There was nobody in my office Tuesday morning. I ordered a tall skinny latte and a sesame bagel. I declined the proffer of a tiny dollop of cream cheese sealed in a minuscule plastic tub. I thought about going to see FitzGibbon. I didn’t have the energy.
I went through the Times. I had another latte. I picked up the Times again. I read the stories I’d skipped the first time. I learned that a blue moon is the second full moon in a calendar month. It happens once in a while. It’s not actually blue. It’s just unusual. There were two blue moons in 1999, though. So not all that unusual.
I resolved to never use the phrase again. Too ambiguous.
I still loved the song, though.
I nodded off, Willie Nelson’s version in my head.
I was dreaming of a girl I knew in high school. Her name was Sandra. She was soft and kind and wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I was just settling into a dreamy sofa next to her at the bar in the St. Regis when I was rudely disturbed. The pointy toe of a blue high-heeled Manolo Blahnik prodded my shin. My dream attempted to work the sensation into the narrative. But it didn’t take: Sandra was not given to kicking boys in the shins. I opened my eyes.
Dorita stood over me.
It’s even better than you thought, she said.
What is?
The info.
What info?
The Jake info.
Oh. Well. I’m not sure I thought anything. One way or the other.
So it’s even better than you didn’t think.
Right. Whatever you say. Well. It’d better be good. You interrupted a good dream there.
That’s my specialty.
Why did I know you were going to say that?
Incest.
You’re losing me, darling.
It’s incest. That’s why Jake changed his name. Why Brendan changed his name.
Brendan?
That’s Jake’s real name. Brendan Gibbs.
Brendan? I’m going to have a hard time getting used to that.
Get used to this: he’s a sister-fucker.
A what?
A sister-fucker.
I heard you. That’s going to take some explanation. Meanwhile, I’m just a little taken aback by the moniker. I’d never heard that one before.
I just made it up.
You must be very proud.
I’m proud of all my children. Now do you want to hear the story, or keep trying vainly to demonstrate that you’re more of a man than me?
It’s a tough choice. I guess I’ll go with the story. But I reserve my right to change my mind. If it’s too boring.
Don’t worry about that. Listen. He’s born into a fairly wealthy family in southern Illinois. Some Podunk town you’ve never heard of. Grandpa owned the general store. Dad expanded into hardware, bought a couple of franchises. You know the deal.
I yawned.
The family’s upright, respectable. Brendan’s uncle gets elected mayor. His mother teaches at the local school. They give to charity. They go to church. Brendan plays piano. Gets the lead role in the high school play.
Can I go back to my nap please?
He has a sister. She’s a stunning-looking girl.
Ah. Now you’re talking my language. Cherchez la femme.
Every boy in town wants to go out with her.
But she won’t have them.
Right. They’re not good enough for her. She’s the class valedictorian. Plays the violin. Wins the essay contest.
Way out of their league.
Right. She’s very close to her family. They’re enough for her.
Perhaps too enough?
You’re anticipating.
That’s what happens when you put the punch line first.
Guilty as charged. She and Brendan are close. They write songs together. She writes the music. He writes the lyrics.
They play croquet in the backyard.
Probably. She goes to college.
Yes.
That part I don’t know anything about.
Okay.
She graduates. She comes back home. The summer after graduation. To take a rest, before she goes back to Chicago. Start her new job.
Brendan’s thrilled.
A whole summer with his favorite sister.
They play croquet.
Whatever.
They play other games.
Other games.
In other places.
Dark and dangerous places.
And?
They get caught.
Ouch.
In flagrante.
Delicto?
Delicto. Wow.
The local press goes crazy.
A gold mine.
Sells more papers than the latest crop figures.
The police beat: ‘Local youth apprehended for spitting on sidewalk.’
Right. Big-time story at last.
Scandal.
Excess.
The rich brought low.
Mega-juicy.
They’re all over it.
Exactly.
Daddy must have pissed somebody off, I said. Small town, prominent citizen and all that. Figure he could have hushed it up.
Or something. We’ll find out.
If we want to.
We want to.
You want to.
I want to. So we want to.
Yes darling. So, we’ve got something on Jake. But what does it buy us?
The story’s not over yet.
Enlighten me.
Dad shoots himself.
Dead?
Dead. With a shotgun. Can’t stand the shame.
Jesus.
Mom goes off the deep end.
Locked away?
Threw away the key.
Positively Gothic.
Delicious, isn’t it?
Well it would be. Except I know the guy. And I kind of like him. It’s a bit of a shock.
Life is like that.
Shocking?
That too.
So then what happens?
The kids leave town. Nobody knows where. The papers keep playing it up for a while. Eventually it dies down. Everybody’s dead or gone. Nothing new. They can only keep it up for so long.
That’s it?
That’s it.
Wow.
Yes. Very wow.
Very wow, but how does it help us?
I’m not sure it does.
But it sure is interesting, I said. I mean, there’s certainly more to Jake than first appeared.
Isn’t there?
And so.
And so, what other deep dark secrets might he have?
What other things might he be capable of?
Exactly.
I’m not liking this.
You don’t have to. I’ll do the liking for you. I’ll also keep doing your job for you, she said, turning on her heel.
You could never tell when she was serious.
I didn’t have the energy to worry about it.