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Show Motherlunge a novel 158 Jack nodded, and I pivoted on the steps and went back down the street with my brother-in-law. As we walked, our afternoon shadows crossed and recrossed ahead of us on the mottled sidewalk. "You guys had such a huge wedding party," I began brightly, shifting my backpack to the other shoulder. "What was it, ten bridesmaids and ten groomsmen?" "It was a big group. Fraternity brothers. Man, I don't even know where most of those guys are now." "It was eight years ago." "Eight years." Jack reached up to touch a branch of the tree we were walking under. "That was a good day." "Yeah. Remember Dorothy's dress, though?" Jack smiled a little and shook his head. "And Dad put his cigarette out in the wineglass? And then what's-her-name drank from it?" Now Jack laughed. "See? We are a fun, fun family," I said, pushing open the door to the bar and holding it wide for Jack to go in first. Inside the Republican it was cool and dark; I noted with gratitude the absence of Irish music playing on the sound system, music that by the second beer always begins to sound like the soundtrack to one's own personal horror film-all frantic jigging and ~ reeling, the heroine threatened by tight-smiled, high-stepped earthiness. Jack and I sat down in a booth and ordered beers. "Yes, you and Pavia have a really fun family," he said, a little warily. "So what's next?" I looked at Jack. He was thirty but he looked older-maybe forty-two or so-but then, he had always looked forty-two. He probably would look forty-two until he died |