by Emma Straub
* * *
—
It was almost eleven when Porter got home. Her porch was dark, because she’d been gone all day and hadn’t left the light on. She pulled the car in and kept her keys in her hand. The front door was sticky, as usual, and she kicked the bottom with the toe of her shoe, sending the wooden door skidding open. Every old building in Clapham was like that, rickety and full of eccentricities. Porter reached for the light switch with muscle memory, flipped the whole row up, flooding the house with yellow light. There were a dozen pink balloons floating in her living room. She screamed and then clapped her own hand over her mouth.
“Hello?” Porter said, to the balloons, to the otherwise seemingly empty room. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing a murderer would do, but she kept her keys in her fist, just in case.
A groan came from the direction of the sofa. There, underneath a blanket, was her little brother, Nicky. “Surprise,” he murmured, head still buried deep in her pillow. “Where have you been? I brought dinner. And balloons. It’s not easy to get balloons on a train, I want you to know.”
Porter screamed again, more happily this time, and then climbed on top of her brother, sitting on his rib cage. Personal space did not exist for siblings. When Porter was angry with her mother, there was always this: Astrid had given her two brothers, including one Porter actually liked. She wasn’t alone. “My baby,” she said, bouncing a bit, until Nicky cried uncle.
“I’m a total idiot,” Porter said. “I can’t even tell you. I mean, I can tell you, but you wouldn’t believe it. I mean, you’d believe it.” She shook her head.
“Me too,” Nicky said. “I’m an idiot because I shipped Cece up here because I was scared of some teenage girls and the internet. Why are you an idiot?”
Porter slid off his body so that they were sitting next to each other. “I’ve been sleeping with Jeremy Fogelman. Again.”
“Again? Yeesh.”
Porter grabbed a pillow and covered her face. “I know. It’s beyond stupid. But I think I had to just get it out of my system for good. Put childish things behind me.”
“It’s okay,” Nicky said. He put a hand on her shoulder. “We all make mistakes. I won’t tell her.” He nodded toward Porter’s belly.
Chapter 35
And Then There Were Three
Elliot came downstairs in workout pants and a wrinkled, untucked dress shirt, clearly the first two pieces of clothing he put his hands on in the blackout-curtained void of his bedroom. Nicky had kept Porter from honking the horn when it took Elliot more than the three minutes he’d promised to emerge from his front door. It was late—everyone else was asleep. But Porter didn’t care. She didn’t even care that when they did drive to Buddy’s, the only local bar that was open late, she wouldn’t be able to have more than a few surreptitious sips of her brothers’ drinks. The only thing that Porter cared about was that for tonight, and maybe only tonight, she had her baby brother all to herself, if you didn’t count her big brother too.
Elliot shivered on the front step for a minute, blinking at the car, as if he couldn’t remember who had texted him sixteen times to tell him that his attendance was mandatory. Nicky rolled down the passenger window and waved. “All aboard, old boy,” he said. Elliot jogged over and slid his body across the back seat until he was sitting in the center, with one hand cupping each front seat.
“When did you get in?” Elliot asked, rubbing his eyes.
“Were you asleep?” Porter asked. “What are you, nine?” She was usually asleep by then, too, of course.
“A few hours ago. I was trying to surprise our pregnant sister, but she wasn’t home, so I surprised myself with a little catnap on her couch.” Nicky reached over and put his hand on top of Elliot’s. “It’s good to see you.”
“Yeah, man.”
“Oh my god, El, you’re overflowing with love, I can hardly take it,” Porter said, rolling her eyes. “Let’s get some drinks in you two and see if I can get drunk just by dipping my pinkies in your beers.”
“Fermentation is good for you,” Nicky said. “A beer wouldn’t hurt. Certain beers are actually great for lactation. You need those enzymes.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Porter said. “Finally, some familial support.”
* * *
—
Buddy’s always looked closed, despite the large neon sign outside. It was on the bottom floor of a large building, down three shallow steps from street level, sunless and dank at all hours of the day. That was the appeal. The three Strick siblings jostled one another through the narrow door and to a booth at the back of the room.
“This place hasn’t changed at all,” Nicky said. He made a small stack of damp coasters, a tiny Andy Goldsworthy tower that would crumble with time and moisture. Porter rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. Her belly bumped up against the edge of the table.
“Cecelia’s been babysitting for us,” Elliot said. His voice boomed, as if he needed to shout over loud music that only he could hear. He sat on the opposite side of the booth. Porter couldn’t imagine putting her head on her older brother’s shoulder. He was more like Astrid, with an invisible electric fence surrounding his body. Neither of them invited touch. Not like Nicky, who Porter had held in her arms when he was one day old, still soft all over, with no neck to speak of. He was a born cuddler.
“That’s great, that’s great,” Nicky said. He petted Porter’s hair. “God, I miss her. It seemed like the easiest thing to do, to send her up to Astrid, but now I don’t know. It’s so fucking hard to know if you’re making the right decision.”
Elliot put his hands on the table and pushed himself back up. “Well, if you want to talk about questionable parenting decisions, we’ll be here all night. I’ll get the first round.”
“Seltzer water for me, please,” Porter said, to his back, which Elliot acknowledged with a thumbs-up. “He’s so annoying,” she said to Nicky, though Elliot hadn’t done anything. She was always ready to be annoyed by him.
“So you think Cece is doing okay?” Nicky asked.
It felt so nice to have him back, even just for a little while. Nicky had been her perfect doll, her laughing and cooing toy. She’d always wanted to bring him in for show-and-tell, as if he could just sit quietly in her preschool cubby for the rest of the day.
“She’s great, Nicky. She really is. I don’t know exactly what happened in school this week, but I think she kind of turned into a superhero. I think it’s good, I do.” She squeezed his arm. “I don’t think you have to worry about her. She’s such a good kid. Like, a good kid. Way better than any of us.”
“Hey!” Nicky said, pretending to be offended. Elliot came back, holding three glasses in a well-practiced drink triangle. He set the drinks down and then slid back into the booth, leaning up against the worn leather back. He took a long sip from a short glass, the brown liquid sliding into his mouth like honey.
“So, tell me about Birdie,” Nicky asked. “I mean, I get the broad strokes. But how is it? It sounds like it’s been going on for a while.”
There was a jukebox, and it was playing Hall & Oates. Porter didn’t think there was a song on it that was released after 1997. “I think it’s kind of amazing,” Porter said. “It feels a little bit like watching an episode of Black Mirror, but one of the uplifting episodes, not one that makes you feel like the robot overlords have already won. I think Astrid is happy, believe it or not.”
Elliot leaned forward, spreading his elbows wide on the table. The coaster tower collapsed to one side. “It’s not amazing, okay, it’s fucking weird.”
“Here we go,” Porter said.
“No, Porter, come on! Come on. You really don’t think it’s weird? After all this time of Astrid being like the Hudson Valley Margaret Thatcher, now she’s Ellen DeGeneres? I like Birdie. I like her a lot, even. But it’s still weird.” Elliot sh
ook his head.
“Oh, is that the face you make when you have to imagine a woman doing something just because she wants to? Do you know what year it is? It’s the year of the woman! Again! Women can do anything. We can do stupid things and amazing things and smart things and dumb things. And we don’t even need to get a permission slip!” She slapped the table, sending a wave of Nicky’s beer onto the already sticky wood.
“That’s not what I meant,” Elliot said. He shrank backward, as Porter had known he would. Elliot growled, but he never bit. “It’s that it’s not like Mom. I don’t mind seeing her happy, it’s just that she never seemed happy before, and it’s like, man. I don’t know. It’s like she’s a whole different person.”
“I think she was happy,” Nicky said. “I think her happiness just lives in a little box, you know? Her happiness has boundaries. And I think it’s good. Birdie is younger than she is. Companionship is important. Care is important.”
“She’s not her nurse, Nicky, she’s her girlfriend!” Porter didn’t think she’d have to scold them both.
“I know that, Puerto,” Nicky said, gently. “But getting older isn’t easy, and I think that people who do it together are happier and live longer. I worried about her being alone. I know that you two are both here, but from a distance, I’m relieved.”
“You are such a kumbaya fucker,” Elliot said. He took a drink. “I guess my problem is that she was always so hard, and that was our model, you know? Like, after Dad died, all we had was her, and she was this certain way. It’s like the mama duck turning around and telling all her ducklings that they’ve been waddling the wrong fucking way, even though she taught them how to do it.”
Nicky reached across the table and put his hand on his brother’s cheek. “You still walk like a duck.”
“Oh, come on. It doesn’t matter to you because she liked you the most! Everyone did! She didn’t even pretend to like us the same. Or be as proud of us or whatever. As if what you were doing was so great or important. Jake George was a fucking stupid movie, you know?” Elliot held up his palm, waiting for Nicky to nod, which he did. “See? You know. Everyone else knew. But Astrid’s still waiting for your Oscar to show up in the mail.”
“And the Nobel,” Porter said. “It’s true. She still likes you best! I mean, look at us, we’re both still here, and she treats us like we’re crushing disappointments, and you never even call her and her eyes get all twinkly when she says your name. I’m surprised there isn’t a photo of you stuck to her refrigerator.”
“Come on,” Nicky said. He took a drink of his beer. “It’s not like that.”
“Like hell it’s fucking not,” Elliot said. Porter clinked her water glass against his beer. Maybe he wasn’t always annoying. For a split second, Porter imagined a future in which she and Elliot could see each other on purpose, for pleasure. “Parents are not supposed to do that. I may think my kids are monsters, but at least I think they’re both monsters.”
“All I can say,” Nicky said, “is that they were different with me because they were different. If Juliette and I had had another baby a few years after Cecelia was born, we would have been different parents. You had one set of parents, El, it’s true, and then Porter had another, and then I had a third. They just look the same on the outside.”
“And what, that just makes it fine? So we all just have to accept the fact that our parents like you more than they like us?” Elliot’s cheeks were red, but he didn’t look angry. Porter recognized this look of her brother’s—it was the face he’d had as a kid when his team had lost after he’d missed a few free throws, or when he hadn’t won his class election. Whatever bad feelings Elliot was having, they were all pointed inward. “They were supposed to lie. They were supposed to make us believe it.”
“It’s not your fault,” Porter said. “Just like it’s not my fault.”
“Fine,” Elliot said. “It’s not my fault.”
“Hey,” Nicky said. “It’s really not.”
“Can I ask you about something else, El?” Porter asked. They were already skating onto new parts of the ice, and so she decided to keep going. Porter sat up straight and cracked her knuckles. “Wendy told me about the building.”
“What building?” Nicky asked.
Elliot poured the rest of his drink down his throat. “What did she tell you? When? Did she call you?”
“Wendy and I had lunch.” Porter turned to Nicky. “Our big brother bought the building on the corner of the roundabout. But it’s top secret.” She lifted a finger to her lips. Being in a bar at night with her brothers was enough to make her feel a little bit drunk, even though she’d only siphoned a single sip of Nicky’s beer.
“The corner? The wine store?” Nicky asked, turning his face back and forth between his siblings.
“That was one of its recent occupants, yes. Seventy-two Main Street. Next to Sal’s. I can’t believe Wendy told you.” Elliot fumed. “I just didn’t want it to be a big clusterfuck, you know, with everyone telling me what to do and what not to do. I’m an adult, and this is literally my job, building things.” His glass was empty now, but he brought it to his lips anyway.
“I think that’s exciting, El,” Nicky said. “What are you going to put there? Are you going to move your office? Or rent it out? Build something new? That’s major. Putting yourself right at the center of it. Does Astrid know? She’s going to throw a parade. She’s going to send an email and not bcc anybody, and we’ll all get five hundred replies.”
“Oh, god,” Porter said. “You know, it might be better if Birdie were actually really young and could teach her how not to do things like that.”
“No, Mom does not know. And I would very much appreciate it if you two wouldn’t tell her. I’m working on a couple of potential deals, and I just want everything to be set before I tell her.” Elliot rolled his glass along the edge of the table. “Whatever choice I make, it’s going to be the wrong one, and I’m not looking forward to it.”
Bells chimed. Nicky dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “That’s me, it’s Juliette, let me take this. I was supposed to call her when I got in, but then I fell asleep.” Porter scooted over and moved out of the way. Nicky nimbly jogged to the front of the bar and pushed open the heavy door back outside.
Porter held out her hand and Elliot waved it away, making his way to standing by himself. They walked to the bar together and leaned against the smooth glossy wood. Another drink appeared in front of Elliot, and another seltzer in front of Porter. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this close to her brother after dark. She could see him more clearly in the dark, the familiar shape of his nose, the way he held his elbows when he was nervous. Being an adult was like always growing new layers of skin, trying to fool yourself that the bones underneath were different too.
“Why don’t you want to tell her?” Porter asked. It felt kind of like being in Groundhog Day, being in a family. No matter what happened, the next morning, Elliot would still be her big brother, no matter if they’d had fun tonight or pissed each other off as usual. Her mother would still be her mother. Her brain was trying to do the math to figure it out—if she and Elliot and Nicky had all had different sets of parents, did those different sets continue, on alternative timelines, all the way to the present? Was there a reset button? Their father’s dying had been a reset, that much she knew. Maybe that was when Astrid had started to change, and they were all too busy being heartbroken to notice.
“Do you not see how much harder she is on me? Than the two of you? Do you remember when I stayed out too late with Scotty and she made me sleep on the porch?”
“That didn’t happen,” Porter said.
“It did. I mean, she came out an hour later and let me sleep in my room, but she did it. Do you remember when Dad died and you came home from school and you and Nicky slept in the same bed for a week? I stayed in my apartme
nt.” Elliot sipped his drink.
“You never said you wanted to come sleep over!” Porter said. “Were we supposed to read your mind?”
“You don’t get it yet. But you will. And who knows, I probably do it to my kids too. At least right now they’re too young to remember.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound ominous at all,” Porter said.
Nicky breezed back in and kissed them both on the cheek. “Juliette’s coming tomorrow,” he said. His beard and breath stank of weed. “We’ll surprise Cecelia. Oh, before I forget—I have a question for you guys. Who the hell is Barbara Baker? Mom has mentioned her, like, six times, and I have absolutely no memory of her.”
“She was married to Bob Baker, you know? He always used to drive the float at the Harvest Parade? What’s most fucked about it is that Mom was right there, like right there when it happened. It could have been her so easily. That’s what I keep thinking about.” Elliot took another sip of his drink.
Porter had just opened her mouth to begin to explain that, in fact, Barbara had been more than a wife to her husband and an unlucky stand-in for their mother when, across the bar, a woman in her midthirties narrowed her eyes at them, a look they all recognized.
“Uh-oh,” Nicky said.
The woman slid off her barstool and staggered toward them. “Are you Jake George?” Devotees of Nicky’s movie were between the ages of thirty and forty, waist-deep in their life decisions, with a pulsing soft spot for their teenage crushes, those dreamboats who had offered glimpses of what love could be. Cecelia had told Porter that some of the kids in her class had seen the movie, too, and quoted lines that were now screamingly racist and sexist at each other—how had it been less than twenty years ago, when jokes like that seemed permissible, let alone funny? Nicky had been horrified then and he was horrified now, but he was polite, and so he stuck out his hand and said yes. The woman squealed and spun her body around quickly to take a selfie. Nicky had a no-selfie policy, but the woman worked astonishingly fast, given her obvious intoxication, and so after the flash he grabbed his siblings and retreated to their corner. Safety in numbers.