The Other Brother

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  But then silence returned to the table. And that, it would appear, was that.

  • • •

  To my surprise, when the boys picked up their empty plates to bring into the kitchen, Denny did as well. And when, once in the kitchen, the boys asked if I needed them to help with the cleanup and I told them to just go play, when Denny similarly asked if I needed help, I told him he was free to go too. I counted it a good thing, however shocking, that he was so contrite following our discussion. But it didn’t mean I wanted him underfoot every second, trying to prove to me how wrong I’d been about him.

  Besides, it was a really small kitchen.

  As I turned on the water faucet, I nearly jumped as I felt two strong arms snake around my waist from behind.

  “You’re not going to send me away to play too, are you?” Jack said. “Especially since I’d rather play here.” I felt his lips kissing my neck. “There hasn’t been enough of this lately, has there? Not by half.”

  I turned in his arms, kissing him.

  He was right. And oh, how I’d missed this.

  I got so caught up in the sensations of the moment, I only dimly registered the sound of someone knocking on the beachside door.

  “I should get that,” I murmured.

  “No, you shouldn’t,” Jack said, going back to kissing me.

  When more knocking came, I said, “Well, someone should.”

  “Doesn’t mean it has to be you.”

  More kissing until, at last, I extricated myself. “I’ll be right back,” I promised, laughing.

  When I walked into the living area, I saw Denny standing in the doorway. He only had the door open as wide as his slender body, so I couldn’t see who he was talking to, standing on the step below him.

  But I did hear him ask, “Do you need us to bring anything?” This was followed almost immediately by, “Right, then,” and he closed the door.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Some bloke. Said he was your neighbor. Seems like a nice chap.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Oh. Right. He invited us all to a small party at his place tomorrow, said it was in celebration of some holiday.”

  I could barely contain my surprise. “And you said yes?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, we have to get out sometime, don’t we?”

  • • •

  Later on, after Jack and I had taken a trip upstairs to the master bedroom, and after we’d finally finished with the dishes, we were sitting on the porch, snuggled up close. We’d eaten so early that darkness was still a good ways off as we watched the boys play with their friends. As we sat there, a figure came around the side of the house. It was Denny.

  We watched as he strode off in the sand in his blinding-white T-shirt and sailor pants. He didn’t have on sunglasses or a hat as he made his slow way perpendicular to the water, the wind whipping his clothes. The beach was still crowded at that time of early evening, and people did stop whatever they were doing and stared as he passed, but no one approached him.

  “What’s he doing?” Jack asked as Denny slowed his pace and then slowed it yet more.

  After two weeks cooped up, and having accepted Biff’s invitation, apparently Denny was ready to be out and about.

  “I think he’s hoping to be noticed,” I said, puzzled. “You’d think he’d want to get away from all that.”

  Or at least I would, based on what Denny had said.

  “Not really,” Jack said. “I think it must be like a drug for him at this point. Once you’ve had that, how can you ever want anything else?”

  I turned to look at my husband. “Do you ever wish that life was yours?”

  Jack seemed stunned by the question. “Why would I?” He gazed back at me. “I have you, don’t I?”

  Whenever we’d gone over to Biff and Marsha’s in the past, I’d dressed casually. But since Biff had told Denny this was supposed to be some sort of celebration, I took a little more care with my appearance that day. I even bothered to put on some makeup. When I finally came downstairs, Denny didn’t tell me I looked fetching like he usually did. Jack was there, standing beside him, and when Jack whistled, Denny did raise his eyebrows in appreciation.

  Normally when Jack and I went anywhere with the boys, the boys walked between us. But this time Denny did, a boy each on the other side of Jack and me. It felt oddly as though, with this his first social venture out and in the absence of his own bodyguards, he needed some sort of protection.

  The day was the hottest we’d seen, and, despite having expected the party to be out of doors, as we approached the house, the only people outside were a man in chef’s clothing manning a pig on a spit and other similarly garbed workers at grilling stations.

  The railings surrounding the deck were festooned with red, white, and blue bunting, and the sounds coming from the house were loud. Biff had told Denny it would just be a small party.

  I would have just walked right in, but Denny raised a fist to knock. Before he could make contact with the wood, however, the door was flung open and Biff was standing there. I got the strange sensation he might have been standing at a window, watching for our approach.

  “Ah! You made it!” he said.

  Biff kissed me on the cheek, and he and Jack did that hearty combined handshake with simultaneous clap on each other’s shoulders that men so seem to enjoy.

  Turning to the boys, Biff said, “The kids’ party is down in the basement. You know the way.”

  Perhaps saving the best for last, Biff held out his hand to Denny. “You must be Denny. I don’t believe I told you my name yesterday. I’m Biff.”

  As I said, Biff had told Denny it was to be a small party, and on our previous visits here, it had always been that way. It was either just the two couples and our kids, or maybe another couple too. At most, there might be a dozen people. But now, seeing the legions of adults behind Biff, it struck me that the only way this gathering could be deemed small would be if small were somehow a synonym for Gatsbyesque. Perhaps, after Denny had accepted the invitation, Biff just happened to call up a few more people to invite over? I bet Denny got that a lot.

  “Thank you for having me,” Denny said formally, shaking Biff’s hand.

  “Get you a drink?” Biff offered.

  “That would be most refreshing, thanks,” Denny said.

  Biff was only gone for a moment, returning with an opened bottle of beer, which he handed to Denny.

  Denny took a sip, gave an appreciative smile at the label. “Ah. The King of Beers, isn’t it?”

  Biff stared at Denny and then he burst out laughing.

  “Wait ’til I tell Marsha—the King of Beers! Marsha’s my wife. She’s always ragging on me about—well, you’ll see when you meet her.”

  And then we just stood there.

  I don’t know what I expected. For Biff to be so impressed with Denny that he’d glue himself to his side, showing Denny off to all his friends? Whatever the case, that’s not what happened. Instead, Biff turned to Jack.

  “Hey, Jack. Show you something out back?”

  “Of course.”

  Biff and Jack peeled off, Biff turning around just long enough to call back to Denny, “Please, make yourself at home.”

  “Oh, I shall.” Denny raised his Budweiser in salute.

  And so it fell to me to tend to Denny.

  Where were Matt and Walter when you needed them?

  • • •

  No matter how hard people tried to behave as though they weren’t looking, it was impossible not to be aware of all the pairs of eyes, watching us. Denny seemed not to pay it any mind at all. I don’t know how he did that, frankly. It was driving me crazy. I kept wondering if my panty lines were showing unattractively, kept trying to remember if I’d brushed my teeth. I read once that Queen Elizabeth never eats anything at those massive garden parties she throws for fear people will see her with spinach caught in her fro
nt teeth, and I could see where that would be so. I’d never been the focus of so much attention in my life, and, even though I knew it wasn’t really meant for me, just being by Denny’s side made me get hit with it.

  “Ghastly stuff,” Denny whispered out of the corner of his mouth, setting the beer bottle down on a side table. Then, a little louder: “Introduce me around, won’t you?”

  I felt his hand at the small of my back, steering me into the room. It was such a small and common gesture and yet such an intimate one too. It had been a long time since anyone other than Jack had touched the small of my back just so.

  If I’d been asked in advance about what I thought Denny would be like in a large social gathering, I’d have said two things. I’d have said I expected him to be mobbed—after all, I’d seen the pictures of him in mags, seen the most famous one in which two fans had each grabbed an end of his long scarf, hoping for a souvenir, conveniently forgetting about his neck being in between and practically strangling him to death in the process; I knew that everywhere he went people wanted to touch him, talk to him, offer to have wild sex with him; I knew that, no matter how hard a time I’d given him about his entourage, he really did need those two bodyguards most of the time. And the other thing I’d have said? It would be that his conversational style would be completely self-absorbed, as it had been back at Easter when he couldn’t stop nattering on and on about his accomplishments in Malaysia.

  So what was the difference between expectation and reality?

  As I said, this being Westport, people hung back. Even the women, most of whom looked like they were practically wetting themselves.

  When I introduced him to Marsha first—she was, after all, our hostess—she coolly extended an elegant hand. “Jack’s brother, right? How lovely to meet you. Here, let me get you both drinks. Mona, I know you’re always white wine. And you.” She turned to Denny. “I believe I saw you with a Budweiser?”

  I half expected Denny to ask for something else, but he just smiled and said, “That would be grand.”

  When Marsha returned with our drinks, Denny took a sip of his beer and smiled. “Delightful, that,” he said.

  Marsha gave him a brisk nod, and then she focused her attention strictly on me, talking about the boys or anything else that came into her head. I noticed her smile looked incredibly strained, desperate almost, and realized she was torn: what she really wanted to be doing was staring at Denny—he was so close to her! she could touch him again! make sure he was really there!—but she didn’t want to come off as being like any common fan. Such a dilemma.

  At last, her talking led her to her favorite topic to gripe about: au pairs.

  I let her go on for a bit, but then, worrying Denny must be getting bored, I thought to interject with something, only Denny beat me to it, speaking for the first time since he’d graciously thanked her for the Budweiser.

  “Oh, it’s just a terrible problem,” he commiserated. “I can remember, when my three were younger, it was so hard finding anyone reliable who would stay for very long and certainly not twenty-four seven, which is what you really want in an au pair. For some reason, they all actually want to have their own lives too.”

  “Yes!” Marsha said, finally looking at him with a smile of relief. “Thank you!”

  “But you know what I’ve learned over the years? If you don’t mind my saying?”

  “Please, do.”

  “It’s that you really do get from anything what you put into it.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Pay your workers a spectacular wage. Not a minimum one. Not even a good one. A spectacular one. Always be clear about exactly what you require of them, but treat them with politeness and respect. Beyond that, find out what the single most important motivation for them is. Perhaps it’s education for a child back home in their native country? Maybe they worry that when they’re too old or sick to work, they’ll wind up living on the streets. Set up accounts, make those things happen.”

  When Denny had first started talking, Marsha’s eyes had narrowed as though she thought he might be having her on. But as he continued, her expression changed, and in the end, she merely looked stunned.

  “You know,” she said, “I never thought of it like that.”

  “Not many do.”

  “But you’re right. We do have the resources…”

  “Obviously.” Denny looked appreciatively at the well-appointed room.

  “You know, I’m going to try what you suggested.”

  “Excellent. Let others exploit the masses.” He pointed the neck of his beer bottle at her. “You be different.”

  In the brief time I’d known her, Marsha had never simpered before, but she was doing it now.

  “Yes…well…thanks…don’t let me monopolize you…would you care for another drink?”

  He winked—I saw Marsha practically puddle at this simple gesture—and pointed his bottle at her again. “This one’s still fresh, thanks.”

  I proceeded to introduce Denny, one by one, to everyone else I knew there. But after Marsha, instead of waiting for a conversational gambit, as he had with her, he took the offensive. He asked people what they did or about their children. He managed to find out what interested people most and then proceeded to talk about that very thing, knowledgeably. Investing, books, film, social and political issues, food, fashion—on all those topics and more, he offered advice and insight. The only things he didn’t talk about were music or himself. And all that time, I just stayed by his side, watching him, listening.

  Denny was so surprisingly good at talking to people.

  He was more than just a nuisance now. He was actually interesting.

  I never felt like an adult until I had kids. Jack and I had talked about this phenomenon and how, even after, we felt sometimes as though we were playing some version of emotional dress-up, kids wearing adult clothing. Denny had the capacity to come across like this too, but unlike us, there were times like now when he seemed not just adult, but super adult. And it wasn’t simply a matter of sophistication: knowing how to order from a French menu, in French, or which fabrics were best for a particular article of clothing. It was as though he were constantly making decisions, living a life on a plane wholly different than the rest of us, no matter how old we might be in calendar years.

  Which brought us to the oldest guest there: Biff’s grandfather, Frank. I’d met Frank on just one other occasion and found him to be a rather clear talker for his years, which Biff put at close to a hundred. Frank was seated in a Queen Anne chair, his cane between his knees. After I had introduced them, rather than remain standing, Denny settled down on the floor across from Frank so that now the older gentleman had the height advantage.

  “I know that name,” Frank said, puzzling over it. “Denny Springer…Say! You’re that singing guy, aren’t you?”

  It was the first time anyone there had acknowledged outright that Denny might be something more than just another guest.

  “That’s right,” Denny said. “I’m that singing guy.”

  Frank leaned forward, lowering his voice.

  “Is there any money in that?” he asked.

  “There can be.”

  “I wasn’t looking for generalities,” Frank said testily. “I was asking about you.”

  “Well, I don’t have as much as Paul. Do you know who Paul McCartney is?”

  “Of course I know who Paul McCartney is! Do I look stupid? Uninformed, perhaps?”

  “No, of course not. You look neither. As I was saying, I don’t have as much as Paul McCartney. But then, no one does, right? I mean, some people think Paul’s an idiot, but behind that moon face is a steel trap of a business mind. Outside of him though? I do OK. I suppose I have more money than anyone else.”

  In the room? I wondered. In the world?

  “I hope you’re investing it wisely,” Frank said. “Real estate’s the way to go.”

  “Oh,
I am.”

  “That’s good.” Frank nodded briskly. Then: “Where are your holdings?”

  “Oh, gosh.” Denny sighed, totting it all up. “Let’s see…Houses in London, France, St. Croix, and Los Angeles, then there’s the apartment I keep in New York…”

  “How big?”

  “The whole floor of course. Well, you don’t want neighbors too close if you can help it, do you?”

  “No, you most certainly don’t!” Frank laughed, showing teeth just this side of wooden. “That’s good you’ve got all those holdings, wise to invest. After all, you can’t be doing what you’re doing now forever, right?”

  “How’s that?”

  “All that rock-and-roll stuff, all that jumping around—you can’t do that into your sixties or, worse, when you’re my age, can you?”

  I thought Frank had that part wrong. Why couldn’t Denny go on being Denny forever? The idea that he might one day stop—it saddened me. Sure, if he went on past his prime, he ran the risk of becoming a laughingstock, but he’d already stayed current far longer than most bands, with each generation finding he had something to offer them. So why not go on with it forever? If he did it right…

  I expected Denny to make the same arguments out loud that I was making in my own head, but instead:

  “No,” he said, sounding wistful. “I suppose that’s exactly true.” He was quiet for a moment, and then he shook his head as though brushing thoughts away, smiled up at Frank. “What can I get you to drink, Frank? Are you having Budweiser?”

  There was such a gulf between this Denny—kind, solicitous, interested in other people—and the self-absorbed, Malaysia-nattering prat he’d been at his parents’ house. But then I thought: perhaps Denny was only self-absorbed around family? After all, don’t we all, in a way, reserve our worst selves for the people who love us most?

  • • •

  I felt an arm around my shoulders and looked to my right to see Jack standing between me and Denny, his arms around both our shoulders.

  “How’re my favorite wife and brother doing?” Jack asked jovially.

  By definition, we had to be his least favorite too, but I saw little purpose in pointing that out.