A Song For Julia Part 23

"All right, stay cool." As we started to turn away, he said, "Hey, Crank. Can I b.u.m a couple dollars? Old times' sake?"

"Sure." I pa.s.sed him a couple dollars, and we headed into the station.

Julia waited until we were at the platform before she asked, "What was that all about?"

I frowned. I didn't like talking about it. "Ewa ... she was one of the Pit rats. Hawaiian girl, used to hang out with the crew. Bunch of guys pretending to be Crips moved in last fall, they were trying to get the rats to rob people. She refused, so they killed her and dumped her in the river."

She winced. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice low. She wrapped a hand around my arm and leaned slightly against me.

I stared at the floor. "I didn't know her that well," I said. "Lenny's right, to an extent. I don't hang out anymore, I've moved on in a lot of ways. I don't know exactly when it happened, but I've left that life behind." It was true. For years, I'd been aimless. Running with the guys in the Pit, hanging out drinking in cemeteries, getting drunk and getting laid. But something had changed. At least, since we'd formed Morbid Obesity, I'd felt like I had direction in life. At least enough direction that I got a job, started paying rent, started thinking about more than just this week. I didn't want to screw around. I wanted to drive Morbid Obesity to success. We weren't just going to be a band who screwed around for a couple years, then broke up and moved on with our lives. I could feel it. I could taste it.

The train roared into the station, buffeting us with ice-cold air, so we stopped talking. The doors opened, and we boarded, taking a seat together in the back of the train.

"Isn't that a good thing?" she asked.

"What's that?" I asked, my mind still on the odd changes in my life over the last couple of years.

"Moving on. To new things."

I raised an eyebrow. "What, have I become a self-improvement project for you?"

"What does that mean?" Her head was tilted, her expression puzzled.

"Does it bother you that I'm a high school dropout in a rock band?"

A slightly amused look came over her face, her lips just barely rising at the corner. "No," she said. "It doesn't bother me."

The train jerked forward slightly, then started rolling, accelerating quickly.

"Shouldn't it?" I asked. "Is there any hope for a future between a pit rat and a Harvard girl?"

She leaned against me. "I'm not ready to think about the future yet. Please, don't ask me to do that. Let's enjoy now, okay?"

Okay. Time to change the subject. I turned and whispered in her ear, "I can think of a lot of ways to make now more fun."

She whispered back, "We're not alone in this car."

I lightly bit her earlobe, and she closed her eyes, leaning closer to me, and so I let my left hand drift, sliding down the fabric of her dungarees to her inner thigh. She turned her lips to mine, and I nibbled on her lower lip as my hand pressed against her. She moaned, softly.

"Quiet," I whispered. "You don't want to disturb the commuters."

Luckily, we were the only people at this end of the train, because she shifted in her seat, moving into my lap, straddling me, pressing hard against my groin. Her hands rested on my shoulders as she returned the long, slow kiss. My hands shifted to her waist, pulling her closer to me, as close as we could possibly get fully clothed in winter jackets. I slid my hands around, caressing her b.u.t.t, and she dropped her mouth to my neck, kissing it, and then biting.

I wanted to yell. I wanted to tear her clothes off right then and there.

She whispered, "What did your friend call me? A barney? What's that?"

I groaned. I didn't really want to talk. But I responded, "A barney, um ... you know ... Harvard Yard ... barn ..."

"That doesn't make any sense," she whispered.

"Why should anything make sense?" I asked.

Let's do it (Julia) When we arrived, Jack said, "I got something to talk to you guys about. You can come along, Julia, if you want." He seemed so grave that I went along, worried about how the two brothers would react to whatever his news was.

"Sean!" Jack called. "Can you come in the kitchen?"

Moments later, I heard Sean coming down the stairs, his sneakers thumping loud on each step. He came in the kitchen and said, "Yes, Dad?"

"Have a seat, kid."

Sean sat down.

When Jack spoke next, his words fell on Sean and Crank like a bomb going off.

"My National Guard unit's been activated for deployment to Kuwait."

Crank gaped at his father, and Sean folded his arms across his chest as if to protect it, and immediately started rocking back and forth in his seat.

"I didn't think it was going to happen, but we got the orders last night. They're saying we'll probably be gone for at least a year."

Sean didn't say anything. Crank said, "A year? Can they do that?"

"Yeah, they can do it, Dougal. There's nothing I can do but salute and follow orders."

I stared at Jack aghast. I was trying to imagine what the impact was on this family that I'd somehow gotten intertwined with. Who would take care of Sean? He was seventeen but had the emotional maturity of someone much younger. He wasn't ready to be on his own.

Crank shook his head. "I can't frickin' believe it. We're really going to war over there."

"I've been telling you that, kid."

"Who's going to watch out for Sean?"

As soon as Crank said the words, Sean stood up and blurted out, "I will not go to Grandfather's house again. You can't make me." And he walked out of the kitchen.

Jack sighed. "I was afraid of that."

"Can you blame him?" Crank asked. "Grandpa treated him like c.r.a.p when you got called up last year."

"What happened last year?" I asked, putting a hand on Crank's shoulder. Sean had told me a little. I remembered him saying, I hate them.

"My dad doesn't get Asperger's," Jack said. "He seems to think a shout and a swift kick in the a.s.s is all it will take to get Sean to be normal. And when I got called up after September 11, Sean stayed with him for four weeks. It didn't go well."

Crank spoke, his tone low and almost broken, "It was a disaster."

"I'm gonna talk with your moth-"

Jack stopped, and they both jerked in their seats at the sound of a loud crash from the living room. All three of us jumped up to our feet and ran into the living room.

Sean had pulled the six-foot high bookcase down, books and pictures and knickknacks scattered across the floor. He stood next to it with his arms flexed, his hands b.a.l.l.s into fists and his face tense, brow drawn down in rage. "I won't go to Grandpa's! I won't! He hates me!"

I almost cried out when Sean took a clenched fist and hit himself in the forehead, and then hit himself again, savagely, with the other fist. He let out an animal cry, and Crank ran to him and put his arms around his brother. "You won't have to!" Crank said urgently. "I'll-I'll move back home. I'll stay with you, Sean. You're my brother. I'll watch out for you."

Sean looked up at his brother, his face confused and angry and sad, and he started to wail. "I can't go to Grandpa's, I can't!"

Crank shook his head. "I've got you, Sean, all right? You don't have to go anywhere. You'll stay right here, with me, all right? And we'll wait for Dad to come home. Dad's going to be all right. Do you hear? He's going to be all right."

Jack slowly walked over to his two sons and put his arms around both of them and held them tight. Sean was calming down now, his breath slowing to a ragged rhythm. I stood watching, marveling at the contrast of my own distant, controlling parents as this strong man held both of his sons in his arms, holding them together with love and a strength I couldn't comprehend.

I felt like an intruder, witnessing an intimately private moment that was never meant to be shared. I quietly took a step back, to go sit in the kitchen, but Jack somehow sensed it and said, "Get over here, missy."

I wanted to look over my shoulder and point at myself and say, "Me?" But there was no one else he could mean, so I walked over too, avoiding the downed shelves and the debris scattered across the floor. Jack reached out and pulled me by the arm into this family embrace, and I nearly burst into tears. Somehow the moment he pulled me into that embrace, it brought up all the times I'd needed my mother to do the same. All the times I'd spent alone, or in the garage with Barry in Belgium. All the times I'd needed my mother to hold me and say it was going to be okay, and she wasn't there.

And so I whispered a promise, one that was too impulsive and committed me to far more than I had ever been willing to give-a promise that meant I was going to be around for a while. I whispered to Jack, "They'll be all right while you're gone. I'll watch out for both of them."

Jack responded by pulling me in tighter.

A few moments later, Jack broke off the embrace. "All right. Let's fix this shelf."

Sean's eyes were pointed off to the side, away from his dad, as he said, "I'm sorry I knocked over the shelf."

Jack grinned. "If I had to go live with my dad again, I'd probably knock over some stuff too. But don't do it again, all right? I just hope nothing's broken."

So Crank and Sean and Jack put the bookshelves back up, then all four of us picked up the a.s.sorted books and other items scattered across the floor.

A picture frame had broken. I picked it up, careful of the cracked gla.s.s.

The photo was of a much younger Jack and Margot. Crank was in the picture, maybe ten years old, wearing a green and white striped polo, and a wide grin on his face as he licked cotton candy. He was holding hands with Sean, who was maybe four in the picture.

Jack took a deep breath then gently took the frame from me. "Have to get that frame replaced," he said, his voice grave.

"All right, kids. I have to report in at Fort Devens in less than a week. Which means we've got some planning to do. Let's sit down and get this done."

Crank replied, "Me and Sean will talk-Julia's got some studying to do."

I nodded, ruefully. The fact was if I didn't get to it, I wasn't going to finish this paper in time. So I grabbed my backpack, joined them in the kitchen and opened up my PowerBook. While they talked logistics of Crank moving home, handling bank accounts, school, and more, I worked on my paper, which dealt with fluctuation in interest rates following the 1980s S&L crisis. Exciting stuff.

Periodically, I looked up at Crank. I'd never seen him like this. Serious. Organized. He was taking detailed notes and making suggestions to his father about handling legal and bill issues in his absence. In short, he acted like a grownup. Which, with Crank, was not always the case.

"Monday afternoon's my last day on the job. I'll need you to be here then, Dougal."

Crank winced. "Monday's bad. We're in the studio."

"Any way you can reschedule?" Jack looked frustrated at having to ask the question. I could imagine what he was thinking-he was possibly going off to war, and Crank was worried about studio time?

"Gonna be hard, we paid up front, several hundred dollars. Recording a new single. I'd just forfeit my money, but the rest of the band put up a lot of cash for it."

I leaned forward and said, "I can do it."

"What?" Crank said, as Jack looked over at me.

"I'll come over here after cla.s.s and hang out with Sean. We'll make a night of it, right, Sean? You can teach me how to make gluten-free pizza."

Sean grinned, which was as much facial expression as I'd ever seen on his face other than anger.

Jack's eyes darted back and forth between the two of us. "If you're sure. I don't want you to feel like you have to ... this is a family issue."

I placed my palms flat on the table and looked Jack in the eye. "Sean is my friend. And you look out for your friends, okay?"

He flashed a smile at me-the same charming, boyish smile Crank had so obviously inherited from him. "Well then, that's settled. Dougal, you go record your song, I'll be at work, and Julia will be here."

I went back to my writing.

A little while later, while I was puzzling out a particularly th.o.r.n.y equation, Crank said, "I think that's everything."

Jack responded, his voice low and quiet, "No. Not quite everything."

Something about his tone caught my attention. I looked up, puzzled. Crank was sitting across from his father, an expectant expression on his face. Sean was reading his medical textbook again.

"We need to talk about your mother."

Crank's eyes darted to Sean, and he said, "I don't see why."

Crank stood and walked to the refrigerator, took out a beer and opened it. He was tense, his motions aggressive. Finally, he returned to the table, setting the beer on the table too hard. It hit with a loud crack. I stopped pretending to be interested in my laptop.

"All right, Dad. Talk."

Jack closed his eyes and sighed. "I think she's ready to come home. We talked about it last night for a long time."

Sean flipped the page in his book, too quickly. The page tore. Crank's eyes narrowed and darted to his brother again. "We don't need her. She hasn't been here in years. Why should she come home now?" As he asked the question, he twisted the top off his beer and took a long drink from it.

Jack's face twitched, a mixture of unexpressed anger and sadness on his face. Very quietly, he said, "She's your mother."

"No," Crank replied, his face set. "She's the woman who left us."

"Don't you ever speak about your mother that way, Dougal!" Jack's voice had a hard edge to it.

"Why the h.e.l.l not?" Crank responded with a raised voice. "She left you, Dad. She left us all!"

Jack closed his eyes. His face had turned red, and he was visibly making an effort not to blow up. Finally, he said in a tortured, grim tone, "Would you rather she be dead? Because that was the choice we had."

"What are you talking about, Dad? Why would she be dead?" Crank was leaning forward, every line in his body rigid. I'd never seen him like this. But this was part of his core-the anger that drove his music and drove the life he'd lived.

"She left because it was that or commit suicide! She didn't leave, I made her go!" Jack shouted.

Sean looked up suddenly, his face shocked, and I raised my hand to my mouth. Crank was still leaning over the table, his eyes wide with shock and rage. He gripped the edge of the table with both hands, his entire body shaking.

Jack's face shifted. Instead of rage, his face was twisted in grief. His eyes went red, bloodshot, watering, and he went on, and I wanted to tell him to stop, to please stop, don't say another word. Not about suicide. Please, no. But he kept going.