us is leave me out of it. What’s the point? All right, you’ll be there alone if I don’t go, but other than that, why should I go? It’s bullshit. Everyone knows how he and I felt about each other. It’d be a joke.”
“There will be other people there,” she said. “I want you there. That’s not a good enough reason to go?”
“Don’t do it, Julia. Don’t make me choose between how much I love you and how much I hate him. It wrecks my head. I’m getting a headache already.”
I got up to get another beer. I brought one for my sister, pouring it into a glass first. She drank it just like Mom did.
“You tell me to ignore how I feel about Mom,” Julia said, turning to me as I sat beside her. She sipped her beer and set it on the coffee table in front of her. “Why don’t you do the same with Dad? You got your wish. He’s dead.”
I cocked an eyebrow at her. “First of all, I didn’t get my wish. He didn’t suffer extensively before he died. So, while I’m satisfied, I’m not happy. There’s a difference. Second, can you forget how you feel about Mom? It hasn’t stopped affecting your decisions. It’s the whole reason you’re here. I still hate the old man and I will make my decisions accordingly.”
Julia’s eyes got very deep and she patted my knee. “You can’t know how unhappy it makes me to hear you say that.” She turned her head to the TV. “Delgado just homered. They’re only down by one now.”
“They scored?” I stood and pointed to the TV. “See? See how the old man ruins my life? First time in weeks I get to see a goddamn Met game in peace and quiet and I miss the big hit because we’re talking about him.”
Julia grabbed a belt loop on my jeans and pulled me back onto the couch. She smacked me across the back of the head.
“Gimme a break,” she mumbled. “Not everything bad in your life is his fault.”
“He’s haunting me already,” I said. “Look, there he is. Sitting on the Braves’ bench, in uniform. The betrayal never ends.”
She rubbed my back and laughed, nodding toward the TV. “I don’t pay attention to this silliness. I’m only in front of the TV because it’s fun to watch you watch the game.”
I screamed at the ump when he called an obvious ball four a third strike on David Wright to end the inning. “There is no justice in this world,” I said. “The whole league is in conspiracy against me and my boys.”
“Junior, you have the strangest set of loyalties I’ve ever encountered in another human being. All this emotion over millionaire strangers who probably wouldn’t let you clean their spikes and yet you won’t even call Jimmy about Dad.”
I just rolled my eyes. This was an old conversation. At least as old as the Mets’ enduring habit of getting torched by the Braves. I watched the Mets’ second baseman fumble a ground ball, blowing a golden shot at a double play. Now, instead of the inning being over, it was first and third with the clean-up hitter at the plate. Get one back, give up two; that was how my boys did against Atlanta.
“I’m counting on your loyalty this week,” Julia said.
“I thought we’d settled that,” I said. I eyed the remote, wondering if I should grab it before she got the chance.
“I need you there,” Julia said, “and I think you need to be there.”
“Maybe you’re right. I wanna see him put in the ground myself. Just to be sure this isn’t some sick joke he’s playing on us.”
Julia went a little pale and reached for her beer. “It’s going to be a closed casket,” she said. “Remember?”
She stared at the television, at the commercials playing between innings, lost in thought. I sat there beside her, staring at my palms, embarrassed for the cruel jokes I’d made. I could feel the angry heat radiating off her skin.
Waiting for her to cool down, I wondered how the Mets had gotten out of the inning, if there’d been any further damage before the third out,
“There will be other people there,” she said. “I want you there. That’s not a good enough reason to go?”
“Don’t do it, Julia. Don’t make me choose between how much I love you and how much I hate him. It wrecks my head. I’m getting a headache already.”
I got up to get another beer. I brought one for my sister, pouring it into a glass first. She drank it just like Mom did.
“You tell me to ignore how I feel about Mom,” Julia said, turning to me as I sat beside her. She sipped her beer and set it on the coffee table in front of her. “Why don’t you do the same with Dad? You got your wish. He’s dead.”
I cocked an eyebrow at her. “First of all, I didn’t get my wish. He didn’t suffer extensively before he died. So, while I’m satisfied, I’m not happy. There’s a difference. Second, can you forget how you feel about Mom? It hasn’t stopped affecting your decisions. It’s the whole reason you’re here. I still hate the old man and I will make my decisions accordingly.”
Julia’s eyes got very deep and she patted my knee. “You can’t know how unhappy it makes me to hear you say that.” She turned her head to the TV. “Delgado just homered. They’re only down by one now.”
“They scored?” I stood and pointed to the TV. “See? See how the old man ruins my life? First time in weeks I get to see a goddamn Met game in peace and quiet and I miss the big hit because we’re talking about him.”
Julia grabbed a belt loop on my jeans and pulled me back onto the couch. She smacked me across the back of the head.
“Gimme a break,” she mumbled. “Not everything bad in your life is his fault.”
“He’s haunting me already,” I said. “Look, there he is. Sitting on the Braves’ bench, in uniform. The betrayal never ends.”
She rubbed my back and laughed, nodding toward the TV. “I don’t pay attention to this silliness. I’m only in front of the TV because it’s fun to watch you watch the game.”
I screamed at the ump when he called an obvious ball four a third strike on David Wright to end the inning. “There is no justice in this world,” I said. “The whole league is in conspiracy against me and my boys.”
“Junior, you have the strangest set of loyalties I’ve ever encountered in another human being. All this emotion over millionaire strangers who probably wouldn’t let you clean their spikes and yet you won’t even call Jimmy about Dad.”
I just rolled my eyes. This was an old conversation. At least as old as the Mets’ enduring habit of getting torched by the Braves. I watched the Mets’ second baseman fumble a ground ball, blowing a golden shot at a double play. Now, instead of the inning being over, it was first and third with the clean-up hitter at the plate. Get one back, give up two; that was how my boys did against Atlanta.
“I’m counting on your loyalty this week,” Julia said.
“I thought we’d settled that,” I said. I eyed the remote, wondering if I should grab it before she got the chance.
“I need you there,” Julia said, “and I think you need to be there.”
“Maybe you’re right. I wanna see him put in the ground myself. Just to be sure this isn’t some sick joke he’s playing on us.”
Julia went a little pale and reached for her beer. “It’s going to be a closed casket,” she said. “Remember?”
She stared at the television, at the commercials playing between innings, lost in thought. I sat there beside her, staring at my palms, embarrassed for the cruel jokes I’d made. I could feel the angry heat radiating off her skin.
Waiting for her to cool down, I wondered how the Mets had gotten out of the inning, if there’d been any further damage before the third out,
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