by a.b. hewitt

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Barry wasn’t sure what woke him up, but it was entirely possible that his own loud snoring was the culprit. He had fallen asleep for the third time that evening in his beaten down easy chair, with the crinkled newspaper dangling over his lap. The thick brown frames of his glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose, threatening to fall off his face entirely if not for the impossibly round bulb at the end of his nose. He likely wouldn’t have noticed, as even at their thickest, his old eyes struggled to make out more than hazy outlines of anything more than a couple feet away. He plopped them back on the bridge of his nose as he reorganized the paper into a sloppily folded pile. Half confused but not at all unfamiliar with this routine, it might have been the fifth or sixth time he had dozed off while reading the day’s news. Looking around the poorly lit and dusty room, he wondered about Marjorie. She wasn’t toiling away on the couch as usual, typical for this hour, either knitting or working on one of her crossword puzzles.

“Marge?” He said, his voice echoing throughout the dusty walls. It was a deep and satisfying echo, enhanced by the absolute stillness that existed throughout the structure. It was several decibels louder than he had intended. He often forgot that most people’s ears worked better than his. One more thing that old age had stripped from him. He waited patiently for Marge to answer, but didn’t really know why it mattered. His busybody wife was off doing some chore and would assuredly be back on her couch soon. She was tending to the flowers in the backyard that nobody would ever see besides her, or sewing up socks that were perfectly usable despite their holes. There were a million little things to keep her busy since they quit working. He waited several seconds before deciding to move on to more important matters.

He was just a little startled when the phone rang. It had been weeks since that last happened. He looked around, surprised and frustrated. It was usually Marge’s place to answer the phone. It was never anyone that wanted to talk to him, anyway. But with his wife still nowhere in sight, he begrudgingly yanked the receiver off of the hook.

“Carney residence,” he said.

“Barry, you old son of a gun,” the voice heckled. “How the hell are ‘ya?”

“Who is this?” Barry replied, too tired for anyone’s mischief.

“Well, call me heartbroken,” the man on the other end said. “It’s Hank. You do remember your big brother, don’t ‘ya?”

Barry studied the air around him for a second. It had been so long that he had almost forgotten that voice. He tried and failed to register the last time he had heard it. He gripped the worn arm of his easy chair, snapping a few of the already tired threads. Inching his crooked back straight, he began rocking nervously back and forth in his chair.

“Hank?” He said. “What… What are you up to? Gosh, it’s been…”

“Too long, brother.” Hank replied. “Far too long.”

“What are you… How have you…”

“Well, geez, Barry. Sound like you’re about to start bawling on me.”

“Well, I just, I just don’t know what to say. I…”

“Don’t have to say a word. I’m down the road at the filling station, and you can say whatever you need in person. Five minutes ‘till I hit your doorstep.”

“Five minutes?” Barry said, flustered that the brother he hadn’t seen in years was not far from his door, with nary a hint that he was even in the state, let alone just a few blocks down the road. “Well, I… Well Marge, you see… I…I…”

“Oh, just relax, ya old coot. I got everything all planned out. I think you need a strong drink and a dance floor. So get your dancing shoes on and let me worry about everything else.”

“Hank, you must be senile. I haven’t danced in…” Barry’s words went unheard as the cackling of his brother was replaced by a disconnect tone. He put the receiver down and stared at it like it might jump up and bite him. He looked up toward the door, pondering the chances that just outside of it was the loud and carefree brother that he had written off years ago. The newspaper slowly glided down to the floor, but Barry didn’t bother to catch it this time. He was still busy clenching his armchair as if he would float away if he let go.

“That man must be crazy if he think’s that we would go out dancing. At our age? Absolutely crazy,” he said, as if Marge would somehow reassure him, even in her absence. Every sound made the hair on Barry’s arms twitch. He rolled around slightly in his chair as he tried to make sense of Hank’s sudden reappearance. Everything seemed just a little bit off. As if there were pieces missing from a puzzle that made it impossible to sort out. He reached deep into his memory to find the last time that he and Hank had even spoken. He still wondered what Marge was busy with and how annoyed she would be if Hank really was just around the corner. The house was in no shape for company, and she was probably toiling around in her least fashionable of sweatpants. She would be livid if anyone showed up with such little advanced notice, let alone a man she had only met a handful of times. And if Barry’s memory was accurate, she wasn’t exactly taken with her high-spirited brother-in-law.

Hank’s knock was as boisterous as his voice. A loud and energetic rapping that seemed to rattle the entire house. Barry twisted his neck around, hoping to find Marge bustling toward the door like usual. He would have strongly preferred her to act as a barrier between himself and Hank’s rambunctious energy, as he was still adjusting to the idea of him actually standing in their home. But Marge did not come bustling. Barry slowly pulled himself to his feet, releasing the arms of his chair from his arthritic grip. He took his time, making sure that his hips were working well enough to keep under him after hours of sitting. Before he opened the door, he took the time to hurriedly wipe down the thick lenses of his glasses, so that he could be absolutely sure that it was the same Hank that he grew up with.

The wrinkled face standing at the door was partly hidden behind gold aviator sunglasses and a thick, charcoal mustache. But it was undeniably Hank. A white sport jacket hid a loud Hawaiian shirt and gold chain. He had put some thought into his grand re-entrance into Barry’s life. He squinted to be sure, though, adjusting his glasses to better catch the light. Whether it was the sun or Hank’s exuberant fashion choices, Barry had a hard time focusing on the finer details. Hank was wearing his eighty years well.

“Tell me you’re ready, little brother.” Hank said. “I have us some reservations at The Plaza, and a wad of cheddar to blow on the night of your life!”

“Ready? Well, Hank, it’s been so long. I don’t think I can just…”

“Oh, don’t give me that drivel. You most certainly can. And you should. You have earned a night out. Drinks are on me!”

“I haven’t had a drink in ages, Hank. You’d know that if you…”

“Then it sounds like you’ve earned it!”

“But Marge, you see…” he replied, still searching for something to slow down the chaos blowing through his door.

“Marge is already there, Barry! What, did you think she was hiding away in the cellar or something?”

“Marge is… what, now?” Growing exhausted, the confusion was threatening to suffocate him. Barry was at a loss for words. He tried to study the lines on Hank’s face, but noticed he didn’t have all that many anymore. Somehow, it seemed like twenty years had melted off of him in the five minutes they stood there. He was still an old man, but he was threatening to look better than Hank on a good day. He seemed to have a harder and harder time making out the details of not only his brother, but the rest of the world around him as well. The sun was shining more brilliantly outside than it had been in years. He squinted extra hard to bring the world into focus.

“Look, Barry, I promise it will all make sense when we get to The Plaza. I’ll explain everything. All we gotta do is go.”

Barry’s confusion turned into nervous energy. It made little sense, Marge already being there. But something about the strangeness of the situation allowed Barry to believe it. There was a genuine tone in old Hank’s voice that Barry somehow trusted. Trying to look back at his dusty easy chair, his eyes could barely make it out. He squinted as hard as he could without closing them altogether. He pulled his spectacles off of his nose and wiped them vigorously. The liver spots that for years had covered his hands had somehow faded. The dry and battered hands he was used to seeing had a youthful energy that he had not seen in himself in years. Decades, perhaps.

Startled, he looked up at his brother, who was still wielding his razor-sharp smile. Without the glasses between them, he could see him clearer. His face looked even younger now, more like it did the last time Barry saw it. He looked back again at his easy chair. Now in complete focus, Barry could see that the entire house had changed. While his chair and other furniture were still in place, the mess of papers spread out across his end table were gone. The living room looked cleaner and tidier than it had in years. It was as if someone had hired a cleaner to wipe out any evidence of somebody actually living there. It was still his home, but without a trace of him or Marjorie.

The confidence on Hank’s face told Barry that it was supposed to look that way. It brought about a sense of tranquility. A stark contrast to what he had been feeling since the phone rang. He trusted the glimmer in his brother’s eyes and the conviction in his roguish smile. “Are you ready to get this shindig started, little brother?” Hank said. For the first time, his voice was smooth and sympathetic. Barry gave his house one last deep look. He straightened his back, which felt like it might actually have a few dances left in it. The years he had spent in that dusty old room seemed like they had happened in a heartbeat. He reached his youthful hand over to the coat rack and pulled down his favorite flat cap and stoically pulled it down to his ears. He folded his battered brown glasses and laid them on the entryway table.

“Yes, Hank. I suppose I am.” he said as he followed him out the door.

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If you liked this story and want to read some more of my drivel…