Page 5 of Requiem

Brett 2

“What are you doing here?” my mother asks Jeremy, who is seated at the kitchen table, chair leaned all the way back, propped against the wall. Add to that the faded jeans, Northwestern sweatshirt and Chuck Taylors and suddenly I’m seeing him as a fifteen-year-old again. There’s an open beer bottle in front of him and a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Hi, Mom! Nice to see you, too!” he quips sarcastically.

“I locked the door when we left. How did you get in?” she asks, ignoring his tone and his comment.

“Oh, please, Mother. Like it was hard? You’ve kept your spare key under the same flowerpot for the last thirty years. You should find another hiding spot for that, you know? Especially now that Dad is gone. No telling who might let themselves in!”

My mother takes her jacket off, opens the door to the pantry and hangs it on a hook inside. When she closes it, she walks across the wide-plank wood floor to the old gas stove, which she lights under her copper kettle. She pulls a mug from the glass-front cupboard and starts to prepare her cup of tea, ignoring my brother as she goes. Jeremy and I look at one another for a long moment.

I don’t think we’ve exchanged more than three words since I moved out of the apartment while he was out of town. After Maggie came into my life, I found I had precious little tolerance for my brother and his bullshit. And then, to catch him stalking Julia …threatening her and her unborn child …I knew I couldn’t spend another night under the same roof as him. That seems like an eternity ago now, but I can tell he’s having exactly the same recollections I am.

The kettle is boiling, and my mother pours the water into her mug. She looks at Maggie and I, who are still standing, gawking.

“I’m sorry, did either of you want a cup?” she offers over her shoulder. We both shake our heads no.

“I’d love a cup, Mom,” Jeremy pipes up from the round oak table where we had countless meals over the years. I can’t help but notice he’s sitting in my father’s chair.

“You won’t be staying long enough to have a cup, Jeremy,” she replies without so much as a glance in his direction.

He laughs. “Subtle, Mom! What happened to your perfect manners?”

Now she’s putting two sugar cubes in the tea and stirring. The spell finally broken, I move from the spot where I’ve been rooted, and pull the container of milk out of the fridge for her.

“Here,” I say, setting it on the counter next to her.

“Thank you, Son.”

“Yes, thank you, Son,” Jeremy mimics her with extra emphasis on the last word.

“You know, I think I’m going to go upstairs for a bit …” Maggie starts to excuse herself, but I take her forearm gently before she can go.

“No, please. I want you here.”

She nods, and is the first one to join my brother at the kitchen table. I am in awe of this woman. She knows what he is capable of. And yet, here she is, sitting down with him, trying to keep the peace between all of us. Or, at least I think that’s what she’s doing.

“Well, well, Margaret, how’ve you been?” Jeremy smirks and I want to slap it off his face.

“I was doing fine until you showed up,” she informs him curtly. Okay. Maybe she’s not on a peacekeeping mission after all.

Jeremy just shakes his head, irritating smile still affixed to his face. My mother takes her tea and joins them at the table. I lean on the butcher block countertop, opting to stay on my feet. God only knows what’s going to happen next, and I want to be prepared to move in any direction necessary.

“What do you want, Jeremy?” Mom asks in a tone that leaves absolutely no room for small talk.

Now his lips turn down into an exaggerated frown. Like a fucking sad clown face.

“It’s at times like these when we all need to pull together. We’re family, after all. I just wanted to be here to help in any way I can. You know, funeral plans, distribution of assets …”

“No, thank you, Jeremy. I have all of that covered,” she tells him as she stirs her tea.

“Well, great! So, when’s the funeral? And, more importantly, when do I get my share of the money?”

“What money is that?” my mother wonders, a perplexed expression on her face.

Oh, she is good. Jeremy switches up his own features again, this time trying on his best condescending look.

“Poor, poor Mother. You’re distraught, aren’t you? You know, I’d be happy to handle the estate for you. Who has the will? Ralph Fourquet? Why don’t I just give him a call …” he offers, reaching for the old curly-corded phone on the wall.