“First of all, it was old and I needed a new one anyway. B) I’ve got one Grand Canyon-sized proper noun for you: Ernie. Della. Costa.”
“Ernie Dellacosta?” I ask. “Mom’s old boyfriend?”
“For an interminable seven and a half months,” Charlie adds. “Remember what happened the first time mom brought him to meet us? He was respectful and nice and he even successfully bought my love by bringing us Chicken Delight for dinner. But the instant I snatched that chicken bucket out of his hands, I hated him. I hated his comb-over… I hated his fake designer shoes… and the entire time they dated, I hated that man like poison. And y’know what? I was right.”
Shoving my way next to him at the sink, I cup my hands and soak my face. There’s a quick skirmish over space, but Charlie dodges around me and storms back to the futon. Chasing behind him, I add, “Well, if you want to remember the rest of reality – while you were strumming your guitar-”
“It’s a bass.”
“Whatever – while you were strumming your bass and living in Fantasyland, Ernie Dellacosta was also the guy who got me that job at Moe Ginsburg during my freshman year. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have had the money to stay at NYU.”
“Y’know, I forgot all about that sales job. You’re right – he really was an inspiration to us all,” he says with an extra scoop of sarcasm.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Oh, no – don’t play your passive-aggressive headgames with me. Say what you’re thinking.”
Charlie stays quiet, which means he’s holding something back. “Just drop it,” he eventually says.
“Drop it? But you’re so close to making your all-important point. C’mon, Charlie, we’re all eating pins and needles – you obviously brought Dellacosta up for a reason – so what’s your problem? That I sucked up to him so he’d help me get a job? That I laughed uncontrollably at his dumb-ass jokes? That I acted like everyone else in working-class America and busted my ass so I could someday stop worrying about debt collectors calling the house and harassing me for the last forty dollars in my bank account? Tell me what’s got your socks all wet?”
“You do! You and your self-obsessed, woe-is-me-and-my-poor-lifestyle whine-fest!” Charlie explodes. “This isn’t about you, Oliver – and if you ever stopped to realize that, you might actually notice the things that’re going on under your own damn roof!”
“What’re you talking about?”
“The guy was an asshole, Ollie. A complete asshole. Doesn’t that make you wonder why mom dated him for so long?”
“What’re you saying?”
“Did you know she was terrified you’d lose your job? Or that she hated him after month two, but was worried that without the paycheck you wouldn’t make it through the semester? You can bury your past under all the résumé paper you want, but back home, she was the one putting up with the abuse.”
I stop, completely lost. “W-Whattya mean abuse?” I ask.
“Uh-oh, someone’s using his old Brooklyn accent…”
“What abuse, Charlie? He hit her?”
“She never said it, but I heard their arguments – you know how thin our walls are.”
“That’s not the question,” I insist. “Did you ever see him hit her?”
For once, Charlie doesn’t fight back. “I walked in, and they were in the kitchen,” he begins. “She was crying; he was using a tone that was more heated than anything you’d want directed at your mother. He spun around to see if I’d back off. I told him if he didn’t get out, I’d use his larynx as my own personal jump rope. Mom started crying even harder, but she didn’t stop him from leaving. We never saw him again. And that was your buddy Mr. Dellacosta.”
Teetering in place, I feel like my chest’s about to shatter. My chin quivers and I look at Charlie like I’ve never seen him before. All this time, I thought I had the hard part. All this time, I had it wrong. “Charlie, I didn’t know…”
“Don’t say it,” he warns, in no mood to listen. Hopping into bed, he turns away and pulls the mangy fuzzy blanket we found in the closet up over his head. The cigarette smell on the fuzz has to be worse than the bug spray, but for Charlie, it’s clearly a lot better than dealing with me. “Just remember what I said about Gillian,” he calls out as he disappears under the covers. “Divide and conquer – that’s always how it works.”
46
I can’t sleep. I’m not good at it. Even when we were little – when Charlie and I used to take turns telling each other horror stories about Old Man Kelly and the creepy people who lived in our building – Charlie was always the first one snoring. It’s no different tonight.
Staring up at the jagged black fissure in our popcorn-stucco ceiling, I still hear the echoes of my mom crying. And Dellacosta leaving. Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me? Still wrestling with the answer, I listen to the rise and fall of Charlie’s labored breathing. When he was sick, it was much worse – a wet hacking wheeze that used to have me watching over him like a human heart monitor. It’s a sound that’ll forever haunt – like the sound of my mom’s sobs – but as I turn over and face Charlie – as the minutes tick by and his breathing falls into its steady rhythm, I try to take comfort in the feeling that we’re finally getting a break. Between the photos and the nondisclosure agreement and the leads at Five Points Capital, there’s actually a pinhole at the end of the tunnel. And then, out of nowhere, it’s stolen away by a slight tapping against the front window.
I bolt up in bed.
The tapping stops. I don’t move. And then it starts again. The persistent rap of a knuckle hitting glass.
“Charlie, get up,” I whisper.
He doesn’t budge.
“Oliver,” a voice comes from outside.
I jump out of bed, struggling to be silent. If I yell, they’ll know we’re awake. I reach back to pull the covers off my brother-
“Oliver, are you there?” the voice asks.
Spinning around, I let go of the blanket. That’s not just any voice…
“Oliver, it’s me.”
… that’s a voice I know. Racing to the door, I ram my eye toward the peephole, just to be safe.
“Open up…”
I twist and unclick the locks. Cracking the door open, I peek outside.
“I’m sorry – did I wake you?” Gillian asks with a soft grin. As always, she can’t stand still. She stuffs her hands in her back pockets, then shifts her weight from one foot, to the other, then back again. Swaying like a folk singer.
“What’re you doing here?” I whisper.
“I don’t know… I just kept thinking about the remote… and the photos and… and there’s no way I was falling asleep, so I figured-” She cuts herself off and takes a fast glance down at my boxers. I blush; she laughs. “Listen, I know you have your own reasons, but I appreciate what you’re doing with my dad. He’d… he’d thank you for it.”
My face only gets redder.
“I’m serious,” she says.
“I know you are.”
Enjoying the moment, she adds, “When’s your birthday?”
“What?”
“What’re you, an Aries or Leo? Melville and Hitchcock were Leos, but…” She pauses, absorbing my reaction. “You’re an Aries, aren’t you?”
“How can you -? How’d you know?”
“C’mon, Stiffy, it’s spray-painted on your forehead – the perfection posture, the scolding dad tone when you talk to your brother, even the spotless white boxers…”
“These boxers are brand-new.”
“They definitely are,” she says, staring down at them. Once again, I blush and she laughs. “C’mon,” she adds. “Put on some clothes – I’ll let you buy me some cheap coffee.”
Over her shoulder, I check the empty street. Even at this hour, it’s not smart to be strolling in public. “How ’bout a raincheck?”