“Talk to him about what?” I’d ask.
“About responsibility!” she’d say. “You think me and Daddy going to be around forever? You think we can support him forever? What’s gonna happen when we not around?”
I always got a vision of Jin sitting in a gutter when we got around to this part of the conversation. Sitting stoop-shouldered and dirty against a curb, his head down on his arms in shame. A wave of pity twisted inside me that felt wrong. Jin would always be my older brother.
I’d been sitting at my desk reading about Cézanne for my art history class, but now I got up. The only problem was that there was nowhere to go. My room was unusually narrow, no bigger than a hallway. The walls were made of cinder blocks and painted over with a thick coat of white paint. But they were always cool to the touch and good to lean against when my face got hot from drinking. I’d covered one wall with a thin blanket, an Indian-looking thing I’d bought from a girl down the hall when she went home with emotional exhaustion. I think her emotions had been exhausted by a boy named Chris.
I remembered how her parents drove down one Saturday from Maine and spent a couple of hours loading her things into their minivan. Brightly colored crates heavy with books and papers, suitcases, and bags of clothes. A reading lamp, a pink comforter, a small box refrigerator. Then last of all, they loaded Carly gently and carefully into the back seat. Her mother held the door open while her father nearly lifted her in. After she was safely in the car, they both bent down to kiss her before the door was securely closed. It was clear how much they loved her, but were also afraid. Not just about what would happen to her but of her, it seemed.
I couldn’t imagine my parents ever being afraid of Jin or me.
I knew I should call Jin but I put my shoes on instead.I couldn’t help them anymore. I didn’t want to. I grabbed my winter coat. A week away from Easter and it had snowed. I shut the lights and locked the door.
Cézanne was terrified his whole life of his father.
Sometimes I’d call Jin and say, “Mom wants me to tell you that you’re irresponsible.”
“So what?”
“So they want you to be responsible.”
“I am responsible.”
“How? They want proof.”
“They’re crazy! Do you see how they are? Do you? See?”
Most times I didn’t call Jin. Even though he went to Bentley and Waltham was only twenty minutes away on the commuter rail. We never knew what to say to each other if we weren’t arguing over the TV. In fact, Jin didn’t like talking to anybody in the family. Since he’d gone off to school, he acted as though we were something to be endured during the holidays, on the holidays he actually showed up. Jin belonged to a frat stuffed with the sons of rich men and spent his vacations as a “guest” at various beach houses and ski chalets. I could always imagine the big smile on his face.
Jin with his arms around two or more buddies, all of them tanned and grinning like instant millionaires. Behind them glittered the warm Caribbean sun or snowy peaks stark white against a clean blue sky laid out like a napkin. I was happy for him. I wouldn’t say he was embarrassed by my parents but maybe he would. They weren’t rich, but with two laundromats they called “stores,” my parents did well enough for us. Their greatest desire was that we not take over the business.
Jin had never been serious enough for my father. At ten, he made the mistake of announcing he wanted to grow up to be a magician. Then a comedian. He listened to Steve Martin records and practiced walking like a drunk in the living room while my parents were at work. He watched David Lettermanreligiously and learned to squirt milk out of his nose. He could flip both eyelids inside out.
When he was thirteen, he got caught standing next to a boy stealing. At sixteen, he was arrested for vandalizing the election signs of local politicians. He was voted class clown instead of valedictorian. He spent too much time and money on his friends and too little on his schoolwork. He was always looking for the quick fix instead of working toward a long-term solution. Then my parents would compare him to me: Look! Your sister can manage to get good grades and have friends. Moderation! Why can’t you be more like that?
Why can’t you be more like her?
And then Jin would turn that terrible blank expression on me, smiling a little, and I could see how easy it’d be to hate me.
I still had nowhere to go. Naturally, I thought of Evan but we’d had a fight the night before. I went downstairs to the common room, where the lights were out and a few people were watching Strangers on a Train. I stood in the back and watched a fancy party in black and white. It was one of those sophisticated parties they were always having in old movies, where the men wore crisp tuxes and the women wore diamond earrings and had the same dents in their hair. Robert Walker was talking to a couple of matrons about the best way to murder someone.
Oh, one of them said in a high, cheerful voice, I know just the way I’d do it. And then she whispered, Poison.
No, no, Robert Walker said. He looked down at his hands as though amazed by their sudden significance. If you’re going to murder someone, there’s only one way to. . . . May I?
Oh, please, the matron said, offering him her neck. She gave an amused, girlish nod to her dowdy friend.
His hands went deep into the folds of her neck and he looked up to catch the eye
