A Hole in the Universe (8 page)

Just then the floor vibrated as the garage door rumbled and then closed again. Dennis hurried into the kitchen, red-faced and breathless with apologies. He had taken a potential investor out to see one of the properties, but then the guy insisted on seeing the other one, which was clear across town, so the time just—

“The grill’s already lit.” Lisa handed him the platter of swordfish.

“I said I was sorry,” Dennis said as she turned abruptly away. He looked at Gordon and rolled his eyes, then touched his shoulder. “Your shirt’s wet. And so are your pants. What happened?”

“I got caught in the sprinkler.”

“Well, go change. I’ve got things you can wear.”

“He doesn’t want to, Dennis. I already asked him,” Lisa said. “Now will you go put the swordfish on? Please?”

Gordon followed him onto the deck. “What’s that you’re putting on?” he asked of the oily mixture Dennis was brushing onto the fish.

“I don’t know, some kind of marinade.” Dennis kept adjusting the flame.

“What does it do?”

“Keeps the fish wet. Moist. I don’t know, something like that,” he said with an irritable toss of his hand.

“If anyone asks me in the Market, now I’ll know what it’s for.”

“Yeah.” Dennis moved the swordfish to the back of the grill. He closed the hood, opening it again a few minutes later to turn the swordfish. He brushed more marinade onto the cooked side.

Gordon fidgeted in the silence. He regretted mentioning the Market. He bent over the railing and sniffed at the pink flowers in the window box.

“They don’t smell. They’re geraniums.” Dennis sounded annoyed.

“Oh, that’s right. Mom used to plant those. Red ones. By the front steps. Maybe I’ll do that. I did some work on Dad’s roses. Quite a bit, actually. Yeah, I got rid of a lot of the dead stuff. You should see all the new shoots.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dennis glanced back as if to say something, then sighed and began moving the swordfish around on the grill again.

Gordon remembered these moods, even when Dennis had been little. Like black clouds obscuring the sun, they could pass as quickly as they came. But for as long as they lasted, everyone would feel not only their chill, but a kind of desolation. Gordon cleared his throat. “Boy, that’s some grill. It’s huge. It must be twice as big as the stove at home.”

Dennis’s head shot up. “It was the only one that would fit into that miserable little kitchen.”

“No, no! I wasn’t complaining. I just meant the grill, it’s so big. I never saw one so—”

“You don’t have to stay there.” Dennis glanced toward the kitchen. “As a matter of fact, I was just talking to the Realtor. She said she’d be glad to get you an appraisal on the house.”

“But I don’t want to move. I—”

“Why? Give me one good reason you wouldn’t rather be living in a brand-new condo with all the latest modern conveniences.”

“I like it where I am. I know where everything is.” He tried not to be rattled by his brother’s smirk. They’d been all through this before. “It’s comfortable, and I like puttering around. Plus I’m so close to work I don’t have to—”

“So what was the degree for, then? All those courses? All the money, what the hell was that all about?”

“I said I’d pay you back. I always said that,” he mumbled, feeling like a leech again.

“You know I don’t give a damn about the money!” Dennis exploded, leaning close. A wind gust roiled through the trees. The swordfish sizzled, and the flames sputtered an orangy blue. “All I want is for you to have some kind of normal life, that’s all I want. Jesus Christ! Is that so hard to understand?”

More than hard, it was almost unfathomable that Dennis could think normal life was possible. But then how could his brother understand his meager expectations when Dennis’s had always been fueled by that relentless optimism and drive that delivered men like him to success? “I know,” Gordon conceded rather than argue. “I guess I’m just trying to get a feel for things. I just need to take it slow at first.”

“Fine! I can understand that. I just hate seeing you settle for less all the time, that’s all.” Dennis patted his shoulder. The light was back in his pale eyes. “So anyway, this gal I know, the Realtor I was talking about, she’s going to call you. Her name’s Jilly Cross. I asked her to show you some condos.”

“Condos?” Lisa said, coming onto the deck with a large blue bowl of salad. “Don’t tell me. Not condos again. Dennis should get his broker’s license. Lately everyone he meets he’s trying to sell condos to. Last week after church he’s got Father Hensile by the arm, trying to talk him into one for his sick mother! Like all of a sudden condos are the answers to everyone’s problems.”

Dennis laughed, unfazed by the edge in her voice. “But it’d be perfect. Especially for someone in Gordon’s situation.”

“His situation?” Lisa turned back from the doorway.

“You know what I mean. He’s stuck in a house that’s depreciating faster and faster every day that goes by.”

“But that’s where he wants to live, Dennis, so isn’t that the most important thing?”

“When you’re living on Clover Street, the most important thing’s not getting killed,” Dennis called after her as she went inside to get the children. He turned off the grill and didn’t say anything.

“We gather here together to thank you, Lord,” Lisa said softly, bowing her head as they all joined hands around the table.

“For these thy gifts,” Annie said.

“Which we are about to receive,” Jimmy said.

“From thy bounty through Jesus Christ, our Lord,” Dennis said with a sigh.

Lisa’s eyes remained closed, but the children and Dennis looked at Gordon, waiting.

Annie squeezed his fingers. “It’s your turn.”

“Uh, thank you . . . thank you, Lord, for—”

“No!” Jimmy said.

“Just say ‘Amen,’ that’s all,” Dennis said.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I guess I forgot how it ends,” Gordon told the children.

“Well, say it, then,” Annie said, delighted that someone so big could mess up something so simple.

“Amen,” he said softly. Mindful of the little grunts Dennis had criticized him for at lunch last week, Gordon tried to eat slowly. He was used to wolfing down his food. So accustomed was he to eating in a daze and not speaking to anyone that he wasn’t sure where to look, at his plate or his dining companions. In an effort to do both, he kept dropping food onto the table, into his lap.

Jimmy was watching him. “Did anybody else ever try and break out of your jail?”

There was a
clink clink
as both parents put down their forks.

“No.” Gordon shook his head. The children knew their uncle had gone to prison because someone had died. If they asked, he should just answer their question, Dennis had advised on the ride home. Tell them as much as they need to know. No details about the incident, of course. As if he ever would, Gordon had thought, amazed.

“You must’ve wanted to, though, huh?” Jimmy asked hopefully.

“Your uncle always did what he was supposed to do,” Lisa said. “We may not always like our situation in life, but we do our best. Uncle Gordon was very brave.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “How were you brave?”

Gordon had no idea. He hadn’t been brave. He had only
been
. “I guess I just obeyed the rules, that’s all. I did what I was told.”

Dennis’s hands were clenched. “So, Jimmy, tell us how swimming went today,” he said, but the boy had already launched into his next question.

“Did any prisoners ever try and stab you or anything?”

“No.” Gordon smiled as if that were a very far-fetched possibility. He caught himself. He had been about to say he had seen a few men stabbed and knew of many others who had been.

“My friend Jack said you killed a lady.” Jimmy watched him closely.

Gordon nodded.

“That’s enough now, Jimmy,” Dennis said, and Lisa began to talk about Jimmy’s swim meet next week. It was for the country club junior championship. Jimmy reminded her that she’d said he didn’t have to be in it if he didn’t want to. Lisa patted his hand and said they’d talk some more and then decide. Decide what? Dennis asked, staring at Lisa. Jimmy was on the team and he would be swimming in the meet, and it was as simple as that.

Gordon felt as if his mother had just spoken. He pushed vegetables onto his fork with his finger, then licked bits of squash from his thumb.

“Here.” Dennis held out the basket of rolls.

“No, thank you,” he said. He’d already had four, and there were only two left. He pushed more squash onto his fork and licked his finger.

“Please.” Dennis set the basket in front of him. “Use a roll, will you?”

“I’m sorry,” Gordon said.

“Dennis,” Lisa chided in a low voice.

“Like this.” Annie demonstrated, breaking a roll. “You just push it—”

“Thank you, Annie. I’m sure Uncle Gordon knows how to do it.” Lisa looked at Dennis.

“So what happened to Delores?” Dennis asked. “You said you were going to bring her.”

“No.” Gordon wiped his mouth with the corner of his napkin. “I said I’d call her.”

“And did you?”

“No, because she came over. She just came,” he added, though his brother clearly didn’t regard this as the intrusion it had been.

“Well, you dropped the ball, then, Gordon. I mean, after all she’s done for you through the years. So now you’re home and you don’t even call her?”

“I . . .” He felt oddly winded. “I just didn’t get to it.” He took a deep breath. Then another.

“Dennis.” Lisa sighed.

“She’d be someone to do things with, that’s all! Get out of that depressing house and meet people!” Dennis said, not to Gordon but to Lisa, who glared at him.

“I get out. I meet people. Every day I meet interesting people.”

“Where?” Dennis smirked. “At the Nash Street Market? Come on, will ya, Gordon! What kind of a life is that?”

“I—”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this!” Lisa’s voice trembled with anger.

“Don’t you see?” Dennis asked, looking at him now. “It’s the same old thing, isn’t it. Just like coming back here. Instead of taking a chance somewhere else, you’ll just keep on settling for less, won’t you?”

“No!” Gordon spoke quietly but firmly. “I’m just trying to ease into things, that’s all. I don’t want much. I don’t need anything. I’m fine.”

“But you’ve got to want things! You’ve got to be ambitious! Otherwise you might as well be back in there trying to hold up your pants with your elbows all the goddamn time!”

Lisa gripped the table edge with both hands. “How can you talk to your brother like that? Who do you think you are?”

Gordon was shocked. He had seen them bicker occasionally on their visits, but nothing like this. It pained him to be causing this deep anger between them, yet he understood. Dennis loved the idea, the concept, of having his brother back. It was the sweating, grunting, blundering reality of Gordon he couldn’t tolerate. He stood up and said it was getting late; he probably should be going now.

“No. Please, don’t,” Lisa said.

Dennis apologized and asked him not to leave. Gordon continued to stand while on either side the children stared up in wide-eyed intrigue. Even for their sake he couldn’t manage a smile. “Actually, I’m really tired. I think that little bit of beer did me in,” he said, stooping to kiss the top of Lisa’s head.

“I’m just trying to help, that’s all,” Dennis said, hand raised suppliantly.

“No, I know,” he said as Lisa reached back for his arm. “I just hate causing you two any more trouble, that’s all.”

“Believe me, it’s not you.” Lisa squeezed his arm hard.

“She means me,” Dennis said with a rueful smile, then told him again that he was sorry.

 

 

He let Dennis take him only as far as the bus stop. He found himself enjoying the rackety bus ride home. The driver, a woman with an orangy buzz cut, kept smiling at him through the mirror. A white-haired woman in soiled turquoise pants was the only other passenger. Clamped between her legs were three bulging shopping bags filled with smaller plastic bags. When he had gotten on the bus, she’d stared angrily out the window.

He knew how she felt. The hardest part of prison life had been not the lack of freedom, but being surrounded constantly by people. He’d always thought he would have been one of the few who could have endured solitary confinement without going off the deep end. But then of course he’d never done anything wrong or broken the rules. That was not to say he’d been a model prisoner. Not like Jackie McBride, who worked at improving not only himself, but everyone around him. The old man thrived on the ruthless complexities of prison society. In another time and place, Jackie might have been an inspiring general or congressman instead of a steel-nerved Mob underling. It had taken Jackie a long time to break through Gordon’s reserve. He had admired Gordon’s pursuit of a college education. While other inmates openly derided Gordon as the “spook,” Jackie considered his aloofness a sign of intellectual superiority. The old man had died two weeks before Gordon got out.

Prison life already seemed so distant that even when he tried to recall them, most details evaded him. The experience had often been so vile that little had seemed real or, in the end, just. What price had he paid? Two lives were lost, yet he still had his. The emptiness and the lost years could not have been the true punishment. Unless it was this constant dread like static in his soul.
No.There’s more, more to come,
he thought as the bus rattled under the overpass into Collerton.

The pleated door closed quickly behind him. The tall arc lamps spilled a lavender glow over the dingy streets. Bradley Hill had once been one of the more desirable neighborhoods in the city. Now most of the large Victorian homes had been partitioned into apartments like this one on the corner, its massive oak doors flanked by rows of mailboxes and doorbells. Spray-painted on the porch wall was the word
Aurora.
Unmatched colored curtains hung in the windows, some too short, others knotted and wafting in and out over the sills. Leaving gaps like missing teeth, balusters had been wrenched or kicked out of the railing. Where the wide front lawn had once been green with tended grass and neat hedges, now six cars were parked on paving laid from the sidewalk right up to the granite foundation. The front door opened and a plump, bare-armed woman in baggy jeans came onto the front porch, carrying a bottle of beer by its neck. She sat on the top step and lit a cigarette. She stared down as he walked by. He remembered going to Joan Kruger’s seventh-birthday party under the pear tree in the backyard there. Mrs. Kruger had silvery frosted hair, a fur coat, and a cleaning lady who came every week. A cleaning lady, and she didn’t even have a job, which to his mother was the epitome of privileged indolence. In the front hall there had been an enormous mahogany hat tree, in its center an etched mirror surrounded by brass coat hooks, ivory hat holders, and a purple velvet bench flanked by two ornately carved receptacles, one for umbrellas and the other for walking sticks.