The Last Romantics(55)

We didn’t see much of Joe in those following months. After that night on the balcony, Renee released him. It was no longer her concern, she told us, what our brother did in his free time. He was old enough to take care of himself. Caroline was so busy with the new house, the kids, getting them settled in their new schools. And of course she heard about what had happened at the party, my poem and Joe’s dismissal of Renee. It was easy for her to cut Joe off.

Joe stayed in New York for another six months, but there was nothing left for him here, that’s what he told me. He never looked for another job. He was too embarrassed, he said, and no one would hire him anyhow. Everyone knew what had happened with Kyle and Morgan Capital.

“I’m leaving New York,” Joe told me on a Wednesday night. “Do you remember Brent, the Mavericks shortstop? He’s got an ad company down in Miami. Online stuff, banners. He offered me a job, and I’m going to take it.” We were again sitting on barstools, Joe drinking his usual gin and tonic, me a Diet Coke. I had recently been promoted at ClimateSenseNow!, surprising everyone, myself most of all, and now was attempting to make up for five years of lukewarm employment by arriving early to the office, fulfilling my responsibilities as conscientiously as I knew how.

“Miami? But you hate hot weather,” I said.

“Well, I’ll learn to like it.”

“I hate it, too.”

“Don’t use that as an excuse not to come visit.” For a moment Joe smiled one of his old smiles, both dimples engaged, a happy glimmer to his eyes. But just as fast as it had arrived, the smile disappeared.

“Have you told Renee?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “She’ll be happy to get rid of me. One less thing to worry about.”

“No,” I said. “She’ll miss you. We’ll all miss you.” Even to me my words sounded false.

“It’s the kind of thing I should have done years ago.”

“But you’ll be all alone down there,” I said. “No family. None of your old friends. No one who knows you.”

Joe drained his drink. “That’s the point, Fiona.”



I’ve often thought back to that conversation. Could I have stopped Joe from moving? Could I have persuaded him to stay in New York, to get help, to start again? Would the right words, the right level of concern, a new insight, a patient voice—would any of that have altered the outcome? For years I asked myself these sorts of questions.

I believe now that certain events are inevitable. Not in a fateful way, for I have never had faith in anything but myself, but in the way of human nature. Some people will choose, again and again, to destroy what it is they value most. This is how I saw my brother. This is why I now believe that the accident would have happened in New York or Miami, with Luna or without her. The accident was searching for Joe, and eventually it would find him.





Part III

Miami





Year 2079





Year 2079



“Hey—Ms. Skinner?”

It was a man’s voice, a young man who stood very close to the stage. Somehow I’d missed his approach, and now here he was, only a few feet from where I sat beside Henry. The man was tall, thin, his head shaved, a small hoop earring in one ear that gleamed in the yellow safety lights. He had a roughness about him, as though he worked or slept outside.

“Ms. Skinner, I’ve got a question,” he said.

Where was Luna? My eyes scanned the crowd, and I found her, sitting in the front section, an aisle seat. She had her shoes off, her legs stretched forward, feet in red socks. She was watching the man intently; they all were. It was surprising to me that more people hadn’t left the auditorium for home by now. Perhaps with the electricity still off, there was some trepidation about what might be happening outside. I felt it, too.

I turned my gaze to the young man. “Yes?” I said.

“I was wondering—” He stopped speaking to scratch vigorously at his scalp with one hand. As he did, I noticed something off about him. Not quite right. A way he moved his body, as though he were on a boat and the rest of us on dry land. A drifting, an unsteadiness. Without lifting my gaze from the man, I reached for Henry’s hand and squeezed once.

“I was wondering,” he repeated, “what you think of the current state of affairs. You know—what’s happening in this world, all the bullshit. All the corruption. Rich getting richer while we struggle and scrape and barely have a chance to make it, to do anything.” He paused. “What do you think of that?”

“Well.” I cleared my throat. “I think it’s appalling,” I said. “The current administration. What’s happening to the environment, what’s happening to minorities. I think it should stop.”

“You do?” The man squinted up at me, his mouth curling into the suggestion of a smile. “So why don’t you use all of this to do some good?” He waved his arms around to indicate the auditorium, the audience, the cameras. The gesture was made excessively large by the length of his reach, his thin, bony fingers. “Huh?” he said. “You’ve got all these people listening to you, and all you do is tell us a story about a family? The failures of love, isn’t that what you said? Visions and hallucinations?” The man snorted. Again he scratched his scalp.