“Mom!” Brazil yelled.

The light was flashing on the answering machine by his bed, and he hit the play button. The first message was from the newspaper credit union, and he impatiently hit the button again, then three more times, skipping past hang-ups. The last message was from Axel. He was playing guitar, singing Hootie & the Blowfish.

“I only wanna be with you . . . Yo! Andy, it’s Axel-don’t-axe-me. Maybe dinner? How ’bout Jack Straw’s . . . ?”

Brazil impatiently cut off the recording as the phone rang. This time the caller was live and creepy, and breathing into the phone as the pervert had sex with Brazil in mind, again without asking.

“I’m holding youuu so haarrrddd, and you’re touching me with your tongue, sliiiidiiing . . .” she breathed in a low tone that reminded Brazil of psycho shows he sometimes had watched as a child.

“You’re sick.” He slammed the receiver back into its cradle.

He stood in the mirror over his dresser and began brushing hair out of his eyes. It was really bugging him, getting too long, streaks from the sun catching light. He had always worn his hair one of two ways, short or not as short. He was tucking an obstinate strand behind an ear when suddenly the reflection of his mother boiled up from behind, an obese, raging drunk, attacking.

“Where have you been?” his mother screamed as she tried to backhand her son across the face.

Brazil raised an arm, warding off the blow just in time. He wheeled around, grabbing his mother by both wrists, firmly but gently. This was a tired old drama, an endless rerun of a painful play.

“Easy, easy, easy,” he said as he led his besotted mother to the bed and sat her down.

Muriel Brazil began to cry, rocking, slurring her words. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me, Andy. Please, oh pleeeassse.”

Brazil glanced at his watch. He looked furtively at the window, afraid West might somehow see through shut blinds and know the wretched secret of his entire life.

“Mom, I’m going to get your medicine, okay?” he said. “You watch TV and go to bed. I’ll be home soon.”

It wasn’t okay. Mrs. Brazil wailed, rocking, screaming hell on earth. “Sorry, sorry, sorry! Don’t know what’s wrong with me. Andyeeee!”

West did not hear all of this, but she heard enough because she had opened car windows to smoke. She was suspicious that Brazil lived with a girlfriend and they were having a fight. West shook her head, flicking a butt out onto the weed-choked, eroded drive. Why would anyone move in with another human being right after college, after all those years of roommates? For what? She asked no questions of Brazil as they drove away. Whatever this reporter might have to say to explain his life, she didn’t want to hear it. They headed back to the city, the lighted skyline an ambitious monument to banking and girls not allowed. This wasn’t an original thought. She heard Hammer complain about it every day.