Big Brother

by Lionel Shriver

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” I said. We smiled.

  “I brought a friend,” he said, and for one horrible instant before he stepped aside I thought he was about to introduce another woman.

  “Tanner! You’re back!” I hugged my stepson, burnished with a California tan, and looking more grown-up, yet also chastened. “Is this for keeps, or just a visit?”

  “For keeps, long as Dad’ll have me.”

  “What happened in L.A.?”

  “Oh, Pando. How long you got?”

  “Not long enough for now. Go say hello to your uncle. Get yourself something to eat—there’s loads. Since you’re eighteen, and under parental supervision”—I glanced at Fletcher for permission—“you might as well have a drink.”

  “Christ, is that Edison?” Tanner last saw his uncle a hundred pounds heavier.

  “Essence of Edison.” Once Tanner left to clap my brother on the back, I lingered in the foyer. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I said I would.”

  “You always do what you say you’ll do.”

  “Yes, though—that can be a problem.” He touched my elbow. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” I wondered why he couldn’t have extended the compliment when it would have meant so much to me at Java Joint back in April.

  “I haven’t nixed the whole idea,” Tanner was telling Edison. “But I couldn’t stand the idea of ending up like that. God, he never shut up about all this boring crap he did ages ago. Really started getting to me. Like, don’t take this wrong, but your dad is sad. I don’t mean depressed, even if he should be. I mean sad. And those actors from JC? Sinclair? Tiffany? Loooooo-sers.”

  “He’s agreed to finish high school,” said Fletcher. “You were right.”

  “My, I don’t hear that very often.”

  “You might be hearing it a lot more often from now on.”

  “That’ll be a change. That is, hearing anything.”

  “Your brother looks fantastic. You’ve worked a miracle.”

  “It’s not my accomplishment,” I demurred, though just then it did feel like my accomplishment. I’d never been good at drawing or painting; Edison Redux was my lone work of art.

  Lacking a glass—all night, I’d yet to see him imbibe a thing—my brother rapped the scale for quiet. “Yo, since I see our doubting Thomas has made his appearance, it’s time for our little soirée’s piece of resistance. You folks ready, man? Dig this.” He shrugged out of his heavy coat, and handed it to me. He slipped off his shoes as well before stepping up to the stern arbiter of his whole last year. The needle swung up, down, up again, and settled: just over 161.

  The room erupted. I have never attended a single sporting event, church service, concert, musical, or election victory rally that duplicated the same explosion of spontaneous joy. I don’t want to sound sacrilegious, but on a throne from Walmart my brother exuded a messianic promise for everyone in that room. What he’d done wasn’t only about becoming more attractive or less prone to diabetes. He’d proved it possible to reverse the most nefarious of misfortunes: those that you’ve authored yourself.

  Edison raised his hand for the cheers to die down. “Listen, man. It’s been a long year. But it’s also been one of the best years. Maybe the best. I’ve got down with this Iowa thing. Like the doll says, ‘These cornfields are the shit!’ But otherwise . . .” If he’d rehearsed the speech in his head, he was getting emotional, and the prepared phrases had fled. “I’d never’ve been able to do this by myself, man. It’s fucking lonely when you can’t go out to eat with cats or even meet for a drink. You got no idea how time drags without food! And we all have those moments of weakness, know what I’m sayin’? I needed company, and moral support, and even somebody to figure out how to fucking do this, when losing two hundred twenty-three big ones—”

  “Two-twenty-five!” shouted Cody.

  “Well, you can imagine at the beginning it seemed motherfucking impossible. And then when I got on a roll, I also needed somebody to force me to get real. Since there was a point, I swear, I wasn’t puttin’ another bite in my mouth for the rest of my life, and without a gun to my head and a bowl of soup I might have died. See, most of all I needed somebody who believed in me more than I believed in myself. Who loved me more than I loved myself. Who was willing to put more on the line than I’d ever put on the line for anybody else. So I want you all to raise a glass, man.”

  Oliver poured Edison a glass of wine, which, post-weigh-in, he accepted.

  “To my sister, Pandora.”

  “To Pandora!” our guests shouted raucously back, draining glasses in a gulp.

  Edison pulled me up with him on the scale. I glanced behind us at the dial: together we totaled over a hundred pounds less than my brother had once weighed by himself. He put an arm around me and smiled wickedly at my husband.

  “Now, as some of you folks know, Fletch here was skeptical that his wife’s, quote, ‘lardbucket’ of a brother had it in him to go the distance. The resolve of this, quote, ‘broke, homeless, self-indulgent food junkie’ was sure to collapse, because if you put Edison Appaloosa in a room with a plate of french fries, quote, ‘the spuds win every time.’ This cat was so sure he had my number—which at that time was three-eighty-six—that he promised to eat a whole chocolate cake in a sitting if I ever hit one-sixty-three. So now my pal here ain’t just gonna eat it; he’s gonna fletcherize the bastard. Cody—you wanna do the honors?”

  “I don’t think I can carry it by myself.”

  “Tanner, give the girl a hand.”

  My stepchildren returned from the kitchen carrying the cutting board, and everyone started to laugh.

  “Edison, you sadistic joker,” cried Oliver. “That’s not vindication, it’s homicide!”

  The Chocolate Dump Cake was the size of a small suitcase. The kids’ grip on the board looked precarious, so I hustled off the scale to clear space on the table. Edison had gone to town on the decoration, bordering the top with a keyboard motif of white chocolate and Tootsie Rolls, in the center of which spangled a big 163 in M&Ms whose last digit Cody was hastily rearranging into a 1, giving her uncle credit for every ounce. In one gooey brown corner Edison had propped a little porcelain crow; a small magazine cutout of a pie that, half submerged in fudge icing, looked suitably humble; and nine tiles from our Scrabble set spelling out Y-O-U-R W-O-R-D-S. It was this section he carved for Fletcher’s slice. My husband looked sufficiently rattled by being the center of attention that I doubt he solved the rebus puzzles. Yet he accepted the plate gamely, and though he hated public speaking he realized some reciprocal ceremony was required.

  “First off, I notice some of you folks brought gifts,” said Fletcher, reaching for a package in his sports jacket. “So—here.”

  Edison unwrapped the rectangle suspiciously, but when he pulled back the paper he held the box aloft like a scalp. “DVDs of The Thin Man!”

  “I admit, I underestimated this guy,” Fletcher continued, desperate to relinquish the limelight. “So if this stuff makes me sick, well”—he raised a forkful as others had raised their glasses—“I deserve it.”

  The party cheered Fletcher’s first oversize bite, which left the very fecal smears of icing around his mouth that my brother had envisaged with such pleasure.

  “Now, all you cats better help Fletch out,” Edison announced. “Grab a plate, and that concludes our formal festivities for tonight’s show!”

  “You going to be able to finish that one piece?” I asked quietly.

  “Watch me.” Fletcher fished a Scrabble tile from his mouth and sucked off the icing. “Under the circumstances, I guess he’s letting me off lightly. And don’t tell him—but it’s pretty damn good.”

  As the guests lined up, Edison cut me the sliver he knew I’d prefer. Turning the fork handle in my direction seemed both tender and pro
prietary.

  “I can’t eat that and hold your coat,” I said. “Should I put it with the others in your bedroom?”

  “Nah. Lemme put it back on.” He glanced at Fletcher as I held the arms open. “I swear, Panda Bear must have gone all the way to Italy to find this thing.”

  After smoothing the cape and raising his collar, I whispered, “Congratulations” with a kiss on the cheek.

  “I meant all I said, babe,” said Edison, brushing a lock of hair up my forehead. “Never coulda done it without you. Wouldn’ta meant nothin’ without you, either.” His hand carried down and rested on my bare shoulder. I didn’t mind my brother being affectionate, and the cats in New York had always been pally, with lots of back-clapping and hand-slapping. So it wasn’t the physicality that made me uncomfortable, but the tinge of claiming. I wasn’t sure that he’d have brushed that lock of hair or squeezed my shoulder in quite that manner if Fletcher hadn’t been watching.

  “You’ve cooked all day and haven’t eaten a thing. Let me fix you a plate of some real food.” My assembly of a square of lasagna and a pool of ratatouille from the buffet beside us probably read to Fletcher as more collusive tending between thick-as-thieves siblings, but really it was a ruse to get out from under that hand.

  “You guys sure fixed this place up,” Fletcher said behind me.

  “Yeah, we’re thinking of getting a big Turkish rug for this room,” said Edison. “Warm the pad up a little. Though Panda and I are considering a long bike trip next summer, like, following the Mississippi all the way down to the delta and back? You know anybody might want to apartment sit, lemme know.”

  “If I meet anyone looking for a room,” said Fletcher, “I’ll send them your way.”

  “Truth is, I think my sister needs more than a vacation. She’s getting antsy at Monotonous. We’ve talked about her handing over the day-to-day management to me. So she can blue-sky a little, dig? Maybe start something new.”

  “I’m surprised. You’re not going back to New York?”

  “No plans to just yet. Not unless Pandora gets it into her head to head to the city, and she’s pretty committed to this Iowa scene. Me, I’m cool with it. All those fields, the light . . . Somethin’ spiritual going down here, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “I know what you’re sayin’,” said Fletcher.

  I offered Edison his plate.

  “Whoa! You tryin’ to reverse all our hard work?”

  “I’m trying to keep you from fainting.”

  “Pandora,” said Fletcher. “Is there somewhere we could talk in private?”

  “Well . . . sure, I suppose.”

  Edison looked wary. “You be nice to her. This is as much my sister’s party as it is mine.”

  “I’ll be nice to her,” said Fletcher, though I wondered if that wasn’t what Edison was afraid of.

  Taking my cake and wine, I led Fletcher to my bedroom with apprehension. Since his arrival I’d seized on his every casual remark that might indicate we had a future. But this was a man who’d announced in no uncertain terms that he wanted a divorce. He’d only come tonight because of an old, rash, silly wager, not because of me. I was loath to relive that rejection while collecting dirty plates, ending this of all evenings in tears.

  I put the refreshments on my bedside table, where Fletcher also slid his killer square of humble cake. Closing the door felt oddly outré, though technically we were still married. I perched on the edge of the bed. Fletcher pulled up a chair opposite.

  “Are you really going to keep living with your brother? Bike the Mississippi, go into business together?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have any plans at the moment.”

  “Your brother sure does.”

  “I’ve been very focused on the completion of this undertaking. On which I officially signed off only twenty minutes ago.”

  “Well, whatever you decide to do . . .” Fletcher kneaded his hands and looked at the floor. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  I waited. Fletcher may have been a man of few words, but this cryptic apology was insufficient. “Sorry for what?”

  “You’ve been in a bubble with him. I haven’t been able to get in. All the in-jokes about Joint Custody. A whole hunk of your life I don’t have access to . . .”

  “Everyone has a childhood.”

  “I didn’t. Not like yours. What you’re always saying, and you’re right: I don’t know what it’s like to have a sibling. Far as I can tell, it’s like all the good stuff of a marriage and none of the crap.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty of crap. And some of the good stuff is missing.”

  “But you’ve seemed so happy here—despite what Cody says, since I can see right through her. Even happier—than with me.”

  “That’s because I’ve had a project. A sense of purpose.” Strains of Edison and Cody’s piano duet of “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother” filtered through the door.

  “Don’t you have a sense of purpose with me?”

  “Can we get this straight? What are you saying?”

  “He’s a new man. Not only the weight. He actually seems—a little less annoying. I thought you were being selfish. But it was the opposite of selfish. I should never have punished you for your own generosity.”

  It’s a rare business when any woman gets exactly what she wants to hear from a man, but a grudge was nagging. “Back in April, when we met at Java Joint. Why were you so withholding, when I’d stinted with those crummy envelopes for months? Why couldn’t you at least bring yourself to say, ‘Looking good!’?”

  “Because you weren’t looking good,” he said readily.

  “Great.”

  “You were too thin! You looked pale and weak and you scared me half to death. Honest to God, I almost said something admiring, more than once, and stopped myself. I was afraid any compliment might have encouraged you to get even thinner.”

  “I thought . . . you were miffed because you couldn’t feel superior to me anymore.”

  “Superior! You’ve started a runaway successful company from nothing. You know my carpentry runs at a loss. It isn’t even called a business when it doesn’t make money. It’s a hobby—ask the IRS. As for the cycling, and trying to get a grip on what I eat—well, I’ve lost my hair, haven’t I? I’ve got kind of a weird face, and you’re the only woman who’s ever thought I was good-looking. I’ve been trying to be good enough for you. Slow the rot.”

  “The nutritional fascism has been a big power trip, with me and the kids both, and you know it. Still, why have you always poured cold water over this whole thing with Edison, when by your own lights it should have been an effort you applauded?”

  “Maybe I was a little unnerved by your beating me at my own game. Along with beating me at everything else. Fitness, a healthy lifestyle—it’s all I’ve got.”

  “Oh, it is not. Your furniture is gorgeous.”

  “Then why do I stockpile most of it?”

  “We should probably work harder to get you into some of those big shows on the East Coast.”

  “So do you mean . . . ?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Again, you are saying what?”

  “Want me to spell it out?”

  I nodded, although I appreciated that his evasiveness was not springing from presumption or pride, but anxiety. The trouble with direct questions is that they solicit direct answers, one of which could always be “no.”

  He reached for my hand, and the difference between this touch and Edison’s, the extra charge, was a shock. “I asked you once before, but you weren’t finished, and I understand that now. Please come home.”

  “What’s changed? Is it Tanner?”

  “Partly. He’s my only son. I thought your family had ruined him.”

  “You should have more faith in both of us.”

  “B
ut I guess the main thing that’s changed . . . Well, the year. The whole interminable year you said you’d be gone.” He raised his eyebrows. “It’s over.”

  We weren’t discovered in flagrante delicto, but merely kissing fully clothed. Even if we had been nakedly entwined, it was my bedroom, and I was lying with my legal husband, which doesn’t rank as a transgression anywhere I know.

  “Excuse me,” said Edison coldly. “Corcoran and Novacek are leaving, and I thought you might want to say goodbye.” He closed the door with a sharp report of reproach.

  When we emerged well over an hour later—you can imagine we had a lot to talk about, including how weird that intrusion had been—I was surprised to open the door to an uncanny quiet. Most of the guests must have cleared off, though it was just past eleven p.m. The gathering had been so jubilant; I couldn’t imagine what had driven them home. Though Edison’s computer wouldn’t have run through its packed playlist, the speakers were silent.

  Anxious to conceal from Edison that Fletcher had reneged on dispatching the whole of his lenient portion of cake, I crept with our plates to the kitchen, where the dishwasher was already churning. Cody and Oliver were rinsing and stacking the remaining china—cautiously resting plates so they didn’t rattle, like harried parents who’d barely managed to put a baby to sleep. Wrapped leftovers still sat on the counter, and as I jigsaw-puzzled them into the fridge Cody shot me a look I couldn’t decipher.

  “I can’t imagine how Edison will get through all this food,” I said. Softly spoken, my remark rang jarringly loud, and I was left with the odd impression that this had been the wrong thing to say.

  “Done what I can do, so I’m heading off,” said Oliver. “And, listen, tomorrow?” He, too, gave me a look, brimming with a mysterious sympathy. “Call me.”

  Intending to give Tanner a hand with collecting the last glasses, I walked into the living room—where Fletcher was standing stock-still, lips parted, as if mesmerized by the gruesome climax of a horror movie.