“In your own way, you’re just as much a hound as your brother.”
“You take that back!” he nearly roared.
“You both go through women like a pig through slop.”
“Enough of the farming homilies.”
“That’s fair,” she admitted. “That’s how I can tell I need a nap. I start to sound like Sweetheart.”
“Change of subject?” he asked. “How was the Louvre?”
“Terrible.” She pouted. “Security was far too tight.”
“Mother.” He shook his head and gulped at his drink. “You’re going to get arrested.”
“Why are you using the future tense?” she teased. “I’ve been arrested. And stop calling me Mother.”
He shook his head. His mother had the strangest hobby: She enjoyed changing museum exhibits. She would put Egyptian jewelry on a mannequin in the Western exhibit. She would put a kimono on a mummy. Blake had been thirteen before he realized all mothers did not do this.
“I don’t want to talk about those unyielding, uptight Louvre employees. I want to talk about why you’re alone.”
“Leave it.”
“Oh, goody! Here just in time for the ‘I’m rich and cute and life is sooooo hard’ followed by the ‘shut up about your problems that aren’t problems, boy’ section of our program. Thank God I didn’t miss it.”
Blake didn’t look up. “Apologize for calling me cute. Right now.”
Then he did look up and saw, as expected, Rake grinning down at them. Further proof Rake was clinically insane: He was happy to see his brother, and tolerated their mother’s loving criticism much better than Blake could. Because Rake was terrible. “And come on. Sushi? Are we really having bait for supper again?”
“Breakfast, I think.” His mother glanced at her watch. Four fifteen A.M. “Sit down, boy. Give your mother a kiss. Stop pretending you don’t like Japanese cuisine.”
“I love Japanese cuisine.” He slid into the booth beside their mother and kissed her cheek with a loud smek! that she pretended to dislike but blushed over even as she wiped it away. Blake admired his brother’s ease in social situations almost as much as he found the man as irritating as a recurring hemorrhoid. “The Japanese are a subtle people when it comes to their meticulous cuisine. This?” Brandishing the menu like a whip. “This isn’t Japanese cuisine. It’s blasphemy wrapped in rice and seaweed. And you’ll still make us tip forty percent.”
Blake grinned. “He’s right, Mom. The Japanese deny responsibility, rightly, for the Philadelphia roll, the California roll, and frushi.”
Rake snorted. “Thanks, Encyclopedia Blake. But see?” he asked, turning to their mother. “That’s how horrible this is: Blake and I are on the same side! We agree. That hasn’t happened in … uh … When did Lady in the Water come out again?”
“Ah … 2005? No … 2006.”
“Enough.” Another rap on the table; Shannah was ruthlessly wielding the Knuckles of Doom today. “I have news and we need to get down to it. I’m an heiress.”
“Again?” They spoke in unison, then glared at each other. They loathed all twin clichés and wouldn’t dress alike if someone stuck a gun in their ear. They never tried to speak in unison. Rake lived in T-shirts and leather jackets; Blake felt more comfortable in anything from Savile Row (he occasionally slept in his suit). Rake was a Democrat (“Ironically,” he’d explained, “I vote Democrat ironically.”) solely because Blake was a registered Independent. And on. And on.
Rake had continued solo: “Seriously? You’ve inherited a bundle again? And we couldn’t meet on our birthday to talk about this while pretending we don’t drive each other nuts?”
She shook her head. “It can’t wait four months. And my inheritance … it’s not as much fun this time.”
“Well, it hardly could be.” Ah, the memories. From living on tips and the kindness of friends, to millionaires, and literally overnight. It was juvenile, Blake knew, but his most treasured childhood memory was the week after their mom had explained about their father’s death. A six-figure wire had hit her account to “tide them over” while the estate plodded through probate. She had stared at the balance, staggering like a sailor back on land—he and Rake had to hold her up—and then burst into fierce tears.
Blake had been frightened
(she never cries!)
and Rake had been angry
(who made her cry and what part of their face can I fit my fist into?).
As her sons stammered in confusion and tried to comfort her, she had bent (not much—even at thirteen they were almost as tall as she was) and swept them both into a hug so swiftly all three skulls banged together: “Mom, don’t—ow!—cry.”
Then: shopping spree. Since it was Vegas, baby, land of a thousand daily bachelorette parties and gambling addictions, all sorts of places were open. They started at a gas station to top the tank of their always almost-empty Volkswagen (“Fill it up! Fill it allll the way!”), and from there to a dealership to buy a new one. From there, Home Depot for a grill (“Why d’you want to make fire in the desert, Mom? Can’t we get a walk-in freezer instead?”), the grocery store for things to cook on the grill (“I want, like, a dozen kebabs of marshmallows.”), and finally ended up at the SassiPants nightclub guzzling Shirley Temples at 5:00 A.M. All the while their mother giggled and cried and giggled some more, and that was the day Blake found out his face could actually hurt from smiling so much.
“This time,” she said, yanking him back into the present, “it’s a little more complicated.”
“Who died?” Even as Blake asked, he realized he had no idea how many relatives he had from his mother’s side of the family. He and Rake had never met any of them. And she never spoke of them, but that, at least, Blake understood.
It wasn’t until much later that he realized she’d avoided the question.
“I’m inheriting land.”
“Amusement park land?” Rake asked, ever hopeful, as well as eternally thirteen.
“Abandoned farmland.”
“That you can build amusement parks on?”
“No, dolt.” A smile softened the rebuke. “Farms formerly owned by several family members—”
Blake straightened so fast it was almost a spasm. “That’s impossible. We do not have family.”
She sighed. “Blake.”
“Yeah, they made that clear enough when you needed help.”
“Rake.”
“This is your inheritance? Our father at least left something useful, even if he himself wasn’t ever useful.”
Rake picked up the rant. “They left you— What did you call it? Abandoned farmland? The same assholes who disowned you when you went home for help? The ones who ignored you for years, then had the balls to get angry when you wouldn’t fix their lives with money they never dreamed you’d have but didn’t hesitate to ask for once they found out you had it?” Rake had to stop and gasp for breath, and their mother seized the opportunity.
“I don’t know,” came his mother’s steady reply. “You’ll recall we haven’t kept in touch.”
“And I’ll recall why: They shut you out. They shut all of us out, so my advice? Keep it that way.”
“I’m not seeking advice, boys!” she snapped. “I’m telling you what I’m going to do. The reason I left Sweetheart in the first place was to earn enough money to buy my own farm.”
“It was?” Rake asked, catching Blake’s glance for a moment. Blake shrugged; he’d had no idea, either.
“Yes. And now I’ve inherited several.” She paused while the waitress delivered refills, and resumed when she left. “And why would I do to them what they did to me? Turn my back in strength as they did in their weakness? How does that solve anything? How does that help anything?”
“All right,” Blake replied mildly. “I apologize.” He glanced at his brother, whose mouth was set in a stubborn line all at the table knew well. No apology forthcoming, that was fine. Sometimes Rake needed coaxing. Blake kicked him un
der the table.
“Agh! You fu— You bas—” Rake jerked his leg away and bent down to rub the no-doubt-throbbing shin, which gave Blake a clear shot at the other one. “Agh, that hurts, fuckwad!”
“You both stop that. Now.”
Cowed, they complied. Blake cleared his throat. “What will you do?”
“Go home. Again. This time for longer, I think.” Shannah nibbled her lower lip, a rare external indicator of stress. “And I have no idea how long that’ll be; I don’t know when I’ll make it back.”
“If you make it back,” Blake pointed out.
“Of course I’ll make it back; stop making it sound like we’re in a horror movie.”
“My bleeding legs are in a horror movie,” Rake muttered, sitting as far from Blake as he could while still remaining in the booth.
“You’re not speaking with strangers, you know. ‘Of course I’ll make it back’? Mom, you’ve been a nomad for over a decade. You rent, or you buy and then rent, or you buy and sell, or you stay in a hotel suite for months at a time.”
“As do you,” she pointed out.
“Not me!” Rake added with cheerful spite. “Same shithole apartment for the last four years. Location, location, location.” He didn’t mention, and Blake didn’t volunteer, that Rake loved his apartment because it was walking distance to several strip clubs/prime rib buffets, because Rake was terrible.
“You’ve never put down roots,” his mother added. “I have long put it down to you and Rake being restless spirits.”
“And lovers of low rent and cheap sirloin. And pretty ladies.”
Don’t engage; stay focused on Mom. “But really, all this time you have been waiting to go back? You’ve wanted to buy a farm? You’ve had the funds for years. You don’t want a farm. You want a Sweetheart farm. And now it seems you have several.”
A long silence, broken by, “Maybe. If I’m right, I’m fulfilling a family duty. If you’re right, I’ll have found my true home again. Either way: I’m leaving.”
“Well, we’ve done our best to talk you out of it.” Rake was indulging his loathsome habit of helping himself to everyone’s water glasses, and finished draining his mother’s. “But you’re set in your ways, old woman.”
Blake failed to hold back the all-body shudder. “I love you, little brother, and if you ever call her that again I will throttle you.”
“Nice way to talk to your bro, Bro!”
“Until my fingers ache. Until they’re in spasm from the strangling.”
“Enough.” Their mother was wisely signaling for the check and the waitress came over at once, laden with a brimming water pitcher.
“Is it a Tarbell thing?” Rake asked. “Wanting a Sweetheart farm? Needing to go back?”
“I think it’s more like a Lifetime Movies for Women thing,” Rake suggested.
Their mother shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s something I have to do. Perhaps it’s just a Shannah thing. And so I leave you to your Edward the Fourth biographies, Blake, and your occasional arrests for assault, Rake.”
“Don’t forget his impending case of alcohol poisoning.”
Shannah quirked a curl of a smile at him. “Yes. That, too. You can always find me, boys. Or call me, and I’ll come. As I always have.”
She ignored her sons’ protests and paid the bill for the three of them. They left their customary 40 percent tip and went their separate ways. That was a Tarbell thing, too.
Four
Back in the present … (remember, the last chapter was a year ago!) (I need to remember how to tell a linear story one of these days.)
“It’s too much for her, too much for anyone; she keeps getting in deeper and deeper. You wouldn’t recognize her voice if you took her calls.”
“Hey!” Rake yelped. “World traveler, remember? Show me the cell tower on Lopez Island or the Travaasa Hana or the Aran Islands. I always call her back—”
“At three A.M. Sweetheart time, when she’s semiconscious and barely coherent.”
“She’s completely coherent! It’s our mom! She’d be coherent if she was dead!”
Blake sighed. “You disappoint me.” Unspoken: again. “If anyone could recognize barely coherent, little brother, I’d think it would be you. And the racket when you pulled in! Like this town isn’t barely tolerable as it is. A motorcycle and a leather jacket? How original. Lovely periorbital hematoma, Marlon Brando.”
“Blow it right out your ass, Benjamin Tarbell Two-Oh.”
Blake hadn’t realized he had slammed his fist on the table until his knuckles began to throb. “I’m nothing like our father.”
“What’s the new one’s name? Carrie? Terry? Gerri? Fo-ferry? Fee-fi-fo-ferry? Ferr-ee!”
“Ava. And she’s fine. I have reasonable certainty she’s fine. As couples often do, we came to a mutual decision to give each other—”
“—some breathing room,” they finished in unison, and now Blake’s temples were throbbing in time with his knuckles. “And you’re one to talk, little brother,” he added.
“At least I’m open about what I want from them and what they want from me. You, you think you’re a gentleman because you insist they spend the night instead of calling them a cab. You’re just fooling yourself, pal. And they know it and I know it and Mom knows it and everybody but you gets it.”
“Wanting the lady in question to spend the night rather than showing her the door once we’ve stopped sweating isn’t a character flaw, Rake, though it’s telling that you think it is.”
The twins glared at each other, nothing new, but remained seated, which was. Only a matter of enormous concern would get—and keep—the men in the same room at the same time outside of their birthday, or house arrest. My brother is a cavalier man-slut, Blake thought with dismay, and he thinks I’m a closed-off tight-ass with the heart of an Anglophile. And we’re both right. Because Rake is terrible and I’m no better.
He pulled in a long, steadying breath. “This isn’t helping our mother.”
“No.” Rake was suddenly very interested in stacking all the Splenda packets on top of one another. He was trying to take care, but the Tower O’Splenda was wobbling. “It’s not. So. What, then?”
Relieved at their temporary détente, Blake leaned forward. “I propose we join forces. Hear me out!” he added at Rake’s shiver of terror/revulsion. “You know she has a harder time dealing with us when we’re united.”
“Truth. It’s like the Roadrunner teaming up with Wile E. Coyote. You never see it coming, and when it does come it’s creepy and weird and everyone’s taken off guard.”
“Yes. ‘Creepy and weird’ is an outstanding way to describe the situation. Let’s initiate a conference call and let her know we’re going to work together to help her through this mess, no matter how complex.”
Rake was nodding slowly. “Yep, yep. That would definitely disarm her into allowing us to interfere. Help! I meant help.”
Blake nodded. “So: we will reach out at a time early enough that she will likely be in her room getting ready, but not so late she has left to deal with the judgmental farmers brigade. Eight A.M. ought to do it. Can you be at my place in time?”
“Sure.”
While pleased by his brother’s unexpected attack of sense and cooperation, Blake paused and, because he was a masochist, asked, “So when would that be, exactly?”
A shrug of leather-clad shoulders. “Fifteen minutes early to work out the script. Say quarter to ten?”
“She is trapped in the Central Time Zone, Rake.”
“Right. Center means more toward the middle. Noon is the middle. So she’s two hours closer to the middle: ten A.M.”
“I don’t understand.” As Rake opened his mouth to explain more of his demented logic, Blake continued. “You have a high school diploma. You have a college degree. You’re a polymath.”
“Not anymore. The doctor gave me some antibiotics and it cleared right up.”
“Very funny.” Argh, his jaw hurt.
Forcing words past clenched teeth was harder than it looked. “You are not a complete imbecile.”
“Awwww. So sweet!”
“How do you not understand how time zones work?”
“Christ, Blake, will you back off my dumbassery for once?”
“But it’s so fascinating. Like studying a new mold spore no one knew existed.”
“Aw, jeez.” Rake had forgotten his bruise and rubbed his eyes with a wince. “Just tell me what time to be at your place.”
“Five forty-five.” To be certain, he added, “In the morning. Tomorrow morning. Morning is the opposite of evening. Not today. Tomorrow.”
“What?” Rake straightened and the motorcycle jacket was just a hair too big, so he looked like a horrified turtle popping out of its shell. “But I’ll have just gone to bed!”
“So assist me with our mother, and then go to bed!” Blake snapped. “It’s not rocket science!”
“You’re just saying that because you studied rocket science! You’re forever running around telling people this isn’t rocket science, that’s not rocket science. Nobody elected you the namer of things rocket science!” A pause. “What’s wrong? Why is your face doing that?”
“I have no idea. I can’t see my face.” He swallowed another sigh. “Either I’m getting a headache or my brain is trying to eject from my skull in pure self-defense.”
“Bummer! Need some Advil?”
“Advil,” he said, rubbing his temples, “is not what I need.” He glanced at his brother’s face, then away. “You all right?”
Rake shrugged, then indicated the puffy flesh beneath his eye, which had swelled slightly smaller than a Ping-Pong ball and displayed an impressive range of green bruising. “It’s just sore.”
“I assume whatever damsel you rescued was appropriately grateful?”
Another shrug. “I dunno. Never got the chance to ask. I saw a couple of assholes harassing the kiddo, and when I rolled up one had her purse and the other was about to have her. So … you know.”
He did know. Rake had their mother’s quick temper, as well as an inability to tolerate an unfair fight. When they were eleven, he’d grabbed a Wiffle ball bat and rushed to defend a classmate trying to hold her own against two high school students from the next trailer park. If it had been a real bat, he might have killed them. As it was, both boys had odd Wiffle-shaped welts all over their backs and legs and fled, yelping, never to be seen again. Because Rake was terrible, but most people were even worse.