Bob’s brother Danny is on his way, says Leo, and just then Margaret and Ellen and Robert and April arrive together, and all those shotgun questions and jokes begin of how many years has it been? Ten? Twenty? Thirty years gone by? Tell me how does that happen? Honestly, just how does that happen?
No one seems to know—though it sure does happen, we say, doesn’t it?—and we look at one another in disbelief, last time together being Bob’s funeral, Bob’s couch sitting in the next room, cushions frowning as if he died there just yesterday, pulmonary embolism, bowl of melted ice cream.
Still no Danny, and we wait and catch one another up on kids and grandkids and bouts with gout, gallbladder operations, and there’s the sound of cutlery and ice in glasses as Bob’s sister Annie shows up at the door. Leo helps her into the room, her back stooped as she crosses the kitchen, this old woman so much smaller than I remember. It’s like hugging a bird cage, all wire and wicker in my arms, two of us trying not to cry as we look at each other, both of us gray and featherless by now, whiskers on her chin, and whiskers I know on mine.
Still no Danny, and Leo sets kielbasa and bread on the table, his wife bringing whiskey and beer and more ice and glasses, everyone drinking to old times and loved ones and how in a flash it all goes by.
Danny arrives, finally, appears like an older version of his brother, that pull of stomach once more, as if Bob himself drifts into the room for a moment, nose battered, hair thin, same yellow sweepstakes smile of his, like he’s just won a thousand dollars. We all hurrah for Danny, and soon I’m telling about these eels in the supermarket yesterday—whole tank filled with eels—which makes us remember the eel in my bathtub, which brings back the time Bob teaches me to drive, me going straight over the embankment, two of us upside-down in the car, windows blown out, slushy sound of glass everywhere, and Bob looking at me, saying I’m trying to kill him, aren’t I? And I’m like, You idiot, why would I try to kill you in the same car I’m driving? We’re on the ceiling together, hazards blinking, and he goes, I don’t know, Anna, but I’m sure you have your reasons.
Danny seems to recall that there had been some drinking that afternoon, cider always in the cellar those days, Bob always offering to fetch the next pitcher. Even as a kid he’d be downstairs longer and longer, coming back upstairs all dizzy in the head, skinny little boy talking nonsense, sneaking out to sleep with the chickens in the coop.
We laugh—and everything rhymes with everything else—all of us remembering kids up in trees, a rabid coyote to shoot, and Bob driving up to the farm the night of the flood, telling us not to worry, put all our important papers on top of the fridge. And in the morning? You guessed it—whole house gone, swept away, nothing but river—and we stand on the road, Bob rubbing the bristle of his chin. Well, he says, there goes that.
Didn’t laugh so much back then, but sure can laugh now. Entire afternoon we smile away like this, cheeks sore, and still nothing wrong with one last toast for old times’ sake, is there?
Had our day, says Danny, didn’t we?
Yes, we did.
It’s almost dark as we near the end of this, all of us around the table as the spell slowly lifts. And before anything else can happen, we have all these good nights on the porch to survive, all these hugs and kisses on the lawn to live through. Everyone walks me from the house to my car, the orchard and hills all dark against the sky, dogs like shadows at our feet.
Leo says to come back anytime, always welcome. There’s that verge of tears once more, mouth folding down with emotion, and here we go—and this is what breaks my heart—Annie holding my hand in the dark, Danny touching my shoulder, me saying take care, all of us saying goodbye.
Back down the hill again, air plush and soft in the dusk, car heading toward the smell of river and that old gone house of ours. I idle slow where our driveway must have been, place overgrown with vines and trees, water glassy black in the spaces below. Full dark by now, and I pull into what used to be our yard, everything quiet as I stand there. Sky nothing but stars. No moon, no clouds, just so many stars. A truck approaches and passes on the road, everything going dark and quiet again. I lift my skirt and pee into the leaves, sound of steam escaping, wipe with the hem. And how incredible—all the stars, all the trees, all the water moving in the river—so dark and quiet as I lean on the hood of my car for who knows how long. End up driving lost until the middle of the night on these roads. And I’m just so grateful—grateful and happy and tired and amazed—such an incredible sense of gratitude when I make it home at last.
About the Author
WILLIAM LYCHACK is the author of the novel The Wasp Eater. His work has appeared in The Best American Short Stories, The Pushcart Prize, and on public radio’s This American Life.
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