He’s good, George said, watching, nodding. He was pulling at the skin on his thumb. I dug in my pocket, found a ponytail holder, handed it over.
George reddened. Thanks, he said. In seconds, he had it wound around his thumb and was pulling on the elastic.
Did you call Mom? Dad said, returning to his spot.
I sipped the cool water. The waiter returned with an egg-brown mug of hot water and a basket of tea options.
Drink that too, said Dad. You’re shivering.
I left her a message, I said, pulling out a peppermint tea bag. It’s late there, so she probably won’t get it till morning.
It’s good you were there, Dad said, accepting his own coffee mug, wrapping his hands around it.
She told me to go, I said.
Your mom did? George asked.
She called this afternoon and asked me to check on Joseph, I said. She was worried.
Dad exhaled loudly. Closed his eyes. She’s right about half the time, he said, shaking his head. It’s confusing.
And there, in our corner, while the waiter stepped over with his pad of paper, he laughed a little.
After we ordered, I told them both the story in detail, except for what I’d seen with the chair legs. I did not explain any of that, as it did not feel to me in any way explainable. My father listened intently, still warming his hands on the thick porcelain of his coffee mug.
So it’s the usual, he said. He stared into his drink, thinking. Right?
I guess, I said.
Then why are you so shaken up? Dad asked.
Good question, said George, twanging his thumb.
I rolled the tea bag envelope into a tube. Steam rose in flourishes from my mug.
I don’t know, I said, unconvincingly.
George raised his eyebrows. Traced the table’s wood grain with his fingers. He seemed to be feeling the missing words, the gap, and he looked at me keenly, as if to make a bookmark for later.
A steak frites arrived for George. A jambon sandwich for my father. I was waiting on an onion soup.
Start, I said.
My father tilted his head, like it didn’t all fit together. His baguette sandwich was wrapped in white butcher paper and halved on the bias. He pushed it aside.
Let’s just go over it again, he said, shaking a raw-sugar packet into his coffee. You called George when?
After, I said.
And the window was open? Dad asked.
When I left the room, the window was open, I said.
And when you returned?
It was still open.
And did you call George then?
Shortly after, I went to the store and called George, I said. Joseph’s phone doesn’t work, I said.
I think it was around seven-fifteen, George said, eating a French fry. Fry? he said.
Dad took one, distractedly.
I’m just trying to understand, Dad said. He emptied three more sugar packets into his coffee. Stirring. He only ate that much sugar when he was really trying to focus; once, during the research phase of a difficult case, he’d gone through fourteen bars of chocolate in one weekend.
So what did you do
Right when?
Right when you walked back into the room. He was gone then?
Yes.
Did you go to the window? Dad asked.
From the booth, I looked through the cafe window to the street, to the faint shine of a silver bumper, parked at a meter. People walking by in blurs.
No, I said.
No?
No.
Why not?
I don’t know, I said. I was upset.
Did you look around the room?
No, I said.
Really?
He wasn’t in the rest of the room, I said, looking back at him.
How could you tell?
I just could.
I would’ve looked around the room, said Dad, swallowing his coffee.
Sweet enough? I said.
He lowered his eyebrows. Excuse me?
I heard nothing, I said. He wasn’t in the room.
I took a quick look outside the building, George offered, cutting into his steak. Nothing.
So what did you do then? Dad asked.
I crumpled a little, into my corner of the booth. He wasn’t there, I said.
I just think it’s strange, that you didn’t look out the window, Dad said, sitting back and crossing his arms. That’s the first thing anyone would do, he said.
Sir, said George.
I looked later, I said.
And?
Zip, I said, wrapping his suit jacket more tightly around me.
Dad peeled the white sandwich paper off into a curl.
No one seemed bothered by the fact that the window was fairly small, and would be very uncomfortable to climb out of. No one seemed to ask questions or take into account the fact that the ivy bushes, below the window, were intact, and did not seem to have taken on the weight of a body. The window was the only possibility, so, according to my father, Joseph had somehow wriggled out the window and floated down, falling gracefully. He had avoided the bushes, or had puffed them back up before he ran off fleet-footed into the night. It was a good image for my brother. A man all in black, a kind of night thief, the type who would jump freight trains and end up on an island somewhere, king.
Dad gave a definitive pat to the curved red sections of the booth vinyl. Then he bit into his sandwich. Okay, he said, chewing. I’ll stop. I’m sorry.
I started to shake again. A tremor moved through me, visibly, like an earthquake.
George pushed the mug of tea closer. Hey, he said. Drink more.
He’ll be back, Dad said. He touched my hand. He always comes back, he said.
My soup arrived. Crusted with cheese, golden at the edges. The waiter placed it carefully in front of me, and I broke through the top layer with my spoon and filled it with warm oniony broth, catching bits of soaked bread. The smell took over the table, a warmingness. And because circumstances rarely match, and one afternoon can be a patchwork of both joy and horror, the taste of the soup washed through me. Warm, kind, focused, whole. It was easily, without question, the best soup I had ever had, made by a chef who found true refuge in cooking. I sank into it.
Good, I murmured.
George kept refilling my mug with hot water from the teapot and passing it over.
We ate in silence. After, at the register, my father insisted on paying for George’s steak. As we left, the cooks
