Drake knelt down and held a plastic dust tray while Marna steered the dirt up to the lip. "Luther isn't much of a talker."
"On the contrary, he held his own just fine."
"Is that so?"
"He was telling me all about this book he's giving a lecture on at some college gathering - Under Western Skies."
"The Conrad book?" Drake couldn't imagine Luther telling Marna Copparelli about bomb-throwing anarchists.
“This college student comes home one night from classes to find some guy who just assassinated a government minister in his room. He don't even hardly know the jerk but can’t toss him out in the cold because maybe the asshole will finger him as an accomplice.” She looked up. “You familiar with the plot?”
“Well, sort of.” He eyed Marna uneasily. The poor slob, Razumov, cooped up in his tiny apartment with the murderer - that’s how far as Drake got in the text before throwing the classic aside.
“The student runs to the authorities and tells them where they can find the shit-for-brains who threw the bomb that killed the official. But then, the college kid becomes a secret agent and travels to Switzerland where he meets the sister of the guy he just betrayed and they fall in love.”
“I didn’t read that far,” Drake decided to cut his losses.
“Luther says it’s not really one of Conrad’s better novels.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he said the author should have cut the story short after the first hundred pages or so, because the ending was real draggy and dumb.”
Draggy and dumb... Drake couldn’t quite picture his brother using terms like that in an academic presentation but wasn’t about to argue the point.
“So you had a good time?”
“Yeah and I learned a thing or two about current events.”
“The story took place over a hundred years ago.”
"Whatever," Marna shot back dismissively. “Luther says that, when Conrad began writing the book, Razumov was gonna marry the bomb-throwing nutso’s sister, have a child and then confess to her years later, but the author changed his mind.”
“So there’s no happy ending.”
“No,” Marna confirmed. “Just like in real life, everything ultimately turns to shit.”
“You got a succinct way of putting things.”
“I only got my GED,” Marna blurted, "but that don't make me no intellectual retard!" She leered at him as he stood up with the dust tray. "What's so funny?"
Drake didn't realize he was grinning. "You keep saying all men are shit. Maybe you'd like to reconsider."
Marna shook her head violently. "Nothing's changed. My nephew and you brother are the two exceptions that make the rule." She compressed her pretty lips in a pensive expression. "That sure was a smart looking shirt he had on and his hair didn't look quite so ratty."
* * * * *
Back at the apartment, Drake found his thirty-two inch Pullman suitcase resting in the middle of the living room. The sofa bed was closed, the bedding heaped in a pile on the floor. "Since you weren't making any progress, I went over to plead your case with Lois," Luther said.
"And?"
"Your wife insists that you're still a deceitful, horny asshole, but the woman is letting you come back. Of course, you'll have to grovel and act the part of an indentured servant until you go on Medicare."
"Okay."
"And you only get one shot at the marital brass ring. Next time the one-eyed sailor goes missing in action, your marriage is caput."
Drake sat down and began to cry - a weepy, little-boy-lost-in-the-woods sobbing. "I learned my lesson," he blubbered, "I'll be good."
"I'm not finished," Luther spoke in a flat, business-like tone.
"What else?"
"I want another date with Marna Copparelli."
"The original arrangement was one date, no contingency plan."
"Yeah, well, I want to see her again."
"You don't need my permission, but it might help if you spoke directly to the party concerned." Drake wiped his eyes with a Kleenex. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cell phone and dialed a number.
Luther took the phone and pressed it to his ear. "Hello, Marna? Luther Buttafuoco here… I had a real nice time the other night and was wondering…"
Drake cleared his clothing out of the hall closet then went and collected his shaving gear and toothbrush from the bathroom. He would have to stop by another time to recoup his cell phone as his brother was still gabbing away as he let himself out. Luther's hair had died again, gone totally flat and lifeless. But maybe it didn't matter. He could take the ravishing Marna Copparelli to Mongolian foreign flicks where the indigenous folk suckled baby camels; he could fill her head with nineteenth century Russian politics and that seemed to work just fine for the girl who loved her nieces and nephew to distraction. On the far side of the door, a burst of laughter was followed by a whispery-soft exchange. The last thing Drake remembered as he let himself out was the intricate filigree of wonder suffusing his brother's homely face.
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