painting. It looked old, but he didn’t remember ever seeing it around the house. Dennis said he’d had it painted. From what? Gordon asked. An old photo or something?
“From life!” Dennis laughed. “Pretty good, huh?” He had posed, telling the artist to imagine him as an old man a hundred years ago in Ireland, a man of culture and learning despite having lost everything. Gordon’s eyes moved between the portrait above and the one below, saddened by the ghostly double image. For the first time in his life, he was embarrassed for his brother.
He abbreviated his reasons for coming. He had lost his job at the Market but had found another one. He held up his bandaged hand with a quick mention of the slicing blade, rush hour, Petro’s flaming paddle. Not to worry, though, because he had this other job now, but first the cut had to heal. “They’ll take me back. I just have to get it so it won’t keep splitting open.”
Dennis asked to see it. Gordon peeled back the tape. Recoiling a little, Dennis said it was infected. Yes, Gordon admitted. He’d figured it was, from the redness and the smell these last few days. He needed stitches and antibiotics right away, Dennis said.
But that wasn’t even why he was here, Gordon said quickly. He needed fifty dollars to pay his electric bill. A loan, of course. As soon as the moving company sent his check, he’d pay Dennis back.
“Look,” Dennis said. He bent over the desk, scribbling angrily. “This is ridiculous. When are you going to start listening to me? What makes you think you have all the answers?”
“I don’t think that.”
“You don’t? You could’ve fooled me, Gordo.” He ripped the check from the pad and slapped it onto the desk.
“I can’t cash a check. I had to close out my account. That’s not going to work,” he said, pointing.
“It’s not a check. It’s a prescription for that fucking mess of a hand you’ve got.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. When I saw you writing, I just thought . . . I thought it was a check.”
Dennis shook his head. “You could’ve been at Corcopax! I had it all lined up!”
“They weren’t going to hire me.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Yes! They told me. The lady, she—”
“I could get you on at the brewery. One phone call, that’s all it’ll take. Look, I’m going to call Tom Harrington right now and—”
“No! Don’t. I don’t want you to do that.”
Dennis looked at him. “What do you want? Do you even know? Well, do you?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to upset you. I—”
“Don’t want to upset me?” Dennis threw up his hands and laughed. “You’re the most upsetting thing in my life!”
“I am?” His face was burning.
“Here.” Dennis said, and stretched back to reach into his pocket. He flipped four one-hundred-dollar bills onto the scrip. “And you
still
don’t have to pay me back.”
“I only need fifty, and I’ll pay you back next week.”
“I’ll be gone all next week, so here, take it.” He held out the money. “And if you don’t need it, fine, just bring it back.”
Gordon hesitated, then took the money. “Where are you going?” he asked sheepishly.
“Bermuda.” Dennis smiled. “Dental conference.”
“With Lisa?”
“No, not this time. Too many seminars. She’d hate it.”
“You’re going with Jilly Cross, aren’t you.”
“What? What’re you talking about?”
“That’s where she’s going—Bermuda. That day at the post office, that’s what she said.” He put the money back on the desk. “Why would you do that? What about Lisa and the kids? You’ve got such a wonderful life, you—”
“Look, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about you and Jilly Cross. Going on a trip together. How can you do that?”
Dennis shot out of his chair. “You don’t want my help and I don’t need yours, okay?” He picked up the bills and flung them into Gordon’s face. “So just get the fuck out of here!”
The bus ride seemed to take only minutes, the walk after that even less. He didn’t know if she’d be home, and it didn’t matter if she wasn’t. At least he’d have tried. At least he’d have done something. He couldn’t spend his whole life turning his back, not seeing, never doing the honorable thing. It wasn’t just Lisa and the children caught in his brother’s mess, but an innocent young woman as well.
Jimmy scootered alongside him down the street. “Come on out back and see the treehouse. Me and Dad, we just finished it yesterday.”
“Yes. But first I have to talk to your mother.” He rang the bell. Jimmy ran up and opened the door.
“Come on!” He gestured Gordon inside. “Mom! Hey, Mom, where are you? Uncle Gordon’s here! She’s probably working out downstairs.” He opened the cellar door. “Mom! Hey, Mom!” he bellowed down.
“What? What is it?” Lisa shouted back, running up the stairs with a look of alarm. “Gordon!” She hugged him. “Oh, Gordon, I’m so thrilled you’re here. What a nice surprise.” She looked at him. “Is everything all right?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Of course. Yes. Jimmy, you can go back outside now.”
“But I told Uncle Gordon I’d show him the treehouse. It’ll only take a minute.”
“Outside, now.” She ushered him to the door. “I’ll call you when we’re done.”
After Jimmy left, she offered him coffee, juice, water. No, nothing, he said, thanking her. Come sit down, then, she said, and he followed her into the kitchen but remained standing.
“What is it, Gordon? Something’s wrong, isn’t it.”
With his nod the color drained from her face. “What happened? Tell me. You can tell me.”
He kept looking at her. In all his indignation and anger, he had not planned what to say. “It’s all right,” she coaxed. “Whatever it is, I’ll help you. You know I will. You’re like a brother, my own brother.” She put both hands on his arms. “I mean that. And I hope you feel that way about me.”
“I do.”
“Because we’re a family, so we have to help one another, right?”
He nodded. Yes. That was it, exactly why he was here, and yet here he was again, paralyzed. He couldn’t, couldn’t do it, didn’t have the guts, courage, strength, whatever it took.
“Do you want me to call Dennis? If he’s between patients, he can probably—”
“No, that’s why I’m here. It’s about Dennis. He’s going out with another woman. He has been, and now he’s going on a trip with her.”
She closed her eyes, for a moment seemed to teeter back and forth. “How do you know? Who told you?” She looked dazed.
“Dennis. And she did too, in a way.”
“Dennis told you? He said that? That he’s seeing another woman?” She stared at him.
“I saw him with her. And when I asked him he admitted it.”
“So all those times he said he was with you he was really with her.” Her eyes raced over the room, as if clues were suddenly everywhere. “Do you know her? Who is she?”
“Jilly Cross,” he said, handing her the business card with the pretty face in its corner.
After Gordon left, she sat down with the phone in her lap. She was trembling. Trembling with rage and impotence. Her teeth chattered. Even her feet moved up and down, stamping. She doubled up and moaned. Why? Why? Why had he done that? Why had he told her what she’d always known? Now, with no more lies to tell herself, she had no choice. She had to do something, hurt someone, destroy everything important to her.
She dialed the number on the card, then waited through the voice mail message. “Yes. This is Lisa Loomis, Dennis’s wife. I just want you to know that I know all about you. I know where you work and I know where you live.” Afraid of what she might say next, she slammed down the phone. She called her mother, then hung up before it rang. She couldn’t do that to her parents. They loved Dennis too much. He was one of her father’s closest friends. It was at times like this she needed a brother or sister. She felt so alone. Her poor children, they deserved a better, stronger mother, one who could hold on to their father for them. What more could she do? She’d tried everything. Better sex. Golf lessons. Being more assertive with him. Being less assertive. Keeping the house perfectly neat, the way he liked it. Letting it be a mess so she didn’t have to nag the kids when he was home. Striving to be a better Catholic, her trade-off to God for a better marriage. She burst into tears, wailing in shame and anger—all the PreCana lectures she’d given, all her insipid, shallow, hypocritical exhortations to always be honest with one another, no matter the consequences, when all along she’d known, had carried this worm in her heart, allowing it to feed on her self-confidence and pride until there was nothing left. The one thing she had never done was leave.
She called Father Hensile at the rectory. Mrs. Slane said he had gone into Boston for a meeting. Did she want to leave a message? Her voice was too congested from crying for Mrs. Slane to recognize. No, no message.
It took three trips to the attic to get the luggage downstairs. She packed Annie first, then Jimmy, but left her suitcase empty on the bed. Why, when she didn’t matter? Nothing mattered. Not anymore. She had already called the lake ferry. The last boat to the island left at eight tonight. She called her mother and told her she was taking the children to the cottage for a surprise holiday. Delighted to have somebody using the place after all the renovations, her mother offered to call the handyman, Henderson, and have him air the place out. “Tell Dennis to be sure and take Jimmy out in Dad’s new Sun-fish. Well, Annie, too, of course, if—”
“It’ll just be me and the children, Mother.”
“Oh. I see. Is everything all right, honey?”
“Yes.”
“You sound congested.”
“I am. A little,” she said with her mother’s uneasy breathing in her ear. Fear was in the genes. And cowardice: She didn’t want to know, either.
She was loading the suitcases into the car when Dennis pulled into the garage. His face was blotchy and haggard.