Long Bright River(40)

—How you doing, sweetie, says Bobby, when I’ve crossed the small lawn. His voice is sugary.

—Not bad, I say. How are you?

—Doing really good, says Bobby, and the other two murmur something similar.

Everyone drags on cigarettes.

—Can you spare one? I say. I haven’t smoked a cigarette in years—not since I was with Simon, who smoked socially. Occasionally, I would join him.

Bobby fumbles with his pack, jerkily. I watch all of his movements. Is he breathing more quickly than he should be? Maybe it’s just the cold. I don’t know what Bobby’s reasons are for avoiding my texts about Kacey, but there is something in his demeanor today that strikes me as nervous.

I consider asking him if I can talk to him in private briefly, but I fear that might put him on guard. Instead, as lightly as I can, I say, You know, I’ve been texting you.

—I know, says Bobby. He holds out the pack, one cigarette loose. I take it.

—I know, he says again. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. I’ve been asking around.

He holds out a lighter and I stand in front of it, breathing until it catches.

—Thanks, I say. Have you heard anything about her?

Bobby shakes his head. I haven’t, he says. John and Louie look at him.

—Sister’s missing, he says, tilting his head in my direction. Kacey.

—Shit, says John. He’s older than Bobby, smaller. I’ve never known him well. He seemed like a grown-up when we were kids. I’ve heard around the neighborhood that John’s part of the same bad scene that Bobby is.

—Man, I’m sorry to hear that, John says. I study him.

—Thanks, I say again. When’s the last time you talked to her? I say to Bobby.

Bobby looks skyward, miming thought. Probably . . . he says. Jeez, Mickey, I don’t know. I probably seen her around the neighborhood here and there, maybe even last month. But the last time I actually talked to her has to be more than a year ago.

—Okay, I say.

We all take drags. It’s cold out. Everyone’s nose is red.

Historically, at O’Brien family functions, the subject of addiction is not mentioned. Many people in our family use. Kacey is an extreme example, but other members of the family partake to varying degrees. Though it’s talked around—I heard Jackie’s doing better; Yeah, she is—it is considered impolite to use specific language, reference specific problems or episodes. Today, I ignore these rules.

—Who’s been dealing to her lately? I ask Bobby.

He frowns. He looks, for a moment, genuinely wounded.

—Aw, come on, Mick, he says.

—What? I say.

—You know I’m not into that stuff anymore.

—I do? I say.

John and Louie shift.

—How can I be sure? I say.

—Just have to trust me, he says.

I drag on my cigarette. I could, I say. Or I could trust your arrest record, which I can bring up on my phone right now, if you’d like.

I’m surprised at myself. I’m crossing lines left and right, now. Being reckless. A cloud passes over Bobby’s face. I don’t actually have access to his arrest record on my phone. He doesn’t know that.

—Look, he says, but before he can continue, we hear a voice I recognize immediately. Gee used to say it sounded like a foghorn.

—Is that Mickey? asks my aunt Lynn. Ashley’s mother. Is that you, Mickey?

And for a moment the conversation is derailed. I turn toward Lynn and pretend to listen while she demands to know where I’ve been all these years, and talks about how the world is crazy, and tells me she hopes I’m being safe at work.

—How’s your grandmom? says Lynn.

Before I can respond, she continues: I saw her a couple weeks ago. She came to the birthday party Ashley threw for me. It was nice. I’m fifty-five, can you believe that?

I nod along as Lynn talks about Ashley, about how Ashley made a carrot cake that day, about how she doesn’t like cream cheese frosting so Ashley put vanilla on it. But all of my senses are directed to my left, where my three cousins are still standing, shifting in place slightly, exchanging glances that I can’t interpret. Louie whispers something I can’t hear, and Bobby nods his head ever so slightly.

Simon used to laugh at me: he always knew when I wasn’t fully listening to what he was saying, distracted by someone else’s conversation going on nearby. You’re so nosy, he’d say, and I never disagreed. My strong peripheral vision and my ability to eavesdrop are both skills that have served me well on the street.

Someone goes by carrying a serving platter, and Lynn departs, as abruptly as she arrived, without saying goodbye.

—Let me take that for you, she calls, in her brassy voice, and then she’s gone.

Slowly, I turn back to my cousins, who have moved on to a new topic of conversation, everyone’s favorite in Philadelphia: it’s the Eagles’ unexpected winning streak, and their odds of a shot at the Super Bowl. When I look at them, they go quiet again.

—One more question, I say. Before she disappeared, she was seeing a man named Connor. I don’t know his last name. But I think his nickname is Dock.

It isn’t subtle, the way everyone’s expressions change.

—No fuckin’ way, says Louie, under his breath.

—Are you familiar with him? I say, but the question has become rhetorical, because it’s endlessly clear that they are.