The Silver Linings Playbook(40)

My brother takes me into his bedroom, and there’s a big wooden poster bed with two matching armoires that look like guards facing each other. He picks up a framed black-and-white photo from the bed stand and hands it to me. In the photo, Jake’s cheek is smashed against a beautiful woman’s. She has short blond hair, cut almost like a man’s, and she is very delicate-looking, but pretty. She is in a white dress; Jake is in a tuxedo. “That’s Caitlin,” Jake says. “She plays with the Philadelphia Orchestra sometimes and does a lot of recording in New York City too. She’s a classical pianist.”

“Why have I not heard about Caitlin before?”

Jake takes the portrait from my hands and stands it up on the dresser. We walk back into the living room and sit down on his leather couch. “I knew you were upset about Nikki, so I didn’t want to tell you that I was … well … happily married.”

Married? The word hits me like a giant wave, and suddenly I am slick with sweat.

“Mom actually tried to get you out of that place in Baltimore for the Mass, but it was when you were first admitted and they wouldn’t let you out. Mom didn’t want me to tell you about Caitlin yet, so I didn’t at first, but you’re my brother, and now that you’re home, I wanted you to know about my life, and Caitlin’s the best part. I’ve told her all about you and—if you want—you can meet her today. I had her go out this morning while I broke the news to you. I can call her now, and we can have lunch before we go down to the Linc. So, do you want to meet my wife?”

The next thing I know, I’m at a little swanky café off South Street, sitting across from a beautiful woman who holds my brother’s hand under the table and smiles at me unceasingly. Jake and Caitlin carry the conversation, and it feels a lot like when I am with Veronica and Ronnie. Jake answers most of the questions Caitlin asks me, because I do not say much at all. No mention is made of Nikki or my time at the bad place or just how bizarre it is that Caitlin has been married to my brother for years, yet I had never met her. When the waiter comes, I say I’m not hungry, because I don’t have very much money on me—only the ten bucks my mother gave me for the subway, since I already spent five bucks on the PATCO ticket. But my brother orders for all of us and says he is treating, which is nice of him. We eat fancy ham sandwiches with some sort of sun-dried tomato paste, and when I finish, I ask Caitlin if the ceremony was a nice one.

“What ceremony?” she says, and I catch her looking at the little white scar above my right eyebrow.

“Your wedding ceremony.”

“Oh,” she says, and then looks lovingly at my brother. “Yes. It was really nice. We had the Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City and then a small reception at the New York Palace.”

“How long have you been married?”

My brother shoots his wife a look that I do not miss.

“A while now,” she says, which makes me feel crazy because everyone present knows that I do not remember the last couple of years—and because she is a woman, Caitlin knows exactly how long she has been married to Jake. It is obvious she is trying to protect me by being vague. This makes me feel awful, even though I realize Caitlin is trying to be kind.

My brother pays the bill, and we walk Caitlin back to their apartment building. Jake kisses his wife by the entrance door, and his love for her is so obvious. But then Caitlin kisses me right on the cheek, and with her face only a few inches from mine, she says, “I’m glad I finally got to meet you, Pat. I hope we’ll become good friends.” I nod because I don’t know what else to say, and then Caitlin says, “Go Baker!”

“It’s Baskett, dummy,” Jake says, and Caitlin blushes before they kiss again.

Jake hails a taxi and tells the driver, “City Hall.”

In the taxi I tell my brother I don’t have any money to pay for the taxi ride, but he says I never have to pay for anything when I am with him, which is a nice thing to say, but his saying it makes me feel sort of strange.

Underneath City Hall, we buy subway tokens, spin a turnstile, and then wait for the southbound Orange Line.

Even though it is only 1:30 p.m. and kickoff is not for seven hours yet, even though it is a Monday, a day when most people have to work, many men in Eagles jerseys are already waiting on the platform. This makes me realize that Jake is not working today—it makes me realize I do not even know what Jake does for a living, which really starts to freak me out. I think hard and remember that my brother was a business major in college, but I cannot remember where he works, so I ask him.

“I’m an options trader,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“I play the stock market.”

“Oh,” I say. “So who do you work for?”

“Myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I work for myself and do all my business online. I’m self-employed.”

“Which is why you could take off early to hang out with me.”

“That’s the best part about being self-employed.”

I am very impressed with Jake’s ability to support himself and his wife by playing the stock market, but he doesn’t want to talk about his work. He thinks I’m not smart enough to understand what he does; Jake doesn’t even try to explain his work to me.