The Other Brother

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  “Yours and Jack’s wedding,” he repeated. “OK.” Then: “What about it?”

  “You told Jack you would be his Best Man, but you never showed.”

  “That’s going back a few years,” Denny said.

  It was. Twelve to be exact. Why was I bringing this up now?

  “I believe I did send a telegram,” Denny said in his own defense.

  “You did,” I allowed. “You said you couldn’t shake the paparazzi. You said you didn’t want to ruin Jack’s big day.”

  Even after all these years, I could still remember that telegram, remember what it was like seeing those words from Jack’s brother for the first time, could practically quote it verbatim. OK, I could, and no practically about it.

  “All that’s true,” Denny said. “Naturally, if I had it all to do over, I’d do it all differently today.”

  “You would?”

  “Of course. I’d call, not telegram. There are mobile phones now.”

  Prat.

  “You also said,” and here I was directly quoting, “present to follow. The only problem is, no present ever followed.”

  “I’m sure I must have sent something.”

  “I’m equally sure you did not.”

  Oh, why, one half of my brain continued to wonder, did I have to bring this up now? Had I been nursing a grudge for so many years over something so trivial and somehow I hadn’t been aware of this feeling in myself? I’d never been much of a material person. Did it really bother me so much, the lack of a present?

  And what, I also started to wonder, was I really talking about here? Or maybe Denny was right and my behavior had something to do with the wine?

  Denny frowned. “That doesn’t sound like me at all. I’m usually very good at remembering things.” He brightened as though remembering something. “I remembered the wine, didn’t I?”

  Earlier, when Denny saw how much I enjoyed it, he’d said, “Just let me know when the case is gone, and I’ll order some more.”

  I’d thought he was mad. I wasn’t going to kill that case quickly! And order more just like that? At over nine thousand dollars a case?

  “I’m not kidding, Mona,” Denny had said.

  I had taken another sip of my wine and thought: OK. A girl could get used to that.

  “I never even asked for the bloody wine!” I half shouted now.

  “But it’s good wine, right?”

  “Yes.” I was exasperated. “It is good wine.”

  “Then what? I’m sorry I never sent a wedding present. Would you like me to get you one now?”

  I thought he might be being sarcastic—a part of me, the rational part, admitted to the other part of me that he’d have every right to be, that it would be a perfectly reasonable reaction on his part, that I was the one who was being unreasonable—but when I looked in his eyes, I saw that he wasn’t being sarcastic at all. He was totally sincere.

  “No,” I said, somehow more peeved yet. “I don’t want you to get me a wedding present now.”

  “Then what?” he asked again.

  “You just promised William, my son, that you would sing on his birthday.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But here’s the thing, Denny. It’s one thing to let down other adults, but William’s just a boy, however much he might want to grow up in some ways. And you have an unfortunate habit of making promises and then not following through.”

  “But I will follow through on this. I gave him my word.”

  “See that you do.” And then I got right up in his face. “Because if you let him down, if you hurt him, I will never forgive you.”

  • • •

  What could I do after all that? In the end, I had to take Denny’s word for it, that he’d do what he said, that he’d do right by William. What other choice did I have?

  The summer had somehow managed to divide itself into two-week chunks: the two weeks of peace before Denny’s arrival; the two weeks when he was first there, crowding the house with everything that was him. Now came the two weeks after he’d sent his entourage away, coinciding with the run-up to William’s party.

  It was a busy time. It was a quiet time.

  Busy, because Marsha and I were working together on planning William’s big bash.

  And quiet, because I was mostly alone.

  Like other templates that had been set that summer, after the night of playing together in the basement, Jack and Denny continued with that practice. But after that first night, I didn’t go down with them. I didn’t ask, and they didn’t say, but somehow I felt as though I’d be intruding now. They also sometimes had sessions during the day. In between, over meals, they’d discuss what they’d done, what they still wanted to do. And between jam sessions and meals spent discussing jam sessions, they’d go on excursions. They’d go out on Biff’s boat or into town. A few times, they even went into New York City to small clubs Denny knew about and wanted Jack to see.

  I took a lot of pictures that summer: pictures of the boys on the beach; pictures of Jack with our new friends; even pictures of William and Harry playing Monopoly with Matt and Walter. But up until those two weeks, none of those pictures had included Denny. And now they did. My favorite one is of Jack and Denny together, just the two of them. They’d just come back from a day on the water, during which Jack had no doubt consumed a fair amount of Biff’s Budweisers. In the picture, they’re leaning into one another. Jack has an arm around Denny’s shoulders, while Denny has an arm around Jack’s waist, his other hand resting lightly against Jack’s stomach. Even though it’s a still shot, you can practically see the movement in their white T-shirts; I remember there was a strong breeze coming off the water that day. They’re both looking off toward the same point at the side, and their laughing smiles are so wide, the picture almost feels like it must come with sound; I don’t know what they’re laughing at—I never learned what the joke was. And even though they’re both so physically different you’d never peg them for brothers, for the first time I could see it, something in the lines around their eyes.

  At long last, after a lifetime of being little more than brothers by blood and birth alone, Jack and Denny were finally bonding.

  And how did I feel about this?

  I was happy for Jack, of course. I’d wanted this for him, had a hand in orchestrating it, so why shouldn’t I be happy?

  But I was also sad too. As I said, I was alone a lot then. The first two weeks of the summer, it had been just me and Jack, and the boys of course. For the next two weeks, somehow it felt as though Denny and I had been thrown together, spending more time in one another’s company than we ever had before, and that was OK too. But now it was them over there and me over here.

  If I’m honest—and I do try to be in most things—I was jealous. But even that was OK. Years ago, before I met Jack and went to work with him at the travel agency, my boss at the bookstore used to like to say, “I may be a bitch, but I know it, so that’s all right then.” And that seemed just about right to me. It’s not so bad being a negative thing if you see it clearly about yourself and don’t try to pretend it’s any different. So I’m not saying it’s good that I felt that way, only that I did and I know it.

  Anyway, I knew it wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, Jack and I would get back to being just Jack and I, plus the boys, same as we’d always been. Because Denny would, eventually, go away, leaving behind a Denny-sized hole in our lives.

  I only hoped it wasn’t before William’s party. After all, he’d promised.

  I rose extra early the day of William’s birthday because I wanted everything to be ready when the boys came down.

  I took all the ingredients out, arranging them in order on the counter. Then I got out mixing bowls and two pans, and preheated the oven.

  “What are you doing?” a voice came from behind me just as I was whisking the eggs.

  Denny.

  “What does it look like I’m d
oing?” I said, not bothering to turn around.

  “Dunno. Why do you think I asked? I supposed you’re making something.”

  “I’m making a cake,” I said.

  “A cake?” His voice was so incredulous, you’d think I’d told him I was somehow taking a walk on the moon.

  “Yes, a cake. From scratch.”

  I explained how the plan had changed. Originally, I’d told William I wanted to bake the cake for his party. But then, when he came up with the list of guests he wanted, and Biff and Marsha added to that the guests they wanted, and the grand total came to a hundred—I’d had to keep reminding myself what Denny had said about them wanting to do it because they could—I realized how ridiculous my original idea was. There was no way I could make enough cake for a hundred. I’d be in the kitchen all day! So I compromised. We’d ordered bakery sheet cakes for the party, and I’d make my own for just the family to enjoy earlier in the day.

  “How marvelous!” Denny said. “You know, I don’t think I’ve seen someone bake an actual cake in over twenty years. Of course there were homemade cakes from Edith when I was growing up, but nothing since then. Do you mind if I watch?”

  “Suit yourself.” I shrugged.

  “This is fascinating!” he said as I sifted the flour. “What are you doing now?”

  “Still baking a cake. Did I mention no talking? I’m doing this all from memory and I don’t want to louse it up.”

  “Oops. Sorry.”

  I was a few more steps into it when he spoke again.

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  I was about to tell him that I didn’t need or want any help, tell him again that there was to be no talking, that he should go somewhere else if he felt the need to chatter, but something made me look at him, and when I did, there was such an expression of boyish eagerness on his face, I relented.

  “Fine,” I said. “Do you know how to break an egg?”

  I kept one for myself, handing one to him. When he just stood there holding his, I cracked mine neatly against the side of the bowl, dropping the contents in before discarding the shell.

  “The idea,” I coached him, “is to get all the egg in but none of the shell. If you do get some shell in, you’ll want to scoop it out. No one wants a crunchy cake.”

  I swear, he was concentrating so hard as he slowly cracked that egg, the tip of his tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

  Well, cracking it so slowly, of course he got some flecks of shell in the bowl.

  He looked distressed as he peered down at the concoction. “Did I…”

  “It’s fine,” I said, briskly whisking it in.

  “But you just said—”

  “They’re only tiny flecks. No one will notice.”

  “That’s a relief. Still, I’d better get out of the way and let the expert continue. I don’t want to spoil things.”

  I was about to do just that—let him get out of my way so I could get on with things myself—but there was one of those expressions on his face again, and this time it was wistful.

  Oh, crap.

  “Here,” I said. I handed him a small saucepan and a bar of baking chocolate. “You put one in the other and melt it over a low heat—here, I’ll set it for you—and then you constantly stir it with this wooden spoon so it doesn’t burn as you completely melt it.”

  “Got it.” Then: “So, what kind of cake are we making?”

  “Chocolate on chocolate. I keep thinking the boys will grow out of it, but it hasn’t happened yet. It’s not the most sophisticated thing in the world, but I don’t mind.”

  We worked quietly for a time, side by side, with me telling him what to do whenever he completed one task and needed another, until at last it was time to pour the batter into the pans.

  “This is the fun part,” I said, handing him one pan once I’d filled them both.

  “How so?” From the look on his face, I could tell he thought it was all fun. Really, after that first egg, the whole time he’d been almost giddy, like inside he was thinking, I can’t believe I’m baking a cake! I couldn’t believe it either.

  I demonstrated by holding my pan over the stove and then dropping it.

  “Why is that fun?” he asked.

  “Because I get to make noise.”

  “What are we doing that for?” he asked, mimicking my motions as I raised and dropped my pan for a second time. We each did it several times.

  “To get the air bubbles out,” I explained. “We won’t get them all—it’ll never be perfect—but it will be better.”

  After I put the pans in the oven and set the timer, Denny wanted to know, “What do we do now?”

  I handed him a stick of butter.

  “Now,” I said, “we make the frosting.”

  • • •

  “I’m ten! I’m ten! I’mtenI’mtenI’mten!!!”

  Apparently, William was up.

  The shouting was accompanied by the sound of two pairs of feet pounding down the stairs. Just in case that didn’t waken Jack, I turned Harry right around and sent him back up the stairs.

  “Tell your father if he’s not down here in ten minutes,” I said, “we’re going to eat all the breakfast on him.”

  When Harry returned, the boys wanted to know what we were having.

  “Birthday cake,” I said.

  The boys blinked at me like I’d gone mad.

  “For breakfast?” William said.

  “Without having to eat anything good for us first?” Harry added.

  “Why not?” I said. “It’s William’s birthday, isn’t it? We can make up for it at lunch or, better still, worry about going back to eating healthy tomorrow. But before we get to the cake, who wants some of this?”

  I held up two spoons and produced the bowl with the leftover cake batter I’d set aside.

  It didn’t matter that William was now double digits, mature enough to have a crush on Roberta, some things were still reliably boyish about him. He leaped for one of the spoons I held high, and Harry did too, accompanied by shouts of, “I do! I do!”

  As I handed them the spoons, I caught sight of Denny’s face. I wasn’t sure if the longing expression I saw there had more to do with the boys—perhaps he was remembering missing his own children’s birthdays?—or if he just really did want that cake batter.

  Whatever it was, it was enough to make me pull open the drawer and grab a third spoon.

  “Here.” I offered it to him. “There’s enough for everybody.”

  • • •

  Over our breakfast of birthday cake, we gave William his presents. There were a bunch of little things, and the inevitable clothing items, which William was gracious enough to thank us for. But the big item was the bicycle that Jack wheeled in.

  “I can’t believe it!” William cried, practically spinning in circles. “I know I asked, but I never imagined…Hey, why’s it got two seats?”

  “It’s a bicycle built for two,” Jack explained, “in case you want to ever take anyone else along for a ride.”

  “Like who?” William asked.

  “Like one of your new friends,” Jack suggested, “or maybe even your brother sometimes.”

  Jack, being Jack, had chosen this particular bike so Harry wouldn’t feel left out. Jack always struck me as being sensitive to the particular needs of being a younger brother. But he also never wanted William’s time in the sun to be compromised, so of course he quickly added, “But it’s your bike, obviously, yours alone. You needn’t take anyone if you don’t want to.”

  “Are you kidding?” William said. “I think it’s amazing! Hey, Harry, think of all the fun we’ll have on this thing.”

  “Not in the house,” I was forced to caution when both boys jumped on a moment later, looking as though they were about to take it on a spin around the small living area.

  “Well, of course not, Mum.” William, for the first time in his life, roll
ed his eyes at me. Double digits for less than a day and we were already there? “We’re just sitting, not riding.”

  Then Harry gave William his present, which was a soccer ball. He’d borrowed the money from me to buy it.

  “Not in the house,” I said a second time when William began attempting to bounce the ball off his head, and, his coordination never being the greatest, the ball went every which way.

  Soon after, Matt and Walter came by, and they too had a present for William: a new Monopoly game.

  “How about this, Mum?” William asked, with a voice that was equal parts sarcastic and sweet. But then his voice was all sweet as he laughed, “Can I play with this in the house?”

  I told him I supposed that would be OK, grabbing him for a kiss on the forehead before letting him go. Where had the years gone? How was it possible that my baby was now ten?

  The only one who didn’t have a present for William to open was Denny. But that was OK, right? After all, Denny’s big present was going to come that night, when he sang “Happy Birthday” to William. I had to admit, when Denny first said he’d do it, I’d been skeptical. OK, I’d been a downright bitch about it. But that’s only because I’d been certain, or at least concerned, that Denny would let William down somehow. I thought that in the intervening two weeks between request and event, Denny might feel the need to take off, departing our lives as abruptly as he’d entered them. But that hadn’t happened. Now the big day was here and Denny was still here too.

  When I thought about it, I thought it was nothing short of amazing what Denny was doing. For anyone else to sing “Happy Birthday”? No big deal. But for Denny to do it, solo, at the birthday party of a ten-year-old he in so many ways barely knew? To do something so public when Denny had made it clear since arriving that he just wanted to lay low, avoid the public eye? Well, there had been his slow attention-grabbing stroll down the beach, but it wasn’t like he’d sung while doing so. And he’d gone to that Fourth of July party with us and on a handful of outings with Jack and sometimes Biff. But again, there’d been no singing. No Denny being called upon to do the thing he was most famous for.

  And yet he was going to do this.