The Last September: A Novel

“How did he sound?” I asked. Last time we saw Charlie’s brother, he’d dropped an enormous amount of weight and begun scribbling notes on his jeans and forearms.

“He wants to come by tonight,” Charlie said. “Get out of the city for a couple days.”

“Did he sound like he’d been taking his meds?”

“He didn’t sound too bad.”

Charlie brought the wooden spoon to his lips and tasted his sauce. I stood there, balancing Sarah on one hip. In my whole life, there had never been anything in the world I wanted more than a home with Charlie. Not so long ago I wouldn’t have cared if that home were borrowed from his father, or if the sink were piled with dishes, or if Eli lived there permanently. I would have lived with Charlie in a cave, or a tepee. I would have followed him anywhere.

“I told Eli it would be okay,” Charlie said.

“But Charlie,” I said. “If he’s off his meds.”

“His roommates kicked him out,” Charlie said. “He’s got nowhere else to go.”

I started to nod and then stopped, not wanting Charlie to interpret the gesture as agreement that Eli should come to us. Every other year or so, these phone calls would begin. Sometimes they’d come from Eli or from the animal-control office where he worked. Sometimes the calls would come from his roommates, or new friends—people who’d only known him since his latest recovery and couldn’t understand the change.

“Do you know why they kicked him out? Did he do something? Were they frightened?”

“No,” Charlie said. “They weren’t frightened. They kicked him out because he’s behind on the rent.”

“That’s what Eli says.”

“True,” he admitted, still stirring, not looking at me.

“If he can’t pay rent, does that mean Kathy put him on leave again?” Kathy was Eli’s supervisor at the Angell Animal Shelter. “Have you called her?”

“I left her a message,” Charlie said.

“Well, why don’t you talk to her before you let him come here?”

Charlie let his shoulders tense. He turned toward me and leaned against the stove. I worried about hot liquid spattering onto his bare back. “What are you saying?” he asked. “You want me to tell him he can’t come?”

“You know I’m always happy to see Eli. Except when he’s off his meds.”

“But Brett,” Charlie said. “That’s when he needs us most.”

The words worked, for a moment at least. Guilt silenced me. But the weight of Sarah in my arms let me recover. “It’s different now,” I said. “It’s not just us.” Charlie didn’t respond—his form of shouting. So I kept talking. “We told him the rules when we moved in here. No visits unless he’s medicated.”

“It’s Eli’s house as much as mine,” Charlie said. Infuriatingly. It had been his idea to move to his father’s house, in the eighth year of my PhD—when my teaching appointment had run out and my last possible fellowship could barely cover our expenses even if we lived rent-free. I had foreseen this moment—Eli’s encroachment—since Charlie first formulated the plan. Charlie had sworn it would never be an issue.

“You promised,” I reminded him.

He turned his gaze out the window and crossed his arms, the wooden spoon still in his hand, warm sauce dripping to the floor. Sarah squirmed, anxious to practice her new stepping skills. “Down,” she insisted. I tightened my grip and she let out a squawk of protest.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But it sounds like Eli’s off his meds. So if he comes here, Sarah and I have to leave.”

Charlie’s face looked placid, but I could see the veins in his neck pop up. Once, he told me a dream he’d had about his brother, where an adult Charlie walked along the beach and stumbled upon seven-year-old Eli building sand castles.

“Eli,” Charlie said, in the dream. “Are you all right?”