Sacrifice Fly by Tim O'Mara Page A

table with two oversize plates
     of food and another vase of sake.
    “Enjoy,” he said, and he gave my little sister a smile before leaving again.
    I watched as Rachel poured soy sauce into a small dish and added some wasabi.
    “What are you waiting for, Ray?” she asked.
    “A fork.”
    She raised her chopsticks, showed them to me, and, as if she’d been doing it her whole
     life, picked up a piece of fish, dipped it in the soy-wasabi, and placed it in her
     mouth. “Use your fingers if you want,” she said. “It’s okay, but be careful of the
     wasabi. It’ll clear your nasal passages down to your intestines.”
    “I know what wasabi is.”
    I picked up a piece of something red wrapped in rice and smelled it. Not bad. I dunked
     it in some of Rachel’s soy sauce mixture. She was right about its decongestive qualities,
     and I caught her smiling as she sipped her wine. We ate in silence until half my plate
     was finished.
    “What else?” Rachel said.
    “What else what?”
    “What else is going on? School and what else?”
    “How much time you got?” I asked.
    She raised two more fingers to Jimmy and pointed at the sake. “At least that much.”
    I told her about Frankie and his father and Milagros. She let me talk for about five
     minutes without interrupting. Rachel was always good that way.
    “Jesus, Ray,” she said when I was finished. “No wonder you look like you do.”
    “I’m fine. Just need to get more sleep.”
    “You found a dead body. One of your students is missing. How can you say you’re fine?”
    “I don’t know, Rache. I just am. Why are you looking at me like that?”
    “You know who you sound like?”
    “Oh, please,” I said. “Not tonight.”
    “Because you know I’m right.”
    “Because you were ten when he died. You don’t know what he sounded like.”
    “Oh, right. I forgot. Only you know what Dad was like.” She wiped her mouth. “Maybe
     one of these days you’ll enlighten me. Tell me all the things I don’t know.”
    “Let’s change the subject, huh?” I said.
    “See?” Rachel pointed at me, pushing it. The wine was taking effect. “That’s just
     what he would have done. Change the subject when things got hot.”
    “No,” I said. “He would’ve reached across the table and smacked me upside the head.
     Then he would have changed the subject.”
    She shook her head. “It’s been a long time, Ray. It’s time to move on.”
    “Your shrink tell you that?”
    “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t you dare make light of my therapy. If you had—”
    “Then don’t you make light of my experience. You weren’t the one who got hit, Rachel.
     You weren’t the one whose stomach dropped when his car pulled into the driveway, wondering
     what he was going to find wrong this time.”
    You weren’t the one to find him dead in his study.
    My little sister paused, and gave me a look that bordered on pity.
    “A lot of years, Ray,” she repeated. “How long are you going to let him do this to
     you?”
    “I don’t know, Rachel.” I stood up. “Maybe when the dreams stop.” I turned and walked
     in the direction of the men’s room. When I got there, I ran the water until it got
     real cold and splashed my face. As I was drying off, I checked out my face in the
     mirror. Rachel was right about one thing: I did look like shit.
    When I got back to the table, Jimmy was taking the plates away and a younger man was
     putting two dishes of green ice cream on the table. After they left, Rachel said,
     “Ice cream makes everything better.” I sat down. “I didn’t know you were still having
     the dreams, Ray.”
    “Forget it. They’re not as bad,” I said, “and they’re not as often.”
    “You going to call Mom?”
    “Eventually.”
    “The memorial service is a week and a half away, Ray. If you don’t go, she’s going
     to have a lot of explaining to do.”
    “Tell people I’m out of town. Couldn’t be avoided.”
    “The church has been