Page 8 of Love Again

I was part of an elite team.

It was a job I was born to do.

Until it wasn’t.

I still wrote to everyone, long letters on paper. I love paper and ink and pens, and I stayed in touch with everyone except Chloe—no one knew she ended up in a religious cult. When she reached out to me three years ago, it was through letters. When Travis, Laurel, and I communicated and I told them about her, it was all through letters.

I’m not good at talking. I need to write—I’m so much better on paper.

But right now, I need the company of two good men who love me. Laurel and Claire have taught me how to open up more to see the advantages of “talking it out.” I’ll have to do it with Travis and Geo.

΅

When I pull up to Geo’s quaint two-story cottage in Stoneham, a little north of Boston, I’m struck by how spring is ahead by about two weeks down here. The whole trip along the coast, the ocean was a dark, roiling gray, mirroring the blustery clouds above. Trees were bare, with few buds, and leaves from last fall lay in dark strips of dirt on the side of the highway.

But here, the maples and oaks bear the reddish blush of tiny leaves unfurling. There is no snow anywhere, not on the hills or on north-facing surfaces, and the sun shines.

Geo bought this house after he went into semi-retirement. I’ve only been down here a handful of times. Although the Cummings School of Veterinary Medicine is part of Tufts University, it sits a good fifty minutes west of Boston, in North Grafton. Claire, Laurel, and I stayed here overnight when we helped Travis move last year.

Travis’s car, a huge old Ford station wagon with the fake wooden side panels, sits out in the driveway. I see a piece of heavy cardboard underneath, probably placed there to catch oil spills. Growing up on a dirt road, you didn’t have to worry about leaking cars, but here in Stoneham, it’s another matter. Geo would not appreciate an oil slick in his driveway.

The door opens and there’s my brother, sipping a bottle of beer and grinning. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed him.

“It sucks how much I miss you,” I say, slamming the car door.

“I trained you well,” he says and grabs my overnight bag.

“Are we doing takeout, I hope? I’m starving.”

Travis shakes his head. “I tried.”

Geo is not a very good cook. To be fair, he cooked just for himself for years. After a conference in London, he returned and lived on nothing but jacket potatoes—which were large baked potatoes crammed with veggies—and salads till he became our father. By then, Laurel and Claire were excellent cooks, and Chloe even became a chef.

But Geo did not get that gene from his parents and if I ever had a foodie gene, it was transmuted to Travis when our parents adopted him as an infant. He is a fabulous cook. When he was old enough to sit up, Chloe would let him “help” bake cookies. When he could walk, he’d run to Weaver’s for supplies.

As I step into the kitchen, I smell meat cooking. Promising.

“Oh, Travis, you made a roast chicken!” Opening the oven door, I take a whiff. It smells delicious.

There’s a series of quick thuds on the stairs, and Geo appears with a dish towel in his hands. “You don’t think I can cook a chicken?”

Geo is tall and just starting to gray at the temples. His skin remains unlined. Even though he’s in his late fifties, he looks like a man in his thirties. One time, when Laurel was ten and giving him and our dad facials, she asked him why he didn’t have any wrinkles.

Geo had goop all over his face, and in his old man voice that always made us laugh, he said, “Honey, Black don’t crack.”

He gives me a big hug, and then Travis comes in and puts his long arms around the two of us. “Sandwich time,” he says, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek before opening the oven door to do some basting.

We talk for the first hour about North Grafton, his classes, and being the only Black student in the first year of veterinary college. At this point, Geo waves his hand and says, “Been there, done that,” with the kind of measured calm that he parented the rest of us with.

I know Travis has it rough. I can’t imagine what he’s had to face over the years, but he never discusses racial incidences with his sisters. He either thinks we’ll go ballistic or cry or both, and he’s right. We would, probably simultaneously. The problem is, he can’t handle either rage or tears. We’ve always assumed he talks to Geo about race issues, but I’m not sure. When any of us try, he deftly shifts the conversation. I feel so close to him in so many ways, but helping him with being a Black man remains hard. I don’t know how to do that, or if I can do that. And yet, I still feel compelled to take care of him—he’s my little brother.

My gifted little brother.

“I like your new braids,” I say. “Very cool. Is that why you were growing your fro out?”

He nods. “I’m reaching beyond the low cut. Trying to get this guy to do some fades on the sides.” He jerks a thumb at Geo.

Geo laughs. “Not happening. I’m too old.”