Brother and Sister (5 page)

***

On Monday, Paul went to the Red Cross, where he learned that Danny had been absolutely right. The man at the Red Cross started the forms rolling, and Paul got Father Mancenik, the pastor of the church, and Dr. Lynch, the Dane’s family doctor, to write the necessary substantiating letters. And then there was nothing to do but wait.

Paul spent most of his waiting time with Danny McCann, and his days rapidly assumed a pattern. He got out of bed around two in the afternoon, washed and dressed, and made himself a cup of coffee. Most of the time, Angie was in the house when he awoke, working or reading or watching television, but since he invariably woke up with a hangover, there wasn’t much conversation between them.

Having downed the cup of coffee and taken two aspirin tablets, Paul would then sit and watch television till five or thereabouts, when Angie would make lunch for him. He would eat alone at the kitchen table, since she had eaten her lunch hours before and wasn’t ready for dinner yet, and then he would leave the house, going first to Joe King’s Happi-Tyme Tavern to meet Danny. Then the two of them would spend the night bar-hopping.

They ran across a lot of the people Paul had known back in high school and in the days before he’d enlisted in the Air
Force, and they made the rounds in groups of from two to twelve. They always wound up at an after-hours place in the city called the Black Hat. Then they drove back to Thornbridge in Danny’s car, and Paul rolled into the sack around five or six in the morning.

A couple of times, he and Danny parted company early in the evening, and then met again well after midnight at one of the local Thornbridge bars. Those were the times when Danny was anxious to go pick up a girl. He wanted Paul to come along with him so they could pick up two girls, but Paul begged off every time. When Danny asked for a reason Paul merely got sullen and angry and refused to talk with him.

The thing was, he didn’t know exactly what his motives were. Actually, there was no one clear-cut reason for his not wanting to go quail hunting with Danny. There were a number of reasons, most of which he hardly suspected himself.

In the first place, and most obviously, there was Ingrid. Or, rather, the memory of Ingrid. That fiasco had been too recent for him to want to get himself involved, emotionally
or
physically, with any other girl. Once burned, he was twice shy.

Secondly
--
not so much a reason as an excuse
--
there was the fact that his parents had been dead less than two weeks. To go playing around so soon after their death would be, to say the least, in bad taste.

The final
--
and perhaps most important
--
reason he didn’t understand himself, at least, not on a conscious level. It was more complicated than the other two and concerned both his parents and his sister.

In essence he felt he was making use of his sister and the death of his mother and father. Angie didn’t need him, not to the extent he was claiming in his application for discharge. Hell, she would be going to work pretty soon. And Thornbridge was full of uncles and aunts on both sides of the family, all of them a hell of a lot more capable of watching out for Angie than Paul was.

He remembered, when he was just a kid, hearing his father at the dinner table one time, talking about this woman who worked in the office of Uncle James Dane’s trucking company. It seems her husband had run out on her a few years before and, according to Paul’s father, it was easy to see why the poor guy had up and left. But he had given her four kids before leaving, so even though she had a job she was collecting relief for the kids because they were all under age. And Paul’s father said it was a shame the way that woman treated those kids. He said it was a sure bet
she
would’ve left the kids, too, except that she was staying around because of the relief money she got for the kids. Which she used on anything in the world
except
the kids, according to Paul’s father.

She didn’t feed them enough, and only the cheapest food, and she got them all second-hand clothes and made them wear them till they were practically worn through, and none of the kids ever had so much as a nickel to spend on themselves. It was a damn shame, Paul’s father had said, and he had also said that he couldn’t think of anything lower than a person who would
use
other human beings that way, without any love or concern for them at all.

Now Paul was doing exactly the same thing with Angie. Oh, it didn’t show, the way it had with that woman. Nobody was going to point a finger at him and say he was the lowest of the low, but it was the same thing. He was using Angie. He was getting a discharge from the Air Force
--
at least, he was trying to get one
--
on the basis that he had to take care of his kid sister. And for God’s sake, he hardly even
saw
her, much less took care of her! So he was using her, just exactly the same way that woman had used her children, and just as callously.

But that wasn’t the worst. Paul’s father had said he couldn’t think of anything lower than what that woman was doing, but of course he hadn’t known then that his own son was going to do something one hell of a
lot
lower. He hadn’t known that his own son was going to use his parents’ death as a way out of the Air Force. He wouldn’t have thought for one second that his son could be as completely low as that.

Paul never sat back to figure all this out
--
these were thoughts that filtered through bit by bit, despite his efforts to keep them buried, far down out of sight, to make believe that they weren’t there.

Gradually, he became aware that he couldn’t allow himself to have a good time when he was out. He stayed gloomy and morose, never really joining in with the crowd, and he couldn’t even think of going along with Danny to pick up a couple of girls.

And one thing more. This thought wasn’t quite at the conscious level either, but it didn’t have to be. It was as basic to him as breathing, it didn’t have to be thought about. It was this:

He had been happy all his life. A few times, of course, he’d been discontented or annoyed or upset about something but, generally speaking, his life had been happy. While he had been at home.

But then he had enlisted in the Air Force and he had gone away from home. And there had been Ingrid, and the squadron commander being down on him, and his parents dying. The whole world seemed to go to hell. And it had all happened after he had left home.

He wasn’t going to leave home again. Not for anything. That house on DeWitt Street had been home for as long as he could remember. He was going to live there, he was going to
be
there. He was never going to leave that house again. Not ever.

And that was why he could be as low as the woman his father had talked about that time. Because he would do anything,
anything,
to keep from having to leave home again.

***

Uncle James came to the house on the second Thursday after the funeral. He showed up at four in the afternoon, when Paul was up and sitting in the living room, watching television and nursing a hangover.

Uncle James looked exactly like a ward heeler politician.

He was short
--
barely five feet four inches tall
--
and shaped like a barrel. He always wore bluish-gray suits with vests, wide-collared white shirts, loud ties and black shoes. His face was round and as lined as a prune. He had dark, narrow-set eyes above a round pug nose and a wide, thick-lipped mouth. His eyebrows were bushy and black, sticking way out from his face
--
his black hair was thinning on top and graying at the sides. He always had a cigar in his month, and he rarely smiled or laughed unless he’d been drinking.

Uncle James was Paul’s father’s older brother. He was a rough, bitter, money-hungry, ambitious, driving man; everything that Paul’s father had not been. Paul’s father had managed to get to college for two years, while Uncle James had quit school at fifteen to go to work. Paul’s father liked good music, good books, good food and good liquor. He dressed well and was tall and lean and handsome. He and Uncle James were as different as day and night.

But it was Uncle James who had supported Paul’s father all his life. That had been a bitter dose for Paul’s father to have to swallow, but there hadn’t been any choice. Paul’s father had not been born for manual labor. He had a good mind, a fastidious mind. And he had no particular hunger for money itself, though he did appreciate the things that money could buy. But he hadn’t been able to finish college
--
he had had to pay his own way, his parents being dirt poor
--
and without that college diploma and that college education, there just wasn’t any place at all for Paul’s father.

Except with Uncle James. Uncle James, at twenty-four, had started his own trucking company, with one beat-up, run-down, second-hand junk heap of a truck. He drove it himself, working sixteen to eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. He had driven himself more than he had ever driven the truck and he had made the venture pay. Six years after he’d started, he owned a fleet of fourteen brand-new trucks, he had his own garage out on Western Avenue, and he no longer had to do his own driving.

He was doing so well, in fact, that he could even make a living for his kid brother, Paul’s father. He brought Paul’s father in as office manager, which meant, in essence, that he was the one who did the talking for James. He talked with the customers, with the union, with the tax people, with the employees, with the automotive dealer from whom the trucks were bought and with everybody else. He was smooth and personable and friendly and honest. He actually was worth what Uncle James paid him. And Uncle James paid him damn well. He didn’t make anywhere near what Uncle James made, of course, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t that hungry for money.

Besides, no amount of money would have made up for the fact that he was living on his brother’s charity. And it didn’t matter how valuable he was to his brother’s firm; it was charity because no one else would have given him such a job.

Although Paul’s father had never voiced his feelings on this matter, it hadn’t taken Paul long to see what the situation was. Before he was in high school, he understood clearly just
what the relationship was between his father and his Uncle James. And even though no one was to blame for the situation
--
least of all Uncle James
--
Paul had never liked this particular uncle. Uncle James made his father depressed and unhappy, and that was enough for Paul. He disliked Uncle James.

The death of his father hadn’t changed his feelings in the slightest. In addition, he had a hangover. Therefore, when Uncle James came barging into the house that Thursday afternoon without so much as knocking, Paul looked ironically at him and said, “The door’s unlocked. Come on in.”

“I’m already in,” said Uncle James, who had never had time to develop a sense of humor.

“So I notice.”

“Where’s your sister?” Uncle James demanded, uninterested in foolish conversations.

“You mean Angie?”

“How many sisters you got? Of course, I mean Angie.”

“I just wasn’t sure you knew her name, that’s all.”

Uncle James lowered his bushy eyebrows and glowered. “Are you trying to be a smart aleck, boy?”

“Not for a minute.” Uncle James sat down on the sofa, and as soon as he was settled Paul said, “Sit down.”

“I am sitting. Where’s Angie?”

“Upstairs, I think. Dusting or something.”

“Get her, will you? I want to talk to you kids about something.” ·

Paul shrugged. He turned his head toward the stairs and bellowed, “Angie!”

Her call came back down the stairs. “What is it?”

“Come on down. We’ve got company.”

“Who?”

“Uncle James. He wants to talk to us.”

“What about?”

“For Christ’s sake, Angie, quit hollering and come here.”

“Just a minute.”

Uncle James had followed all this sourly, chewing on his cigar. He now said, “You always holler and shout like that? I figured your father would have taught you some manners. He was the man to do it, if ever there was one.”

“You just leave him out of this,” said Paul, bristling.

The eyebrows went up this time. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Get off the high horse.”

Angie came in then, smiling, and said, “Hello, Uncle James.”

Uncle James smiled around the cigar. “By God, Angie,” he said, “you’re turning into a beautiful woman, do you know that?”

Angie blushed, pleased at the compliment, murmuring, “Thank you.” She sat demurely near Paul and said, “You wanted to talk to us?”

“Yes.” Uncle James nodded emphatically and removed the cigar from his mouth. To Angie he said, “Have you made any plans yet about where you’re going to be living from now on? I mean, are you going to get a little apartment of your own or will you stay with one of your aunts or what?”

Angie looked blank with surprise. “Why, I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “I’m going to be staying right here.”

“Here? In this house? All by yourself?”

“I’ll be with her,”· said Paul sullenly. “I’m getting a discharge.” Though he wasn’t sure yet, he spoke as though it were definite.

“Well, now,” said Uncle James. “I didn’t know about that. That changes things. Well, now.”

Angie said, “What is it, Uncle James?”

“Well, now,” said Uncle James, “here’s the thing. You see, actually, I’m the one who owns this house.”

“The hell you do!” snapped Paul.

Uncle James glowered at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“You heard what I said. I went through the papers in the desk, getting things into shape, the insurance and all that, and I remember seeing the deed to this house. Dad owned it, complete, no mortgage or anything. And he left it to Angie and me.”

“Well, now,” said Uncle James, “I guess I can tell you something you didn’t know then. You see, your father borrowed the money from me to buy this house, and he never paid a penny of that money back. So the house, when you come right down to it, is mine.”

“He took out a mortgage with you?” asked Paul. “Let’s see the papers on it.”

“I didn’t say a mortgage. I said a loan. He borrowed the cash from me. A verbal loan. He was supposed to pay it back but he never did. And I never pressed him on it. I knew he’d be good for it eventually.”

“You mean you don’t have a signed loan agreement?”

“I don’t need one,” said Uncle James. “You can just take my word for it.”

“And you can just go to hell!” Paul told him angrily.

“You watch your tongue, boy!”

“You watch your own tongue!”

“Paul!” cried Angie. “Uncle James!”

But neither of them paid any attention to her. Paul was on his feet, his face scarlet with rage. “This is
my
house!” he cried. “Mine and Angie’s! It’s our
home.
We’ve got the papers to prove it and you can just go
to hell for yourself!”

“My boy, Teddy,” shouted Uncle James, “is getting married in three months, and he’s going to move into this house!”

“The hell he is!”

Uncle James leaped to his feet. “Goddamn it!” he cried. “I’m going to see my lawyer!”

“See twenty lawyers. This is
my
house.”

“We’ll see whose house it is,” cried Uncle James. He shoved the cigar into his mouth, glowered at Paul and stormed out of the house.

Paul remained standing in the middle of the room, glaring at the front door. His chest was heaving and he felt as though he’d just run three miles. “That son-of-a bitch,” he whispered. “He thought I’d be going back to Germany. He figured you’d be going off to an apartment somewhere and he could just waltz in here and take over our house as though he owned it.”

“Paul, maybe Dad did borrow the money from him. Uncle James wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

“It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference,” Paul told her. “He admitted he didn’t have any papers to prove it. That would make it a loan and not a mortgage. Any debt Dad owed Uncle James died with him. That makes this our house and he can just take a flying leap of a pier for himself.”

“He’s going to cause trouble for us, Paul,” said Angie mournfully.

“Let him try it. I’m going out, I’ll see you later.” He stormed out the front door and turned toward Joe King’s Happi-Tyme Tavern.