Spoonbenders

“Test them how?” Maureen asked.

“That’s an excellent question,” Smalls said. “Thank you, Maureen.”

God help us, Teddy thought.

Smalls gestured toward the door. “Here is the man who can answer your questions.” Standing there, hands clasped behind his back, was a short man in a black suit. His hair was wispy on top, but his mustache was as thick, oiled, and pointy as a silent film villain’s.

“This is G. Randall Archibald,” Smalls said. “And he has a device that will revolutionize psi research.”

“You don’t say,” Teddy said.

The mustachioed man surveyed the room. “My torsion field detector can measure psi ability with ninety-five percent accuracy.”

“Ninety-five point six,” Smalls said. “How about we begin with you, Teddy?”

“Say what?” Teddy asked. He glanced at Maureen. She suddenly took an interest in her shoes.

“You of all people have nothing to be afraid of,” Archibald said with the tone of a physician hiding a large syringe behind his back. “Not a talent as powerful as yourself.”

Coming home did nothing to improve Teddy’s mood. Buddy was crouched in the living room, sweaty and distressed, trying to rewire a lamp. (Why? Was it broken? If it hadn’t been it was now.) Frankie sat at the kitchen table, three empty beer bottles in front of him, sucking down his fourth.

“What are you doing here, and what have you done with my beer?” Teddy asked.

“I dropped off Matty. He’s a hell of a young man. Good worker, enthusiastic, and ready to push himself. Not like most kids.”

“Right,” Teddy said. “Not like the kind who hang around your house, expecting a handout.”

“Exactly.” Frankie finished his beer, got up to pull another one from the fridge. “A real go-getter.” Under the table sat a cardboard box.

“What the hell is that?” Teddy asked, knowing full well what the box was.

“I brought you a refill,” Frankie said.

“No.” Teddy shook his head. “No no no no.”

“You know this stuff is good for you. It’s got—”

“Antioxidants! Jesus Christ, I know. Take it out of here, Frankie. I got enough God damn antioxidants to drown a steer.”

“If you become one of my down-line distributors, the price gets even cheaper.”

“We’ve talked about this. That’s your scam, not mine.”

“All I’m asking is for once in your life you show a little support.”

“Once in my—is that what you said? Once?”

“I don’t mooch off you,” Frankie said, in denial of all historical records. “We all know you’re loaded—”

“I’m not loaded.”

“—but at least I don’t squat here, eat your food, expect you to take care of me.”

Teddy opened the high cabinet and brought down the Hendrick’s bottle. “So what you’re telling me,” he said, pouring three fingers into a thick-bottomed glass, “I buy one more box from you, that’s it, you’ll never ask for anything again?”

Frankie frowned. “What’s the matter with you?” He wasn’t used to sarcasm from Teddy, whose habit in these post-work sessions was to listen quietly. Two or three times a week Frankie would do this, come in after work, start holding forth on herbal supplements or real estate taxes or whatever had gotten into his brain or under his skin, and consume all Teddy’s Heinekens and Ritz crackers. He was in no rush to go home to Loretta, probably because he didn’t want to get stuck watching the twins or taking them to gymnastics practice. He’d keep talking until the beer or Teddy’s patience ran out. Then Teddy would clap his son on the arm, agree with whatever his last point was, and head upstairs for a nap. (Though it wasn’t so much a nap as a retreat.) He’d decided years ago there was no profit in arguing with the boy, and no way to stop his yammering any more than he could start Buddy talking. Theoretically, Buddy would be the perfect sound-absorbing device for Frankie’s verbiage, but ever since the riverboat the brothers could barely look at each other.

“I’m fine,” Teddy said. “Just fine.” He handed Frankie his gin glass and nodded at the fridge. “You’re closest, drop some ice in there.”

Frankie did as he was told. He popped the last three cubes from a tray and slid the empty container back into the freezer.

Jesus Christ, Teddy thought, I’ve raised a family of Visigoths.

“So you’re going to buy the box?” Frankie asked.

Teddy leaned forward. “Let me tell you a story.”

“Ugh.”

“That’s right, it’s my turn. You know what everybody told me when your mother died?”

Frankie all but rolled his eyes. “That you should give us all away.”

“Damn straight! Pack you all off to social services.”

“Or Mom’s family.”

“You’da liked that. Raised by a bunch of mick alcoholics.” Frankie made a face and Teddy said, “That don’t make me racist. Some Irish do drink like God damn fish. Your mom’s ma, God rest her soul, was a teetotaler, but her pa? Hard-core alkie. And her brother was a fall-down drunk.”

“I thought Mom’s brother died in high school—”

“Sure did.”

“—of leukemia.”

“Alcohol-related leukemia,” Teddy said. “That’s your genes, there, Frankie boy. Better watch yourself.”