in his dreams and were usually forgotten, but now, with clarity that kept him still, he saw John at fourteen with black hair against the hay in the barn where theyâd wrestled, where heâd bitten John so hard heâd tasted blood.
And you didnât say a word about it. You were fifteen. You were down on the ground, looking up at me, shocked at having seen my rage. Under the shock was interest, and the beginning of compassion, since you were from the start a spectacularly evolved soul, brother John, and youâd already had your first religious experience by then, the one where you stood out in a field under the millions of Nebraska stars, and felt the pulse of the universe as the very voice of God saying in a language translatable only in that moment, âYou are loved.â
Did I ever tell you I had a very similar experience, only God said to me, in a language I could translate any moment of the day, âYou are a loserâ?
âWell, John,â he said now, âI can understand getting teary. I mean, this has been your whole life.â
âYeah. It has, hasnât it.â
A pause.
âSo, Tim, you think Maria will come?â
âGod knows.â
âYeah. I understand. So. Howâs everything going?â
âFine. Weâre healthy. Busy. In fact, I should go, John. I need to get some firewood for tonight.â
Tim had always spoken in shorthand to his brother about his own life. What was that urge to protect the details of his life from his brotherâs knowing? As if his brother could somehow take his life away from him just by knowing about it.
Rachel was thrilled. âI miss them! This will be wonderful. And I can give Claire that pot I made her, finally. Maybe even Maria will fly in for this.â
âIâm glad youâre excited. I donât feel like traveling.â
They were in the car in the dark, on the way to the Hot Spot, where theyâd get hot fudge sundaes and coffee and read the paper. It had stopped snowing. Rachel smelled like rose-petal lotion. She wore a bright scarf around her head. She was still, at fifty-six, too often the most beautiful creature heâd ever seen.
âYou used to love to travel.â
âBut September eleventh. You said yourselfââ
âIâm over it.â
âThat was quick.â
She reached over and let her hand cup his kneecap. âShould I call Maria?â she said.
âI donât know.â He drove with caution that made him feel elderly. Then he entertained a dark, familiar thought: that his whole life was a charade, that the deepest truth of his life would be revealed once again, in Pittsburgh, and that all this living as a good guy in upstate New York with his beloved wife and woodwork was like an exercise. The flimsiest, least challenged parts of himself could thrive here, and he could fool himself into thinking it was all right. That he had recovered himself. That he was solidly loved, and loving.
âIâll call Maria,â he said.
âYou will? Great.â Maria had broken Rachelâs heart long ago, in her earliest drug-addict days. It would never be healed. But Rachel had a lively, passionate mind that knew how to thrive like an indestructibly vibrant kite darting and rising above the darkest sea. Lately she had fallen in love (again) with Kierkegaard. She referred to him as Soren, like she might go have a cup of coffee with him if he wasnât dead. Tim envied her natural enthusiasm, and sometimes let himself be swept along in its current, such as last year when she became a bird fanatic. Theyâd gone to every marsh on the east coast. Heâd spent five hundred bucks on binoculars. Heâd wept seeing a blue heron up close.
He watched Rachel pack. âDo you need to pack so much?â
She looked at him. âWhat?â
âNothing.â
She laughed in the lamplight. She stepped up and kissed him, her silver earrings