A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [140]
“Oh, Gordon!” Her voice broke. “I’m so happy for you. For all of us.”
As soon as he hung up, he realized he hadn’t said anything about Mrs. Jukas. Instead of calling back, he decided to go next door and look around more carefully. He had just gotten outside when his phone began to ring.
“Gordon?”
“Dennis!” He smiled, relieved to hear his brother’s voice. “Talk about mental tel—”
“What the fuck are you thinking, going to my father-in-law without asking me? Without even a phone call! What’s wrong with you? Don’t you get it? Don’t you know how things work?”
“I’m sorry. There was an ad. So I went, that’s all. Well, first I called.”
“You couldn’t call me? How ’bout a heads up? How ’bout some goddamn simple consideration for my situation here?”
“That’s why I couldn’t call you. I didn’t want to put you in a tight spot. I figured I’d just call and ask—”
“Yeah, and go right over my head, right? Like Dennis is on everyone’s shit list, so forget about him. Don’t even consider how he’ll feel.”
“No! No, Dennis, I swear. It wasn’t like that at all. In fact, I didn’t even think I’d get a job, much less get put through to Mr. Harrington.”
“You know, my whole life I’ve been living in your shadow. Always embarrassed, always afraid no matter what I said or did, the only thing people’d be thinking was, I wonder if he’s like his brother.”
“I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry I am.”
“No, you’re not sorry. You’re a fuck-up, a serial fuck-up, and you don’t even know it.”
Dennis’s tirade continued unchallenged. A tide of seething anger rose in Gordon’s chest, then ebbed: how naive to think he could work at the brewery. Sooner or later he would offend or frighten someone, and the fallout would be so much worse than if he worked for a stranger. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take it,” he managed to interrupt. “I’ll call Mr. Harrington—or you can if you want,” he added quickly. “You can tell him I don’t think I should because of the family connection.”
“I can’t do that! See? See the corner you’ve painted me into?” Dennis groaned.
No, he didn’t see, he thought, crossing the lawn. His brother was being obstinate. Whatever move Gordon made was bound to be the wrong one. Now more than ever he wished he could talk to Delores. She always understood the complexities of family life, which right now seemed far more trouble than they were worth. For the briefest of moments he regretted the things he’d said to her, then as quickly reminded himself of her terrible duplicity. He wished he were far away from here right now, with no one to think of but himself.
There were two more newspapers on Mrs. Jukas’s porch. Her mailbox lid stuck up over the catalogs jammed into it. He rang the bell, knocked on the door, then went around to the back of the house. On the top step the old metal milk crate still held the same three cans that it had for days. The wooden door rattled with his knock, and dust puffed out of the sagging screen. He leaned over the loose railing and looked in the window. Nervous as he was, he strained closer. If she walked into her kitchen right now and saw him, she’d have him arrested; no explanation would suffice. The cupboard doors above the stove were open. Cookies spilled onto the counter from a torn bag. There was a bottle of ginger ale on the table. This was nothing like the destruction in his own kitchen, but it didn’t look right, not at all the way the old woman would leave things. As he came down the steps, a glint in the dewy grass caught his eye. A key. He picked it up, then went back up to try it in the lock when he realized how stupid that was.
Instead, he pushed the key through the mail slot. It fell with a clink on the other side of the door. He blew street dust off the newspapers, then forced them through the slot. At least now there were fewer signs of an empty house. Next he slid through the catalogs one by one, then her Newsweek magazine. He glanced in the window as he turned