by Blake Crouch
They were married under one of the four concrete picnic shelters that surrounded the pond. The guests sat at picnic tables. I mean, they tried to decorate the place with flowers and ribbons and such, but it still looked like a bomb shelter.
Afterward, they had their wedding pictures made (you guessed it) under that decrepit gazebo, and my father and his three brothers grilled hamburgers and hotdogs for everyone. A very classy ceremony all around. The bride and groom spent their honeymoon in Myrtle Beach, if that means anything to you.
The only reason I even care to mention it, is because my brother was there.
Though I’m Bo’s big brother (by four years), we have one of those relationships where the younger brother feels more like the older brother. What I’m saying is, he’s done a lot more with his life than I have with mine. He was married a few years ago, and now has a three-year-old boy. Bo’s highly intelligent, too. I don’t know what he does for a living, but I’m sure he makes gobs of money. And he’s a genuinely nice guy. For instance, listen to what he did at that wedding I was telling you about. During the reception, instead of mingling with our family, he came down to the edge of the dried-up pond where I’d been sitting since the ceremony ended, avoiding people, as my mother would say. He asked me if I wanted to take a walk on the hiking paths, just the two of us. I said all right, and we spent the next hour strolling through the woods of Lakewood Park. I even remember what we talked about. Mostly, we laughed about the Worst Wedding in the World and how funny it was that he’d come all the way from the Pacific Ocean to witness this piece of shit.
Bo never asked me why I still lived with Mom and Dad. He never even told me I should get my own place or anything. And man he hates Mom and Dad.
Instead, he told me all about living in Seattle, and how it rained “every fucking day.” Just like I was a regular guy.
If you asked me to tell you when I was happiest, I would probably say it was that afternoon with my little brother. I mean, have you ever been around someone, and you know they just take you as is? That even if they could change you for the better, they wouldn’t do it?
It’s kind of like that with Bo.
The first thing that passes through my mind when the jet touches down on the runway of LAX is, I’m twenty miles from James Jansen’s home. It looks like the tarmac of any other airport from my first class window, but the feel of this city, the sprawl of 10 p.m. light and the mansions and studios and activity they suggest, fills me with energy. As the pilot welcomes us to Los Angeles, local time 10:02 p.m., temp. 81 degrees, I can hardly sit still.
All I can think is I am home now. I’m home.
It’s after 11:00 when I pay the cab fare and walk through the grass of my brother’s lawn toward the front porch. His street is a quiet one. Sprinklers water neighboring yards with a soothing hush. I hear crickets. There aren’t too many trees from what I can tell, and the air smells dry and sharp.
The lights are still on inside his bungalow. Three cars in the driveway. Laughter escapes through the open windows.
I step onto the front porch, and I’ll be honest, I’m nervous. Sort of wish I’d let Bo know I was coming. Instead of knocking on the door right away, I set my luggage down on the planked porch and take a seat on the bench.
I pick out four distinct voices coming from a room which I cannot see from the porch. Bo, another man, and two women. I’ll bet one of them is his wife. I guess that’s what you do on a Friday night when you’re married: have friends over who are married, about the same age as you, and sit and laugh in the kitchen over drinks while your child sleeps. Seems a very safe, suburban thing to do.
I eavesdrop on their conversation. It’s not terribly interesting. One of the women is talking about how she got stuck in traffic for five hours the other day, and that she was so bored, she sat on the hood of her car and read an entire book. I know that sounds interesting, but the way she tells it is actually pretty dull. You can tell she thinks it’s a really neat story. I have to stop listening when she says, “And there I am, sitting on the hood of my car at four in the afternoon on the 105, getting a tan and reading a novel!” God, I hope that’s his friend’s wife.
I wait on his porch for a long time. Finally, after midnight, I stand up since it doesn’t seem like those two couples are ever going to say goodnight, and knock on the door. That’s one thing I’ll say for myself—I’m not a timid knocker.
I hear Bo say, “Who in the world could that be?” and I feel guilty again for not calling him this afternoon.
My heart really thumps as I hear approaching footsteps on the hardwood floor. I stand very tall and straight and remove my sunglasses. The door swings open. Bo and I stand two feet apart, and man do his eyes get wide.
“Lancer!” Oh yeah, he calls me Lancer. I don’t know why, but I don’t mind. No one else calls me that. No one else really calls me anything. “What are you doing here, man?” he says, but he doesn’t say it mean. Just very excited and curious, and I suppose it’s a reasonable question to ask someone who’s knocked on your door after midnight. He has liquor on his breath and this disappoints me, though I’m not sure why.
I don’t say anything, because I don’t really know what to say. I just step forward and embrace my brother. He hugs me back, and God it feels good.
“You look great,” he tells me. And I do. It’s true.
“You, too,” I say, but he doesn’t really. He’s put on some weight. He isn’t I-have-to-be-lifted-out-of-my-house-with-a-crane fat. Just, married with one kid fat. Comfortable fat. Suburban fat. We don’t look anything alike. I’m definitely much handsomer than Bo. I’m not saying he’s ugly or anything. But no one’s mistaking him for a movie star.
“Come in,” he says, and I lift my two suitcases off the porch and walk inside.
He has a very succinct bungalow that has most certainly benefited from the touch of a woman. Right off, as we walk through the foyer toward the kitchen, I notice these pieces of tribal art. I don’t know if they’re really tribal, but when I see a stone carving of a guy holding a spear, my first thought is, Look at that strange tribal art.
Bo looks so different. He’s wearing corduroy pants, leather sandals, and a cream-colored linen shirt that is not tucked in. I guess he’s going for the whole I’m-on-a-safari look. I’m Hugo Bossing it of course. He has brown hair like mine, though not as thick and luxurious. Plus, he’s only six feet tall and wears glasses. The only glasses I wear are my deep dark shades.
A man and two women are sitting around a kitchen table. There’s a candle, a half-empty bottle of Patron, four clear glasses.
“Guys,” he says as we enter the small, bright kitchen which smells like scrambled eggs, “Meet my brother, Lance.”
Everybody says hi Lance, and I say hi everybody.
Bo’s holding my right arm above the elbow, and he starts pointing at people.
“Lance, this is Nick.”
“Hi, Nick.”
“His wife, Maggie.”
“Hi, Maggie.”
“Hi, Lance. Wow, has anyone ever told you you look like James Jansen?”
“No, why? Do I?”
“A lot.”
Bo says, “And finally, meet Hannah, my wife.”
I haven’t shaken anybody’s hand yet, but I figure I’d better hug my sister-in-law, so I set my suitcases down and she rises and we embrace.
“I wish I could’ve come to your wedding,” I say. And I really do. I just didn’t have money to fly out to California four years ago.
“It’s so good to meet you, Lance. Bo talks about you all the time.”
I sort of doubt that. But I guess you have to say that sort of thing if you’re my new sister-in-law. I’m sorry to say she’s the avid traffic jam reader. She’s very shapely and brown, her hair black.
The downside of my arrival is that I think I break up their little party, because Nick and Maggie stand and say they should probably be getting back to Davie. I really hope Davie’s their dog, because anyone who
would name a child Davie deserves to die.
I have to pee like you wouldn’t believe, so before Bo and Hanna walk their suburban friends out to the car, Bo shows me the way to the bathroom. On the way, he tells me to be quiet because Sam is sleeping. I can’t wait to meet Sam. He’s my nephew.
Chapter 11
Hannah prepares him a room ~ chats with Bo on the deck ~ sees his sleeping nephew ~ Ani the Anteater ~ breakfast with the Dunkquists ~ recalls their annual trips to N. Myrtle Beach and the hurricane ~ rents a Hummer ~ takes a drive and beholds the Valley
When I emerge from the bathroom, I’ve washed my face, brushed my teeth, and changed into a pair of plaid pajamas. Hannah has carried my luggage into the guest bedroom at the end of the hall, laid out clean linens, and turned back the comforter. After three nights in that shithole in the Bronx, this room looks cozy and inviting.
I tell Hannah thank you very much for letting me impose on them, and she says it’s no trouble at all, but I kind of wonder if she’s just being hospitable.
Bo went and married a beautiful woman. She’s wearing these Capri pants and a little white tank top with no bra. I know you aren’t supposed to notice such attributes on your brother’s wife, but man she’s got these gazongas like you wouldn’t believe.
Hannah tells me again that she’s really glad to meet me, which practically assures me that she isn’t, and then says it’s time for her to turn in.
After she’s gone, I unpack my suitcase since I’ll probably be staying awhile. I don’t feel like going to sleep yet, so I tiptoe out into the hallway and make my way back to the kitchen.
Bo’s clearing dishes from the dining room table.
“Want a hand with that?” I ask.
“No, I’ll wash them tomorrow.”
I sit down at the breakfast table. The glasses of tequila are still there, and I can smell that sweet Mexican liquor.
“You want a drink, Lance?” he asks.
“No thanks.”
He clears all of the glasses except one, and fills it about two inches high.
I follow him out the back door.
Their neighborhood truly lies on the outskirts of Altadena. From the small deck, I can see beyond their fenced backyard. The town ends here. No question. Black hills rise in the distance. I wonder what this place will look like in the morning.
We sit down in these highly suburban lawn chairs and Bo takes a sip of tequila.
“It’s beautiful here,” I say, though I can’t really tell. Just seems like the right thing to say at the moment. “And Hannah, she’s very sweet.”
He touches the back of my head, ruffles my hair.
“Been a long time, hasn’t it?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Why are you here, Lance?”
“I quit my job.”
“Really? What’d you do?”
“I was a legal assistant. Also, I’d had enough of living in that house with Mom and Dad.”
“I can understand that.”
“I should’ve called first, Bo. I’m sorry. I really am.”
“You don’t ever have to call me, man. You just fuckin’ show up. This is your house, too. You all right on money?”
“Yeah, of course.” The truth is my treasury has been greatly depleted, down to around $15K.
I look over at him, the crickets chirping, a coyote yapping somewhere in all that darkness. He sips tequila. You ought to see the way he smiles at me.
With some people, I’d feel compelled to tell them the story I’ve decided upon—how I’ve come out to LA to stay for awhile. I would want to ask them if it was all right to stay in their house until I found a job, a place to live. Not with Bo. The thing about Bo, which I’m now remembering, is he lives in the moment. He could give a shit about why I’m here. Right now, all that matters to him, is it’s a lovely night, and he’s sipping tequila, and his brother is beside him. At least I hope he feels this way.
We sit outside for awhile. Sometimes, there’s so much to say you can’t say any of it. It kind of feels like that tonight. After awhile, Bo struggles to his feet and whispers, “I want to show you something.”
I follow him back into the house, and we creep barefooted down the hallway, into a dark room with toys all over the floor.
We stop at the foot of a tiny bed. A darkhaired little boy sleeps with his blanket and a toy robot, thumb in mouth, breathing delicately.
I feel Bo’s lips near my ear.
“That’s your nephew, Sam,” he whispers. “He’s three, and I’ve told him all about you.”
I wake with the sun, but I lie in bed for a long time, listening to the movements of Bo’s family in the kitchen. Little Sam is awake. I think he’s having breakfast because Hannah keeps telling him to finish his oatmeal. But he’s more interested in somebody named Ani the Anteater who sounds a lot like Bo and talks in a highly inflective voice about counting, learning the alphabet, and eating ants. Sam has been begging Bo all morning: “Pease do Ani! Again, Daddy! Ani!” Sam knows his letters all the way up to C. I know it’s not very impressive, but he’s only three. I’m sure he’s trying his best.
Since I’m only Lance under this roof, I climb out of bed and don’t bother changing into my suit yet. The first thing I do is walk over to the window and open the blinds. I see a swing set, a picnic table, and an inflated aquamarine-colored swimming pool sitting half-full in the blazing morning sun. There are no trees. A couple miles beyond the fence, there are sage-covered hills. It’s Saturday. A chorus of lawnmowers already in full voice.
I walk down the hall into the kitchen. Bo is fixing breakfast. I smell eggs and sausage and even grits. We all exchange good mornings and did I sleep okay, and yes, beautifully. Sam is curious and shy of me. I sit down at the breakfast table across from his highchair. He’s exceptionally cute, but I guess you have to be cute at three, otherwise, you’ve got a pretty rough time ahead of you.
Bo sets a cup of black coffee in front of me and a plate of food. We eat together. It’s a comfortable meal. Bo and I eat grits. Hannah doesn’t. Sam becomes increasingly fussy.
I find out that Bo now designs video games for a living. Hannah is a psychologist, and fuck, I get a little nervous about that. I don’t know how you could live with one of those people. All the time, they’re studying you, figuring out all the things that are wrong with your brain. I’ll have to watch out for her. She’s probably already got me pegged. I mean, I don’t exactly know the details, but I’m fairly confident I’m fucked up on a whole range of levels. But that’s the thing about people—no matter what anyone says, they never think they’re crazy. I guess to be really crazy, you can’t know that you’re crazy. It’s kind of funny if you think about it.
We get to talking about our childhood, and you can tell that Hannah is pretty interested to hear what her husband was like as a boy. I tell her that Sam looks just like Bo when he was little, because you know parents love to hear stuff like that.
Then I tell about the vacations we used to take to North Myrtle Beach every August, the week before school started back, how we’d stay in the same motel every year. It was called the Windjamer, and though it wasn’t oceanfront, you only had to cross two streets to reach the beach. I can’t really tell if it bothers Bo to hear me talk about this stuff. He isn’t the biggest fan of Mom and Dad. But just when I think I’m making him uncomfortable, he pipes in about the time we got down there and a hurricane was blowing in. Dad loved hurricanes, and while every other family was getting the hell away from the coast, Dad made us bunker down in our motel room and ride the thing out. I know it sounds pretty exciting and all, but at the time, when all that wind and rain was kicking up, Mom, Bo, and I thought we were going to die.
“I never saw so much wind,” Bo says. “Oh, and you remember when Dad walked out into the worst of it and he had to hold onto the rearview mirror so he wouldn’t get blown down the street?”
He’s smiling at me, and I think we’re having one of those moments.
&nbs
p; After breakfast, I get Bo to drive me to Exotic Car Rentals of Beverly Hills where I have a reservation for a gleaming yellow Hummer. Actually, I let him drop me at a Starbucks across the street. He shouldn’t concern himself with my need for upscale transportation.
Bo tells me he’ll pick me up in three hours (he’s going to work on a video game he’s designing), but I tell him not to worry. I’ll catch a cab back to his place.
When he’s gone, I buy a hot chocolate and cross Little Santa Monica Boulevard to the rental company and get the luxury Hummer for a week. It comes to $6,295. $895/day. $37/hour. About a penny each second.
You might think that’s excessive, but would James Jansen drive anything that had a price tag under $70,000?
I climb behind the wheel of that beautiful machine and take a drive along Mulholland, where I cruise the Santa Monica Mountains. I finally come to one of those overlooks that’s featured in practically every movie ever made about dreamful people coming to Hollywood. Usually, the scene occurs at night. We find the characters in a pivotal moment, and all of the Valley lies glittering, beautiful, and unattainable. There’ll be a tenor sax playing, or moody synthesizers. The characters will say dramatic things like, “I always wanted this” or “I never should’ve come to this city.” Crying will ensue, and hope will be lost as the lights of LA twinkle indifferently in the backdrop.
But on this bright, hot morning, with midday approaching and dust blowing across the parched ground, it holds none of that passionate, neon magic. I sit on the front bumper of my Hummer, simply registering the environment—haze, distant glimmering chrome, the fly on my hand, the silent crawl of traffic on the highways below, and the blue plate of ocean this will all fall into.
