of Lou.
'Lou'll tell Nancy, won't he?' I said to Jacob.
'Will you tell Sarah?' he asked.
'I agreed not to.'
Jacob shrugged, took a bite from his candy bar. 'Lou agreed not to tell Nancy.'
I frowned, dismayed. I knew that I was going to tell Sarah about the money as soon as I got home -- I couldn't imagine not telling her -- and this knowledge seemed to confirm my reservations about Lou. He'd tell Nancy, and one of them would screw it up.
I reached over and adjusted the rearview mirror so that I could look at my forehead. Jacob turned on the dome light for me. When I touched it, the bump felt smooth and hard, like a pebble. The skin directly above it was shiny and taut, while the area around it was taking on a purplish tint, a painful-looking darkness, as blood coagulated within the damaged tissue. I licked the thumb of my glove and briefly tried to clean the wound.
'How do you think that thing knew he was in there?' Jacob asked.
'The bird?'
He nodded.
'It's like a vulture. They just know.'
'Vultures see you, though. They see you crawling in the desert. That's how they know you're dying, if you're crawling or just lying there. That thing couldn't see inside the plane.'
'Maybe it smelled him.'
'Frozen things don't smell.'
'It just knew, Jacob,' I said.
He nodded, three short, quick movements of his head. 'That's right,' he said. 'That's exactly my point.' He took another bite of his candy bar, then fed the last little bit to Mary Beth. The dog seemed to swallow it without chewing.
When we pulled into my driveway, I sat there for a few seconds before climbing out, staring off through the windshield. The house's front light was on, illuminating the trees in the yard, their branches glistening with ice. The living-room curtains were drawn, and there was smoke coming from the chimney.
'You and Lou going out tonight?' I asked. 'Celebrating the new year?'
It was cold in the truck; I could see our breath in the air, even the dog's. The sky outside was cloudy, starless.
'I suppose.'
'With Nancy?'
'If she wants.'
'Drinking?'
'Look, Hank. You don't have to be so hard on Lou. You can trust him. He wants this just as bad as you -- more so, probably. He's not going to mess it up.'
'I'm not saying I don't trust him. I'm saying he's ignorant and a drunk.'
'Oh, Hank--'
'No, hear me out.' I waited until he turned to face me. 'I'm asking you to take responsibility for him.'
He put his arm around the dog. 'What do you mean, responsibility?'
'What I mean is, if he fucks up, it's your fault. I'll hold you to blame.'
Jacob turned away from me and looked outside. All up and down the street my neighbors' windows were full of light. People were finishing their dinners, showering, dressing, busily preparing for their New Year's celebrations.
'Who takes responsibility for me?' he asked.
'I do. I'll look after the both of us.' I smiled at him. 'I'll be my brother's keeper.'
It came out like a joke, but I only half meant it that way. All through our childhood our father had told us how we ought to take care of each other, how we couldn't depend on anyone else. 'Family,' he used to say, 'that's what it always comes down to in the end: the bonds of blood.' Jacob and I had never managed to pull it off, though; even as children we were always letting each other down. Because of his weight, he'd been mercilessly teased at school and was constantly getting into fights. I knew that I was supposed to help him, that I ought to be jumping to his defense, but I could never figure out a way to do it. I was weak, small for my age, a thin, bony kid, and I'd just stand with everyone else, in a tight circle around my brother and his tormentors, watching, in absolute silence, while he was beaten up. It became the template for an interaction that we'd ceaselessly repeat as we aged: Jacob would fail somehow, and I -- feeling impotent and embarrassed and unworthy -- would do nothing but observe.
I reached over the dog's head and punched Jacob lightly on the shoulder, feeling silly doing it, an awkwardly forced attempt at fraternal camaraderie. 'I'll take care of you,' I said, 'and you'll take care of me.'
Jacob didn't respond. He just watched me open the door, pull the duffel bag out of the truck, and, straining, hoist it over my shoulder. Then, as I was picking my way carefully up through the snow to the house, he reversed down the driveway and drove off.
I ENTERED quietly, setting the bag inside the hall closet, on the floor toward the back. I draped my jacket across its top.
There were sliding doors on either side of the entranceway; the one on the right led to the dining room, the one on the left to the living room. Both were closed now. The dining room's was rarely open; except for the extremely sporadic occasions when we had company over, we always ate in the kitchen. The living room's, on the other hand, was closed only when we had a fire going.
Straight ahead, the entranceway divided into a flight of stairs on the left and a long, narrow hallway on the right. The stairs led to the second floor, the hallway to the kitchen at the rear of the house. Both of these were sunk in darkness.
I slid open the door to the living room. Sarah was in there, reading in a chair beside the fire. As I entered, she looked up: a tall, thin-boned woman with dark blond, shoulder-length hair, and large, brown eyes. She had some lipstick on, a bright shade of red, and her hair was pulled away from her face with a barrette. Both things -- the lipstick and the barrette -- made her seem younger, more vulnerable, than she really was. She was wearing her bathrobe, a huge tent of white terry cloth with her initials sewn in blue thread above her heart, and its folds masked the distension of her abdomen somewhat, making it look like she merely had a pillow resting on her lap. Beside her, on the table, was a half-finished bowl of cereal.
She saw me looking at the bowl. 'I got hungry,' she said. 'I wasn't sure when you'd be back.'
I went over to kiss her on the forehead, but just as I was bending down, she cried, 'Oh!' grabbed my hand, and placed it on her stomach beneath the robe. She gave me a dreamy smile. 'Feel it?' she asked.
I nodded. The baby was kicking. It felt like an erratic heartbeat, two firm thrusts and then a softer one. I hated when she made me do this. It gave me an uneasy feeling, knowing that something was alive inside her, feeding off her, like a parasite. I pulled my hand away, forced a smile.
'Do you want dinner?' she asked. 'I could cook us an omelet.' She waved toward the back corner of the room, where an open doorway led into the kitchen.
I shook my head. 'I'm all right.'
I sat down in the chair on the other side of the fireplace. I was trying to decide on the best way to tell her about the money, and as I attempted to work my way around this, it suddenly came to me that she might not approve; she might try to make me give the money back. This idea led me to a disturbing revelation. I saw for the first time how much I actually wanted the money. Up till then -- with Jacob and Lou -- I'd always been the one threatening to relinquish it, and this had allowed me to nurture the illusion that I was relatively disinterested in its fate: I would keep it, but only if certain rigorous conditions were met first. Now, confronted with the possibility of being forced myself to give it back, I understood how artificial those conditions really were. I wanted the money, I realized, and I'd do almost anything to keep it.
Sarah sat there, the book in her lap. She had her hand on her belly, the dreamy look on her face. She came out of it slowly.
'Well?' she asked. 'How did it go?'
