'I can't wait till the morning,' he said, his voice rising. 'I need it now.'
There was something about how he was standing, some visual clue in the way his feet were positioned beneath the bulk of his body which made me sure suddenly that he'd been drinking.
'Jacob,' I said, cutting off Cheryl's reply.
They both turned toward me at the same time, identical expressions of relief on their faces.
'She won't let me cash this,' Jacob said. He had a check in his hand, and he waved it at Cheryl.
'We're not a bank,' I said. 'We don't cash checks.'
Cheryl, who'd gone back to counting out for the day, let a smile slip quickly across her face.
'Hank--' Jacob started, but I cut him off.
'Come into my office,' I said.
He walked across the lobby to my office, and I shut the door behind him.
'Sit down,' I said.
He lowered himself into the same armchair Sarah had sat in earlier that afternoon. It made a creaking noise beneath his weight.
I went to the window and opened the blinds. The sun was nearly set. Lights were coming on in the town. The church and cemetery were already submerged in darkness.
'You've been drinking,' I said, not turning from the window. I heard him stir uncomfortably in his chair.
'What do you mean?'
'I can smell it. It's not even five o'clock, and you're already drunk.'
'I had a couple beers, Hank. I'm not drunk.'
I turned from the window, leaned back on the sill. Jacob had to twist around in the armchair to see me. He seemed awkward, embarrassed, like a child called to the principal's office.
'It's irresponsible,' I said.
'I really need the money. I need it tonight.'
'You're worse than Lou.'
'Come on, Hank. I had two beers.'
'He's told Nancy, hasn't he?'
Jacob sighed.
'Answer me.'
'Why do you keep harping on that?'
'I just want to know the truth.'
'But how would I know that?'
'I want to know what you think.'
He frowned, slouching into the chair. He wasn't looking at me. 'She's his girlfriend,' he said. 'They live together.'
'You're saying he told her?'
'If Lou asked me whether or not you'd told Sarah, I'd say--'
'Has Lou asked you that?'
'Come on, Hank. I'm just trying to show you that it's only me guessing. I don't know anything for sure.'
'I'm not asking what you know. I'm asking what you think.'
'Like I said, she's his girlfriend.'
'That means yes?'
'I guess so.'
'And do you remember what we said? How you're responsible for him?'
He didn't answer.
'If he screws this up, it's your fault. You'll be the one I'll blame.'
'It's not like--'
'I'll burn the money, Jacob. If I think you two're going to screw this up, I'll just burn it.'
He stared down at his check.
'You better straighten him out, and you better do it quick. You tell him that he's responsible for Nancy, just like I'm telling you you're responsible for him.'
Jacob looked up at me, thinking. He worked his tongue along his teeth, sucking, as if he were trying to clean them. His forehead, wide and low, was spattered with pimples. His skin was greasy; it glistened in the light from my desk lamp.
'It's like a food chain,' he said. 'Isn't it?'
'A food chain?'
He smiled. 'Lou's responsible for Nancy, I'm responsible for Lou, you're responsible for me.'
I thought about this; then I nodded.
'So in a way,' Jacob said, 'you're responsible for all of us.'
I couldn't think of anything to say to this. I stepped away from the window, walked over to my desk, and sat down behind it. 'How much is the check for?' I asked.
He glanced at the check in his hand. He was still wearing his gloves. 'Forty-seven dollars.'
I reached across the desk and took it from him.
'What's it for?'
'It's from Sonny Major. I sold him my ratchet set.'
I scanned the check, then handed it back to him along with a pen. 'Sign it over to me.'
While he signed it, I removed two twenties and a ten from my wallet. I gave them to Jacob in exchange for the check.
'You owe me three dollars,' I said.
He put the money in his pocket, seemed to think about getting up, but then decided against it.
He glanced at my forehead. 'How's your bump?' he asked.
I touched it with my finger. All that was left was a tiny scab. 'It's healed.'
He nodded.
'Your nose?' I asked.
He wrinkled his nose, inhaled through it. 'Fine.'
After that we sat in silence. I was preparing to stand up and guide him toward the door when he asked, 'You remember Dad breaking his nose?'
I nodded. When I was seven, our father had bought a mail-order windmill, to help irrigate one of his fields. He'd almost finished putting it together, was up on a ladder tightening a bolt, when a sudden gust of wind set the contraption's aluminum sails spinning. Our father was hit in the face, knocked off his ladder to the ground. Our mother had seen it all from the house, and -- since he'd remained on his back for a moment, his hand clamped on his head, rather than instantly regaining his feet -- she'd run to the phone and called an ambulance. Ashenville had a volunteer fire department, so it was our father's friends who came rushing out to the farm, and they kidded him about it for years. Our father never forgave her for the embarrassment.
'That windmill's still up,' Jacob said. 'You can see it from the road when you drive by.'
'It's probably the only thing he ever built that actually worked,' I said.
Jacob smiled -- our father's inadequacy as a handyman had been one of our family's running jokes -- but when he spoke again his voice came out sounding mournful, full of loss and regret.
'I wish they were still around,' he said.
I looked up at him then, and it was as if a curtain were being dragged back from a window, giving me a sudden glimpse into the depths of my brother's loneliness. Jacob had been much closer to our parents than I had. He'd lived at home up until the year before the accident, and even after he moved out, he still spent most of his time there, doing chores, talking, watching TV. The farm had been his refuge from the world. I had Sarah, and now a baby coming, but Jacob's family was all in the past. He didn't have anyone.
I tried unsuccessfully to think of something to say. I wanted to reach out in some way, to tell him something reassuring, but I couldn't find the proper words. I didn't know how to talk to my brother.
Jacob broke the silence finally by asking, 'What do you mean, blame me?'
I realized with a little jolt of panic -- a jolt that instantly subverted whatever empathy I'd been feeling for him before he'd spoken -- that if I wanted to control Jacob, I needed to offer some concrete threat rather than the
