Grimm Tales by John Kenyon

that has always seemed to me to have an element of latent criminality. I’d rather not say what the story is—it’s a common and famous one, which should be enough. I think it was the element of a helper character who seems to have an agenda of his own rather than a slavish devotion that particularly intrigued me.
    It was a Saturday, and I had driven over to my brother’s house. The house, I mean, that used to belong to my dad. He had left it lock, stock and barrel to my oldest brother, Joe—Joe, who had three other properties already and would no doubt have a couple more before the year was done. It needed a lot of work. By the time Dad died, it was a real shambles. Joe was the only one who could afford to fix it up. Still, it hardly seemed fair.
    I pulled up and couldn’t even park in the driveway because Bill, my second brother, was working on his car there. Dad’s car, that is—an old Lincoln that would be worth something restored. Right now, it didn’t even run, which was what Bill was addressing, in a manner of speaking. Mostly, though, he was just plain swearing.
    â€œFrankie!” Joe called when he saw me coming his way. A stranger might have taken it for a heartfelt welcome, but I had my reasons to be wary. I hadn’t just made my way here on my own—he’d summoned me. From long experience I should have known that it wasn’t because he meant to help me, but, as always, I’d come anyway.
    â€œHow’s it hangin’, little bro?” he asked, coming up and wrapping me in that big bear hug he’d perfected over the years. It wasn’t just because it was me—the born salesman, he used it sooner or later on everyone.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I asked, extricating myself from his embrace, or wrestler’s hold, whichever you like to call it.
    â€œFinally got the permits, buddy! So it’s full speed ahead!” His eyes were bright—as if he was on something. Maybe he was, but I think it was the project itself that got him high. Freud had it about right when it came to fathers and sons. On the other hand, I was my dad’s son, too, and I felt nothing but sadness. I remembered again that he was gone, and what I was left with were these two. I felt myself tearing up, but hid it—I’d learned long ago that tears brought only blows and scorn.
    â€œBilly! Come on over here!” Joe called over the sound of the engine that Bill was revving, trying to get the engine to turn over. No one called Bill “Billy” except for Joe, not for a long time. Jesus, I thought. Why the hell had I come? “We got a bit of a situation here, Frankie,” Joe said, now that the racket had stopped.
    Pretty
good
situation, I thought, looking at my brothers. A house and a classic car. And for me?
    â€œWhat situation?” I asked, because he expected me to ask it.
    â€œGato,” Joe said. “Now that we’re in motion, he can’t stay.”
    * * *
    My dad died in the hospital, struggling for breath, all those cigarette packs finally catching up with him. His timing was bad—we couldn’t scrape up a woman between the four of us, and men are hopeless at this sort of scene on their own. My mom had died ten years before. Joe’s divorce was just through, and Bill had finally broken free of a bad relationship—bad for the girl, that is. As for me, well, we’ll get to that.
    We stood around his bed, awkward as teenagers, not knowing what to say, wishing ourselves away. The others went out—for a smoke, for a drink—I don’t remember. All I know is that I was left. I wasn’t in the mood for either. I sighed, sat down by his side and took my father’s hand.
    â€œFrankie,” he said, after awhile.
    â€œI’m here, Dad,” I said. I squeezed his hand, because I’d heard somewhere that that was what you were supposed to do in these situations.
    â€œI know,” he said,