I Regret Everything (30 page)

When I sat down to rest he parked himself next to me and I gave him some money to buy hot dogs. We ate them and watched an older couple in Christmas sweaters gently navigate the rink.

—You know I blood you, right?

—I blood you, too.

What's great about Marshall is that he didn't even ask what it meant. He just understood. We skated for a couple of hours and then went to a café that served hot chocolate so thick you could stand a spoon in it. Marshall ordered a piece of lemon cake, his favorite. The skating had jazzed him up and he chattered about school and his parents and what a trial it all was. But the more he talked the more the positive effects of the afternoon began to dissipate. Not for me, because his company was so welcome, but my brother slowly deflated.

—Marshall, I said, you can talk to me whenever you want for as long as you want and I'll always listen.

That seemed to improve his mood. By the time he finished the cake he was less vexed. It's truly amazing the power of knowing someone, somewhere, is willing to listen to you for free, of knowing you're less alone than you think. Isn't that what everyone with a beating heart really wants? To know they're not alone. When it started to get dark and I told him he had to go back to Connecticut he was too tired to argue. We returned to my apartment to get his suitcase.

Marshall sat on the sofa with his jacket on his lap and the suitcase in front of him. I could tell he didn't want to leave.

—I have a going-away present for you, I said, and handed him the Ganesh.

—What's this?

—It's from India. I want you to have it.

—Why?

—Marshall, you don't ask why. You're just supposed to say thanks.

—Okay, thanks. But why?

—Jeremy gave it to me. It's for good luck.

—Was he lucky?

Marshall looked at me, waiting on the verdict. How do you respond to that? It was hard to know whether I'd live long enough, even if I made it to a hundred, to figure out the proper answer. I wanted to tell Marshall that luck wasn't everything, but that wasn't really true because without it you were screwed.

—That depends on how you define the word.

Together we rode to Grand Central Station on the subway. The car was crowded with people in bulky winter clothes, a lot of them weighed down with shopping bags laden with presents. There was a guy wearing a hat with antlers playing a guitar and singing an old pop song. He had a good voice but was doing the song in a funny way and people were laughing. When he passed the hat I gave him a few dollars and when Marshall saw me do that he reached into his pocket and added a rumpled dollar bill to the modest pile.

At Grand Central Station I walked him to the platform to make sure he got on the right train.

—Can I visit again?

—Seriously? Whenever you want.

He kissed me on the cheek. Marshall's head was about an inch below mine and I thought, today is the last time he's going to be this size and the next time I see him he's going to be taller than me. That was hard to believe. It's weird the first time you realize you're watching someone grow up because it means you're not a kid anymore. We hugged goodbye and I gave him a jokey shove. When he turned and walked toward the train in his big marshmallow coat pulling the suitcase behind him that feeling came over me again. I was glad I didn't have to talk to anyone. Marshall took a window seat and waved at me, then he turned around and faced forward. I stayed on the platform until the train pulled away and I kept waving until it vanished.

THE END

 

 

 

 

I want to express my gratitude to the colleagues, friends, and family who read drafts of this novel, offered advice, and generally provided the kind of help most authors depend on. To my first and best reader Susan Kaiser Greenland, who edited multiple drafts with the keenest of eyes, I am deeply thankful. Barry Blaustein, Jay Gordon, Drew Greenland, Sam Harper, David Kanter, Dinah Lenney, Tom Lutz, Sylvie Mouches, John Romano, and Diana Wagman did me the great favor of reading early drafts. Richard Kay provided details of the legal profession. I am grateful to my agents Sylvie Rabineau and Henry Dunow for their advice and friendship. And to my editor Kent Carroll, whose gracious manner and deft editorial pen brought the process to a satisfying conclusion. I thank them all.

 

 

Seth Greenland is the author of the novels
The Bones
,
The Angry Buddhist
, and
Shining City
, which was named a Best Book of 2008 by the
Washington Post
. His first play,
Jungle Rot
, was the winner of the Kennedy Center/ American Express Fund For New American Plays Award and the American Theater Critics Association Award. He was a writer-producer on the HBO drama series
Big Love.
www.sethgreenland.com.