Brothers

The carpet was indented with the memory of furniture. Collections of little squares where the beige nylon was pressed flat hinted at chairs and a sofa, while softer circles remembered the floor lamps. Dying sunlight crept through the vertical blinds, open at a half-angle, darkening the indents and casting long parallelograms of shadow on the walls.

Nick glanced this over as he unfolded the TV tray and propped it where the dining table used to be. He set one white plastic chair before it, retrieved dinner from the microwave and a glass of water from the countertop, and settled with an air of determination at his makeshift table.

This was the first time in days he had mustered up the pride to eat sitting down. Most often he did so leaned over the kitchen sink, shoulders rolled forward, drinking straight from the tap like a dog from a hose. But he recognized this was bad for him. It was efficient, that was true, and he valued efficiency; but it was also pitiful, more so even than his eating off a folding tray, and so tonight he would straighten his back, drink from a glass, and use plastic utensils to carve at his boxed lasagna like a civilized man.

A heavy knock sounded on his door. Without waiting for a reply the knob turned, the door gave way, and the knocker came in slowly.

“Jesus,” Samuel muttered, looking around the apartment. “She really took everything.”

Nick looked at him and nodded, forcing a meek smile. The appearance of his brother, unexpected and unwanted, sent an involuntary bolt of guilt through his heart.

“Maybe you should’ve bought a house,” Samuel said ironically, as if this were the origin of the separation.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with someone,” Nick said.

Samuel paused. “Yes, that too.”

Nick rose and went into the kitchen, grabbing a paper plate and second set of cutlery. His brother shrugged off his coat, looked around for somewhere to rest it, considered, and finally dropped it to the floor. He poked his head into the bedroom, where a sleeping bag was laid in the outline of a box frame, and recoiled at the musk of stagnant air.

“Don’t bother,” Samuel said, seeing the utensils in Nick’s hand.

“Have you eaten?”

“No, but I don’t need anything.”

Nick ignored him, portioning half his lasagna onto the paper plate. He handed it to Samuel who accepted begrudgingly.

“I don’t have a second chair,” Nick realized.

“Jesus,” said Samuel, and a little smile grew across his face until all of the sudden he was laughing. Nick could not help but laugh along, and he did so mirthlessly.

They resolved to sit against the wall with their legs extended and food resting in their laps. The shadows cast through the blinds were merging together, the whole room growing dark. Nick felt worse now about sitting on the floor than he did standing at the counter, and worse still because Samuel was beside him.

You have to tell him, he said to himself. You have to tell him. Tell him now.

“Heather says hello,” Samuel offered.

Nick shut his eyes and made only a low grunt of acknowledgement at the mention of his sister-in-law, which Samuel interpreted as silence on the basis of feeling unworthy.

“She insists that you stay with us. Obviously I feel the same.”

Nick attempted no thanks and did not even smile. He only shook his head and lifted lasagna to his mouth. He did not want to speak because to speak would be to deceive, and he was tired of his words ringing false.

The food went quickly; it had already been a meager portion and split between the both of them was quite little. When it was gone Nick frowned at the empty tray, smeared with oil and red sauce, unhappy and failing in his attempts to hide it.

“So you’ll stay with us?”

“No.”

“Alright.” Samuel nodded and pursed his lips, not deterred in the least. So he’s not in the joking mood, he thought. Nor an optimistic one. That’s all well. I’ll ask him again tomorrow.

Samuel looked at his plate and at his brother’s, and smiled without meaning to. “You remember what Dad used to say when we were kids?” he asked.

“Dad said a lot of things.”

“But he said this often.”

“What did he say often?”

“He said it’s always best to leave the table a little hungry.”

Nick’s mouth twisted with contempt. “That’s just something starving people say.”

“Do you think?”

Nick was quiet.

“How long you been holding on to that one?”

“Long time.”

“Well,” Samuel said, smiling ruefully at his brother, so determined as he was to be unhappy, “Maybe you’re right.”

You have to tell him, Nick was thinking. You have to.

“You want to do something?” Samuel said. “Let’s do something, get out of the house.”

I want you to leave, Nick thought.

“You want to go to the races?”

I want you to leave.

“You can bet on my dime.”

Samuel could see he was getting nowhere. A long silence passed, during which he wrestled with himself over a question he desperately wanted to ask, but which was a horrible thing to say and understood not to be spoken of. But he wanted to believe there was some significance in Nick’s actions, that it had not been meaningless and that he would not have to reconcile the long honorable image of his brother with one of such disgrace.

“It was really a random woman?” he asked, apologizing with his tone.

“A random woman,” Nick lied.

They lapsed back into silence. The last of the sunlight was gone now and the room had fallen totally dark, everything shrouded in black. Samuel wondered how much longer he should stay, having realized how unwelcome he was. Nick clamped his jaws together, afraid of his guilt and what he might say if he opened them.

You have to tell him, he thought. You have to tell him about Heather. Tell him now.