Everyone but You by Sandra Novack Page B

in charge of the outlook and situation, and finally all is well. After all, she’s probably saying, she had a sick aunt once that her mother took care of for a time.
    “She’s a fucking piece of work, that one,” Georgie says. He’s breathing hard. “Did Mom even like her?”
    “You did this,” I say. “This isn’t what I wanted.”
    “Oh, fuck you, Bud!” he screams. Then he takes the blower off his back, lifts the entire unit and smashes it on the pavement.
    “Hey, hey!” the officer screams. He walks hurriedly over to where my brother and I stand. He keeps his hand on his holster. “None of that, George,” he says as he nears us, this twenty-something-ish kid cop, new to the force probably.
    I say nothing. I survey the mess, the broken plastic throttle of the blower, the bits of wire and metal machinery scattered on the road. If I were a better man, I would clean up all the messes in the world for Georgie. I would tell Elle that if she didn’t like it, she could call someone who cares. I would carry my brother home. If he needed, I would carry my brother forever. But instead I think: Everything changes. At some point which you cannot foresee,
everything
changes, and it is as though you are suddenly on the other side of your life, looking in on it as though it were a spectacle. I think, I cannot do this anymore.
    The officer stands next to me. He is careful in his speech, his movement. He’s probably received training in all this, I think. He probably thinks that all his training will help.
    As for me, all I can think to say to Georgie is, “Brother, you exhaust me.”
    He says bitterly, “You don’t know what it means to be exhausted, fucker.”
    “Your sister-in-law says you’re going to Memphis,” the officer says. “I think we can arrange for it, George. I think we can get you there tonight.”
    It is flimflam, it is mean, and I know it. I listen to the officer go on, his voice conciliatory when Georgie issues his complaints against the government, against Elle, against me. Then, when he grows quiet, I tell Georgie that we’ll all go together, that we’ll drive all the way to Memphis. I’d like to believe this, that wecould take a road trip there, together, my brother and I. As if there were not any obstructions at all, just a breezy drive through the rainy night and clearing day, as if we could skip all the way there like a stone.
    A staticky voice comes over the walkie-talkie. The officer steps back, replies, says everything is in order, that everything is okay and that the hospital has been called, and he’ll be bringing Georgie in for evaluation.
    “So what do you say, Georgie?” I ask. “You and me, road trip?”
    My brother’s look is wild and sad. He hesitates, steps toward me, then stops. He says, “Don’t fuck with me, Bud, you fucker.”
    “I wouldn’t fuck with you,” I lie.
    “You’re finally going,” Elle tells Georgie when we near the officer’s car. Her shoulders straighten. Her eyes clear. Possibly she can see across the whole year. I smile at her, but it, too, is a lie.
    Georgie glances up and down the street in a futile, searching way. The officer opens his car door, and Georgie’s anger is reduced to that of a child. He nears me then. He lets me put my arm around him. I can feel the warmth emitting from my brother, hear the working of his lungs, his breath.
    I whisper to him, “Memphis or bust.”
    Georgie looks at me. In the near-dark street, my brother is crying.

A GOOD WOMAN’S LOVE

    I t’s Friday night at Leroy’s Pub and, true to form, Charlie is drunk. I want to say something, but even after he’s had scotch, Charlie is one hell of a nice drunk. He is nice and I am nice. Sometimes I think that’s the problem, that neither of us can be mean or say what we’re really thinking. When I meet him for our date, Charlie looks up from his glass, then rakes his thin brown hair back with his fingers. He shifts in his chair and takes me in—the