you
think
happened?” He kicks a stone, kicks it down the street, past me. Winston barks nervously. Elle yells, “For Christ’s sake, do something, Bud, or I will.”
My brother’s face burns scarlet. He surveys his progress, glancing up and down the street. The downstairs lights in one of the nearby houses flicks on, then, in a few moments, flicks off.
I shove my hand in my jean pocket, fumble for the quarter that is buried there, the stick of gum, the balled-up lint. I speak slowly, as if I am speaking to an imbecile, which of course my brother is not. I say, “You’re soaked through, Georgie.”
“I am,” he says. “Great observation, Buddy Boy.”
I force a smile, my only goal now to get Georgie into the Bronco, to get him home.
I say, “There must be a hell of a lot of rocks between here and Memphis.”
“No shit, Bud,” he says. “Any idiot knows that. Every fucking time it’s the rocks, then you.”
“That’s hardly the issue now,” I tell him. “What we need to do is head back.”
“Don’t be coy, fucker,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere anymore.”
I walk a few steps toward him. I turn the quarter over in my pocket. I say, as if trying to joke and trying to console my brother at the same time, “Coy? I’m not a fish, Georgie. And I work for the school district.”
A white Geo speeds by us, gunning its engine. Two teens stick their heads out and scream. I flick the Geo and the teens the finger. What do they know? They haven’t ever been stuck out on a solitary road, trying to persuade someone to come home. They haven’t stood where my brother and I are standing. I bend down and search for a stone, angry at the absurdity that’s become my life, angry because I’m tired, and angry at Georgie, because of his illness, and because, I realize, there is not a single damn stone to throw at the Geo, all because of him. I think, Sure, go ahead and laugh, all you fuckers. Then I tell Georgie in a mean way that, in his future travels, he might at least pick a location closer to home so that we don’t have to go through this every time. I tell him the supermarket is good because it is only down the street from our house, and when he’s there he might pitch in and do a little shopping. I tell him if he needs something fancier, he might try the Liberty Bell and get out of my hair for good. I say, “Both of these options are better than Memphis. And why the fuck do you want to go to Memphis, anyway?”
Georgie says, “You
know.
” He aims the leaf blower at me like a weapon.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I’ll tell you what I do know, Georgie. I do know that this isn’t progress. I do know that.”
“Memphis,” he says, and it is as though I am not even here, as if my brother is seeing past me to a whole different world. “Because it’s sure as hell far away from this place. Memphis, because I threw a goddamn dart and that’s where it landed.”
I consider this. I think, What’s the point in arguing? Finally, I say, “You’ll never get there on your own, Georgie. Never.”
“Not with that traitor wife of yours,” Georgie tells me. I turn and Elle is on the cell phone. I yell to her but she ignores me. Still talking, she coaxes Winston into the back of the Bronco.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Georgie says. He shivers, pulls his jacket close. And it is as if he couldn’t care less that I am standing here, wet, soaked through and shivering as well, or that I am tired, or that he’s even had an accident.
So we wait. We wait until a few minutes later a siren disrupts the quiet, and then another set of tires hits the gravel and crawls to a halt. Lights flash. I hear a walkie-talkie buzz to life, an officer calling in the location and license plate of Georgie’s car. I don’t need to turn to see Elle is most assuredly standing there beside the officer, explaining the situation and explaining my brother. Probably she is using Dr. Mulvaney–speak, as though she is
think
happened?” He kicks a stone, kicks it down the street, past me. Winston barks nervously. Elle yells, “For Christ’s sake, do something, Bud, or I will.”
My brother’s face burns scarlet. He surveys his progress, glancing up and down the street. The downstairs lights in one of the nearby houses flicks on, then, in a few moments, flicks off.
I shove my hand in my jean pocket, fumble for the quarter that is buried there, the stick of gum, the balled-up lint. I speak slowly, as if I am speaking to an imbecile, which of course my brother is not. I say, “You’re soaked through, Georgie.”
“I am,” he says. “Great observation, Buddy Boy.”
I force a smile, my only goal now to get Georgie into the Bronco, to get him home.
I say, “There must be a hell of a lot of rocks between here and Memphis.”
“No shit, Bud,” he says. “Any idiot knows that. Every fucking time it’s the rocks, then you.”
“That’s hardly the issue now,” I tell him. “What we need to do is head back.”
“Don’t be coy, fucker,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere anymore.”
I walk a few steps toward him. I turn the quarter over in my pocket. I say, as if trying to joke and trying to console my brother at the same time, “Coy? I’m not a fish, Georgie. And I work for the school district.”
A white Geo speeds by us, gunning its engine. Two teens stick their heads out and scream. I flick the Geo and the teens the finger. What do they know? They haven’t ever been stuck out on a solitary road, trying to persuade someone to come home. They haven’t stood where my brother and I are standing. I bend down and search for a stone, angry at the absurdity that’s become my life, angry because I’m tired, and angry at Georgie, because of his illness, and because, I realize, there is not a single damn stone to throw at the Geo, all because of him. I think, Sure, go ahead and laugh, all you fuckers. Then I tell Georgie in a mean way that, in his future travels, he might at least pick a location closer to home so that we don’t have to go through this every time. I tell him the supermarket is good because it is only down the street from our house, and when he’s there he might pitch in and do a little shopping. I tell him if he needs something fancier, he might try the Liberty Bell and get out of my hair for good. I say, “Both of these options are better than Memphis. And why the fuck do you want to go to Memphis, anyway?”
Georgie says, “You
know.
” He aims the leaf blower at me like a weapon.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I’ll tell you what I do know, Georgie. I do know that this isn’t progress. I do know that.”
“Memphis,” he says, and it is as though I am not even here, as if my brother is seeing past me to a whole different world. “Because it’s sure as hell far away from this place. Memphis, because I threw a goddamn dart and that’s where it landed.”
I consider this. I think, What’s the point in arguing? Finally, I say, “You’ll never get there on your own, Georgie. Never.”
“Not with that traitor wife of yours,” Georgie tells me. I turn and Elle is on the cell phone. I yell to her but she ignores me. Still talking, she coaxes Winston into the back of the Bronco.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Georgie says. He shivers, pulls his jacket close. And it is as if he couldn’t care less that I am standing here, wet, soaked through and shivering as well, or that I am tired, or that he’s even had an accident.
So we wait. We wait until a few minutes later a siren disrupts the quiet, and then another set of tires hits the gravel and crawls to a halt. Lights flash. I hear a walkie-talkie buzz to life, an officer calling in the location and license plate of Georgie’s car. I don’t need to turn to see Elle is most assuredly standing there beside the officer, explaining the situation and explaining my brother. Probably she is using Dr. Mulvaney–speak, as though she is
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