Early Warning

“Two pancakes,” said Richie. He helped Ivy to her feet and gave his hand to Marnie, who stood up, shook herself like a dog, and said, “Wow, did you see that guy I was dancing with? He was like Cyd Charisse or something. Taller, though.” She kept mumbling. Richie put an arm around each girl and steered them toward the door. As planned, Michael stumbled after them, muttering, “Fuck, fuck. Fuck.” He almost hit the pavement where the parking lot met Old York Road, but Richie stuck with the girls and put them both in front, only then opening the rear door and kind of pouring Michael into the back seat. Michael curled up and let out a moan. Marnie said, “He really is an alcoholic, you know.”

“I know,” said Richie. Marnie closed her eyes, but Ivy seemed revived. She took Richie’s hand and squeezed it.

At the New Hope Diner, Richie helped the girls up the steps, in the door, then to the second booth, Marnie to the left of him, Ivy to the right of him, himself squeezed cozily in between. Marnie was hungry now, too. The waitress kept yawning into her pad. By the time the food arrived, Michael had staggered in. Through the window, Richie could dimly see that he had left the car door open. Michael didn’t order anything — he ate half of Richie’s bun and one of Marnie’s slices of bacon. He drank a cup of coffee. He said, “You know what the fuck really pisses me off?”

“What, babe?” said Marnie.

“This faggot sits next to me at that bar there? And I say, Watch your fag, faggot, and he’s got this long ash on his cigarette, and he drops it right onto my pants.”

Richie laughed.

“Don’t laugh! There’s a big fucking hole.” He scooted out of the seat and stood up. Sure enough, on the front of the right leg of his pants was a blackened hole about a quarter-inch wide. The polyester fibers had burned and melted. “Hurt, too. I shoulda punched the guy out, but I thought I was gonna fall off my stool.” He coughed.

Both Ivy and Marnie rolled their eyes.

By the time they got back to Michael’s apartment, it was very late, but there was a parking spot in front of the entrance. Richie was fine — not drunk at all. With the girls’ help, he heaved Michael out of the car and through the door, into the elevator, up one floor. He was stiff — in its stupor, his body still possessed the tension of finely tuned anger and pride. Richie dropped on the couch, and Marnie took off his shoes. Ivy found a blanket and threw it over him.

When Michael was well and truly taken care of, Richie said, “Okay, sweeties, it’s after five. I’m tired. Want to take a nap?” He opened the door to Michael’s bedroom. The bed looked inviting — made, at least, no clothes strewn all over it. Marnie yawned, and Ivy said, “I want the left side. I just can only sleep on the left side.”

“I get the middle,” Richie said.

—

THE LAWYER, who worked from a walnut-paneled office in his very enormous Gothic pile of a house in North Usherton, was Frank’s long-ago chemistry lab partner. He’d always been nervous about what was smoking in the beakers but didn’t mind writing up the results. Frank shook his hand heartily, and listened to him yammer on about how proud everyone was of Frank, he’d really made something of himself, a life to be envied, not so narrow as that of a small-town lawyer, six kids, though, and all of them doing fine, the eldest boy down in South Florida now, first grandchild — he sighed, apparently in spite of himself. And this house, well, it took as much upkeep as any farm. A half-acre front yard—

Joe and Jesse came in — Joseph Walter Langdon; “Jesse,” not “Joe, junior.” The three of them sat at the table. Jesse gave him a grin, was glad to see him. Joe shook his hand without saying anything. Frank had done a good turn, and everyone was a little surprised at it, including Frank.

The lawyer came back in as they sat down, and spread the papers that they were to sign in front of them. Frank had been right, as usual. Lillian had willingly given her portion of the farm to Joe. Henry had said, “Tell me what a farm is again?” and laughed. He knew they would never sell the place anyway, so why think of it as money? Paul, of course, had nearly knocked Claire over in his rush to put his hands on the $260,000 Uncle Jens had paid for her share (after inheritance taxes). Gary and Aunt Angela had been plenty grateful in the end to take their money, too — Gary was planning on buying his own rig. Andy had made no objection; her Higher Power and her friends in AA thought it was the right thing to do, and besides, she was indifferent to money as long as her charge account at Bergdorf’s was free and clear. Frank smiled at Jesse and said, “Got your dollar?”

Jesse pulled a dollar out of his pocket, and Frank frowned, then said, “I’ve changed my mind. I think I’m going to charge you ten.”

Solemnly, Jesse said, “I have that. I was going to—”

But then they all laughed, and Frank shrugged, saying, “Go ahead, buy yourself some lunch.”

“I was going to buy gas.”