When we lived in the city, Davis hired Chris, who had become a builder, to contract out the Fort Greene renovations he was doing then. The tension between them improved somewhat when Davis and I moved to Connecticut and they stopped working together. My brother would visit every month or so. Miles adored his uncle. Chris and Miles had special names for each other that Davis and I were not allowed to know.
It was a pity that Davis and Chris didn’t get along. They had a lot more in common than you might think. They liked boxing and baseball. They knew a lot about cars. They both cared about me, though I know that was a big part of the problem.
One summer afternoon we were all sitting on the front porch of our house in Connecticut and drinking lemonade. A showy vintage car drove down the road.
Davis said it was a Hudson from a certain year, and Chris said no, it was a Packard from another year. They were both positive that they were right, and the discussion got heated. Finally they made a bet.
“Okay,” said Davis. “Here’s the deal. Let’s check it out in my vintage auto encyclopedia. Then we’ll drive to the butcher shop. The loser pays for the ribs and steaks. If we’re both wrong, we’ll split it.” They’d been planning to barbecue. They both got a kick out of grilling, though neither one knew his way around a kitchen or a stove.
“Deal,” said Chris. “I’m thinking porterhouse. That’s how sure I am.”
Davis told Miles, “Go get Daddy’s book, Buddy.” I hated it when he called our son Buddy. Chris volunteered to go with Miles, who was way too small to carry the heavy volume. His dad was joking about him being able to get it.
All three of my guys leaned over the book as they looked for the mystery car. Miles was so excited. You would have thought that he could read, though he was only two.
Finally Chris said, “Aha! There you go!”
Chris was right. Davis was wrong.
“You win, man. The steak’s on me,” my husband said. “Let’s buy something great.” He kissed me, just a casual peck, and went to get his keys.
Were those the last words I heard him say? The steak’s on me. Let’s buy something great.
Davis was driving the 1966 Camaro he took out for fun drives in the summer. Chris was riding shotgun beside him.
I know what the last words they heard from me were. They were always the last words that anyone in my family heard from me before they left the house. I couldn’t let them leave without saying: I love you. Drive safely.
To this day I thank God every waking moment that I put my foot down and refused to let Miles go along with them. He wanted to be a big boy, to go for a ride with his dad and his uncle. But he needed to take a nap if he was going to make it through dinner. And I thought the guys might have more fun if they didn’t have to worry about him, if they didn’t have to buckle and unbuckle him from his car seat, if they could skip all the fun stuff I did all week.
Later the cops would say that a truck came barreling up Route 208, way too close to their side of the road. Davis swerved to avoid it and lost control, and they slammed into a tree head on.
Just like that.
Treasure every moment you are lucky enough to spend with your loved ones because we never know what will happen just a few heartbeats later.
I just looked down and noticed that there are tears on my keyboard. So I guess the healing process hasn’t progressed quite as well as I thought. As I’d like to think.
Thank you, sweet moms, for listening and responding.
Love,
Stephanie
18
Stephanie
What happened was nothing like that. Well, not nothing. My husband and brother drove off in a car. They were going to buy something to grill. Their car hit a tree, and they were both killed instantly. That was what happened, but not how it happened.
They didn’t just dislike each other. They hated each other. They had always hated each other.
They couldn’t have been more different. Chris was down to earth, and Davis was up in the clouds. They had such different senses of humor that sometimes Chris would say something that he meant as a joke and Davis took it as an insult—or vice versa. If they hadn’t been related—through me—they would never have spent five minutes in the same room. They had only one thing in common: me. And Miles, I guess. Devoted father. Doting uncle.
There were always fights that got nasty and mean, arguments that blew up. I don’t recall what started it that day. They often argued about the make and year and model of some vintage auto they saw. It could have been that. It hardly mattered. The two guys went from zero to sixty in ten seconds. Faster than a Maserati.
It got loud and ugly. Fast. The same old things got said. One of them accused the other of thinking he knew everything, and the other one called him a fraud. One said he was sick to death of the other’s shit, and the other said . . . I don’t know. They fought like brothers, except that they were brothers-in-law. If Cain and Abel had been related by marriage, instead of blood, things might have turned out even worse, though it’s hard to imagine what worse could have happened.
It had been like that for so long, I knew exactly how it would go. One of them would stalk out of the room, and there would be a few moments of peace. Then the other would follow him, as if something was finally going to be settled. And they’d start shouting again. Or else it was so quiet I could feel the tension all through the house. It made me want to scream.
Miles heard every word. I don’t think he understood much. But he heard the tone of it. His dad and his uncle were mad. Miles began to cry.
I blogged about how the two guys decided to get some meat to grill. But again, that’s not quite true. I was the one who suggested that they take a ride to the butcher’s. I will never forgive myself, not for the rest of my life.
I said, “Why don’t you go for a ride? Cool off. Go to the Smokehouse and get something delicious for dinner.”
The Smokehouse! That got their attention.
The Smokehouse was one of the things we loved most about living here. It’s an old-fashioned German butcher. They make their own sausage and cold cuts and have the best cuts of meat. Cheerful blond German girls wait on you and, regardless of what you order, say, “You got it!” Davis and I adored it. Even when I was trying to cut back on eating meat, I’d break down and go there and get a warm homemade-liverwurst sandwich on a kaiser roll.
Brokering an accord between my husband and my brother was like breaking up a dog fight. There was a lot of cursing and snarling, but finally both Davis and Chris were relieved (as they always were) that things hadn’t gotten physical. They’d never come to blows. But the two men I loved most in the world despised each other and didn’t care who knew. They wanted me to know it. They didn’t want me to forget.
They were glad for a chance to get out of the house, even with each other. It was a safe, easy way to end the fight, a way for them both to save face.
Davis grabbed his keys and kissed me a quick goodbye.
“Drive safely,” I said. “I love you.”
“See you,” my brother said.
They didn’t come home. They didn’t come home. They didn’t come home. Where were they? They didn’t answer my texts or calls. Had they gone out for a drink? Miles took a nap and woke up grumpy. Hungry. Where were his dad and his uncle? When was dinner?
When the police came to the door, my first thought was that my husband and brother had gone into town and started fighting again and been arrested. How would Miles and I get them out of jail?
It took forever to understand what the cop was saying.
The officer must have been used to dealing with people in shock, but still he looked at me oddly when I said, “Was there meat in the car? Did they even get to the Smokehouse?”
“Meat?”
It was at that moment that I became a vegetarian.
The cop asked if there was someone—a family member, a close friend—I could call. Officer Something-or-Other (I didn’t catch the name) could stay with me until someone arrived. He motioned toward the police car in the driveway, at a woman in a police hat in the passenger seat.
I was holding Miles, who started to cry. The officer gave him a pitying look. Poor little fella just lost his dad.