Family and Other Accidents (13 page)

“Mo seems happy,” he says. “Are you guys gonna get married?”

“Conn, we just got back together. Not everyone is on your accelerated family plan.” Jack pauses. “You and Laine and everything all right?”

Through small towns in upstate New York, Connor talks a bit about Jorie, but can sense Jack's disinterest, suspects he's listening to the flickering radio. By Buffalo, they're both just starring at the billboards along the highway boasting mile countdowns to McDonald's and Burger Kings and British Petroleums.

“Let's get steaks,” Jack says, after they pass a sign for CattleHand's Steak House. “I worry Laine's got you eating tofu all the time. Your arteries are probably all clean and confused. You realize you have a legacy of heart disease to maintain.”

CattleHand's is perhaps the most masculine place Connor has ever seen. Everything inside is dark wood and brown leather, with bad Western artwork and heavy metal horse-related objects mounted on the wall. A cute waitress with pigtails smiles a lot, touches both their shoulders while taking their order, and convinces them to start with a deep-fried onion appetizer. The meat comes out, tender and bloody, french fries crisp, iceberg lettuce drowning in blue cheese dressing. They talk about which one of them the waitress is flirting with, how good the food is, and if the Indians will be contenders next season. And Connor can feel the two of them relaxing into familiar roles—they've always been able to talk about red meat and a baseball team with a politically incorrect name, it's the real things that give them trouble.

“Chicago is like the steak capital of the world,” Jack says. “And Wrigley Field is amazing. You have to come out and visit.”

“Jorie makes it kind of hard to travel right now,” Connor says.

“Oh.” Jack nods, as if remembering his niece for the first time. “Yeah, of course.”

Without discussing it, Jack pays the bill and gets back behind the wheel of the truck. Two hours later Connor's digestive system is twisting in all kinds of unpleasant ways. He thinks his stomach has simply forgotten how to deal with that kind of food, but then he notices Jack squirming in his seat, eyes winced.

At a truck stop called Granny's they pull over and get the key to the men's room.

“Go ahead.” Jack waves Connor to the bathroom. But when he comes out fifteen minutes later, Jack is antsy, like a circling vulture.

Thumbing through a metal rack of bumper stickers waiting for Jack, Connor's guts churn with a new urgency and he has to argue with the attendant to get the key to the women's bathroom. Green and uncomfortable, Jack is waiting for him when he comes out. “We must have food poisoning,” he says, grimacing.

There's a line of customers waiting for the restrooms, and the clerk behind the counter gives them a look. So they drive the van across the street to a downscale motel, one of those chains with a number in its name, six, eight, ten. Connor isn't sure which it is because while Jack checks in, he pukes in the crabgrass separating the building from the highway.

He gets their bags from the back of the truck and brings them to the dank room. Jack is in the mildewy bathroom (no complimentary shampoo bottles or cakes of soap), so Connor calls Laine, who tells him about chamomile tea. Jack calls Mona on his cell phone, and she tells them to go to the emergency room. The front desk attendant doesn't seem the kind to know much about teas, and he tells them the nearest hospital is a good forty minutes away. Neither one of them wants to leave the haven of the room with its functioning toilet and mushy but inviting mattress, so they drink canned ginger ale from the soda machine and try not to disrupt the universe by moving too much. When it's Jack's turn in the bathroom, Connor flips on the TV and finds an
All in the Family
marathon on the channel getting good reception.

“Dad used to watch this,” Jack says when he comes out, one hand draped loosely over his belly.

“Really?” Connor asks. His father had been the managing partner of one of the biggest law firms in the country; it seems unlikely that he'd have had much in common with Archie Bunker.

“Yeah, he loved it. Mom and I weren't allowed to talk when it was on.”

They watch an episode Connor doesn't get. His bowels turn liquid again and he staggers back to the bathroom. When he comes out, the TV is off and Jack is on the bed, propped against the wall (of course there's no headboard), reading a huge workbook entitled
Barbri Bar Review.
Connor sits on the bed, cups his forehead with his palm, feels hot blood coursing under his skin.

“I think I'm running a fever,” he says. “Check my head.”

“If you have a fever I do, too,” Jack says. “You won't feel warm to me.”

“Jor's got this thermometer we stick in her ear, and it gives you a reading in like three seconds. Maybe we should go get a thermometer.”

“Why? You could have a fever of one hundred and fifty degrees, but there's nothing I can do about it.”

“I'd just like to know.” Connor shrugs, and then the two of them don't say anything. From his backpack Connor takes out heavy books on social policy written in heavy language. He contemplates working on his thesis, but since Laine started editing it, she's been making useful suggestions and he figures he should just wait for her input. He calls her again.

“Feeling any better, baby?” she asks, and he complains a little more. Then she puts the phone to Jorie's ear, and he coos and giggles in a language of response to his daughter's gurgles.

“It's crazy how much I miss her,” Connor says when Laine is back on the line. “It feels like I've been gone for years.”

When Connor hangs up the green plastic phone, he feels Jack looking at him. He looks back, wondering if this is the moment where something important is going to be said, the moment Laine warned wouldn't happen.

“You could have used my cell,” Jack says. “They charge you like two dollars a minute to make calls from a hotel room.”

         

There had been a moment, once, the night of the migraine when Connor was fifteen. It was after the CAT scan came back clean and Eddie didn't punch Jack. Connor got dressed, Jack put on his coat, and Anna Fram stayed to go home with her husband. The brothers Reed wandered into the dingy morning light full of chirping animal sounds. Jack unlocked Connor's door first, walked around to the driver's side and got in, but made no attempt to start the car. Even though the key wasn't in the ignition, he put his hands on the steering wheel and extended his arms, pressing his back against the leather.

“Anna and I, it isn't what you think.” Jack breathed deeply. “I guess it is what you think, but it's not like I don't care about her. There are times when the light hits her hair or when she smiles         .         .         .”

“It's your life,” Connor said.

Jack rubbed his forehead, swallowed and looked like there was something bubbling inside of his throat that he wanted to smush back down.

“I know, but it's         .         .         .         it's not only my life, is it?” Jack's voice wavered. Connor looked out the window at the traffic light leading out of the parking lot, because Jack falling apart was a whole lot scarier than Jack being awful and selfish. “I'm doing the best I can.”

“I know,” Connor said to the window.

“But I'm not doing a very good job,” Jack said. “I'm sorry.”

And Connor didn't say anything while the light changed from yellow to red, then back to green. That was the only time in his life Connor had ever heard Jack apologize for anything, and he didn't know what he was supposed to say. He was fifteen years old, tired, and drugged. He was fifteen years old and had just been through yet another traumatic experience. The anger and self-pity in his throat dissolved like sugar in coffee, and Connor knew he was supposed to turn around and tell Jack it was okay, that he was doing just fine. But it was too earnest, too real. He was only fifteen and it was too much.

“I'm sorry,” Jack said again.

         

Connor wakes up not knowing where he is or why he's there. All he knows is that light screaming through a window might as well be serrated knives in his eye sockets. There's a pain in his temples, a soreness in his guts, and his throat feels as though it's been sanded. Seeing Jack in the room's lone and questionable chair, reading the enormous book of Illinois law, Connor remembers the steaks, the U-Haul.

“I think I'm dying.” He sits up, feels the world rock and shift.

“You're not dying,” Jack says.

“Oh God.” Connor swallows against fresh nausea. “Do you feel this awful?”

“You're dehydrated.” Jack folds down the corner of a page, sets the book on the nightstand. “I drank a thing of Gatorade, and it really helped. I'll get you a bottle.” Sliding a Penn sweatshirt over his oxford, he takes his wallet from the table and plants it in his back pocket. “There's Advil on the counter.”

When Jack leaves, Connor slips back under pilled sheets, but the horrible light leaks through the thin skin of his eyelids. On his way to shut the blinds, he notices a twisted metal rod on the asphalt parking lot, then another. Golf clubs—the golf clubs his father gave him fifteen years ago. The rolling door on the back of their truck is open, the chairs, table, TV, and couch are all gone; a sad, solo sofa cushion is all they've left behind. Finding his shoes, Connor goes to inspect the damage. It's crisp and bright, and he shivers against the cold air as he yanks the strap of the truck door until it closes halfway. The padlock is still locked, only it's hooked to the chain, just as Jack warned. Most of the stuff has been left in the boxes, but the papers are scattered and pruned. The framed Kennedy poster is facedown, huge footprints on the brown backing. Picking it up with both hands, Connor holds it at arms' length, examines the spiderweb of broken glass. The print itself seems okay, although Kennedy seems so much older than he remembers, or maybe it's simply that Kennedy seems exactly the same age and looks more dated. Sitting on the stoop of the truck, Connor pulls the jigsawed glass with the tips of his fingernails. A shard pierces the flesh between his nail and the pad of his thumb. Dots of blood pimple up and he sucks them off.

“What happened here?” Back from the convenience store, Jack looks over the scene and smiles a crooked smile. “You locked the chain to itself, didn't you?”

“No, someone jimmied the lock,” Connor says unconvincingly.

“Well, I guess we've settled the question over what to do with the furniture. I knew this was a dumb idea.” Jack reaches into his pants pocket for his cell phone, dials, hands Connor a paper bag from the store, speaks into the phone. “Can I have the number for U-Haul roadside assistance?”

Connor pulls out a bottle of strawberry-flavored Gatorade.

“I'm allergic to strawberries,” he says.

“I know; it's all they had.” Jack swings the phone away from his mouth. “I checked the label, and there's nothing in it actually relating to strawberries. I think you'll be okay.”

“You remembered I'm allergic to strawberries?”

“Sure.” Jack nods. “Could this godforsaken place just answer their phone?”

“What's Jorie's middle name?”

“Aww, come on, Conn.” Jack moves the phone away from his mouth again. “I don't even think I know
your
middle name.”

“It was on the announcement Laine and I sent, and I said it in all those phone messages you never returned.”

“You've
got
to be fucking kidding me,” Jack says. “We're in the middle of ass-fuck nowhere, dying of salmonella. We have a van that got broken into because you couldn't work a goddamned padlock. I think I can skip the pop quiz.”

Punching his brother isn't something Connor thinks about; it just happens. His right hand clenches into a fist. The fist arcs into the air and into Jack's left eye with an audible thud. Cupping his face, Jack hops around the parking lot, feet tangling with the golf clubs. Connor stares at his bloody swelling knuckles, tries to remember a time he hit anyone else and comes up blank. From the phone Jack dropped on the pavement, an operator announces they've reached the twenty-four-hour hotline, but it's not during the normal hours of operation.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” Jack screams, still holding his eye. “What's wrong with you? Is this because I'm selling the house? You want it? It's yours. If you and Laine and your kid want to move to Ohio, fine. Take the goddamned house. I don't want it anymore. I never wanted it.”

“This isn't about the house.”

“Then what? You're pissed off cuz I don't know the kid's middle name? I'm an asshole, I admit it. I'm a huge fucking asshole, but this isn't exactly a news flash.”

Connor opens his mouth to say that Jorie isn't “the kid” or “some kid” but Jack's niece. To say that that should be reason for Jack to care, that Jack can't just slip out of his life because children make him uncomfortable. But then Connor changes his mind. Maybe it's simply that Jack is wearing sneakers and a sweatshirt instead of an Italian suit and wing tips, but Connor realizes he's taller than Jack now. Maybe it's that the side of Jack's head is turning the color of mushed berries, but the knot in Connor's throat is gone.

“I'm so sorry,” Connor says. “Your eye looks awful; I'll get some ice.”

Connor will go to the ice machine, wrap the rough cubes in a thin hotel hand towel, and Jack will shudder and swear when the cold touches his skin. Without discussing it, Connor will drive the rest of the way to Boston while Jack reads Illinois law, gingerly fingering his swollen eye from time to time. Laine will laugh when they show up, shake her blond head and say she can't even guess what happened. Jorie will be in a blanket in Laine's arms, and Jack will say appropriate, mindless things, then fly back to his own life. But before all of that, Connor turns from the van toward the vending area, and Jack calls after him.