The Burgess Boys (41 page)

“I didn’t.”

“Well, that’s because we’re bozos from Maine. The truly high-class people of this country know that when you meet someone you say, How are you? And they
laugh
at those who say, Nice to meet you. That’s what I’ve learned at this school.”

“God,” Bob said. “Jimmy, you’re starting to scare me.”

“It should scare you.”

Bob stood and walked to the door of Jim’s bedroom. Clothes were strewn about, the bureau drawers were open, the bed was so unmade that part of its mattress showed. Bob turned back. “How many weeks till the end of the semester?”

Jim looked at him with his reddened eyes. “Seven.” He sat forward. “That sexual harassment stuff—it just wasn’t true. It’s true we had sex. That’s true. But it’s not true she was scared of me, or scared of losing her job.
I
was the one scared.”

“Of what?” Bob asked.

“Of what?” Jim threw up one hand. “Of this! Of losing Helen! But I didn’t think Adriana was going after a million dollars. I didn’t think I’d lose my job.”

“Is that what she got?”

“She got five hundred thousand. They all start by asking for a million. I have to pay it, you know. Comes out of the equity of my share of the firm.” Jim sat with his arms on each side of him, his chest looked thin. He gave a small shake of his head that seemed to indicate indifference. “She lived in your building in Brooklyn. The girl you felt sorry for.”

“I know that. I was the one who suggested your—”

Jim waved a hand. “She’d have come there anyway. She was looking for money, she applied to all the big places. Anyway, she was a tough negotiator, it turns out. That’s what she walked away with.”

“You weren’t scared you’d lose your job? That never went through your head? How could that not go through your head, Jim? You’re a lawyer.”

“Bobby, you’re a touching fellow. I mean that, don’t get mad. You think like a child. Like things are supposed to make sense. People say, Oh, that was so stupid of him, when some congressman tries to hit on a guy in a bus-station bathroom. Well, yeah. ’Course it was.”

Bob looked in the closet, found a suitcase and brought it out.

Jim didn’t seem to notice. He said, “Some of us are secretly in love with destruction. That’s what I think. Honestly? From the moment I heard about Zach throwing that pig’s head, I just knew deep down I was fucked.
Your cheatin’ heart will tell on you
. Could not get that song out of my head. But man, all my life—and especially when Zach fucked up, and the kids had all gone off so the house was empty, and that stupid fucking meaningless job at the firm—I thought: Dead man going down. Just a matter of time.” Jim looked as though this speech had exhausted him. He closed his eyes, moved a hand tiredly. “I could not keep it up.”

“You got to get out of here, Jimmy.”

“You keep saying that. Where do you think I’m going to go?”

Bob’s cell phone rang. “Susan,” he said. He listened. Then he said, “That’s great. That’s wonderful. I’ll drive up. Yeah, really. I’m bringing Jim. I’m with him now in Wilson. He’s a mess and he looks like shit, so be prepared.” He clicked his phone shut and said to his brother, “We’re going to Maine. Our nephew’s coming home. Day after tomorrow. He’ll get off a bus in Portland and all three of us will be there. Get it? Family.”

Jim shook his head, rubbed his face. “Did you know Larry’s always hated me? I made him stay at sleepaway camp when he wanted to come home.”

“That was a long time ago, Jim. He doesn’t hate you.”

“Nothing’s a long time ago.”

“Give me the name of the chairman,” Bob said.

“Woman,” Jim said. “Chairwoman. Chairperson. Chair-who-gives-a-fuck.”

12

And so the Burgess brothers drove to Maine from Upstate New York, along winding roads, past run-down farmhouses and farms not so run-down, past small houses and large houses with three cars in front, or a snowmobile, or a boat covered with tarp. They stopped for gas and got back on the road. Bob drove. Jim sat next to him, slumped down, sometimes fast asleep, or else staring out the passenger window.

“Thinking of Helen?” Bob asked.

“Always.” Jim sat up straighter. “And I don’t want to talk about it.” After a few moments he added, “I can’t believe I’m headed to Maine.”

“You’ve said that a few times. It’s better than the hole I found you in. And being in motion is good.”

“Why?”

“Because of the sway of embryonic fluid, or something. Something like that.”

Jim looked out the window again. They passed more fields, gas stations, little strip malls, antiques stores, the road went on and on. Every house they passed seemed isolated and desolate to Bob, and when Jim said, “Some guy in the German Department said I’d like it here because Upstate New York looks like Maine,” Bob said he didn’t think it looked like Maine at all, and Jim said, “I don’t either.”

They crossed into Massachusetts and the clouds were low and the trees scrubbier, the fields they passed were untamed and calming. “Jim. So you remember him?”

Jim looked at Bob, as though from far away. “Who?”

“Our father. Who art in heaven.”

Jim moved in his seat, shifted his legs so his knees pointed more in the direction of Bob. After a few moments, he said, “I remember he took me ice fishing. He told me to watch a little orange ball floating on a tiny circle of water in the middle of ice. He said if the ball dipped down, we had a fish. We never got a fish. I can’t remember his face, but I remember that little orange ball.”

“What else?”

“Sometimes in the summer when it was hot he’d spray us with the hose, do you remember that?”

Bob did not.

“Sometimes he’d sing.”

“Sing? Was he drunk?”

“Oh God, no.” Jim looked at the ceiling of the car, shaking his head. “Only a Puritan from New England would think you had to be drunk to sing. No, Bob, I think he just liked to sing once in a while. Like ‘Home on the Range,’ I think.”

“Did he yell at us?”

“I don’t remember that he did.”

“So he was—what was he like?”

“I think he was kind of like you.” Jim said this thoughtfully, his hands now pressed beneath his knees. “I don’t know what he was
like
, of course, I don’t have enough memories, but lots of time I’ve thought—you know, Bob, you have your own brand of, sort of, goofiness, and I’ve thought you might have taken after him.” Jim was silent for many minutes while Bob waited. Then Jim said, “If Pam had come back and asked you, begged you, to take her back, would you have?”

“Yes. She never asked. But you don’t want to wait too long.”

“Helen’s really mad.”

“Yuh, she is. She is really mad. Of course she is.”

Jim said quietly, “In case you haven’t noticed, people get hard-hearted against the people they hurt. Because we can’t stand it. Literally. To think
we
did that to someone.
I
did that. So we think of all the reasons why it’s okay we did whatever we did. Does Susan know what’s going on?”

“I told her. After I saw Helen. I told her I was coming to find you in Wilson.”

“Susan never liked Helen.”

“She’s not blaming Helen. How can anyone blame Helen?”

“I’ve tried. She has tons of money, you know. From her father. And she kept it tucked away and separate so it passes on to the kids. So I wouldn’t get any if she died. Just straight to the kids. Her father wanted it that way.” Jim stretched his legs out. “Actually, it’s not that uncommon with family money.”

“Exactly.”

Jim said, “That’s about all I’ve come up with, charges against Helen. The fact that I hated my stupid job doing stupid white-collar stupid crime is not her fault. She’s been urging me to leave there for years, she knows it’s not what I liked to do. And I don’t want to talk about this. One more thing, I think the night with the life coach did her in.”

“Jim. If you have any other outside events, don’t confess them. That’s my advice, okay?”

“What am I going to do, Bob? I have no family.”

“You have family,” Bob said. “You have a wife who hates you. Kids who are furious with you. A brother and sister who make you insane. And a nephew who used to be kind of a drip but apparently is not so much of a drip now. That’s called family.”

Jim fell asleep, his head leaning forward almost to his chest.

Susan came out to meet them as they pulled into the driveway. She hugged Jim with a tenderness that Bob had not known she contained. “Let’s get you inside,” she said. “I’m sleeping on the couch tonight. Jim, you can have my room. You need to shower and shave. And I have a cooked meal waiting.”

She bustled them about in a way that surprised Bob. He tried to catch Jim’s eye, but Jim just looked stunned while Susan found him towels and one of Zach’s old razors. Bob was staying in Zach’s room, and Susan directed him in there with his bags. When Bob heard the shower running, he said, “I’ll be back. I’m going to take a drive.”

Margaret Estaver was standing on the sidewalk in front of her church, talking with a tall, dark-skinned man. Bob pulled up to the curb, got out, saw her face open with gladness as he approached. She spoke to the man, who nodded at Bob, and who seemed, as Bob got closer, to be vaguely familiar. “This is Abdikarim Ahmed,” Margaret said, and the man extended his hand and said, “Good to meet you, good to meet you.” His eyes were dark, intelligent; his teeth, as he smiled, were uneven and stained.

Margaret said, “What do you hear from Zachary?” Bob glanced at Abdikarim; he might have been one of the men in court for Zach’s hearing, Bob couldn’t be sure.

The man said, “He is good? With his father? Will he come home? He can come home now, I think.”

“He’s coming home tomorrow,” Bob said. He added, “Don’t worry, though. He’s cleaned up his act. Better behaved.” He said the last two words loudly, which is how people talked to foreigners or deaf people, he realized. Margaret rolled her eyes at him.

“Coming home,” the man said, looking very pleased. “Very good, very good.” He shook hands again. “Very good to meet you. May the boy be well.” He nodded, and walked away.

When he was out of earshot, Margaret said, “He’s been the advocate for Zach.”

“That man?”

Bob followed her to her office. He would always remember how she reached to turn on a lamp and the room became bathed in light as the autumn darkness fell against the windows. He could never place the moment—though it could have been that moment, the lamp’s light holding the warmth of Abdikarim, and somehow, too, the warmth of Shirley Falls—when he understood that his future was with her. They did not speak for long, nor did they speak of each other. She wished him luck with Jim, and with Zachary’s arrival, and he said she would hear all about it, and she said Yes, and did not walk him to his car.

“He’s a mess,” his sister murmured, nodding toward the living room. “He’s called her three times and she won’t pick up. But Zach just emailed that he’s really excited, and he’s awful glad you’ll be there. So
that
part’s good at least.”

Bob went into the living room and sat across from Jim. “Here’s what you do,” Bob said. “Go to Park Slope and sleep on the stoop until she lets you in.”

“She’ll call the police.” Jim had his fist on his chin, staring at the rug.

“Let her. It’s still your house, isn’t it?”

“She’ll get a restraining order.”

“You didn’t hit her, did you? Jesus.”

Jim looked up at that. “Come on, Bob. No. I never threw her fucking clothes out the window either.”

“Okay,” said Bob. “Okay.”

In the morning Mrs. Drinkwater stood at the top of the stairs, eavesdropping. “My word,” she mouthed silently, for there was a lot getting said as these three kids—she thought of them as kids, could hear in their voices the lilt with which they spoke, especially Susan, as if being without spouses or children brought them back to their own childhood—discussed Zachary’s future (he might go to college) and Jim’s crisis (he had messed up everything, it seemed, only one of his daughters would still talk to him) and Susan’s own life (she might take a painting class one night a week—this part especially surprised Mrs. Drinkwater, she had no idea Susan wanted to paint).