home and get you into bed. Is there anyone?'
He thinks for a minute, then borrows a pen and dashes off a phone number. Handing it to the doctor, he says: 'Him.'
'I wasn't sure you'd come,' says Paul when they're free of the hospital. Ben makes no reply and merely nods in the direction of his car. He needn't; it is at once apparent which is his, the black Mercedes-Benz parked two blocks away, whose conspicuous expense and insistent glamour cruelly distinguish it from nearby vehicles. Ben seems not to register this aesthetic glitch. Instead, as they cross the street, he glances at Paul, as if trying to puzzle out on his own what happened. At the car he quickly unlocks the doors, slides in, and starts the engine. Paul supports himself against the passenger door and presses his forehead against the roof. The metal is punishingly cold and shoots straight through him, all the way down to his feet. He breathes deeply and hopes not to faint. Ben gets out.
'I'm just a little dizzy,' says Paul. 'Give me a minute.'
He anticipates an impatient reply from Ben, who must have left in the middle of work, but his brother says nothing. Around them everything is calm, benign, un interested. Paul starts to feel better, more stable. He looks at his brother. Ben is dressed casually – Paul always pictures a suit – and leans against the door, both elbows resting on the roof: his arms reach across the car, hands half open. These hands, filled with such power, are normally implements of threat, coercion, resistance. At the moment they project a milder kind of strength, an offer of protection. But Paul is still lightheaded and unable to evaluate his brother's appearance; he gave the doctor his number almost in a spirit of self-deprecation.
'Do you need to go back in there?' Ben jerks his head toward the hospital.
'No,' says Paul as he opens the door.
They have some trouble on the way to Paul's apartment, since Ben doesn't know the streets of Brooklyn and Paul isn't used to navigating the city in a car. In the end they have to drive south on Flatbush Avenue, whose long diagonal comprises an extended essay on the borough: bodegas, housing projects, storefront dentists, ethnic hair salons, check cashiers, liquor stores, real estate agencies, discount supermarkets, unused lots, auto body shops, gnarled construction fencing, junkyards. The hellish chaos of traffic at Atlantic Avenue. Walls and windows that over decades have accumulated a dense webbing of spray paint, an intricate knitting of stylized symbols and codes, warnings and boasts.
The presence of his brother makes Paul unusually alert to his surroundings. This is an exotic journey for Ben, who despite his temerity remains a man of caste, and who from day to day doesn't stray from the two poles of his life, home and office. Brooklyn is far-flung territory. Paul knows this not because he asks – they don't speak for the duration of the trip – but because he observes the small, almost surreptitious glances Ben makes out the window, the lines of his forehead traced with something softer than disapproval, a curiosity about what this place is, about where his half-brother has made a life.
Ben relaxes slightly as they drive down the west side of Prospect Park: the blocks of princely brownstones represent a palatable concept of Brooklyn. Ben, whose early impressions of Greenpoint must surely have the faint, benign color of childhood memory, has lived in the city now for decades of his adult life, even longer than Paul, beginning at a time when much of Brooklyn was considered uninhabitable, when even parts of Manhattan were still dangerous. He drives slowly through the roundabout, as if unconvinced of Paul's directions. They make the turn onto his street, empty at this hour. The winter sun is at the end of its dive; the waterline of its shadow has immersed all but the top floors of the west-facing buildings. Ben stops the car.
'This is the place? It's not bad, Paul.'
Paul looks at his
He thinks for a minute, then borrows a pen and dashes off a phone number. Handing it to the doctor, he says: 'Him.'
'I wasn't sure you'd come,' says Paul when they're free of the hospital. Ben makes no reply and merely nods in the direction of his car. He needn't; it is at once apparent which is his, the black Mercedes-Benz parked two blocks away, whose conspicuous expense and insistent glamour cruelly distinguish it from nearby vehicles. Ben seems not to register this aesthetic glitch. Instead, as they cross the street, he glances at Paul, as if trying to puzzle out on his own what happened. At the car he quickly unlocks the doors, slides in, and starts the engine. Paul supports himself against the passenger door and presses his forehead against the roof. The metal is punishingly cold and shoots straight through him, all the way down to his feet. He breathes deeply and hopes not to faint. Ben gets out.
'I'm just a little dizzy,' says Paul. 'Give me a minute.'
He anticipates an impatient reply from Ben, who must have left in the middle of work, but his brother says nothing. Around them everything is calm, benign, un interested. Paul starts to feel better, more stable. He looks at his brother. Ben is dressed casually – Paul always pictures a suit – and leans against the door, both elbows resting on the roof: his arms reach across the car, hands half open. These hands, filled with such power, are normally implements of threat, coercion, resistance. At the moment they project a milder kind of strength, an offer of protection. But Paul is still lightheaded and unable to evaluate his brother's appearance; he gave the doctor his number almost in a spirit of self-deprecation.
'Do you need to go back in there?' Ben jerks his head toward the hospital.
'No,' says Paul as he opens the door.
They have some trouble on the way to Paul's apartment, since Ben doesn't know the streets of Brooklyn and Paul isn't used to navigating the city in a car. In the end they have to drive south on Flatbush Avenue, whose long diagonal comprises an extended essay on the borough: bodegas, housing projects, storefront dentists, ethnic hair salons, check cashiers, liquor stores, real estate agencies, discount supermarkets, unused lots, auto body shops, gnarled construction fencing, junkyards. The hellish chaos of traffic at Atlantic Avenue. Walls and windows that over decades have accumulated a dense webbing of spray paint, an intricate knitting of stylized symbols and codes, warnings and boasts.
The presence of his brother makes Paul unusually alert to his surroundings. This is an exotic journey for Ben, who despite his temerity remains a man of caste, and who from day to day doesn't stray from the two poles of his life, home and office. Brooklyn is far-flung territory. Paul knows this not because he asks – they don't speak for the duration of the trip – but because he observes the small, almost surreptitious glances Ben makes out the window, the lines of his forehead traced with something softer than disapproval, a curiosity about what this place is, about where his half-brother has made a life.
Ben relaxes slightly as they drive down the west side of Prospect Park: the blocks of princely brownstones represent a palatable concept of Brooklyn. Ben, whose early impressions of Greenpoint must surely have the faint, benign color of childhood memory, has lived in the city now for decades of his adult life, even longer than Paul, beginning at a time when much of Brooklyn was considered uninhabitable, when even parts of Manhattan were still dangerous. He drives slowly through the roundabout, as if unconvinced of Paul's directions. They make the turn onto his street, empty at this hour. The winter sun is at the end of its dive; the waterline of its shadow has immersed all but the top floors of the west-facing buildings. Ben stops the car.
'This is the place? It's not bad, Paul.'
Paul looks at his
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