Page 24 of Second Alarm
"He had six bicycles."
"He was an avid cyclist."
"He was a lunatic."
"He was a mechanical engineer."
"He was a lunatic mechanical engineer who owned six bicycles."
I put down my fork. I pick it up again. I put a piece of pot roast in my mouth because it's socially necessary to put a piece of pot roast in my mouth. I chew. I swallow. I look at the wall clock. The clock says six thirty-nine.
"She needs someone," Cal announces, to the room, with the authority of a man who's given this considerable thought, "who's stable. Who's — you know. Solid. Like a firefighter. Not a firefighter, but like — you know — "
"Calvin — "
" — the type. A guy who shows up. A guy who makes her coffee in the morning, doesn't make her ask for it. Somebody who's — quiet. She needs a quiet one. She's loud. She needs a counterweight. That's the word. She needs a counterweight."
Across the table, Hanna has gone very, very still.
"Tell me what you think, Ty." Cal turns to me with his whole face. "Your opinion matters. You're a man."
I lift my gaze. Hanna is looking at her plate. Her mother is looking at me.
Mom Larsen is looking at me the way she looked at me that one time in 2018 when Cal broke a lamp and was trying to blame it on the cat — the expression of a woman who knows.
"She can pick her own guy."
"That's — that's not the question. The question is what kind of guy."
"Whatever kind she wants."
"Give me, like, an archetype."
"Not my place, Cal."
"You've been at this table every month for a decade. You're the most qualified outside observer in her life. Give me an archetype."
I look at him. He's grinning at me. He's grinning the slow, easy, lethal grin of a man who's walked me cheerfully to the edge of a cliff and doesn't know it.
"Calvin," Mom Larsen says, "leave Tyler alone."
"I want his opinion."
"Leave Tyler alone. You're embarrassing your sister."
"She can handle it."
"She's handling it," Hanna says, without looking up, "by not participating."
Hanna's eyes cut to me. "Ty."
I look at Cal. "Cal."
"Archetype," Cal says, and he means it.
I put down my fork.
"Nice guy." I look at Cal, keeping my face flat. "Quiet. Works hard. Good to his mother. Doesn't cheat. Makes her coffee. That's probably — that's a — it's an archetype."
