Джонатан Троппер - This Is Where I Leave You

“So,” Paul says. “What’s next for you?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do . . .” His voice trails off.

I keep my eyes straight ahead. “What about Phillip?”

“What about him?”

“He needs a job.”

“You need a job.”

“I’ll sign over my share if you hire him.”

Paul looks sharply at me and then sighs. “I’m pretty sure Phillip hasn’t screwed up his life for the last time.”

“You’re probably right.”

We walk in silence for a bit. I kick a small stone ahead of us. When we reach it, Paul kicks it, keeping it in play. “Dad always had a soft spot for him, didn’t he?”

I nod. “He was everything Dad wasn’t.”

“Crazy, you mean.”

“Loud. Warm. Emotional. Dad liked us because we were kind of like him, and he liked Phillip because he wasn’t anything like him.”

Paul sighs. “So what are we talking about here?”

“Dad’s gone,” I say. “And along with the business, we inherit the business of bailing out Phillip.”

He kicks the rock a little too hard, and it clatters off the sidewalk and into the street. “Okay. Here’s the deal. You keep your share. I’ll bring Phillip into the business on a trial basis. But when it comes to him screwing up, you and I are partners. Fifty-fifty. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say. It feels good to be talking like this, like brothers. We turn the corner onto Lansing, a short, crescent-shaped street that jug-handles back around to Knob’s End.

Paul stops walking and clears his throat. “I want to say something else.”

“Yeah?”

“What happened the other night. I said some things.”

“We both did.”

“Yeah, well, the point is, I’ve been pissed at you for a very long time and that didn’t do either of us any good. I wasted a lot of time being angry, time I can’t get back. And now I see you, so angry about what happened to your marriage, and I just want to tell you, at some point it doesn’t matter who was right and who was wrong. At some point, being angry is just another bad habit, like smoking, and you keep poisoning yourself without thinking about it.”

“I hear you. Thanks.”

Paul slaps my back. “Do as I say, and not as I do, right?”

“Right. Thanks, Paul.”

He starts walking again, a step ahead of me. “Don’t mention it, little brother.”

As far as rapprochements go, it’s awkward and vague, but the advantage to being as emotionally inarticulate as we are is that it will do the trick. So we walk on, lighter than when we left, the staccato click of Mom’s stiletto heels beating out a Morse code on the pavement as she leads us back home.

MOM CRIES WHEN she kisses Wendy good-bye. She can be so over the top as a matter of routine that when normal emotions come into play, it almost feels unreal. But we are her children, and we’re all leaving her again. I kiss my two nephews good-bye and strap them into their car seats. “You guys have fun on the plane. Be good.”

“I live in California,” Cole informs me solemnly.

“Yes you do.”

“Good-bye, Uncle Judd,” Ryan says.

The next time I see them, Cole will be speaking in full sentences and Ryan will be a sullen adolescent sports fan with the first dusting of hair on his legs. He probably won’t let me kiss his cheek anymore. The thought fills me with sadness, and I give him a second kiss.

“Donkey-hole,” he says, and we share a conspiratorial laugh. Cole’s not sure what’s funny, but he laughs along with us, because he’s two and why the hell not.

Wendy hugs me. “Go have some fun while you still can,” she says. “Have meaningless sex. Crush women like beer cans. A little misogyny will be good for you.”

“Have a safe trip.”

“You’re a wuss, Judd. But I love you. I’ll come in when you have the baby.” She kisses me brusquely and then moves on to Phillip, then Paul and Alice, and then hoists up Serena, sleeping in her little car seat, and climbs into the back of the van. As the van drives down Knob’s End, I see Horry standing on his porch, raising one still hand in farewell. The van lurches to a stop in front of his house, and Horry comes down the stairs. The windows are tinted and don’t open. Horry puts his hand on the glass, peering intently in. I can’t see inside the van, but I imagine Wendy placing her hand on the glass, lining her fingers up with his for a long moment, before leaning back and telling the van driver to floor it, because she has a flight to catch.

IN THE TOP drawer of my father’s ancient mahogany dresser is a clutter of mementos. An expired passport; his high school ring; a monogrammed Swiss Army knife; a worn-out wallet; some loose cuff links; the old Tag Heuer watch he always meant to get fixed; a stack of our creased report cards wrapped in rubber bands; assorted souvenir key chains; an expensive-looking fountain pen; a gold butane lighter—also monogrammed; an assortment of loose screws, bolts, and plastic wire connectors; a wire stripper; and, in a small silver frame, a black-and-white nude portrait of my mother in all her young glory, before kids and breast implants would change the topography of her body. She is slim and fresh-faced and there’s something awkward in her pose, like she hasn’t fully grown into herself yet. I can tell from her smile that it was my father behind the camera. The frame gleams without a hint of tarnish. Dad took care of this picture.

I’ll leave the Swiss Army knife for Paul and the lighter for Phillip. I slip my Rolex off of my wrist and into my pocket, and I pick up Dad’s old Tag Heuer. When I was a kid I would hold on to his wrist and turn the diving bezel, enjoying the way it clicked around the face of the watch. I give the bezel a few turns. The clicks feel different without his wrist anchoring the watch. I flip it over and see that the back of the case is engraved. YOU FOUND ME. My mother’s words, her naked love cut into steel. It’s hard to imagine her ever having felt lost, but it’s impossible to know the people your parents were before they were your parents. They really did have something, though, my parents. I don’t think I ever fully appreciated that until right now. At first the steel is cold against my wrist, but it warms quickly against my skin, like a living thing. I slide the drawer closed and sit on his side of the bed for a minute, looking down at the watch. My wrist isn’t nearly as thick as his was, and I’ll have to have some links removed from the band when I get the watch fixed. For now the hands are motionless on the white face—the watch stopped working years ago—but I don’t have much of a schedule to keep to these days.

MOM, PHILLIP, PAUL, Alice, and Horry are at the table, eating a lavish brunch comprised of shiva leftovers. Phillip is telling a story that has them alternately gasping and laughing. He has many stories that can do that, and some of them might even be true. I watch them for a moment, unseen from the hallway, and then step quietly down the hall to the front door. For reasons I don’t fully understand, being at the center of another tangle of good-bye hugs and well-wishes is more than I can handle right now. Alice will be weird, Paul awkward, Phillip exuberant, and Mom will cry, which will make me cry, and I have cried enough.

“Making good your escape, I see.”

I turn to see Linda, standing at the foot of the stairs, watching me.

“No. I was just—”

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “Seven days is a lot of togetherness. Come give me a hug.” She wraps her arms around me and kisses me once on each cheek.