The Other Brother

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  “—and I have to admit, I was tempted to trail her around for a bit, but no one bothered her.”

  “Where?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Where is this nirvana where you saw all these famous people not being bothered?”

  “In a bookstore in town.”

  “Huh. Must be some bookstore.”

  “It is. I even saw Patty Hearst there.”

  “Who?”

  I explained about her being an American newspaper heiress who’d been kidnapped by a guerrilla group calling themselves the Symbionese Liberation Army, after which she renamed herself Tania for a time and helped out with a bank robbery before being arrested. She wound up serving two years and then went back to being wealthy.

  “Oh. Well. If you’re going to bring up Tania…”

  “The point is, here is a notorious person, and while the bookstore clerk did make a crack after she left, something along the lines of, ‘I neglected to ask her what life was like in the closet,’ no one bothered her. As I said, I don’t think it’s like that here.”

  “Huh.” Then: “See anyone else famous?”

  “There was Linda Blair. You know, the girl whose head does a three-sixty in The Exorcist? In real life, she seems very nice and polite.”

  “Well, except for Diana Ross, none of the others you’ve mentioned are exactly hugely mobbable.”

  “Maybe so. But except for Jack, I haven’t seen anyone even verbally acknowledge that they knew who a celebrity was, not to the celebrity’s face.”

  “What do you mean, ‘except for Jack’? Jack who?”

  “Jack Springer? You know, your brother?”

  “So, what? You’re saying Jack’s been accosting celebrities?” Denny considered this. “Doesn’t really sound like the Jack I know.” A shrug. “Not that I know him all that well.”

  “No, Jack doesn’t accost celebrities! Someone else recognized him.”

  I went on to explain how our summer neighbor, Budweiser Biff, had recognized Jack right off the bat.

  Denny regarded me as though I’d lost my mind. Which, considering the lack of sleep and the down-the-rabbit-hole conversation, I thought maybe I had. “Why on earth would anyone recognize Jack? Wait. Is it because I’m his brother?”

  “No, you prat! Because of his own albums!”

  “Really? Jack puts out albums?”

  “Oh, come on. Surely, you must know that.”

  “Surely, I do not.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Because Burt and Edith never said?” He shrugged. “Certainly Jack never mentioned it. I’d have remembered if he did. I happen to have an excellent memory.” Pause. “So. What exactly does Jack do on these albums?”

  Through gritted teeth, I replied, “He sings and plays the guitar.”

  “How could I not have known this?” He seemed truly perplexed.

  “I have no idea. You did grow up together.”

  “Not really. He was thirteen when I…moved out.”

  “And all this time, you never knew he was a musician too? You never jammed together?”

  “No and no.” Then: “Speaking of Jack, where is he now?”

  “He works on his music all night in the basement, so he tends to sleep a good part of the day.”

  “Huh. I was once like that.”

  Deciding I’d had about as much of this as I could take, I moved to exit the room.

  “Where are you going?” Denny asked.

  “To start my day.”

  • • •

  When I returned fifteen minutes later, in my bateau bikini and sarong, Denny was seated in a chair at the front of the living room, staring out at the water, his large mobile phone within reach.

  “Going for a swim, are you?” he asked.

  “It would appear so.”

  “Well, you look fetching, Mona.”

  It was the second time he’d used those words that morning. Did I feel flattered by it? Honestly, how could I not? If he even meant it. But he had annoyed me so much, with his sheer obliviousness of Jack’s life, I couldn’t really enjoy it.

  “OK. Thanks,” I said, pushing the screen door out. “Make yourself at home.”

  “You know,” he stopped me, “it would never work.”

  “Excuse me?” What was he talking about?

  “Even if what you say is true, even if the people in Westport don’t bother celebrities, I can’t just move around like other people can. If anyone saw me, word would get out, and then the press would get wind I’m staying here, and then we really would get mobbed. And that would spoil the whole point of me bonding with Jack, don’t you think?”

  When I returned hours later to make lunch for the boys, well, my boys, my brother-in-law was right where I’d left him: sitting in the living area, facing the water. Only now Matt and Walter had returned, all three of them were talking loudly on their mobile phones—I suspect so they could hear their own voices over the others—and everywhere I looked, there were boxes and shopping bags, so many there was barely space for me to walk. It looked like the shopping trip had been a smashing success. In theory, some of those boxes and bags must have contained things for the bodyguards and driver, but in practice, I guessed nearly all were for Denny. As he sat amongst all his things, he looked like a hotel guest who had arrived far too early for his reservation.

  “Has Jack been down?” I asked when Denny got off the phone.

  “Been and gone,” he replied.

  “How’s that?”

  “He came down, but then there was a knock on the door, and he told me he was going sailing with a friend.”

  That must have been Budweiser Biff.

  “And he didn’t invite you to go with them?”

  “I’m sure he wanted to,” Denny said, “but my new clothes hadn’t arrived yet, and I’m not currently appropriately dressed for sailing, am I?” He didn’t add, perhaps because he’d stressed the point so much already, that he also didn’t want to be seen by people, didn’t want anyone to know he was here.

  “Yes, well, then,” I said, “how about putting your things away? I hardly know where to walk.”

  “I would, but I wasn’t sure which room was mine.”

  “Of the two smaller bedrooms, it’s the one on the right-hand side facing the water.”

  For the first time it occurred to me that while my own boys could sleep through just about anything, having Denny plus his entourage around was definitely going to put a crimp in Jack’s and my recent all-over-the-house sex life.

  When he didn’t move, I sought to prompt him along. “So, now you know which room is yours, you can go up now.” I restrained myself from making the rude shooing motion I’d seen him use with his own boys, but only just.

  “I would,” he said, “but I did check the rooms out earlier, and it would appear that the boys have a game in progress.”

  Since there was now more than one version of “the boys” in my life, it took me a minute to realize that even though he usually meant his boys when he said it, the ones he was talking about now were mine.

  “So?” I said. “Can’t you just move them across the way? Or do you need Matt and Walter to do that for you too?”

  He ignored my sarcasm. “I just don’t think they’d like it very much if I moved things, not when they’re in the middle of a game. They’ll want to make certain everything’s set up again exactly as they had it before.”

  You could have knocked me over. By far, this was the most sensitive thing I’d ever heard my brother-in-law say. And, of course, maddeningly, he was right.

  “How did you…?” I started to ask.

  “I know I haven’t spent much time with my own,” he said, “but I was a boy once.”

  That’s the thing. It was always easy for me to picture Jack as a child, I could picture the continuity of it all. But Denny? It was impossible to picture him as a little person, with a little person’s wan
ts and needs; impossible to picture him as being anything but what he was, impossible to picture what makes someone go from being similar to my boys to being the man Denny was now.

  “Right, then,” I said.

  There was the thunder of feet on the porch stairs, followed by, “Mum! Mum! What’s for lunch?”

  Then the sound of the screen yanking open and the boys nearly skidding into me. They must have seen that none of us could progress further into the room unless someone put some things away.

  “Before that,” I said, “how about you move your things around upstairs, help your uncle put away his stuff?”

  “Oh, hey, Mrs. S.,” Matt said. “Walter and I put all the groceries away. We hate intruding on someone else’s kitchen, but you weren’t around to ask. Hope you don’t mind. We just didn’t want the chicken to go bad.”

  • • •

  I stood at the foot of the stairs, listening to the noises from above: the sounds of doors and closets opening and closing as Denny and my boys did whatever they were doing, of feet pattering back and forth between the bedroom on the right, through the dayroom, to the bedroom on the left. Occasionally, Matt and Walter would pass me, coming down empty handed only to head back up again with yet more parcels. I only caught the sound of voices rarely, always it sounded like Denny, and some laughter—also only Denny. Eventually, when the living area had been emptied of all the bags and boxes, William and Harry came back down, only this time without their usual thunder. For them, they were peculiarly subdued.

  “Are we going to eat now?” William asked.

  “In a minute,” I said, heading up. “I want to check on your uncle.”

  When I got upstairs, I grabbed some towels from the linen closet. The door to the small bedroom on the right was open. Still, I tapped on it gently.

  “Hello?” I poked my head in. If anything, the room looked more crammed with stuff now than the living room had downstairs. “Have you got everything you need?”

  Denny looked around at all his clutter. “It would appear so.”

  “I thought you might like some towels,” I said, offering what I was holding. “You know, for the bath.”

  “Oh, thank you!” he said. “I’ll just put those…” He looked for a place on the dresser, but there wasn’t any, so he just held them in his hand.

  In truth, the towels were rather ratty looking—no doubt he was used to having everything plush and monogrammed in his various homes. Still, as we stood there awkwardly, he patted the top towel with one of his hands. “Very nice.”

  Then he started to remove his tie.

  What? Was he going to undress right in front of me?

  “Aren’t you coming back down for lunch?” I asked.

  “I think I’ll have a little lie-down right now,” he said, “if it’s all the same to you. It has been a bit since I last slept.”

  Considering he hadn’t slept at all the night before, it occurred to me that must be true.

  “Right, then!” I said brightly. “I’ll just leave you to it.”

  I was nearly gone when Denny’s voice stopped me. “They’re really good boys,” he observed, “aren’t they?”

  For once, I knew exactly who he was talking about.

  “Yes,” I said, “they are. The best.”

  “They’re so well-behaved.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But they’re also incredibly quiet. Are they always like that?”

  Only around you, I wanted to respond but didn’t.

  Instead, I said, “Enjoy your rest,” and gently closed the door behind me.

  • • •

  “Boss not coming down?” Walter asked.

  “He said he wanted to sleep for a bit.”

  “Right.”

  I watched as Matt and Walter arranged the furniture as it had been when I first came down in the morning to find them sleeping.

  “You don’t want any lunch?” I said. “You’re going to sleep in the middle of the day too?”

  “We always sleep when Boss sleeps,” Matt said.

  “We like, whenever possible, to be awake whenever he’s awake,” Walter added. “You know, in case he needs us for anything.”

  It was like having a baby. I remembered, when I was pregnant with William, other mothers who had gone before me advised, “No matter what else you think needs doing, sleep when the baby sleeps. It’ll never be as often as you’d like, and you’ll need it.”

  Well, except for this morning, when Matt and Walter had been asleep but Denny not. Still, Walter had specified, “whenever possible”…

  “What’s for lunch?” Harry called.

  I went to the kitchen. The counters were overflowing with whole-grain rolls and fruit, and when I opened the fridge, it was stocked full to overflowing too. At the front of the top shelf was a large plastic container with something green inside it.

  “Looks like it’s some form of gazpacho,” I called back.

  Well, at least I wouldn’t have to heat it.

  • • •

  With the boys gone back to play with their friends, Jack off sailing, and Denny and the other boys sleeping, I found myself at loose ends. For the first time since coming to Westport, I felt restless, unsure what to do with myself. I couldn’t go to the dayroom upstairs to read, as I did most afternoons, not with Denny in the next room; I wasn’t comfortable reading in the living area with Matt and Walter snoring away; and I didn’t want to go out in the sun—half a day outside each day was plenty. So I retired to the master bedroom with a book, feeling something of a prisoner in my own home.

  The boys came thundering in about three p.m., looking for their mid-afternoon snack, but all the noise they made failed to rouse the slumbering bodyguards, nor did Denny come down. For snacks, I usually gave William and Harry whatever leftovers there were from the food the adults had eaten with cocktails the night before, but I found a package of whole-grain organic cookies on the counter. There was a sticky note attached, the handwriting all but illegible, but at last I made out the query: Perhaps William and Harry would like these? I figured Matt or Walter must have put that there when they were stowing the groceries away.

  I expected the boys to balk at those cookies—they looked rather dry and unyielding to me—but Harry declared them, “The best chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever had!” and William added, “Can we always get these carob things?”

  Jack returned at some point, looking newly sunburned after a day out on the water, but after a fast, if cheerfully buzzed, greeting, he retreated to the basement to work on a new song idea he’d had, something to do with a seagull.

  As the sky began to darken, day thinking about turning to night, my own thoughts turned toward supper. I was on my way to the kitchen when there came a knock at the porch door. I found Budweiser Biff there, six-pack in hand.

  “Marsha and I were wondering if you’d all like to come over for dinner?” he said. “We’re having a few other people over.”

  “I’d love—” I started to say, thinking how nice it would be, after a day in which I felt as though I’d been mostly on my own, to enjoy some adult company and conversation. But Denny was still asleep. What if he awoke and we were all gone? Wouldn’t that be rude? Particularly on his first full night here. As for the idea of bringing him with us, that was out. Hadn’t Denny said he didn’t want anyone to know he was here?

  “I’d love to,” I started again, “but could we have a rain check? We spend so many nights out late; not that we don’t enjoy spending time with you and Marsha, but I do think we could all do with a quiet night in and early to bed.”

  “Oh. I see.” Then, craning his neck as though trying to see into the room behind me: “Do you have company?”

  Could he hear Matt and Walter snoring behind me?

  “Why would you say that?” I asked.

  “It’s just that I saw the limo parked around back. I thought you might have a visitor.”

&nbs
p; He looked suspicious, and it occurred to me that Biff had spent the day with Jack. Hadn’t Jack said anything about his brother being here? Denny had only spoken to me about not wanting to get mobbed by people, not Jack—Jack and Denny hadn’t even seen each other since last night—and yet apparently Jack hadn’t; said anything to Biff, that is.

  “No,” I said, not really feeling as though I were lying. After all, Denny wasn’t a visitor, right? He was family.

  “OK then, here.” Biff handed me the six-pack he’d been carrying. It was Budweiser of course. “In case you get thirsty, you’ll want these.”

  • • •

  “What’s this?” William asked, looking down at his plate.

  The four of us had sat down to eat outside at the table on the porch. Even though Jack was the one who always operated the barbecue—just as it seemed that Americans loved to barbecue all summer long, I’d come to realize it was the American men who really liked to work the machinery, flipping food items right and left and acting hearty—I’d seen Jack do it enough times I’d been able to work it out for myself that night.

  “It’s Fontina-stuffed chicken,” I said, sitting down with my own plate. “Is it not OK?”

  While preparing the food for the grill, I’d briefly entertained the notion of asking Matt and Walter how to make it, if there was some special recipe I should be using. But then I figured, Fontina-stuffed chicken—that’s about as self-explanatory as it gets, right?

  William took a bite. “It’s a bit oozy inside.” He took another bite. “But yeah, it’s OK.”

  Back home, I had friends with kids who were picky eaters. And God knows Biff and Marsha’s boys were very picky. If I had money for every time I’d heard their youngest say something along the lines of, “The potato’s touching the meat! Now I can’t eat any of it!”—well…But my own two tended to be very good about food. Maybe it was that, me and Jack being travel agents and therefore always thinking about other cultures, we’d exposed them to a lot of culinary variety from a young age. I think part of it was that we mostly experimented in the comfort of our own home, so they always knew there were potential backups in the fridge, and another part was that we’d explained to them that there were people in the world that lived their lives in danger of literally starving to death every day, while the worst that might happen to them is that they’d have to wait for a few hours for the next meal to roll around.