refrigerator-sized box inside of which was an old bookshelf and a broken stool wrapped in newspaper. They’d all arrived together, in a delivery van.
Mom was in the kitchen, starting in on a new recipe from the newspaper.
How old is she now? I said, wandering in.
Eighty-one, Mom said, waving hello with a wooden spoon.
And what is she sitting on?
She shrugged. Beats me, she said.
She flattened the newspaper, peered at the ingredients.
Today’s recipe was ripped from the Metro section, something of a southern-Italian mushroom-tomato sauce, slow-cooked, with good fruity olive oil as the base. My father loved Italian food the best, and my mother made it on days when she was feeling guilty. She’d taped the recipe to the cupboard, for easy viewing. Her eyes were creased with lack of sleep, but she was wearing a new pink lipstick and there was still a clear elevation to her mood.
Want to help? she said, as I washed my hands.
She set me up with a knife and a cutting board and a pile of green peppers. My mind still clear from the chip bags. I liked this aspect of cooking, being a distant hard-to-identify participant, all so long as I didn’t compile or stir anything. Way too scary, to eat a whole meal I’d made myself, but I did enjoy the prep: chopping and dicing, mincing and paring, shredding and slicing, just attacking all these objects that dominated my days even though I knew that nothing would take away the complexity for me, nothing short of not eating them. Still: it gave me such pleasure to grate cheese, like I was killing it.
While I picked seeds out of a green pepper, Mom stirred onions in the pan and told me about the party and all the funny lawyers. She asked about school, and when I told her I didn’t know what class I liked the best, she nodded. I understand, she said, bobbing her head. You have trouble picking, like me. Too many choices!
I don’t know if that’s it, I said, sweeping seeds into the trash. To change the subject, I told her a little about Joe’s disappearance. I didn’t describe anything in detail-just that during the babysit, he had vanished for twenty minutes or so and I hadn’t been able to find him.
Just he was kind of gone, I said. And then, all of a sudden, he was back. It was really funny, I said.
Mom pivoted around. An eagerness crept into her face. Do you think he’s sneaking out the side door? she asked, dropping her voice to a whisper.
I tossed the core of a green pepper into the trash.
Nope, I said.
Or, Rose-maybe he has a girlfriend?
I almost laughed. Um, no, I said.
She laid the wooden spoon carefully on the counter. Checked the recipe on the cupboard.
Peppers?
All set, I said.
She slipped the cutting board out of the counter and scraped the bumpy squares into the pan to join the golden onions and garlic. We watched the pepper parts crackle in the oil.
She put an arm around me, our simplest exchange. I leaned against her side. Rose, she said, stroking my hair. Sweet Rose-oh-Rose, she said.
She picked up the spoon, absently pushing around the parts.
Well, she said. He is secretive, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Runs in the family, I said.
She smiled at me, eyes unsure.
I rinsed and replaced the cutting board and began dicing tomatoes.
I’ll take the stool, I said. From Grandma.
Do you think he has a boyfriend? she asked, hopeful.
No, I said.
I would understand if so, she said, leaning against the stovetop. I could hear her brewing, beginning to form her monologue of understanding. I think that could be very nice, she said, in a small voice.
Sorry, Mom, I said.
How do you know? she said. You don’t know!
She turned back to the pan, to the wooden spoon. Moved around the various bits.
It’s missing a leg, she said, after few minutes, into the pan. What are you going to do with a two-legged stool?
I wedged it outside, near that side door, in the narrow strip of yard that bordered the house. If placed against the outdoor wall, it functioned nicely as a half-ladder. At the next babysit, when I could still hear him poking around inside his bedroom, I tiptoed outside and climbed up the stool rungs to peek inside the little window at the top of his side door. The lights inside were out and all I could catch were shadows over shadows, and darkness, and the usual bulky shapes. It seemed he was sitting at his desk, reading, in the dark. Turning pages.
I watched him for a while, from the stool rungs. My eyes adjusted to the light. He read each page slowly, and when he was ready to turn, he slid a finger up to the top right corner, lifting it as lightly as a wing. He took such care, particularly when alone.
I went to the bathroom. Wandered around. When I returned to the stool/ladder, he wasn’t there.
So preoccupied was I with trying to grab back the laughing lightness with Joseph that I did not think again about where he’d actually gone. When I ran around the house again, knocking on his door, calling his name, circling, opening doors, doing the whole routine over only to finally find him standing outside his room again, with that same unusual weightiness to his eyelids and skin, I skipped right over my former rabid curiosity and returned to the script that had led up to the laughter. I knew my part perfectly. Where was he? He’d been busy? Where? I asked if he’d been in my room, and he said yes, and I said why? and he said, in a weary voice, that he’d needed a pink Pegasus pen. It was around eight-thirty. Over a week since the first disappearance. Parents out, at another dinner. The walls, cool. Joseph, tall, his side pressed against the door frame. I could feel his effort, his playing out of the lines for me. And even I, ever ready to fake the laughing, again, forever, could hear how flat it fell, and we stood, quietly, facing each other, in the planes and stretches of dim hallway. He looked old; he was only five years older, but he seemed then like an old man, a grandpa.
Are you sick? I said.
He shook his head. I’m practicing something difficult, he said. And it tires me out.
What is it?
It’s hard to explain, he said.
Oh. Can I help?
No, he said.
He rested his head against the top hinge. Closed his eyes.
Is it illegal?
No, he said. He smiled a little.
We stood there together for a while. His breathing deep and measured, drinking the air in slow draughts. Those antenna-like eyelashes and fingertips. I wondered what he knew about the family; what he didn’t know. What family he lived in. My mind wandered around.
Hey, I said, after a couple minutes. Could you do something for me?
It was the first of two favors I ever asked my brother, and although this one was far less important, it was still one of the best moments in my whole junior high. The next day, at school, at lunch, while Eliza sat cross-legged and carefully unpacked her brown bag of joy, George turned a corner and came walking over from the high school. His loping, long-legged friendly walk. He’d recently been accepted early admission at Caltech, and it was a soaring lift to see him appear from behind the brick wall that separated the two schools, striding over in his jeans like he had a reason to come over. Which he did. Which was me. He waved as he drew closer. Eliza waved back. A few other middle-schoolers watched from their spots, chewing on the split ends of plastic straws. Any kind of high- school visitation was notable, but this was better than most: by high school, George had grown into himself, and any remnants of isolated nerd-dom had been softened by his easy manner, his good teeth, his comfort with girls, his shopping choices. Lanky, smart, dignifying. He had a rubber band wound around his thumb and was twanging it like a guitar string, something he did sometimes at our house when he was sorting through an idea.
He nodded at Eliza, and then beckoned me over. We’ll just be a sec, he said. Of course! she said, full of cheer,
