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“I have no idea what you think you know,” Philip says. “But you have to understand that all I’ve been trying to do—all I’ve ever tried to do is protect you. I want you to be safe.”
What a line. I shake my head, but don’t contradict him. “Okay, then. What are you protecting me from?”
“Yourself,” he says and now he looks me in the eye. For a moment I see the thug that people are afraid of—jaw clenched, hair shadowing his face. But after all these years, at least he’s finally looking at me.
“Get over yourself,” I say. “I’m a big kid.”
“Things are tough without Dad,” he says. “Law school isn’t cheap. Wallingford isn’t cheap. Mom’s legal bills alone are staggering. Grandad had some savings, but we burned through that. I’ve had to step up. And I’m doing the best I can. I want us to have things, Cassel. I want my son to have things.” He takes another slug from the cup and then laughs to himself. His eyes shine when he looks over at me, and I wonder just how much liquor he’s already had. Enough to get him pretty unwound.
“Okay,” I say.
“That means taking some risks. What if I told you there was something I needed you for?” Philip says. “Something Barron and I both need your help with.” I think of Lila in my dream, asking for help. The overlay of the memories is dizzying.
“Do you need my help?” I ask.
“I need you to trust us,” Philip says, tilting his head to one side and giving me that superior older brother smile. He thinks he’s teaching me a lesson.
“I should be able to trust my own brothers, right?” I ask. I think I manage to say it without sarcasm.
“Good,” he says. There’s something sad and tired in the sag of his shoulders, something that seems less like cruelty and more like resignation. It makes me unsure of my conclusions. I think of us being kids all together and how much I loved it when Philip paid me any attention—even the kind of attention that came in the form of an order. I loved to scramble to get a beer out of the fridge for him and pop the top like a bartender, then grin at him, waiting for the offhanded nod of acknowledgment.
And here I am, trying to find a way where he isn’t the villain. Looking for the nod. All because he finally met my eyes.
“Things are going to be different for us real soon. Vastly different. We’re not going to have to struggle.” He makes a sweeping gesture that knocks over one of the wineglasses that Maura didn’t clear. There’s only a little bit of liquid in it, but it rushes over the white cloth in a tide of pink wetness. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“What’s going to be different?” I ask him.
“I can’t tell you details,” he says, and looks toward the living room. Then he stands up unsteadily. “For now, just don’t rock the boat. And don’t mess with Mom. Give me your word.”
I sigh. The conversation is circular, pointless. He wants me to trust him, but he doesn’t trust me. He wants me to obey him. “Yeah,” I lie. “You’ve got my word. Family looks out for family. I get it.”
As I stand up, I notice the wineglass he knocked over isn’t as empty as I thought. Some kind of sediment remains at the bottom. I lean over and drag my finger through the sludge of sugarlike granules, trying to remember who was seated where.
* * *
Over Maura’s protests and Barron’s annoyed insistence, I half-carry Grandad out to the car. My heart beats like I’m in a fight as I turn down the offers to sleep in the study or on the sofa. I say I’m not tired. I invent an appointment Grandad has with a bingo-playing widow in the morning. Grandad is heavy and so drugged and drunk that he barely responds.
Philip drugged him. The reason eludes me, but I think of the sludge and I know Philip must have done it.
“You should just stay,” Barron says for the millionth time.
“You’re going to drop him,” Philip says. “Careful.”
“Then help me,” I say, grunting.
Philip puts out his cigarette on the aluminum siding and slips his shoulder under Grandad’s arm to lift him up.
“Just bring him back into the house,” Barron says, and a look passes between them. Barron’s frown deepens. “Cassel, how are you going to get him into the house on the other end if you need Philip’s help getting him into the car?”
“He’ll have sobered up some by then,” I say.
“What if he doesn’t?” Barron calls, but Philip walks toward the car door.
For a moment I think he’s going to block my way, and I have no idea what I’ll do if he does. He opens the door, though, and holds it while I heave Grandad inside and belt him in.
As I pull out of the driveway, I look back at Philip, Barron, and Maura. Relief floods me. I’m free. I’m nearly gone.
My phone rings, startling me. Grandad doesn’t stir, even though it’s loud; the sound is turned all the way up. I watch for the rise and fall of his chest to make sure he’s still breathing.
