something unintelligible and turned around.
Michael checked the rearview as I fished my cell out of my cleavage, then offered, “I could find out for you, bro.”
Before things could get weird, I said, “I’m not sexting, it’s Nadia. She just wanted to know what’s going on with us.”
“Ah. Tell her I said hey.”
“Who’s Nadia?” Michael asked.
I told him about her, along with Angus, a rambling monologue punctuated by occasional remarks from Max. By the time I finished, the convoy reached the cemetery, well outside the city limits. The trees were probably gorgeous in fall, but it was pretty in late summer, too, green and well-kept. But it was hard to follow Max up the path, harder to see Michael struggle and know it would only piss him off if I offered to help. From this distance, I could see the tent, the coffin on burial scaffolding, a hole in the ground, the folding chairs set up on outdoor carpeting. They’d moved all the flowers from the funeral home, arrayed them around the coffin, so the breeze hit me in the face with the scent of sweet decay.
We were among the last to arrive, and this time Michael hung back with us. The funerary rites were mercifully brief; since the weather was muggy, hot and overcast, I’d have hated standing there for an hour. The wind died down, hinting at the prospect of a storm after nightfall. Maybe it would clear the air. One way or another we could use it.
They lowered the coffin and Carol tossed a flower into the grave. As people started to leave, I shifted, wondering if I should suggest...something. But really, Max needed to take the reins and sort out his family business without my intervention. So I kept quiet.
“What’re you doing now?” he asked his brother.
“There’s a potluck at the house,” Michael said. “If you want to come.”
His first reaction came in the form of leaping pleasure shining in his dark eyes, quickly dulled to uncertainty. “I don’t know if—”
“It’s not at Pop’s, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve been living with Uncle Lou for the past four years.” Though his tone was offhand, I sensed there was a boatload of a story behind that decision.
“Four years...” Max wore a stunned expression, so much that I put my hand on his arm, steadying him. “All this time, I thought I couldn’t talk to you, see you. Not even to apologize.”
“What?” Michael stared at him, equally flummoxed.
Tell him, I ordered with my eyes. In their shoes, I would’ve had this talk last night, but no, they only blabbed about the bike, apparently. This offer felt akin to falling on a grenade—I disliked their dad that much—but they needed some privacy.
“I’ll get a ride with your uncle,” I said. “Catch you later, Max.”
Before he could argue, I hurried across the grass toward Mr. Cooper’s retreating back. The man beside him must be Uncle Lou; he was both shorter and wider. I caught up with them, out of breath, and nearly tripped over a headstone. Uncle Lou had a kind, jowly face with deep-set eyes with pouches under them. His nose was bulbous, but I could practically taste the kindness in him. He was also older than I’d expected, probably Max and Michael’s great-uncle. Which made the deceased granddad his brother.
“Can I beg a lift? Max and Michael need some time.”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Normally it pissed me off when men immediately defaulted to endearments; with Uncle Lou I didn’t mind. I’d probably even eat a butterscotch if he fished one out of his pocket.
“You go to school with Maxie, do you?”
If anybody heard that nickname when he was a kid, ten to one they called him Maxipad.
I was basically ignoring Mr. Cooper at this point, and he seemed to be returning the favor, walking a bit ahead. So I yielded to the urge to brag about Max. “Yeah. He’s doing really well in engineering, works part-time at a garage on weekends. It’s amazing what he’s achieved completely on his own.”
Mr. Cooper’s shoulders squared. Yeah, I hope you’re listening, asshole. Suck on that.
“I’m so proud of him. Carol tells us what he emails to her, but he has the idea nobody in the family wants to hear from him because of what happened to Mickey. And the nonsense Charlie spouted right after the accident, of course.” Uncle Lou sighed. “But I’m sure you know how stubborn Maxie can be. He gets an idea lodged in his head and nothing short of an earthquake can shake it out.”
“He still blames himself,” I ventured quietly.
“None of us do. I slammed into a parked car once because I dropped a sandwich. Now, that’s stupid. I can only imagine how I’d feel if somebody got hurt.”
Mr. Cooper picked up the pace, probably trying to get out of earshot. I watched him go, wondering how he lived with himself. He’d kicked one son out and then couldn’t look after Michael after he got out of the hospital, just went on drinking like it was his reason for living. The whole situation made me angrier than I could recall being in my whole life.
Uncle Lou studied my face with the air of an adorable, aging basset hound. “It’s a mess, no two ways around it. But I hope we can clear up the misunderstanding while Maxie’s here.”
“I hope so, too.” We were nearly to the car when I gave up and asked the nosiest question of my life. “What, exactly, did Max’s dad say that night at the hospital? I know Max left home right after, but—”
“Honey, I think you already know this, but...that story should come from Max. And it’d do him good to get it off his chest. When he’s ready, he’ll tell you himself.”
Maybe, I thought.
And the prospect blazed through me in a shower of joy.
Uncle Lou drove a white vintage Cadillac. By its size, it probably dated from the ’70s and got terrible gas mileage, but it was smooth riding in the back. Max’s dad didn’t say a word to either one of us on the way to the house, which made me wonder if he’d honestly hated me on sight, or if it was the old conflict with Max coloring his impression. People didn’t always like me, obviously, but they seldom reacted with such immediate and virulent antipathy.
It took forty-five minutes to get to Uncle Lou’s house, which was in Coventry, not Providence. When he turned into the driveway I realized we were there, though the line of cars should’ve clued me in. A white bungalow with detached garage proved to be our final destination; there was even a picket fence and a big deck out front with a ramp leading up. Neighbors and well-wishers were waiting when we got out of the car and strangers hugged me without asking how I knew the deceased. A kind-faced woman pressed a plate of food into my hands, and I took it reflexively, bewildered.
I had some kind of fritters, a Jell-O-and-whipped-cream salad, cold cuts, a helping of casserole that I couldn’t identify. This was the random assortment of food people showed up with after a family death, hoping to make life easier for the survivors. Shrugging, I ate the fried thing and
