The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [9]
“—cut him off. Like she thought she couldn’t have that anymore. Like some kind of punishment.”
He had never said anything like this before. Phoebe was amazed. “She dates,” she finally said, addressing a straw placemat. “Mom goes out.”
“Yeah, she goes,” Barry said with scorn. “Then she comes back to you, this house—”
“We live here! What else can she do?”
“Let go,” Barry said, his voice hushed. “Just, let go.”
“Of what?” Phoebe asked fearfully. “Each other?”
“All of it. Dad, Faith, the whole number. Just”—he flicked open his hands, a flash of white skin—“let it go.”
Phoebe rested her head on the table. Barry moved close and touched her hair, and something in Phoebe relaxed, trusting him. “You’ll be amazed how easy it is,” he said.
“What if we don’t want to?”
The question seemed to stall him. Phoebe raised her head, then sat up. “I mean why?” she said, confused. “For you? Because you say?”
“Of course not for me—for you,” Barry said, moving away from her, “you and Mom.”
“But we’re perfectly happy. You’re the one who’s upset with things, Bear. I mean, wait a second,” Phoebe said, pushing away from the table to stand as the realization broke across her. “I know why you’re saying this stuff, it’s because of Faith.”
“Bullshit,” Barry said, uneasy.
“You want her gone,” Phoebe said, the very words inducing a reeling sensation. “You want to stamp her out!”
Barry opened his mouth, speechless, and Phoebe knew she’d touched something. “You want her gone so you can be everyone’s favorite.”
The shadow of her brother’s beard was blue against his skin. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“You’re scared,” Phoebe said. “I see it.”
They watched each other across the kitchen. Phoebe felt a surge of power over Barry that spent itself abruptly. “Forget it, Bear,” she said, moving near him. They relaxed against each other, a rare moment. Even their hugs were normally tense.
Then Barry moved her away. “Fuck it, Phoebe. You didn’t hear one thing I said.”
“I did,” she said. “I tried.”
He laughed at her. “You refuse to try,” he said, “which mystifies me, because what’ve you got to lose?” He waited. “Nothing! Don’t you get it? This is nothing. You’re sitting on nothing here.” He left the room.
“It is not nothing!” Phoebe yelled after him, but Barry was out the front door, slamming it behind him so the floor shook. Phoebe heard the lash of his engine for several blocks. She imagined the freedom Barry must feel, ripping along the freeway toward Los Gatos, blasting his tape deck. She wished she knew how to drive.
Two or three months after their father died, Barry had decided one Saturday to clear out a basement storeroom for an inventing workshop. Their father’s paintings crowded the little room: hundreds of canvases, many painted in the last months before he died. Nearly all the paintings were of Faith. Barry decided to throw them away.
He stacked a first load into an enormous cardboard box and dragged it out to the street. Faith was outside, trimming beds of ivy with a large pair of clipping shears. Phoebe slumped beside her on the warm brick path, twirling ivy stems like propellers and letting go, watching them fly for a second.
“What’s in the box?” Faith asked when Barry came toiling along the driveway.
“Some old stuff of Dad’s.”
Faith went to the box, still holding her shears, and looked inside. She pulled out one of the paintings, a portrait of herself in the backyard. In the picture she was smiling. “Bear, what are you doing with these?”
“Throwing them out.”
Faith seemed confused. She’d hardly been able to eat, and the shears looked heavy and dark in her hand. “Put them back,” she told him.
“There isn’t room.”
“Put them where they were, Bear. Back in the basement.”
“I’m throwing them out!”
“They were Dad’s!” Faith cried.
Barry pushed past her, dragging the box behind him over the pavement. It made a loud scraping sound.
“Stop it,” Faith cried. “Just—give them to me.”
But something had happened to Barry. “I want them out,” he hollered. “I’m sick of these things!” There were tears