The Silent Sister (4 page)

“What would I do with that much money?” he asked when we reached the kitchen. I knew it was a rhetorical question.

“Well”—I put the bag on the counter—“it'll be there if you ever need it.” I'd already told him he could keep the land where he was living.

He immediately walked to the refrigerator and opened the door, pulling a beer from the carton. “How'd he end up with that much in the bank?” he asked, shutting the refrigerator door.

I reached into one of the cupboards for a couple of plates. “He was a good saver, I guess,” I said. “He didn't have many expenses. And he used to work for the U.S. Marshals Service, which I guess you knew?”

“Hm.” He pulled open a couple of drawers before finding the one with the bottle opener. “He was crazy, wasn't he? Giving up a government job to come down here and run an RV park?”

I glanced at him as I took two of my mother's old Franciscan Ware plates from the cupboard. “Maybe he felt like you do,” I said. “You know. Choosing a quieter lifestyle over the rat race of Washington, D.C.”

He took a swallow of beer. “Not sure I could say mine is a choice,” he said.

I nodded toward the back door, and Danny followed me onto the screened porch, where I set the plates on the oilcloth-covered table. The cicadas and crickets were singing their evening songs as I opened the bag from MJ's. I loved the porch. It reminded me of when I was a kid. All summer long, I'd read in one of the rockers. I could still remember a few of the books I devoured back then, when life seemed a whole lot simpler than it did right now.

“Do you remember hanging out on the porch when we were kids?” I asked as I opened the wrapper around the shrimp.

“Man, these plates!” Danny said as if he hadn't heard what I said. He looked down at the cream-colored plate with the hand-painted apples around the border. “Do we have to eat on these old plates?”

“What's wrong with them?”

“Just … it's like being fifteen again.”

I wanted to prod. To ask him why being fifteen felt so terrible to him, but I'd prodded before and knew it would go nowhere.

“I actually love these plates,” I said. “They remind me of Mom.”

“Exactly,” he said.

I wasn't about to get him a different plate. I took a handful of shrimp and pushed the cardboard container across the table to him. “Cover it with shrimp and you won't see the design,” I said, and I was glad when he reached for the container.

“So.” I peeled a shrimp, thinking I'd better get the subject off our family for a while. “I told you about my sorry love life. How about yours? Anyone special these days?”

His shrug was noncommittal. “They come and go,” he said, “and that suits me fine.” He ate a shrimp, then drained his beer and stood up. “I need another of these,” he said. “Get you one?”

“No, thanks.” I ate a few fries as I waited for him to come back. I hated how tense it felt between us. He seemed brittle to me tonight. Easy to break.

His bottle was already half empty by the time he sat down again, and his hands shook as he began peeling a shrimp. I wondered if he was on something. He'd smoked a lot of weed when he got back from Iraq, but as far as I knew, alcohol was his drug of choice these days.

“We have to talk about the house,” I said, and I told him everything I'd learned from Suzanne. “The piano and ten thousand go to Jeannie Lyons, which I think is weird. She used to be a friend of Mom's, but I—”

“I know who she is,” he said, taking another swallow of beer. “She tries to talk to me when she sees me around town, but I just put on my scary PTSD act and she leaves me alone.”

I had to laugh. His delivery was deadpan and I had no idea if he meant to be funny or not, but either way, I liked his honesty. “And you must know Tom Kyle,” I said. “He lives at the end of the RV park?”

“Total asshole. He always wears camo pants, like he's trying to pass himself off as something he's not.”

I nibbled a French fry. “Well,” I said, “I don't know him very well, but he's been helping to keep the park going since Daddy died, so I appreciate that. And Daddy must have had some sort of relationship with him because he left him his pipe collection.”

“What would anyone want with a bunch of old pipes?”

“Who knows?” I said. “But they're one less thing we need to deal with, so I'm happy about that. What I'll need the most help with is boxing stuff up to donate. You know, clearing everything out of the house so we can sell it.” I fantasized about us working together for a couple of weeks, shoulder to shoulder. Maybe I could get him to really talk to me. To open up.

He stopped peeling the shrimp and looked out at the yard, nearly dark now. “Seriously,” he said, “you better just hire somebody. I can't do it.”

His voice was soft but sure, as though he'd been trying to reach a decision and had finally made it. “Why not, Danny?” I asked gently.

“Being here, I realize…” He looked at me, but only for a second before dropping his gaze to the remaining shrimp on his plate. “I just don't want to paw through all their old stuff. Things like these plates.” He tapped his finger on the edge of the plate. “I don't want to see them.”

“Okay…” I said, wishing I understood the enigma that was my brother.

“I have as many nightmares about our family as I do about Iraq,” he added.

“I don't understand,” I said. “I mean, it's not like you were abused or anything.”

He lifted the bottle to his lips, tipping his head back to get the last drop. “There are all sorts of abuse,” he said, setting the bottle down again.

“What are you talking about?”

“All I'm saying is, you need to hire somebody to help you with the house.” There was an impatient edge to his voice now. “I'm washing my hands of it.” He got up and walked into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door opening again as I stacked our dishes and began carrying them into the house.

The kitchen was empty by the time I got inside, but I could see him in the living room. I set everything on the counter by the sink and walked to the doorway between the rooms. Danny stood in front of the wall of vinyl albums, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other holding yet another fresh beer.

“What was the point of all this?” he said, lifting the bottle in the direction of the albums. The anger in his voice kept me from walking into the room. “You couldn't listen to this many records in a lifetime,” he said. “Stupid waste. He was obsessed.”

“It was his passion,” I said carefully. I remembered our mother saying that Daddy needed his passions, and although she never said more than that, I knew she meant he needed something to keep him from thinking about the daughter he'd lost. “Do you remember how Mom and Daddy always talked about our family as though they'd only had two children?” I asked. “Like Lisa didn't exist?”

Danny didn't shift his gaze from the records, but I saw the quick flare of his nostrils. As kids, we'd both learned to respond the same way when people asked us how many kids were in our family.
Just two,
we'd reply.

“It was like we could never talk about Lisa,” I said. “Even now, when I mentioned her, you shut down and—”

“This is so fucked!” he suddenly shouted. Turning, he raised his arm as though about to pitch a ball. He sent the beer bottle forward with enormous power, propelling it like a missile toward the wall with the pipe collection. I took a step backward as the sliding glass doors of the cabinet exploded into millions of pieces.

Danny spun around and stomped toward the front door.

“Danny!” I shouted, too stunned to move. He was gone, pounding down the porch steps before I could even absorb what had happened.

I stared at the cabinet, now unprotected by glass. Some of the pipes had fallen off their narrow wooden ledges. A few were on the floor. Jagged pieces of glass jutted from the edges of the cabinet like broken ice on a pond, and everywhere in the room—
everywhere
—glass glittered. Tiny crystal shards sparkled from nearly every surface.

I stood there numbly for a few seconds before remembering that Danny had no car. No way to travel the ten miles to his trailer other than by foot. I grabbed my purse and keys and headed out the front door after him.

*   *   *

New Bern was dark and quiet as I drove slowly in the direction I expected him to travel. I spotted him as he walked under a streetlight, limping badly, heading for the outskirts of town. Pulling over, I lowered the passenger side window.

“Get in,” I commanded. He stopped walking, but didn't look over at me. “Come on, Danny,” I said. “Please.”

I saw the moment he surrendered—that telltale slump of his shoulders that registered defeat. He walked to my car and opened the door. “Don't take me back to the house,” he said as he got in the car. “Take me to my place, all right?”

“Absolutely,” I said, giving up then and there on the idea of him helping me with the house.

We rode in silence for a couple of miles. I was unsure what to say that wouldn't send him bolting out of my car. After a while, he turned on the radio, pushing the scan button until he found something he liked. Hip-hop. The song playing was familiar and its pounding beat forced both of us to nod our heads in rhythm, whether we were in the mood for the music or not.

“The kids I work with love this song,” I said, grateful for a neutral topic. Then I remembered the shotgun waiting for him in his trailer and it became all I could think about. I asked kids every day of the week if they had suicidal feelings, but now the words were caught in my throat.

“I'll go to the VA with you while I'm here,” I said instead.

“What for?”

“Don't be dense, Danny,” I said. “If you
are
taking your meds, they need an adjustment, don't you think?”

“No, I don't think.”

“Let me go with you,” I said. “You can't go on this way. When was the last time you saw a psychiatrist?”

“Fuck off,” he said.

The dark road blurred in front of my eyes and I swallowed hard against the hurt, my fingers tight on the steering wheel.

After a moment, he reached over to touch my hand. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I know you want to help, but you can't. Just accept it, okay? This is who I am.”

I nodded, though I wasn't okay with it. Not at all. “Don't worry about the house,” I said, turning onto the road that led to the RV park. “I'll take care of it.” I made a left when we reached the rutted unpaved lane and we bounced slowly through the darkness.

“It's right here.” He pointed to the nearly invisible break in the trees that led to the clearing and his trailer. I made a cautious left into the woods, then drove along the trail until my headlights picked up his car and the old Airstream. I stopped and turned off the ignition.

“I'm coming in with you,” I said.

“No.” He reached for the door handle.

The only thing in my mind was that shotgun. “Do you think about killing yourself?” I blurted out. When I turned to face him, I was surprised by the glint of tears in his eyes.

He didn't answer right away, and when he finally did, his voice was gentle. “I'm all right, Riles,” he said. My heart felt a little pang of love at hearing the name he'd called me when we were kids. “Seriously,” he said. “I am. I just couldn't be in that house any longer.”

I reached into my purse and pulled out the folded twenties. I held them out to him. “This is yours,” I said. “Take it.”

He hesitated, then took the bills from my hand.

“I love you, Danny,” I said.

He looked toward his trailer. “I'm just glad I can keep the land,” he said as he opened the door and got out of the car. Those words heartened me. If he still cared about keeping the land, he was thinking of the future. He wasn't about to blow his head off. Not tonight, at least.

I left my headlights on until he was inside his trailer, then I drove back and forth in tiny arcs until I was facing forward for the slow drive out of the forest, my mind consumed by the work that lay ahead of me. It wasn't only the house and my heart that needed to be repaired while I was here, I thought. Somehow, I had to also heal my brother.

 

5.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd been to Mac's RV Park. I tried to think back as I made a right turn onto the long narrow lane, driving in the opposite direction from the acres of woods that sheltered Danny's trailer. It must have been either last summer or the summer before that. I'd come to New Bern for a surprise visit and, not finding Daddy at home, I drove out here and found him working on the boat ramp. When he looked up and saw me, his smile lit up his face. It felt strange to pull into the park now, knowing he wouldn't be here.

My father kept his own small, aging RV in the first of the twelve sites, and I thought I'd check it out before driving to the Kyles' motor home. I parked next to the RV, then realized I had no key for it. I tried the doors, but they were locked, so I got back in my car and continued down the gravel road.

Mac's RV Park was not exactly a hot tourist destination. It was a funky little strip of land nestled between a wide, navigable creek and the Croatan Forest, and it offered no amenities other than electrical and water hookups and a boat slip. I wasn't sure how Mac's compared to other parks, but I'd always liked how each of the twelve sites was private at this time of year when the trees were full, cut off from the other sites by a patch of forest on either side. I could see a few other RVs through the trees and hear the distant laughter of kids playing in the creek.

The Kyles' RV sat on concrete blocks in the last site, close to the creek and shaded by the trees. A Ford sedan with fading green paint was parked behind it. Their RV was nearly as old as my father's, but much larger. A striped awning sagged above the door and the roof had caved in near the front of the vehicle where a tree must have fallen on it. It was a sad-looking thing, their motor home, and I guessed the Kyles were having trouble keeping it in decent shape. I hadn't seen Tom Kyle in years, but he had to be my father's age—pushing seventy. I wondered what he'd do with Daddy's pipe collection.