Martin Dolan

In-Laws

I meet Thomas downstairs while Carolyn is finishing up in the kitchen. It’s a quiet weeknight, late in August and the weather is finally cooling. The semester has just started—the Village’s population seems to have doubled overnight, teenagers and twenty-somethings standing confused on every corner. I find Thomas in our building’s lobby, out of breath and still holding his bike. He’s saying something to our doorman, who listens without interest. When Thomas sees me come out of the elevator, he smiles. Hi, he says, awkwardly. Thanks so much for having me over. He’s wearing a wrinkled sweater, too big in the shoulders. 

I hug him from the side. Of course, I say, thanks for coming. It’s great to see you. His face has a thin layer of uneven stubble, darkening his cheeks in a way more goofy than gloomy. I think back to the last time I saw him—it must be years, now. He was fourteen, fifteen? Now, fumbling with his backpack, he looks like an awkward giant. He’s got three or four inches on me and hasn’t even started to fill out yet. From his bag, he pulls out a bottle of wine and hands it to me. Thanks, I say, and don’t ask where he got it. I tell him to tuck his bike in an out-of-the-way corner—no one here will take it—and follow me upstairs.

Look who made it, I say as we walk into the apartment. Carolyn is in the kitchen, visible from the door, and she waves at her brother with a half-smile. She doesn’t stop cutting the vegetables, lets Thomas come to her. His eyes are on the art prints on our walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the carefully placed furniture Carolyn spent the afternoon neurotically dusting. Wow, he says, crossing the threshold into the kitchen, then hugs his sister. Their embrace lasts for a beat too short and when they separate, they avoid each other’s eyes. 

It’s been a while, says Carolyn. You look good.

Thanks, says Thomas, and blushes. Unconsciously, he tugs at the sleeve of his sweater. Carolyn and I aren’t dressed nearly as nice, just t-shirts and shorts, and I smile at his formality—this poor boy trying desperately to seem like an adult in front of his sister.

Half-sister, Carolyn’s voice rings in my head. Its presence irritates me as if I’ve internalized them, too. Half-sister, half-brother, at any mention of this boy she didn’t want to acknowledge as if it made any difference. And when I’d give her a hard time about it, she’d push back. Don’t try and act like you understand my family, she’d say, you don’t. 

We’d had one such argument last night when I’d finally had to tell Carolyn what I’d done. That I’d reached out to Thomas over Facebook and invited him over. That’s how I found out he was moving to the city in the first place—a Facebook update. I hadn’t spoken to him in years, not since our wedding. If Carolyn had any of his contact information, she wasn’t sharing it with me. When I saw online that he’d be going to NYU in the fall I saw an opportunity, though for who exactly I wasn’t sure. Carolyn had been furious at first, saying I’d gone behind her back, and the night devolved into waves of yelling and silence. She accused me of meddling with her family and I reminded her that we were married—Thomas was my family, too. We went to bed not speaking, but the next morning Carolyn called me at work. She sounded tired and asked if I could pick up groceries on my way home, a not-quite apology somewhere between the lines. I teased her a little then, told her to be on her best behavior during dinner. She warned me to do the same.

Dinner is already in the oven, Carolyn says, should be ready in about a half-hour. We settle around the island in the kitchen, and Carolyn grabs three wine glasses. She pops the top off Thomas’s bottle, and we sit awkwardly for a minute as she pours. Some neglected, paternal part of me worries about Thomas riding his bike home after drinking, but I keep my mouth shut. The thought doesn’t seem to have crossed Carolyn’s mind. Thomas takes his glass eagerly and fidgets in his seat. He takes a sip before Carolyn has finished filling her own glass.

This is a really nice apartment, Thomas says, eyes still wandering. The ceiling in our kitchen is high, and I wonder if Thomas has been in the city long enough to notice. He looks past my shoulder into our living room, the wall-to-wall windows overlooking the street. I consider saying something about our landlord drama, all the bullshit Carolyn had to go through to get the old kitchen wall knocked down, open up the apartment a bit, but stop myself. 

Instead, I say, Thanks. You can thank Carolyn for most of it. I make a show of grinning as I speak, the way Carolyn hates, teasing to lighten the mood.

Carolyn play-slaps me on the shoulder, but her frown is genuine. We don’t have to talk about work right now, she says. The word “work”, for Carolyn, is code for money. I can tell her guard is up, that she feels obligated to fill some hospitable role, to put on an act, but feels no obligation to actually engage with Thomas. I’m frustrated with her, with how she can’t seem to comprehend what’s so clear to me. That this stranger isn’t someone to impress, someone to avoid certain topics with. He’s just a boy, her own blood. 

This is probably a nice change of pace from your dorm, right? I say.

Thomas chuckles. Hell yeah.

Are you settled in okay? Carolyn asks. I’ve heard the NYU freshman housing is shitty.

The question opens Thomas right up. He tells us he’d lucked out, actually, and got into one of the suites they usually reserved for upperclassmen. He likes his roommates well enough, though they’re a little nerdier than he might’ve preferred, too quiet. I want to take school seriously, too, he says, but it’s syllabus week. I wouldn’t mind going out a little. He grins and we clink our wine, Thomas’ eyes bouncing between Carolyn and me, mimicking our moves.

Carolyn has a good roommate horror story, I say, and Carolyn groans as she gets up to check the oven.

Don’t remind me, she says, but Thomas insists on hearing it. She pulls the cast iron out of the oven to cool on the counter. Fine, she says, propping herself up on her elbows, but keep in mind this was like ten years ago, and at Columbia, so things were different. I doubt you could kick someone out anymore.

You kicked her out? Thomas asks, excited. I need to hear this. He helps himself to a second glass of wine, then tops off Carolyn’s, too.

Here we go, I say with a smile, and settle in for the familiar story, thankful for the apparent ease of conversation.

**

Dinner goes by smooth enough. I’d worried Thomas wasn’t going to like the vegan dish Carolyn planned on making but hadn’t wanted to bring it up while she was flustered, getting the apartment ready. She’d been worked up enough as it was, and I wasn’t eager to start another argument. Thomas, though, seemed to love it. He’d eaten a whole second plate and let Carolyn package up the rest for him in a Tupperware. Though I’d been worried, he’d driven the conversation for most of the meal. Maybe it was just the wine, but I found him charming. He talked excitedly of classes and college friendships in a way that made me feel hopelessly old. 

Carolyn seemed interested, too, and the mood that had been festering between us for the past two days appeared gone. I hoped she wasn’t just acting, putting on a face for the guest she’d been determined not to trust. At several points during dinner, I’d tried to catch her eye, but she stayed focused on Thomas. The way she’d been acting reminded me of her mother, though she’d be mortified if I told her that, fussing over dinner and whether or not Thomas was comfortable in a way she’d publicly swore to never do. At the same time, I was struck by how similar she looked to Thomas. They had the same sandy hair, the same nervous eyes and wide smiles. A little like their father, in the photos I’d seen of him as a young man, but different. A weary look on both of their faces that their father never had. 

The food was amazing, says Thomas, a little drunk and too young to know how to hide it. Do you want me to clean up or anything? He starts to carry his plate to the sink.

Carolyn stands up. Oh, no. I got it, it’s okay…

I cut in: Let Thomas and I clean up. Go sit down a minute. Guy talk, I say, with a wink. Carolyn waves her hand, dismissively, and carries her glass of wine to the living room. Before she turns the corner, out of our sight, she glances back over her shoulder. I wave, sheepishly, and Thomas just looks uncomfortable.

You wash, I’ll dry, I say, and hand Thomas a sponge. You like everything alright? 

Yeah, of course, he says. Now that Carolyn is gone, his voice is smaller, drained of energy, like he can only muster so much enthusiasm for washing the dishes. We work in silence for a minute before he speaks up. I really do appreciate it, he says. Not just dinner, I mean, everything. He gestures around at the kitchen and soapy water splashes on the cabinets.

No problem, I say. And Carolyn appreciates you coming, too. It’s hard for her to just come out and say that sometimes, you know, but she does. I want you to know that.

Yeah well, he says, I’ve learned that’s just how these things are.

I look away a second, to the bowls I’m supposed to be drying, and hear a crash and Thomas yell, shit! He’s dropped one of our plates, dozens of shards scattered in a semi-circle around him.

Jesus, he says, I’m so sorry. He bends down on one knee, starts to pick up the ceramic fragments, one by one. I stop him, grab a broom from the cupboard in the hall, then come back.

I got it, I say, and start sweeping up. Don’t worry about it.

Seriously, I’m sorry, he says. I can pay you back, let me just—

No, seriously, I say, don’t worry about it. Thomas looks flustered, cheeks red. I try to flash him a reassuring smile, but his nerves have rubbed off on me, too. The plates were expensive, actually, a hand-painted set from some friend-of-a-friend artist, but I don’t tell Thomas that. I sweep the floor quickly, not getting all the shards, then gesture Thomas back to the sink. Let’s just finish up, I say. I shouldn’t have pushed him so hard, I realize, should’ve let him settle.

Suddenly I’m uncomfortable with the kitchen, how little I’d thought about its price, about everything’s price. Carolyn and I had spent the better part of three years fixing up the apartment, gutting its interior and installing the nicest floors and appliances. We made enough money, and Carolyn never had anything like this growing up, so I’d been glad to do it. Now, all I can think about is her half-brother standing next to me, wherever the hell he’s been for the past ten years. I knew he and his mom were in Georgia somewhere, not far from where Carolyn had grown up. Where their father had dragged both his wives, to some armpit of the South, before stepping out on them both.

Something in my stomach sinks. I wipe down the last plates quickly, not caring whether or not they’re spotless.

As I finish, I turn to Thomas. How’s your mom doing?

Oh, she’s alright, he says. His tone says otherwise. Moving out was weird. She was annoying about it, so particular about everything. We had a, uh, weird goodbye. He paused. I hope she’ll come visit soon. The look on his face is stoic, like he’s trying not to betray anything about his mother talking to me.

I think that’s pretty normal, I say, so don’t worry too much about it. I remember when I first moved to school, my parents rented a U-Haul and drove it all the way into the city. My mom was so insistent on the shower caddy, the mattress pad, all that shit, I remember being so embarrassed. I couldn’t wait for them to leave.

You’re from sort of nearby, though, right? Thomas asks.

Yeah, I guess. Albany is only a few hours away, so they were always popping in and out those first years. 

That was probably nice, Thomas says. Mom wasn’t really thrilled about me going so far for school. I tried to make her understand, and I think she did, but it still hurt her. We’ve been pretty close, at least until recently.

It was strange for me to hear Thomas speak about his mom like that. As Mom. To Carolyn, she was just Denise, if mentioned at all. From what I’ve picked up over the years—details pried or pestered out of her—the years Carolyn spent pinballing between her own mother’s house and Denise’s were not great. She was angry when I met her, angry at everything and nothing in particular. A lot of it came out when she talked about Denise, about Thomas, who was only a kid, then. That Thomas would speak of his own mother with tenderness resembling how I spoke of my own shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it did. I try to think back to Carolyn’s rants over the years, about the divorces and drugs and drama and how even after everything between her dad and Denise had fallen apart, she refused to think of Thomas with anything close to sympathy. As if Thomas hadn’t gone through the same things she had, as if he wasn’t alone, too. I feel suddenly very distant from Carolyn, from the stories she’d told me, the ones I’d thought had shown me who she was.

Believe it or not, I think Carolyn felt the same way coming to school for the first time.

Thomas is skeptical. Really?

In her own way, yeah. She’d never admit it though. You probably heard stories of the way she and her mom used to fight, but the adjustment was tough for her, too. She had some sort of grand notion of getting away from it all, starting over by herself. But when I met her at the end of freshmen year she just seemed lonely.

Thomas lets out a sad laugh. Not sure I can imagine that.

Me neither, I say, but believe me. You were what? Six or seven then? So, she was still resentful about all of that—no offense—and like I said she wasn’t exactly getting along with her own mom, either. She’d left behind some dumpy apartment complex in the middle of nowhere. She wasn’t talking to any family—her mom’s side or your dad’s. She had some good friends at school, but that’s different, you know?

Yeah, he says.

Anyways, I say, I guess I’m just saying don’t isolate yourself. I had to help Carolyn through a lot of stuff, reconnecting with everyone, and it was hard. I pause for a second, but Thomas says nothing. I actually remember when your parents got divorced, I say, How old were you, then?

Thirteen, he says. His voice is small.

I can’t even imagine, I say. I’m surprised by where the conversation is going but don’t make an effort to change it. Carolyn didn’t really like your mom all too much, I say, as I’m sure you know. But your dad splitting again was still hard. 

You could say that, Thomas says, and chuckles at his joke. I’m struck by his morbidity, just like Carolyn’s

When we finish the pots and pans, Thomas looks at me, expectingly. I can see in his eyes he doesn’t know what to do next. I’m struck by how young he looks. I only have ten years on him, but it feels like a lifetime. His half-adolescent features are still rounded on the edges, sort of feminine, and I see Carolyn in them. Not the Carolyn in the living room - educated and employed in her Upper East side apartment—but the girl I met in college. Eyes darting like doe, acne scars dotting the cheeks, somewhere in between running away and asking for help.

Let’s go sit with Carolyn, I tell him, and he follows me into the living room, happy for the instructions.

**

It’s late, almost eleven, and Thomas is still in our apartment, talking to Carolyn about nothing in particular. We’re not used to having company this late. We have work in the morning, something that probably hasn’t even crossed Thomas’ mind. I don’t mention it, not now, when the conversation is finally flowing freely. I’m needed as a mediator less and less. Carolyn is curious about school, about how he’s adjusting. She gets more and more personal, asking about his worries, how he’s doing with money. They dance around the topic of their father, but everything else is fair game. Thomas comments something about how it’s nice to have some support living in the city. It takes Carolyn a moment to realize that he’s talking about her. When she does, she blushes and mumbles something about how she’s the one to call if he needs anything. Last night, we’d been fighting about me reaching out to him at all. Now they’re typing each other’s numbers and addresses into their phones. I stay quiet.

I still can’t believe you guys live like this, says Thomas. We’re sitting on our sorry excuse for a balcony, about ten square feet overlooking the sleepy street. In the distance cars honk and dogs bark, but we can’t see them. In our little corner of the city, as far as Carolyn and Thomas seem concerned, things are quiet, tranquil.

Sometimes I can’t either, says Carolyn. She squeezes my arm. 

I think back to where I grew up, the type of affluent suburb that’s lower to the ground but not all that different from the neighborhood Carolyn and I have made our home. Before New York, Carolyn had to work after-school shifts at Walgreens to help her mom pay rent. Thomas starts talking about his own home, a county or two over from Carolyn’s mom. How he’d alternated between an aunt’s house and a trailer park after the divorce. That’s news to me, but I let the two of them talk. I hadn’t realized how bad things were for Thomas and his mother, how little Carolyn knew or shared even as we built our own life, on our own terms. Thomas talks about how he’d gotten a full scholarship to Georgia Tech, close to home, and how he’d turned it down and taken out a loan for NYU. Carolyn nods as he speaks, empathetic but not commenting. The look on her face is a new one. In the dark, I can’t read it. 

So, do you want to live somewhere like this? Carolyn asks. New York, or any city really? 

I’m never going back, Thomas says, too quickly. He pauses a moment. I don’t mean it like that. There’s just no future back there. This is where I want to be. 

Carolyn nods. I do miss it sometimes, though, she says. 

I wonder what Carolyn means, what she sees when she says home. Is it the house her parents bought together when she was a baby? Or the apartment she lived in during high school, alternating weekends with Denise and Thomas? When I think of home, I try and imagine the apartment Carolyn and I built up from nothing, but out here on the balcony the details of the rooms inside are fuzzy. All I can see clearly is Carolyn, the small yet proud way she carries herself, her face’s gloomy features. The face she shares with Thomas. 

Is it still hard for you? Thomas asks. With your mom, I mean. I’m not trying to pry or anything, but my mom told me some stuff… He trails off, looks embarrassed.

No, Carolyn says, it’s okay. When I first came here, you know, it was more as a fuck-you to her and Dad than anything else. I didn’t know anyone, didn’t know what I wanted to study, didn’t know anything. I found some good people, eventually, but it was a process.

But you didn’t have a big sister in the city, either, I say. That might have helped.

Yeah, says Carolyn, it might have.

It will, says Thomas, and I’m struck by his tone—somewhere between proud and vulnerable, optimistic and jaded. I’m suddenly aware of my presence between the two of them, both a catalyst for and disrupter of conversation. To no one in particular, I announce that I need to get ready for bed. Carolyn and Thomas each mumble a goodbye as I stand up. They both look at me, half-scared at the prospect of being alone together. I make a point out of ignoring their stares and they both turn away. I hear Carolyn whisper something to her brother, then a laugh, though I close the sliding door as he starts to answer and his voice fades to a whisper.

Inside, where I know they can’t see me, I sit at the counter and watch them. They’re side by side on the balcony, the cityscape looming over them as a sort of invitation. Their body language is relaxed. I wonder if they’re talking about their father, the elephant in the room who’d got them into this mess in the first place, then realize it doesn’t matter. Carolyn talks with her hands and Thomas leans his head back to laugh. Each movement Thomas makes is familiar, an echo of something I’d learned to love about Carolyn. In the light, some unspoken baggage kept them separated, friendly enough but kept at a safe distance. In the darkness, it’s different. I watch their silhouettes like a puppet show, struck the most by their similarities. Another joke, another laugh, then the shadow I know to be Carolyn reaches out an arm behind her brother, wraps it around his waist, and leaves it there, their bodies, the shadows they cast, merging into one indistinguishable shape.

Martin Dolan is a writer from Albany, NY. His previous work has appeared in Barzakh and won the Andrew Bergman Prize. More of his work can be found online at dolanmart.in