Page 72 of Bro Code

“Well…” She adjusted the seatbelt. “You don’t always listen.”

“What? Yes I do!”

“No you don’t. You argue.”

“I don’t argue.”

Manman lifted an eyebrow, and Louis heard himself. He put the key in the ignition, grumbling, “I would have listened.”

“Maybe,” she said, as he started the car. “Maybe.” She rolled down the window, adding, “You do things your way. You always did. It’s good: it’s who you are. And I understand that it’s what you had to do. But it’s not always easy for the rest of us.”

Louis thought about that as they pulled out of the parking lot.

She had a point: he hadn’t been listening to Chloe. He’d been avoiding her calls and putting off texting her. Because he didn’t want to hear what he was afraid she was going to say. He’d spent the last month going around Holly and even the GM, risking his job to do what he thought was right, because he saw things differently than they did.

He’d left the island. Hadn’t been back in years. Because it was too hard for him. Because he needed to put himself first.

That was who he was. And he was proud of that. But he hadn’t ever really considered what it meant for everyone else.

Chloé was at work that night, so it was just him and his parents at the dinner table. Louis decided the best way to get through it was to just keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately, Papa had been hearing more about the fallout from the NHL brawl, and wanted to discuss it with Louis.

Discuss was generous. He wasn’t looking for a rational debate.

“This man who was hit on the head,” he said, picking up rice with his fork, “why has he not been punished?”

He was talking about Riley, and hearing his dad talk about Riley made Louis feel like throwing the table over. He kept his eyes on his plate and said, as calmly as he could, “Because he was trying to stop the fight.”

“But how do they know that? How can they be sure that’s what he was doing?”

“Well, even if they aren’t, what happened to him was a hate crime, and the NHL would look pretty bad if they punished someone who was the victim of a hate crime.”

“Eh, hate crime.” His dad waved a hand. “So it is worse to hit a man who is gay than to hit any other man? So this Okafor man will be punished more? Just because the man he hit happens to be gay?” Louis took a deep breath and sent it out slowly through his nose. “Is that fair? Is that justice? Shall we all walk around checking to make sure if somebody is gay before we hit him? Shall we–”

“Oh, James, will you be quiet!” Manman snapped.

Louis jumped. At the other end of the table, so did his dad. They briefly looked at each other — so startled that for a split second, they were actually on the same page. Manman glared across the table.

“I am so tired of listening to this!” she said. “I am so, so tired of it! How much longer do I have to listen to these arguments, James? Hm?” Papa opened his mouth and she cut him off with, “Because I have five years. Maybe eight. Remember?”

Papa stared.

“Is that how long you are going to make me listen to this nonsense?” she continued. “Five more years, maybe eight? Do you think I am going to sit around and listen to you talk about my son this way? And do you think Louis is going to come back and see us if he has to sit here and listen to you? Hm?” Her eyebrows were pinned so high on her forehead they looked like they’d been stapled to her hairline. “Five years, James,” she said. “That is my time. Those are my years. And I want my son to be in them. I want to enjoy those years with my family. After that? Then you can do all the arguing you like. But until then, just” –she waved a hand, irritated, picking up her fork– “just be quiet!”

The silence was thick as tar.

“He’s a good boy,” said Maman, her knife and fork clattering as she began furiously cutting up her chicken. “So just leave him alone.”

Papa looked down the table at Louis. Louis held his gaze and waited. For the counter argument. For him to blame Louis for upsetting his mother. For him to get up and leave. But he didn’t. He just sat there, staring at Louis, and Louis suddenly thought he looked very old. His shiny bald head and hollow face and narrow shoulders. How frail. Thin, like his arguments.

“I should have said this years ago,” Manman muttered, as though to herself, shoveling chicken onto her fork. “I don’t know why — but, oh well. Louis: I’m sorry. He won’t bother you with this…silly nonsense anymore!”

She put chicken in her mouth and chewed like she was angry with it. Eyeing his dad, Louis returned to his food. “Sure,” he said. “We’ll see.”

Later, Louis sat outside on the back porch, watching the reflection of the moon in the sea. After dinner, Manman had asked if he was coming for Christmas. He said he wasn’t sure. She told him she hoped he would. She wanted to see him. She was sorry, she said, for the way their relationship had fallen apart. She didn’t want it to be that way. He said he didn’t want that either. He thanked her for saying something to Papa.

He wished it hadn’t taken a terminal cancer diagnosis for it to happen, but he was grateful she’d finally done it.

The door opened behind him and he looked over his shoulder as Chloé padded out, barefoot in her work clothes. She pulled up a chair and sat beside him, crossing her feet under her, and retrieved her cigarettes from the flowerpot.