Out of politeness, she asked Saul if he would like her to sketch him, and, out of politeness, he said no.
When she finished the portrait of Howie, she showed him what she had done, kissed him on the cheek, and wished them both good night. The brothers asked her if she would like to go somewhere for a beer, but she said she couldn’t, she had to get back home. Saul was relieved that he would be seeing no more of this scented hippies’ child.
At two in the morning, the phone in the hotel room rang. Saul answered. Voltaine, of course, and she wanted to speak to Howie, she said, just a small matter of business, nothing important. Saul passed the receiver over to his brother in the other bed. Howie sat up, alert. He then turned off the light and crawled under his sheet and blanket to talk. His voice, from under the covers, was muffled and laughing and flirtatious and thickly sexual. Well, they were kids, after all, though Howie was only two years younger than Saul himself, the designated adult. Saul went into the bathroom to piss, and when he returned, Howie was still on the phone there under the covers, very quietly attending to business. “Do you want me to leave the room?” Saul asked his brother. Receiving no answer, and knowing he had been heard, he tucked himself back into bed and tried to sleep. He counted sheep in the dark to the background of his brother’s unintelligible rumbling, and he imagined long, dull historical accounts of the Treaty of Versailles to help himself doze off. None of it worked. He went down the names of the states alphabetically, trying to remember each state capital. That didn’t work either, though he did get as far as Helena. His brother talked for what seemed like an hour. In the dark, after hanging up, Howie said only six words: “This sure is a friendly town.”
The next day, no mention was made of the phone call. As far as Saul knew, his brother never saw or heard from Voltaine again.
Where was Patsy? She had been delayed getting her refill of Dorylaeum, it seemed, and now Saul would have to start their dinner. He clomped downstairs, feeling muddy and doomstruck as he always did whenever Patsy arrived home late.
He peered in the refrigerator. Baby food — ground lamb, sweet potatoes, mashed peas, and leftover oatmeal (leftover oatmeal? whose idea was that? perhaps Patsy would eat it herself, late at night, watching the paid commercial programming) — resided in recesses of the refrigerator close to a package of hamburger, salad fixings, and a jar of nameless forgotten food cobwebbed with mold. Saul and Patsy were busy parents and sometimes for days or even weeks forgot certain sectors of the refrigerator. Terrible neglected substances, green and gray and almost alive again inside their Tupperware containers, were visible in the back of the lower shelf. He threw the jar, unopened, into the garbage.
Howie still waiting, waiting, waiting in the car. .
Saul removed the fresh greens and made a salad for Patsy and himself. He contemplated what ingredients they had on hand and decided to make an omelette. Therefore: he opened a bottle of white wine (“the white whine” Patsy sometimes called it, and sometimes called him under its influence), helped himself to a glass, and pulled out a mixing bowl from the cupboard and a cutting board for the vegetables. After chopping the onions and the mushrooms and the tomatoes, he dropped them into the bowl, and he—
He couldn’t stand it any longer. Howie’s furious apathy was larger than his own. Saul’s love for his brother couldn’t be much clearer if it were out of the water in the well.
Take care of Howie. He’s very fragile.
Saul washed his hands and put on his shoes before strolling out to Howie’s car. The suspense was killing him. Actually, he adored his brother for no particular reason. His brother being his brother was reason enough. Why should he pretend otherwise? Why should he feign this indifference? If Howie wanted to be indifferent to him, to Saul, fine. Howie was his little brother, always had been, even now, multimillionaire though Howie might be, the money couldn’t protect him from everything. Howie required looking after. Everyone did. Of course, Howie liked suspense — a seducer’s trait — and could handle much more of it than Saul could. By the time he had reached the Avenger, Saul was almost running, desperate to hug his brother, desperate to love him again in person.
There, behind the wheel, was Howie, fast asleep, a tiny trail of drool declining from his mouth. Slumbering though he was, Howie had the appearance of a bleary, worn-out man, a former hobbyist-seducer whose charm, through overuse, had faded on him. He had a piteous gray streak in his beard. Saul knocked on the driver’s-side window, and when Howie awoke, he stared at Saul for a moment in nonrecognition, as if in his sleep he had been inoculated with amnesia.
“Howie,” Saul called to his brother through the glass. “Wake up.”
Howie continued to look blankly at Saul.
“Howie!” Saul cried out. “Buddy. Pal. It’s Saul. Your brother. What’s going on? Get out of the car! Come inside.”
Howie rolled down the window. Speaking like a man coming back to consciousness after general anesthetic, Howie said, “Hey, Saul. I’ve been driving for seventeen hours straight. I got here, and I thought no one was home.” He smiled wanly. “I guess I fell asleep.”
“Come inside,” Saul repeated. “Please.”
Howie opened the car door. When he tried to stand, his knees appeared to give way before Saul grabbed his elbow, and then his arm, helping him back up. Saul hugged his brother fiercely. Howie gave off a smell of exhaustion and breath mints and fast food. Saul supported him by holding him around the shoulders in a brotherly clasp as they proceeded up the front walkway, through the front door, past the foyer, into the kitchen, where he sat his brother down at the dinette table.