I Should Be Laughing: Harry Goes To Jimmy

Taking the bowl from the microwave, Jimmy dashed the red-hot chili to the table and sat down beside Lyle. He slathered margarine over a slice of Wonder bread, folded it into a triangle, and dunked it into the chili, swirling it around until he had gathered up a healthy portion of beans. He scowled at the damp corner of bread and realized Lyle had the right idea: take this vile food and smear it all over the table; better splattered than eaten.

“Jimmy?”

“Uh…” The fold of bread splashed into the bowl and he looked up to find Harry at the screen door, a hand shielding the sunset from his eyes as he peered inside. Pushing the bowl away, he flushed at the thought of what he was eating, how he was dressed, the way he lived…everything. Renny made him feel like that; at first. “Hey.”

“Can I come in?”

“Uh…sure.” He tried to remember when Emma had said she was coming home from work. He didn’t want to think about what she would say, not to mention what she might do, if she found Harry in her house. “C’mon in.”

Harry pulled the screen back out of his way and both brothers winced at the wailing hinges—one because the sound unnerved him; the other because it had been months since his wife asked him to grease the hinge—as the door banged shut Jimmy made a mental note to buy a new spring, too.

“Uh…what’s up?” He asked offhandedly, wiping the crumbs from the table to the floor. “Is everything okay at Mother’s…at the house?”

“Yeah…we’re fine…considering,” Harry stammered. “But Wyatt and I went into Mendocino today and bought some fish. We thought you ‘d like to come—.”

Can’t,” Jimmy said briskly.

“Oh.” That was all Harry could come up with and, not knowing whether to stay or go, his eyes wandered around the room, astounded at how much it resembled his mother’s house, back in the when, during the long stretches between Grandmother’s visits when the entire house was left to rot. Dishes and pots, crusty with food, spilled out of the sink and a small fortune of recyclable soda cans littered the counter. Beer bottles, drained and sour smelling, toppled out of a brown grocery bag near the door; newspapers heaped on the table and two pizza boxes oozed grease on the stove.

“I don’t have a car.”

Oh.” Harry relaxed; that’s all that was keeping Jimmy from coming to The Landing. “You and,” he smiled at Jimmy’s son, “your boy can ride up with me.”

“His name’s Lyle.”

“Yeah, Renny said that.” He could breath now. “I’ll drive you and Lyle home after.”

Unable to look at his brother, Jimmy hadn’t noticed how far Harry had come into the room, so when he finally did raise his head, Harry was at his side, fluttering his fingers in a friendly wave at Lyle. The boy’s face, streaked in orange and green war paint, immediately broke into a wide grin.

“Renny was right, Jimmy. He’s a beautiful boy.”

Cringing a little, remembering Emma’s tirade about gay men molesting boys, Jimmy scarcely muffled a thank-you. He tried not to think of Harry in the house, so close to Lyle; he would not wonder what Emma would say if—when—she found out. “He’s a good boy.”

“Who obviously likes to wear his food.” Harry chuckled affectionately, and Jimmy couldn’t help himself; he joined in and gently poked his son’s cheek. Feeling more at ease, pointing to Jimmy’s sweaty bottle of beer, Harry asked, “You got another one of those?”

The question forced him to look at his brother, for the first time since Harry returned home; for the first time ever, really. Jimmy squinted; in all the years he had lived outside of The Landing, he hadn’t really changed at all. Jimmy remembered the changes in Renny with a hint of envy; she was sleeker now, certainly more refined. He was different, too; he was softer, rounder. Dull. But Harry, impossibly so, looked almost exactly as he had the day he walked out of the house years before.

Oh sure, Jimmy noticed Harry’s ear was double pierced—a pair of thin silver loops dangled from the left one—and he wore a goatee, but there was something about him that seemed the same as when he was a…. His eyes, Jimmy thought. Speckled light blue and gray, the eyes were the same, looking at you until you looked back, then turning away. His smile was still polite and docile, the same smile that allowed their mother to walk all over him; it came too easily, like a mask, and was too easily hurt. The same old Harry; home again.

“You got a beer for me?” Harry asked again.

“Uh…sure.” Jimmy said, rising. He stole a nervous peek at the grease-splattered clock on the stove; when was Emma coming home? Was tonight an early shift or a late one? Rubbing his hands together, he went to the refrigerator and drew out the last bottle of Coors in the house, and used a drawer pull to pry off the cap. Harry noticed the scrapes and gouges of past openings in the soft wooden drawer front. He held the bottle out, but just as Harry reached for it, he pulled it back. “You…uh…probably want a glass….”

For some reason this caused Harry to laugh, and Jimmy knew it was because he only had domestic beer to offer, and not one of those fancy micro-brews he’d seen advertised in magazines. Watching Harry’s face, Jimmy felt ashamed. Harry, who hadn’t changed, who still smiled like a young boy, and looked as bashful as a child. Harry, who wore neatly pressed clothes, who had a nice haircut and a couple of earrings in his ear. Harry, who left Beal’s Landing and did something with his life, who became something more than the son of a goddamned drunk—

“I have this friend, Charley,” Harry explained, trying to erase the look of humiliation on Jimmy’s face, “who, whenever you asked if he wanted a glass for his beer would always say, ‘Doesn’t it come in a glass?’” Harry smiled. “The bottle’s fine, Jimmy.”

Nodding, and watching the floor, Jimmy handed the Coors to Harry, who held the bottle to his lips for a long, slow swallow. He found it easier, a little easier, to smile with Harry; he had never imagined, all those years ago, that he would be standing in the kitchen of his own house drinking beer with his big brother. Taking a swig of his beer, he laughed at Lyle, whose face was a mosaic of color; the boy’s eyes ricocheted from father to uncle, uncle to father.

“Look at you!” Jimmy said his tone of voice one part irritation and nine parts humor. He grabbed a paper napkin from the hand-painted wooden holder on the table, ran it across his tongue, and began to clean off his son. Recognizing that the job was too big for a napkin and some spit, he lifted the boy from his chair. “I’d better get you to the bathroom quick!”

“Do you mind if I do it?” Harry asked, setting his beer down and coming around to stand beside Jimmy and Lyle.

“I don’t think so,” Jimmy said sheepishly, and much too quickly for Harry not to notice. He held his arms tighter around Lyle, but who was he protecting--Lyle from Harry, or himself from Emma’s wrath? “He’s not real good with strangers.”

“Jimmy…I don’t want to be a stranger anymore,” Harry offered calmly; he stepped closer still, and rubbed his hand through Lyle’s dense curls. “Please? I never knew I was an uncle…I’d like to be his uncle.”