We Are the Brennans

by Tracey Lange

His mother sat next to him, at one end of the table, across from Mr. Brennan at the other. She’d hardly touched her own dinner, as usual, and sat with chin in hand. “Wouldn’t that be something. A college scholarship for soccer. Can you imagine, Mickey?”

  “What’s that?” Mr. Brennan looked up from The Irish Echo newspaper that was folded by his plate. “Aye, that would be something.”

  Mrs. Brennan waved him off and turned back to Denny. “Now, you’ve to make sure you take care of yourself. You can’t be risking illness nor injury.”

  “I know, Mom. I know.”

  Kale tuned out as she asked another question. He’d heard all this before and none of it applied to him. He was a mediocre player, second stringer, hadn’t even tried out for the Olympic Development team. Glancing around the table at Jackie to his left, and Shane and his sister across the way, he wondered if they resented the spotlight Denny garnered or were relieved by it. When his eyes came to rest on Sunday, he recalled the announcement. After waiting for a break in conversation he said, “Congrats on the contest, Sunday.”

  Her head snapped up, like the rest of the family. As he’d suspected, they had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “What contest?” Denny asked.

  “She won a writing contest,” Kale said. “Didn’t you hear the announcements today?” He stole a glance at Mrs. Brennan, who watched her daughter with a stiff expression.

  “I never listen to those. What’s up?” Denny asked.

  All eyes were on Sunday. She shrugged. “It was a short story contest for high school students.”

  “Oh boy,” Shane said. “You won a contest?”

  Her fingers fiddled with her knife. “Yeah.”

  “Nice,” Jackie said.

  “Hah. That’s great,” Denny said.

  Her dad reached over and patted her arm. “Nice job, Sunday. And you only a sophomore.”

  Mrs. Brennan’s voice cut across the enthusiasm. “What, exactly, did you win?”

  “They’re going to print it in a SUNY journal. And I won a scholarship to a writing workshop this summer on the Purchase campus.”

  “We’ll have to see about that.”

  “It’ll just be good to put on college applications,” Sunday said.

  “Hmph. Can’t imagine there’s much scholarship money for that sort of thing.” She turned back to her eldest. “Speaking of scholarships, I wonder if we shouldn’t consult one of those college counselors, make sure we find the best place for you…”

  And just like that Sunday’s limelight was redirected. Mrs. Brennan was the closest thing Kale had to a mother, but that night, for the first time, he believed she was jealous of Sunday. Jealous of her talent, or her connection with Shane, or her wide-open future. Why else would a parent steal one child’s moment and hand it to another.

  He watched Sunday’s eyes and spirits sink. She stood and began gathering dishes. On her second trip to the table for more cleanup, Mrs. Brennan stopped talking to Denny long enough to ask her to put on the kettle. Jackie and Shane had already taken their dishes to the kitchen and headed upstairs where Jackie would make sure Shane showered and got ready for bed. Mr. Brennan had gotten a call on his cell and stepped outside to answer it. A brief but profound spark of disappointment shot through Kale, similar to when he’d learned that Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa had been using steroids during the Great Home Run Chase. It was painful to recognize failings in the people you idolized.

  He stood, grabbed his own plate and silverware, as well as Denny’s, and took them into the kitchen. He paused in the doorway to watch Sunday as she turned from the kettle on the stove to sigh at the massive pile of pots, pans, and dishes it took to feed a family of six—seven, including himself.

  He moved forward. “Why don’t you load the dishwasher and I’ll work on pots and pans.”

  “No, that’s okay. I got it.”

  “Come on, it’ll go a lot faster with two of us.” He added the plates he was carrying to the pile, then stepped back next to her, surveying the damage.

  “At least let me do the pots,” she said. “It’s the worse of the two jobs.”

  He put his hands up in front of him, as if trying to grasp the scope of the task. “No, really, I think I can do it.”

  She grinned. “Suit yourself.”

  They worked alongside each other at the double sink for a few minutes. Sunday had the dishwasher loaded before he finished scraping the second pan. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Your mom ever hear of nonstick?”

  “She thinks Teflon is lazy. And she likes to use as many pots as possible when she cooks.” She grabbed the large pasta pot and went to work on it.

  “We should get Denny in here to help.”

  “Nah. He’s too busy hanging the sun, the moon, and the stars.” But there was no trace of bitterness in her voice or in the smile she flashed him.

  The job was winding down when Denny yelled for Kale, and Sunday told him to go. Before he rounded the corner she called his name. He turned and her eyes met his head-on. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Ten minutes later, after giving Denny some homework assignments to copy, he gathered his jacket and backpack to walk home—where, no doubt, his father was waiting for help getting himself and his oxygen tank moved from an armchair in front of the TV up to his bedroom. He called a general goodbye to Denny and his parents and headed for the door as Sunday appeared from the kitchen, teapot in hand. “Sunday?” he said.

  She looked up from where she was pouring her father a cup.

  “Can I read the story?”

  The other three faces swiveled up and over to him.

  “Sure. If you want to.”

  Kale noticed Denny’s eyebrows go up a touch and tried to keep a casual tone. “Okay. I’ll catch you after school tomorrow.” He left somewhat satisfied that he’d managed to mention it again. Even if no one else in the room had asked to read her work.

  When he found her at her locker the next afternoon she seemed surprised that he had followed through. “Are you sure you want to read it?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and moved closer to her locker to avoid the surge of bodies rushing for the exit. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t…”

  “No, that’s okay.” She fished out a couple books and a folder. “Where should we go?”

  He had assumed she would just give it to him to peruse when he had time but realized now she planned to hang around while he read it. Looking about he suggested they go to the commons, which would be clearing out by then. She followed him, and they were saved from making conversation while navigating the flow of traffic. Despite the fact that he practically lived at her house and saw her every day, they were rarely alone together and he had no idea what they’d talk about. He led her outside to the large courtyard area and chose an empty picnic table still bathed in the sun because she wasn’t wearing a jacket. They flung off their packs and sat across from each other.

  He waited while she dug in her bag, rifling through books and papers, zipping and unzipping pockets, and he suspected she was stalling. At last she placed a red folder on the table in front of her, laid her hands on top of it. “You know, you really don’t have to read this.” Her wavy hair lifted around her face and shoulders with the breeze, and a pink flush had slid up her cheeks.

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to read it.”

  She nodded and pulled out a few pages stapled together. “I just didn’t want you to feel obligated.” Laying it in front of him she said, “I haven’t edited it since I submitted it. And if you get bored or have to go, that’s fine. You can finish it later…” Her hands swirled, gestured the rest of the trailing thought.

  He’d never seen her like this before, so apprehensive. He’d meant to call her family’s attention to her accomplishment, not make her feel so self-conscious. But he was afraid to repeat his offer to not read it in case
she took it the wrong way. Besides, now he was curious. “Got it. Are you going to just sit there and watch me read?”

  She laughed, her face lighting up with some relief. “Sorry, no. I’ll work on my Spanish.” She reached for a textbook.

  He picked up the story, which was typed and double-spaced, and titled “Dream Walking.” Sunday was looking down at her book, but he could tell she wasn’t actually studying. Right before he started reading he worried her anxious presence would prevent him from focusing, but by the third or fourth sentence he was engrossed.

  The story was about a guy his own age named Henry, who was weighed down by the pressures of school and caring for a chronically sick mother. Henry was a good student and a dutiful son but dreamed of freedom. At night, when he could get away, he took walks and thought about what it would be like if he never turned back, but kept going instead. Walking to the next city, the next state, over bridges and through tunnels, across the country. A fresh start, no obligations. Each walk produced a different scenario: climbing mountains in Alaska, attending classes at a foreign university, sailing across an ocean. Henry’s dreams were boundless. However, by the time his walk ended each night he was always glad to be back home. The fleeting escapes helped him appreciate what he had, the people in his life, and while the future remained wide open, for now it was enough just to know it was there.

  He delayed looking up when he finished the last page. Her writing was smooth, descriptive, bits of humor mixed in. But what gave him such pause and caused an unsettling internal reaction was the sense that she’d seen right into his own soul.

  In the periphery her fingers flipped the corners of her textbook pages. He looked up to find her staring at him, chewing the tip of a pen. Her eyes bolted down to her book.

  “Uh, it’s…” He cleared a hitch in his throat. “It’s really good.”

  She continued to work the page corners, lifted a shoulder. “Thanks.”

  “I mean it. Seriously.” He wanted to say more, offer specific feedback, but he was finding it hard to pinpoint a coherent thought.

  “I should tell you something.” She did that thing where she pulled her sleeves over her hands, something he’d watched her do since she was a little girl. “You gave me the idea.”

  “What?”

  “I know you walk sometimes. At night.” She rushed to explain. “I just happened to see you go by a few times. In the alley behind our house.”

  He sat up a little straighter, feeling caught out for some reason. “Yeah, lately things are tough at home. Dad’s in and out of the hospital, there’s always someone at the house to help take care of him, people from church or one of his sisters from Ireland. Sometimes I go for a walk after he’s in bed. You know, to take a breath.”

  She nodded. “When I need to take a breath I sit on the back porch at night. That’s how I saw you.”

  It didn’t answer how she had gleaned what he was thinking about on his walks. Not the detailed scenarios, but his conflict between wanting to be a good son yet needing to make sure he ended up nothing like his father, his vacillation between wanting to explore the world some days and never leave West Manor others. His uncertainty about what he wanted for the future.

  He stared at her longer than he should have. Long enough to take note of the faint scattering of freckles on her upper cheeks. She played with her pen and blinked several times, looking off to one side and the other. His attention made her uncomfortable, which was no shock. She lived with three brothers in a house where the boys, one in particular, reigned supreme in their mother’s heart and mind, and her checked-out father was along for the ride. She hadn’t been reading his mind, just thinking some of the same thoughts, and he wondered when she realized they had so much in common. He had known Sunday for ten years as Denny’s little sister, known her to be sweet and smart, but the well ran much deeper than that.

  “You’re not saying much,” she said.

  “Sorry. It’s just because…” He scratched his head. “I’m just having trouble finding the words right now. But I’d like to read it again. Can I have a copy?” He was doing a piss-poor job of responding after all she’d been brave enough to share with him. Not just her writing, but the fact that she’d written about him. But he needed time to digest what was going on here. Some fundamental shift seemed to be taking place between them.

  “Sure. You can keep that one.” Worry shadowed her features. “I hope you’re not mad. Maybe I should have talked to you about it first, but I never thought I would win or anything.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She blew out a sigh of relief.

  “But when they publish your first book you have to dedicate it to me.”

  The wide smile reached her sunlit eyes and stayed put, a pure and singular smile he would, over time, come to think of as only for him. In that moment a small but powerful adjustment had taken place as Sunday moved into first Brennan position in his heart.

  * * *

  “You’re distracted tonight,” Vivienne said.

  It was a couple of hours later and they were eating dinner at home. He had asked Paul to stay on for the evening. After nursing a beer for two hours, steeped in disconcerting memories, he wasn’t up to going back to the pub. Guilt was at work too. Spending that much time thinking about Sunday felt like a betrayal of his marriage. The least he could do was go home and have dinner with his family.

  “Sorry. Just a busy day. How was school, buddy?”

  “Good. Miss Maggie read a story about a giving tree.” Luke was trying—and failing—to shovel spaghetti into his mouth.

  Kale took the small plastic fork from him. “This is how you do it. You twirl smaller bits and scoop up. Here, you try it.”

  “Daddy, when can I play wiff Molly again?” His soft round cheeks were smeared with butter and parmesan cheese.

  “Luke,” Vivienne said, “it’s with. And you know Molly’s in school all day now.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t see her for a long time.”

  It was true. Molly and Luke had always spent a lot of time together, at each other’s house or at the pub during quiet hours, while their dads were working. They hadn’t seen each other since Sunday returned. And Kale hadn’t been in the Brennan house for almost a month.

  “I’ll talk to Denny,” he said. “We’ll get you guys together soon.”

  After helping Luke with his bath, Kale tucked him in—“Tight like a burrito, Daddy”—wrapped an arm around him, and read a story. It was the most peaceful he felt all day and they were both out halfway through the book. He woke to Vivienne shaking him.

  “You should come to bed.” She didn’t like when he fell asleep with Luke, said it wasn’t a good idea.

  He followed her into their room, doing his best not to wake fully while he pulled off his jeans and shirt and fell into bed on his stomach, deciding against brushing his teeth in hopes he could drift back to sleep.

  She climbed in beside him. “What happened at work today?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You seemed preoccupied. Upset, even.”

  The numbing edge of sleepiness was slipping away. “No, I’m just tired.”

  “Was Sunday there?”

  His eyes shot open as the attempt to sleep officially failed. “Briefly.”

  She rolled toward him and put her hand on his back, scratched lightly with her nails. Which felt more grating than relaxing. “I just want to know what’s going on with you,” she said.

  For the tiniest moment, he considered telling her what happened, how Sunday had accused him of making her pay, had the audacity to suggest he’d done something wrong five years ago. That moment passed though. The last thing she needed to know was that Sunday was causing him this kind of turmoil, and once he said it there would be no unringing that bell.

  He turned over and looked at Vivienne’s insistent eyes. She was not going to let this go. “It’s just the new place,” he said.
“We’re getting close to opening and it’s stressful lately. That’s all.”

  She studied him, trying to decide whether that was, in fact, all.

  He opened his arm so she could snuggle up. “Let’s get some sleep.”

  She put her head on his shoulder but then started kissing his neck and reaching under the blanket. He let her make the move, but it was somewhat mechanical for him. There was no other way when his head was filled with another woman. Afterward, as much as he tried to steer his mind in other directions, it drifted to the old apartment he’d shared with Sunday. His apartment, technically. She never officially lived there. Her parents needed a lot of help at home, and Maura didn’t approve of living together before marriage. But Sunday spent half her nights there with him. He remembered how she wore his T-shirts to bed. The way they talked and laughed for hours in the dark. And weekend mornings when they could take their time with each other before the family and the pub demanded their attention.

  Vivienne didn’t seem to notice, or if she sensed it she ignored it. She was a little like Denny that way. If it didn’t fit her narrative she stiff-armed it aside. While he lay there, his mind running like a hamster on a wheel, she fell right to sleep.

  * * *

  The next morning he decided to take a very rare day off work. He needed more time before he saw Sunday again, and sinking into a day with his family would bolster him. Denny told him to enjoy it, days off would be hard to come by once the new place opened.

  They had breakfast out and drove to the park where Viv watched him and Luke kick the ball around. While she had her nails done, a standing Saturday-afternoon appointment, they went for a bike ride and had ice cream. Spending time with Luke brought the calm he was yearning for. It also reminded him that as much as Sunday pulled at him, he couldn’t wander down the what-if-she-never-left road. If she’d never left, there’d be no Luke.

  When they returned home, Vivienne suggested they take a walk before dinner. “We can stop by the pub and drop off the list of bookkeepers I put together,” she said.

  In an effort to put Viv’s mind at ease Kale had mentioned that Sunday was looking for someone to take over the books. Vivienne had done some research and generated a list of possibilities in a pretty transparent effort to help.