The Silent Sister(8)

“Hm.” He pulled open a couple of drawers before finding the one with the bottle opener. “He was crazy, wasn’t he? Giving up a government job to come down here and run an RV park?”

I glanced at him as I took two of my mother’s old Franciscan Ware plates from the cupboard. “Maybe he felt like you do,” I said. “You know. Choosing a quieter lifestyle over the rat race of Washington, D.C.”

He took a swallow of beer. “Not sure I could say mine is a choice,” he said.

I nodded toward the back door, and Danny followed me onto the screened porch, where I set the plates on the oilcloth-covered table. The cicadas and crickets were singing their evening songs as I opened the bag from MJ’s. I loved the porch. It reminded me of when I was a kid. All summer long, I’d read in one of the rockers. I could still remember a few of the books I devoured back then, when life seemed a whole lot simpler than it did right now.

“Do you remember hanging out on the porch when we were kids?” I asked as I opened the wrapper around the shrimp.

“Man, these plates!” Danny said as if he hadn’t heard what I said. He looked down at the cream-colored plate with the hand-painted apples around the border. “Do we have to eat on these old plates?”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Just … it’s like being fifteen again.”

I wanted to prod. To ask him why being fifteen felt so terrible to him, but I’d prodded before and knew it would go nowhere.

“I actually love these plates,” I said. “They remind me of Mom.”

“Exactly,” he said.

I wasn’t about to get him a different plate. I took a handful of shrimp and pushed the cardboard container across the table to him. “Cover it with shrimp and you won’t see the design,” I said, and I was glad when he reached for the container.

“So.” I peeled a shrimp, thinking I’d better get the subject off our family for a while. “I told you about my sorry love life. How about yours? Anyone special these days?”

His shrug was noncommittal. “They come and go,” he said, “and that suits me fine.” He ate a shrimp, then drained his beer and stood up. “I need another of these,” he said. “Get you one?”

“No, thanks.” I ate a few fries as I waited for him to come back. I hated how tense it felt between us. He seemed brittle to me tonight. Easy to break.

His bottle was already half empty by the time he sat down again, and his hands shook as he began peeling a shrimp. I wondered if he was on something. He’d smoked a lot of weed when he got back from Iraq, but as far as I knew, alcohol was his drug of choice these days.

“We have to talk about the house,” I said, and I told him everything I’d learned from Suzanne. “The piano and ten thousand go to Jeannie Lyons, which I think is weird. She used to be a friend of Mom’s, but I—”

“I know who she is,” he said, taking another swallow of beer. “She tries to talk to me when she sees me around town, but I just put on my scary PTSD act and she leaves me alone.”

I had to laugh. His delivery was deadpan and I had no idea if he meant to be funny or not, but either way, I liked his honesty. “And you must know Tom Kyle,” I said. “He lives at the end of the RV park?”

“Total *. He always wears camo pants, like he’s trying to pass himself off as something he’s not.”

I nibbled a French fry. “Well,” I said, “I don’t know him very well, but he’s been helping to keep the park going since Daddy died, so I appreciate that. And Daddy must have had some sort of relationship with him because he left him his pipe collection.”

“What would anyone want with a bunch of old pipes?”

“Who knows?” I said. “But they’re one less thing we need to deal with, so I’m happy about that. What I’ll need the most help with is boxing stuff up to donate. You know, clearing everything out of the house so we can sell it.” I fantasized about us working together for a couple of weeks, shoulder to shoulder. Maybe I could get him to really talk to me. To open up.

He stopped peeling the shrimp and looked out at the yard, nearly dark now. “Seriously,” he said, “you better just hire somebody. I can’t do it.”

His voice was soft but sure, as though he’d been trying to reach a decision and had finally made it. “Why not, Danny?” I asked gently.

“Being here, I realize…” He looked at me, but only for a second before dropping his gaze to the remaining shrimp on his plate. “I just don’t want to paw through all their old stuff. Things like these plates.” He tapped his finger on the edge of the plate. “I don’t want to see them.”

“Okay…” I said, wishing I understood the enigma that was my brother.

“I have as many nightmares about our family as I do about Iraq,” he added.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I mean, it’s not like you were abused or anything.”

He lifted the bottle to his lips, tipping his head back to get the last drop. “There are all sorts of abuse,” he said, setting the bottle down again.

“What are you talking about?”

“All I’m saying is, you need to hire somebody to help you with the house.” There was an impatient edge to his voice now. “I’m washing my hands of it.” He got up and walked into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door opening again as I stacked our dishes and began carrying them into the house.