by Robin Reul
“Sure. No problem. Isn’t this where you work?” I hitch my thumb back toward the brick building.
Alex shakes his head. “I volunteer here. I like to talk to the kids. It’s been a mutually good thing. But my regular job is at UC Berkeley. I also freelance fixing electronics and stuff on the side.”
That comes as a surprise. “Wow. You’re teaching? Don’t you need a degree for that?”
“Actually, I’m a janitor. Or, as they say, a maintenance artist.” He smiles and shrugs. “But hey—it’s respectable work and pays the bills, plus I get to sit in on classes sometimes. Free knowledge. It’s pretty cool. And the electronics stuff is for fun. I always liked taking things apart and understanding how they work.”
It’s true. His room was always loaded with half-dissected computers, broken clocks, random electronics. For a while there, my mom was convinced he was building a bomb.
Sure enough, we get to the green piece of shit and he unlocks the doors. “I know a great pizza place a few blocks from here.”
“Yeah, sounds good,” I reply as I climb inside.
I am surprised by how orderly the car is. I would have expected piles of clothing or balled-up fast food wrappers, old drinks that could double as science experiments in the cup holders. His room at home was a biohazard. Carole once told me that how a person keeps their personal space is an outward reflection of how they are feeling inside. It would seem my brother has found enlightenment.
We drive down a block and make a left at the intersection. His blinker makes a dut dut dut sound and I reflexively keep time with the beat on my leg. This is awkward this is awkward this is awkward. He’s acting like nothing’s wrong, and it’s kind of weirding me out.
“You must be about to graduate high school, right?” he asks.
“Graduated. Yesterday, actually.”
“Congratulations. Sprung from the prison. So—you’re off to college in the fall, I presume.”
“Yep. Funnily enough, I was supposed to leave today. I have a summer internship lined up in New York at a biotech startup.”
“I see you took a slight detour.”
“Apparently.”
“Got a girlfriend?” He looks amused by the idea, but I’m sure it’s because he’s still registering me as the kid I was when he left.
“Had. We just broke up. Also yesterday.”
“Aaaah. Bummer. Sounds like an eventful twenty-four hours.”
“You have no idea. Actually, I’m okay with it. We saved each other the part where what we had left became unsalvageable.”
“That’s the worst. So, what college?”
“Columbia.”
He cracks a half smile. “Why am I not surprised?” Rather than praise for the achievement, his comment feels a little weighted with judgment about following the favored parental protocol. “I think Dad and Mom would have freaked if one of us hadn’t ended up there, and we all knew that wasn’t gonna be me. Thanks for taking one for the team.”
He’s joking around, but I wonder if Alex resents that my life seemingly has all the stability and opportunity his lacks. It seems like he chose it though. He was never willing to buy into our parents’ advice.
I tell him how I’ve been anxious about leaving for college and have found myself increasingly ambivalent about going.
“I can appreciate medicine, and I find it interesting, but I don’t know that I want to make a career of it. I like the idea of helping people though, making a difference in their lives. But it seems like there’s lots of ways to do that, not necessarily just by following Dad’s path at Columbia.”
Alex tenses slightly at the mention of Dad. He listens intently, and when I’ve finished, he simply says, “Yeah,” and nods like he can feel me, every word. “If you think there’s nothing of value in having that experience, then it sounds like you’re right to let it go. But I personally think there’s value to be had in every experience. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“What if I accidentally killed someone?”
Alex’s brows knit together. “At Columbia?”
“No—I mean if I were a doctor.”
“What if you saved someone’s life?”
When did Alex get so pragmatic? “So, you’re saying you think I should go?” He doesn’t exactly have the best track record for making great decisions, but nonetheless it gives me pause.
“I didn’t say that. I’m totally neutral here.”
“I don’t know—something about the magnitude of the commitment I’m about to make suddenly hit me, and it feels so…binding.” I look out the window. There’s a streak of bird shit in the shape of a J. Oddly appropriate, if not metaphoric. “Plus, after they couldn’t save Dad, I lost faith in the system. It’s a lot of time and energy to invest in something that I’m not sure I honestly want.”
Two lines form across his forehead. “What’s Suzanne got to say about that? I mean—she was cool with you coming to see me?”
Mom always hated that Alex insisted on calling her by her first name. “She doesn’t know.”
“Seriously?” He lets out a little chuckle.
“Yep.”
Alex raises an eyebrow like he’s surprised by my answer and nods with approval. “So, how’d you know where to find me?”
“I didn’t until I found this letter Dad wrote you sitting in a drawer. Honestly, I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. They told me you went to rehab and that you weren’t coming back. That this was best for everyone, and I wasn’t to contact you.” My pulse accelerates. “But nobody ever asked me my opinion or if I was okay with that plan. I ignored them and texted and emailed you, but you never wrote me back. Like you didn’t even care. And then they told me they had no idea where you were. You just disappeared. I mean—what the hell is up with that?”
He looks surprised. “Dad wrote me a letter?”
He brushes right over my feelings to focus on that. I don’t want to make a big thing of it because I don’t want to put him on the defense before we even get started. Better to ease into it.
“I have it with me, actually. He never sent it.” I unzip my backpack, rooting through it until I find the envelope. I curl the edges and set it into the front cup holder. I can see my dad’s scribbly handwriting. He used to joke that illegible penmanship was a prerequisite for becoming a doctor. “I apologize—I didn’t know I’d be seeing you and I opened it.”
I steal a glance at the letter, sad to let it go. I have Dad’s personal mementos, but nothing with his actual words and thoughts meant specifically for me, like a conversation that could be replayed at will.
“It’s okay. Thanks.” He rests his fingers gently on the top of the envelope for a moment and a flicker of a smile crosses his face. “I’ll read it later.”
“So yeah—I went to the address on the envelope, but your friend Mei told me you didn’t live there anymore.”
“You saw Mei?” I can see her name produces the same effect as snapping a rubber band at him. Momentarily startling and uncomfortable.
“Yeah. She gave me a box with some stuff you left behind, and that’s when I found the City Lights bookmark with Malcolm’s name on it.”
Thinking about things left behind makes me remember the other stuff Mei gave me for Alex, and I reach into my backpack again to pull the rest of it out and stack each item one by one in the empty cup holder. “I also have your erotic playing cards, harmonica, and Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time shirt, which—I’m pretty sure—is actually mine.”
He’s quiet for a beat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, and then asks, “So what did Mei have to say?”
“Not much. Just that she hadn’t seen you in a long time and she hopes you’re doing well and wanted to let you know she is too.”
“That’s good.” He puffs out his cheeks and then says it again as if to assure hims
elf. Up ahead I see a neon sign for Vinnie’s Pizza in the shape of Italy. It’s got twinkling white bulbs around the border. He pulls up to the curb in front and parks. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m always hungry.”
And with that we exit the car and enter the territory of everything we’re not talking about.
Chapter 21
Jack
Saturday, June 5, 7:59 p.m.
The smell of fresh garlic assaults my nose. There’s sawdust on the floors, and the walls are lined with framed pictures of Italian movie stars. Without even trying a slice, I know this place is going to be amazing. Dad would have appreciated it. He was a pizza aficionado. Some of my favorite memories are of when he’d have a night where he wasn’t on call and he’d take us out for a pie. It was one of the rare times we’d have dinner as a family, and for one hour everything felt perfect.
Out in public we seemed like a happy family. Everyone got along great. And then we’d go home and all scatter to our respective corners like roaches when someone flicks the light on.
I order two slices of extra cheese, pepperoni, and mushroom—Dad’s favorite. Alex gets two slices of deluxe veggie, which takes me by surprise.
“Veggie pizza? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat a vegetable in my life unless you count fries. Is this some side effect of adulting? Like you hit your twenties and suddenly develop a newfound appreciation for brussels sprouts and acorn squash?”
He laughs. “I’m trying to get healthier.”
“You know it’s still pizza though, right?”
“Don’t bust the illusion.” He winks. We sit at a table in the corner next to a signed picture of Sylvester Stallone from Rocky. Alex grins and taps his fingers on the table. “So—this is kind of weird, huh?”
“A little.”
“I guess we have a lot of ground to cover.”
“Yeah.”
His expression grows serious. “But first I guess I should start by saying I’m sorry.”
“Alex—”
He cuts me off and holds up his hand. “I brought a lot of shit on myself, but you didn’t need to get dragged into it. That wasn’t cool, and I hope you can forgive me. I also want to thank you because if you hadn’t found me, I probably wouldn’t even be here to apologize.”
So, he does remember. But how much does he know? I can’t have any sort of honest relationship with him going forward if I don’t tell him the truth. “You shouldn’t thank me. My intention in the moment wasn’t as pure as you give me credit for.”
“How so?”
I’ve never said it out loud to anyone but Hallie and that seemed to go okay. “I waited to call for help. On purpose. I’m not proud of it.”
I wince and brace myself for his response. He nods and cracks a half smile. Not even a look of surprise. “I don’t blame you. I was an asshole. I would have done the same thing. But the thing is: you didn’t. So—what changed your mind?”
“Honestly? I got scared.” I take a long drink of water, and Alex jiggles his leg restlessly, his eyes darting around the room. He reminds me of a bird, like at the slightest startle, he could just take off. I wonder if he’s wishing he could.
“That I would die or that you’d get caught?” he asks with a disarming smile as an older guy with silver hair and a sauce-stained Kiss the Cook apron walks over with our slices and puts them in front of us on the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. They glisten with oily perfection.
“Hey! Alex! How you doin’?” the guy says, giving my brother a pat on the shoulder.
Alex lights up with a smile. “Hey, Sal! How’s the machine working?”
“Great! No problems since you fixed it. It’s been getting a lot of play.”
Alex turns to me and says, “Remember how I told you I fix things? I’ve been working on helping Sal restore an old pinball machine for the last few months. It’s around the corner by the bathroom if you want to check it out after dinner.”
Sal motions toward me with his hand. “Who’s this?”
“This is my brother Jack. Jack—this is Sal, maker of the best pizza in the East Bay.”
“Who needs advertising when I got this one,” Sal jokes. He pumps my fist and tells us to enjoy our meal before heading back to the kitchen.
Alex sprinkles red pepper on his pizza, then stuffs it into his mouth ravenously. With his mouth full of food, he asks, “So, where were we? Oh, right—you thought about leaving me for dead but got scared.”
“Right. Well, that and I probably wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. But I learned I’m capable of actually thinking like that, which is even scarier.”
He washes his food down with a sip of soda and says, “I think most people are capable of thinking like that. Didn’t you ever have to read Lord of the Flies? The reason doesn’t even matter; you didn’t do it. But if you had, I would understand why. I’m sorry I put you in the position of having to make that choice. I was way out of control. But I’m not that person now.”
“That’s good.” I want to believe him. “I’m not that person now either.”
He smiles. “It’s really good to see you.”
I can’t hold it in. I have to ask. I twist the Parmesan shaker around in circles on the table. “Why didn’t you come to the funeral?”
He stops chewing for a second, then wipes at his mouth with a napkin and swallows. “I didn’t belong there.”
“Of course you did. You belonged there as much as anyone. You’re his son.”
“It didn’t feel right. It’s not like he was there in that box. Besides, everybody grieves differently.”
“Fair enough. Still, I wish you had been there.”
I would have given anything to have had my brother to talk to during that time, no matter what happened between us in the past.
“The truth is, sending me away and not allowing me to come home was the right thing to do. In case you never noticed, I was a walking threat to everything Paul and Suzanne Freeman believed in, especially you. I wasn’t a kid anymore. They made clear they’d pay for treatment but then I was on my own. I needed to figure my life out. It turns out going away was exactly what I needed. It gave me a chance to be alone and tune in to myself. Sometimes you need that space, and if you aren’t willing to create it, then sometimes life creates it for you.”
“Were you in touch with them at all?”
“I sent them an email telling them where I was staying, but we never spoke, no. That’s how Dad would have known Mei’s address. And then Suzanne contacted me when he died.”
“Oh.” Why did my mother withhold that information from me when I asked about him? She saw how much I was hurting and how I needed us to be a family again.
“How are you doing with all that?” Alex asks. “I mean—I’m sure this must be hard for you. You were close.”
I definitely had a better relationship with Dad than Alex did, but I don’t know if I would call us close in the way I think he means. It seemed as if Dad tried to connect with Alex, but he was rebuffed every time. Alex was always testing him to see how far he could push him before he gave up. By default, I was the good son, and I liked the attention, but to call us close would imply a level of unconditional love and understanding that I hoped for but never found.
“Depends on the day or the hour. It kind of fucked me up. Nothing makes sense the same anymore, you know? It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“How do you think it was supposed to be?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Nothing turned out the way I’d imagined. It’s made me rethink a lot about my life.”
“Sounds like a positive side effect of a negative situation.”
“I guess that remains to be seen,” I tell him.
I’m actually grateful when he switches topics. “So, what are you into these days? Tell me about you.�
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“I’m pretty boring, actually. Mostly I listen to music, or hang out with friends and binge-watch TV, or play video games, or write.” I give him the elevator pitch for my book. He seems impressed.
“I didn’t know you wanted to be a writer.”
“It’s definitely something I’m pursuing.” Saying that out loud feels like an affirmation, the first step toward making it so.
“Sure.” He nods. “So what games are you into? Overwatch? League of Legends? Counter-Strike?”
“That stuff is fun, but honestly I’m a little more old-school: Mario, Zelda, Pac-Man, pinball.”
“Nice!” His face lights up. “That’s what I’m hoping to do eventually—make video games. I’m taking some classes to learn programming and design. Seems like that would be a cool gig.” He grabs another slice of pizza and tears into it. “Hey—since you like pinball, we should play Sal’s machine after. It’s an old Simpsons. You familiar with that one?”
“Of course. It won ‘Best Pinball Game of 1990’ by the Amusement and Music Operators Association and brought pinball back from the dead. It’s pretty fun.”
“What was that game you were obsessed with at that arcade in the Valley we went to with Dad once? You had some unbelievable score but then the machine broke. I forget what it was.”
“TRON: Legacy.”
“Right. That was a fun time.”
I remember the day he’s referencing too, although slightly differently. Dad and I were supposed to go together, but at the last second Alex glommed along. Dad had to step outside for an emergency conference call and left us on our own for nearly an hour feeding quarters into a TRON: Legacy machine. I’d engaged multiball play and was threatening to overtake the high score when Alex decided to be a dick and slammed the side of the machine as a joke, which triggered the tilt mechanism, ending the game. I actually cried. I never realized how much I hold on to shit but there it is.
“So, let’s see this machine.”
He grabs the remainder of his slice, takes a final sip of his soda, and walks me to the back of the restaurant and into a dimly lit room with a sign above it that says GAMING PALACE. And by palace they mean a lone Simpsons pin table, a Street Fighter IV with a line of missing pixels across the center of the screen, and one of those machines where you put in fifty cents and get a bouncy ball. There’s inexplicably a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, and it casts glittering lights on the walls.