Bo never asked me why I still lived with Mom and Dad. He never even told me I should get my own place or anything. And man he hates Mom and Dad.

Instead, he told me all about living in Seattle, and how it rained “every fucking day.” Just like I was a regular guy.

If you asked me to tell you when I was happiest, I would probably say it was that afternoon with my little brother. I mean, have you ever been around someone, and you know they just take you as is? That even if they could change you for the better, they wouldn’t do it?

It’s kind of like that with Bo.

The first thing that passes through my mind when the jet touches down on the runway of LAX is, I’m twenty miles from James Jansen’s home. It looks like the tarmac of any other airport from my first class window, but the feel of this city, the sprawl of 10 p.m. light and the mansions and studios and activity they suggest, fills me with energy. As the pilot welcomes us to Los Angeles, local time 10:02 p.m., temp. 81 degrees, I can hardly sit still.

All I can think is I am home now. I’m home.

It’s after 11:00 when I pay the cab fare and walk through the grass of my brother’s lawn toward the front porch. His street is a quiet one. Sprinklers water neighboring yards with a soothing hush. I hear crickets. There aren’t too many trees from what I can tell, and the air smells dry and sharp.

The lights are still on inside his bungalow. Three cars in the driveway. Laughter escapes through the open windows.

I step onto the front porch, and I’ll be honest, I’m nervous. Sort of wish I’d let Bo know I was coming. Instead of knocking on the door right away, I set my luggage down on the planked porch and take a seat on the bench.

I pick out four distinct voices coming from a room which I cannot see from the porch. Bo, another man, and two women. I’ll bet one of them is his wife. I guess that’s what you do on a Friday night when you’re married: have friends over who are married, about the same age as you, and sit and laugh in the kitchen over drinks while your child sleeps. Seems a very safe, suburban thing to do.

I eavesdrop on their conversation. It’s not terribly interesting. One of the women is talking about how she got stuck in traffic for five hours the other day, and that she was so bored, she sat on the hood of her car and read an entire book. I know that sounds interesting, but the way she tells it is actually pretty dull. You can tell she thinks it’s a really neat story. I have to stop listening when she says, “And there I am, sitting on the hood of my car at four in the afternoon on the 105, getting a tan and reading a novel!” God, I hope that’s his friend’s wife.

I wait on his porch for a long time. Finally, after midnight, I stand up since it doesn’t seem like those two couples are ever going to say goodnight, and knock on the door. That’s one thing I’ll say for myself—I’m not a timid knocker.

I hear Bo say, “Who in the world could that be?” and I feel guilty again for not calling him this afternoon.

My heart really thumps as I hear approaching footsteps on the hardwood floor. I stand very tall and straight and remove my sunglasses. The door swings open. Bo and I stand two feet apart, and man do his eyes get wide.

“Lancer!” Oh yeah, he calls me Lancer. I don’t know why, but I don’t mind. No one else calls me that. No one else really calls me anything. “What are you doing here, man?” he says, but he doesn’t say it mean. Just very excited and curious, and I suppose it’s a reasonable question to ask someone who’s knocked on your door after midnight. He has liquor on his breath and this disappoints me, though I’m not sure why.

I don’t say anything, because I don’t really know what to say. I just step forward and embrace my brother. He hugs me back, and God it feels good.

“You look great,” he tells me. And I do. It’s true.

“You, too,” I say, but he doesn’t really. He’s put on some weight. He isn’t I-have-to-be-lifted-out-of-my-house-with-a-crane fat. Just, married with one kid fat. Comfortable fat. Suburban fat. We don’t look anything alike. I’m definitely much handsomer than Bo. I’m not saying he’s ugly or anything. But no one’s mistaking him for a movie star.

“Come in,” he says, and I lift my two suitcases off the porch and walk inside.

He has a very succinct bungalow that has most certainly benefited from the touch of a woman. Right off, as we walk through the foyer toward the kitchen, I notice these pieces of tribal art. I don’t know if they’re really tribal, but when I see a stone carving of a guy holding a spear, my first thought is,  Look at that strange tribal art.

Bo looks so different. He’s wearing corduroy pants, leather sandals, and a cream-colored linen shirt that is not tucked in. I guess he’s going for the whole I’m-on-a-safari look. I’m Hugo Bossing it of course. He has brown hair like mine, though not as thick and luxurious. Plus, he’s only six feet tall and wears glasses. The only glasses I wear are my deep dark shades.

A man and two women are sitting around a kitchen table. There’s a candle, a half-empty bottle of Patron, four clear glasses.

“Guys,” he says as we enter the small, bright kitchen which smells like scrambled eggs, “Meet my brother, Lance.”

Everybody says hi Lance, and I say hi everybody.

Bo’s holding my right arm above the elbow, and he starts pointing at people.

“Lance, this is Nick.”

“Hi, Nick.”

“His wife, Maggie.”

“Hi, Maggie.”

“Hi, Lance. Wow, has anyone ever told you you look like James Jansen?”

“No, why? Do I?”

“A lot.”

Bo says, “And finally, meet Hannah, my wife.”

I haven’t shaken anybody’s hand yet, but I figure I’d better hug my sister-in-law, so I set my suitcases down and she rises and we embrace.

“I wish I could’ve come to your wedding,” I say. And I really do. I just didn’t have money to fly out to California four years ago.

“It’s so good to meet you, Lance. Bo talks about you all the time.”

I sort of doubt that. But I guess you have to say that sort of thing if you’re my new sister-in-law. I’m sorry to say she’s the avid traffic jam reader. She’s very shapely and brown, her hair black.

The downside of my arrival is that I think I break up their little party, because Nick and Maggie stand and say they should probably be getting back to Davie. I really hope Davie’s their dog, because anyone who would name a child Davie deserves to die.

I have to pee like you wouldn’t believe, so before Bo and Hanna walk their suburban friends out to the car, Bo shows me the way to the bathroom. On the way, he tells me to be quiet because Sam is sleeping. I can’t wait to meet Sam. He’s my nephew.

Chapter 11

 

Hannah prepares him a room ~ chats with Bo on the deck ~ sees his sleeping nephew ~ Ani the Anteater ~ breakfast with the Dunkquists ~ recalls their annual trips to N. Myrtle Beach and the hurricane ~ rents a Hummer ~ takes a drive and beholds the Valley

When I emerge from the bathroom, I’ve washed my face, brushed my teeth, and changed into a pair of plaid pajamas. Hannah has carried my luggage into the guest bedroom at the end of the hall, laid out clean linens, and turned back the comforter. After three nights in that shithole in the Bronx, this room looks cozy and inviting.

I tell Hannah thank you very much for letting me impose on them, and she says it’s no trouble at all, but I kind of wonder if she’s just being hospitable.

Bo went and married a beautiful woman. She’s wearing these Capri pants and a little white tank top with no bra. I know you aren’t supposed to notice such attributes on your brother’s wife, but man she’s got these gazongas like you wouldn’t believe.