The Silent Sister(9)

The kitchen was empty by the time I got inside, but I could see him in the living room. I set everything on the counter by the sink and walked to the doorway between the rooms. Danny stood in front of the wall of vinyl albums, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other holding yet another fresh beer.

“What was the point of all this?” he said, lifting the bottle in the direction of the albums. The anger in his voice kept me from walking into the room. “You couldn’t listen to this many records in a lifetime,” he said. “Stupid waste. He was obsessed.”

“It was his passion,” I said carefully. I remembered our mother saying that Daddy needed his passions, and although she never said more than that, I knew she meant he needed something to keep him from thinking about the daughter he’d lost. “Do you remember how Mom and Daddy always talked about our family as though they’d only had two children?” I asked. “Like Lisa didn’t exist?”

Danny didn’t shift his gaze from the records, but I saw the quick flare of his nostrils. As kids, we’d both learned to respond the same way when people asked us how many kids were in our family. Just two, we’d reply.

“It was like we could never talk about Lisa,” I said. “Even now, when I mentioned her, you shut down and—”

“This is so f*cked!” he suddenly shouted. Turning, he raised his arm as though about to pitch a ball. He sent the beer bottle forward with enormous power, propelling it like a missile toward the wall with the pipe collection. I took a step backward as the sliding glass doors of the cabinet exploded into millions of pieces.

Danny spun around and stomped toward the front door.

“Danny!” I shouted, too stunned to move. He was gone, pounding down the porch steps before I could even absorb what had happened.

I stared at the cabinet, now unprotected by glass. Some of the pipes had fallen off their narrow wooden ledges. A few were on the floor. Jagged pieces of glass jutted from the edges of the cabinet like broken ice on a pond, and everywhere in the room—everywhere—glass glittered. Tiny crystal shards sparkled from nearly every surface.

I stood there numbly for a few seconds before remembering that Danny had no car. No way to travel the ten miles to his trailer other than by foot. I grabbed my purse and keys and headed out the front door after him.

* * *

New Bern was dark and quiet as I drove slowly in the direction I expected him to travel. I spotted him as he walked under a streetlight, limping badly, heading for the outskirts of town. Pulling over, I lowered the passenger side window.

“Get in,” I commanded. He stopped walking, but didn’t look over at me. “Come on, Danny,” I said. “Please.”

I saw the moment he surrendered—that telltale slump of his shoulders that registered defeat. He walked to my car and opened the door. “Don’t take me back to the house,” he said as he got in the car. “Take me to my place, all right?”

“Absolutely,” I said, giving up then and there on the idea of him helping me with the house.

We rode in silence for a couple of miles. I was unsure what to say that wouldn’t send him bolting out of my car. After a while, he turned on the radio, pushing the scan button until he found something he liked. Hip-hop. The song playing was familiar and its pounding beat forced both of us to nod our heads in rhythm, whether we were in the mood for the music or not.

“The kids I work with love this song,” I said, grateful for a neutral topic. Then I remembered the shotgun waiting for him in his trailer and it became all I could think about. I asked kids every day of the week if they had suicidal feelings, but now the words were caught in my throat.

“I’ll go to the VA with you while I’m here,” I said instead.

“What for?”

“Don’t be dense, Danny,” I said. “If you are taking your meds, they need an adjustment, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think.”

“Let me go with you,” I said. “You can’t go on this way. When was the last time you saw a psychiatrist?”

“Fuck off,” he said.

The dark road blurred in front of my eyes and I swallowed hard against the hurt, my fingers tight on the steering wheel.

After a moment, he reached over to touch my hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you want to help, but you can’t. Just accept it, okay? This is who I am.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t okay with it. Not at all. “Don’t worry about the house,” I said, turning onto the road that led to the RV park. “I’ll take care of it.” I made a left when we reached the rutted unpaved lane and we bounced slowly through the darkness.

“It’s right here.” He pointed to the nearly invisible break in the trees that led to the clearing and his trailer. I made a cautious left into the woods, then drove along the trail until my headlights picked up his car and the old Airstream. I stopped and turned off the ignition.

“I’m coming in with you,” I said.

“No.” He reached for the door handle.

The only thing in my mind was that shotgun. “Do you think about killing yourself?” I blurted out. When I turned to face him, I was surprised by the glint of tears in his eyes.

He didn’t answer right away, and when he finally did, his voice was gentle. “I’m all right, Riles,” he said. My heart felt a little pang of love at hearing the name he’d called me when we were kids. “Seriously,” he said. “I am. I just couldn’t be in that house any longer.”