as he was walking up the steps into the foyer, lugging a badly packed duffel bag. I took the bag off his shoulder and questioned its contents.
“Let’s see. I got a winter coat, a couple pairs of shoes, a bowling ball, and I think some sandwiches I made this morning with what was left in the fridge.”
“Next time, ask Mom to help you pack.” I carried the bag inside and put it on David’s—now Uncle Ray’s—bed. “Good to have you here, Uncle Ray.”
Ray pinched my cheek and said, “You were always my favorite designated driver.”
I leaned against the windowsill as Ray proceeded to unpack. He pulled items from the lumpy bag and placed them throughout the room without any hint of order or purpose. There was only one article that he had packed with a sense of care. Wrapped in towels of increasing size was a tastefully framed photograph of the Spellman clan. Uncle Ray laid the picture on his dresser and then adjusted its placement just so. While there are dozens of photographs throughout my parents’ house, there is not a single one of all the family members. The image merely reminded me of how incongruous we appeared together.
My mother’s long hair and athletically petite frame have erased at least a decade off her fifty-four years. Her sharp, even features stood up well to the hazards of time. But Dad’s thinning hair and growing gut have added some years, and only his wrinkles provided unity to his mismatched features. Uncle Ray shared a single feature with Albert—the broad, slightly flattened nose. Ray was leaner, handsomer, and blonder than my father. And then there was David’s fashion-model perfection, which appeared utterly alien next to Rae, who was ultimately a tiny, cuter version of her uncle. She was the fairest of the Spellman children, dirty blonde with gray-blue eyes and a pattern of freckles across her often tanned face. I towered over Rae, appearing like a clumsier version of my mother.
Uncle Ray dusted off the photograph and decided that he needed a break after the arduous five minutes of unpacking. He offered to make me a sandwich. I declined, thinking it might be a good idea to give my father a warning message.
I caught my dad at his desk.
“Trouble is brewing with the short one. I’d get on it if I were you,” I said.
“How bad?” my dad asked.
“Five stars, if you ask me. But only time will tell.”
That afternoon, I dropped by David’s office to deliver a surveillance report on the Mercer case (stock analyst suspected of insider trading).
I was able to deliver the report early because the subject did the same exact thing seven days in a row. Gym. Work. Home. Sleep. Repeat. I adore creatures of habit. They make my job so much easier.
When I announced myself to Linda, she explained that he was in the middle of a haircut. I strode into David’s office and discovered that the haircut was being administered by my best friend, Petra.
“What are you doing here?” Petra casually asked.
“Delivering a surveillance report. Why are you cutting my brother’s hair?”
“I can give you two hundred and fifty reasons why,” Petra, now in a new tax bracket, replied.
I feigned shock at my brother’s intemperance, but really, it didn’t surprise me at all.
“Did you have to tell her how much I pay you?” David asked.
“There is no such thing as client-stylist confidentiality.”
“How long has this been going on?” I inquired.
They turned to each other to calculate a response. I was disappointed. Any relative or friend of mine should have a better concept of stealth.
I offered up an exaggerated sigh and said, “Forget it.” I tossed the surveillance report on David’s desk and headed for the door. “Why you feel the need to keep a fucking haircut from me, I will never understand.”
“See you tonight, Isabel” was David’s only response, that night being Uncle Ray’s welcome-home dinner.
I had forgotten about the dinner until David reminded me. Had I
“Let’s see. I got a winter coat, a couple pairs of shoes, a bowling ball, and I think some sandwiches I made this morning with what was left in the fridge.”
“Next time, ask Mom to help you pack.” I carried the bag inside and put it on David’s—now Uncle Ray’s—bed. “Good to have you here, Uncle Ray.”
Ray pinched my cheek and said, “You were always my favorite designated driver.”
I leaned against the windowsill as Ray proceeded to unpack. He pulled items from the lumpy bag and placed them throughout the room without any hint of order or purpose. There was only one article that he had packed with a sense of care. Wrapped in towels of increasing size was a tastefully framed photograph of the Spellman clan. Uncle Ray laid the picture on his dresser and then adjusted its placement just so. While there are dozens of photographs throughout my parents’ house, there is not a single one of all the family members. The image merely reminded me of how incongruous we appeared together.
My mother’s long hair and athletically petite frame have erased at least a decade off her fifty-four years. Her sharp, even features stood up well to the hazards of time. But Dad’s thinning hair and growing gut have added some years, and only his wrinkles provided unity to his mismatched features. Uncle Ray shared a single feature with Albert—the broad, slightly flattened nose. Ray was leaner, handsomer, and blonder than my father. And then there was David’s fashion-model perfection, which appeared utterly alien next to Rae, who was ultimately a tiny, cuter version of her uncle. She was the fairest of the Spellman children, dirty blonde with gray-blue eyes and a pattern of freckles across her often tanned face. I towered over Rae, appearing like a clumsier version of my mother.
Uncle Ray dusted off the photograph and decided that he needed a break after the arduous five minutes of unpacking. He offered to make me a sandwich. I declined, thinking it might be a good idea to give my father a warning message.
I caught my dad at his desk.
“Trouble is brewing with the short one. I’d get on it if I were you,” I said.
“How bad?” my dad asked.
“Five stars, if you ask me. But only time will tell.”
That afternoon, I dropped by David’s office to deliver a surveillance report on the Mercer case (stock analyst suspected of insider trading).
I was able to deliver the report early because the subject did the same exact thing seven days in a row. Gym. Work. Home. Sleep. Repeat. I adore creatures of habit. They make my job so much easier.
When I announced myself to Linda, she explained that he was in the middle of a haircut. I strode into David’s office and discovered that the haircut was being administered by my best friend, Petra.
“What are you doing here?” Petra casually asked.
“Delivering a surveillance report. Why are you cutting my brother’s hair?”
“I can give you two hundred and fifty reasons why,” Petra, now in a new tax bracket, replied.
I feigned shock at my brother’s intemperance, but really, it didn’t surprise me at all.
“Did you have to tell her how much I pay you?” David asked.
“There is no such thing as client-stylist confidentiality.”
“How long has this been going on?” I inquired.
They turned to each other to calculate a response. I was disappointed. Any relative or friend of mine should have a better concept of stealth.
I offered up an exaggerated sigh and said, “Forget it.” I tossed the surveillance report on David’s desk and headed for the door. “Why you feel the need to keep a fucking haircut from me, I will never understand.”
“See you tonight, Isabel” was David’s only response, that night being Uncle Ray’s welcome-home dinner.
I had forgotten about the dinner until David reminded me. Had I
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