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J.R.:

It depends.

Rhage:

Okay, build your own sundae for us, then. What’s on it? Oh . . . and don’t be embarrassed. I know you’re going to picture me serving it to you wearing nothing but a loincloth.

V:

And your elf shoes. ’Cuz you’re mad hot with your little bells on.

Rhage:

See? You totally love me. (Turns back in my direction.) Challa?

J.R.:

I . . . er, I don’t eat ice cream. I mean, I love it, but I can’t eat it.

Rhage:

(looks as if I have a horn growing out of my forehead) Why?

J.R.:

Teeth problems. Too cold.

Rhage:

Oh, God. That sucks . . . I mean, I love me some coffee ice cream with hot fudge on it.

V:

That’s one thing I’ll agree with you on. No whipped cream shit or cherries for me.

Rhage:

Yup. I’m a purist as well.

Phury:

I love a good raspberry sherbet. On a hot summer night.

Wrath:

Rocky Road. (Shakes head.) Although I’m probably just thinking of life as king with that one.

Butch:

Me? Ben & Jerry’s Mint Chocolate Chunk.

Rhage:

Okay, that’s another good one. Anything they make with Oreos, also very good.

Z:

We just tried Nalla out with some vanilla. (Laughs quietly.) Loved it.

At this point the Brothers . . . they actually “Awwwwwww.” Then cover it up with a lot of scowling, as if they have to reestablish their masculinity.

Rhage:

(looking at me) For real? Have you seen that kid? She’s like . . . spank gorgeous.

V:

Yeah, ’cuz that’s the way you say, “My, that young is beautiful” in his language.

Rhage:

Come on, V, you totally feel me on this one.

V:

(ruefully) Yeah, I do. Man . . . my niece is the most perfect young on the planet. (Pounds knuckles with Rhage, then turns to Butch.) Isn’t she?

Butch:

Beyond perfect. Into a whole ’nother category. She’s . . . Wrath: Magic.

Phury:

Total magic.

J.R.:

She’s got you guys wrapped around her finger, doesn’t she.

Rhage:

Absolutely—

Phury:

Totally—

Butch:

Wrapped tighter—

V:

Than a drum.

Wrath:

Completely.

Z:

(looking over at me and positively glowing with pride) See? For a bunch of violent, antisocial nut jobs, they’re okay.

Wrath:

Hey . . . did Challa ever answer the damn food question? (Resounding no echoes in the room.)

Butch:

She passed on the ice cream. (glances at me) Why don’t you build us a sandwich. You can use me, by the way, in any fashion. (grins) No probs with that.

Phury:

(smoothing over Butch’s comment) Or a meal. What kind of meal do you like?

J.R.:

I don’t know. Well, anything my mother cooks. Roasted chicken. Lasagna—

Rhage:

I love lasagna.

Phury:

Me, too.

V:

I like mine with sausage in it.

Rhage:

Of course you do.

Wrath:

(whistling through his teeth) Shut it, ladies. Challa?

J.R.:

Roasted chicken with corn-bread stuffing made by my mother.

Wrath:

Excellent choice—and wise of you. I was getting ready to make them vote again.

Rhage:

(leaning over conspiratorially) We wouldn’t have given you fish, though. So you don’t need to worry.

J.R.:

Thank you.

The Brothers keep talking, and I don’t really get asked much more, which is fine. I’m struck as they banter by how much they care about one another. The razzing never cuts to the bone; even V, who’s perfectly capable of cleaving someone in half verbally, sheathes his bladed tongue. As their voices bounce around the empty room, I close my eyes, thinking that I don’t ever want them to go.

When I open my lids again, the Brothers are gone. I am alone in my new old house, sitting cross-legged, staring at the blank wall where seconds before I saw Wrath so very clearly. The silence is a stark, sad contrast.

I stand up and my legs are stiff as I go over to the stairs and put my hand on the rail. I have no idea how long I’ve been up here, and when I look back to where we all sat, I see nothing but a stretch of wall-to-wall carpet under a row of ceiling lights.

I turn off those lights as I go down