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Back The Third Brother Save as PDF
Chapters (116)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by the Author
  3. The Third Brother
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. PART I
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. PART II
  67. 60
  68. 61
  69. 62
  70. 63
  71. 64
  72. 65
  73. 66
  74. 67
  75. 68
  76. 69
  77. 70
  78. 71
  79. 72
  80. 73
  81. 74
  82. 75
  83. 76
  84. 77
  85. 78
  86. 79
  87. 80
  88. 81
  89. 82
  90. 83
  91. 84
  92. 85
  93. 86
  94. 87
  95. 88
  96. PART III
  97. 89
  98. 90
  99. 91
  100. 92
  101. 93
  102. 94
  103. 95
  104. 96
  105. 97
  106. 98
  107. 99
  108. 100
  109. 101
  110. 102
  111. 103
  112. 104
  113. 105
  114. 106
  115. 107
  116. 108

“He’ll just do what he’ll do,” he said. “What will happen to him will happen, is all.”

“That’s pretty selfish,” said Jane.

“I just wish he would stop apologizing for being crazy all the time,” said Mike. “How selfish is that?”

66

The reality of the accident that Mike sees at Seventy-second and Broadway is awful and surprising. The struck man is crying and Mike can see blood staining his pants. No one is going near him. Mike takes out his cell phone to call 911 but NO NETWORK.

Mike tells the driver to wait and gets out to help. He is the only one.

The quiet of the accident evaporates as quickly as it came down. Cars rush past as Mike leans over the man on the ground.

“Help me,” the man pleads, looking up at Mike, who now sees splinters of bone poking out of the man’s calf.

“Don’t worry.”

“Don’t leave.”

“I’m just going to call nine-one-one.”

Mike walks around the smoking cab. He looks in the window and sees the driver unconscious, his nose bloody and bent, a turban fallen off to reveal long gray hair. A heart attack, maybe, Mike thinks.

The receiver is hanging off the cradle. Mike picks it up, taps for a dial tone, and calls 911. Busy signal. Mike tries again but nothing this time, not even a dial tone. He’s thinking that he will have to leave the man on the sidewalk without help. Busy signal again.

Mike looks up and down the street. Where are the cops? Mike catches himself thinking the cliché: always there when you’re a sixteen-year-old smoking a joint, never there when you . . . They’re all downtown. Lyle.

A burly guy with short brown hair and an open-collared shirt is now kneeling over the injured man. He looks like the doctor Mike and Lyle went to as little boys. Mike hopes.

“I’m a doctor,” he says to Mike. “Did you call an ambulance?”

“I couldn’t get through,” Mike says, thinking he is free again.

“Keep trying, I’ll stay with him.”

“I have to get downtown, my brother’s down there.”

“Everybody’s brother is down there. Call for this guy.”

67

They sold the East Side apartment at the end of that awful summer. The last thing either of them wanted was to live with ghosts.

They both wanted it simple. Mike had transferred from Harvard so he could take care of Lyle and was living in the dorm. Lyle was living in a rented one-bedroom on Greenwich Street. They agreed they’d get their own bigger place together later. Mike helped Lyle move in on a Saturday morning.