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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

Mike remembers Sarah wearing red lipstick when Jane brought her down to Lyle’s apartment. The four of them sat around the card table Jane had brought as a housewarming gift. Mike knew that Jane liked the idea of routine, that they might play cards again, that it might become comfortable and regular. They had meant to play poker but instead ended up playing a drinking game called kings.

Each card meant something different. The rules usually rhymed, so you could remember them when you were drunk. The rules were fluid. Jane drew an eight. “Pick a mate,” she said, and pointed at Mike. She and Mike drank.

Lyle’s turn. He drew a six. “Dicks,” he said. He and Mike drank.

Mike’s turn. He drew. “Four,” he said. “Whores drink.” Sarah and Jane drank.

“What’s a nine?” Sarah said, drawing.

“Perfect,” said Jane, pointing to the brothers. “Nine, bust a rhyme. They never miss. First one to mess up the rhyme has to drink.”

“OK,” said Sarah, in a singsong voice. “I need some more booze,”

“Gin or bourbon, you have to choose,” continued Jane.

“Lucky I can rhyme on a dime or I’d lose,” said Lyle.

“I feel like I’m on a lyrical cruise,” said Mike.

“Larry, Curly, and Moe were each a stooge,” said Sarah, laughing.

“OK,” said Jane, “Fuck with me and I’ll give you a bruise.”

“Y’all,” said Lyle without hesitation, “playing with you’s like takin’ a snooze.”

“Better watch out Lyle,” said Mike, who was deliberately the drunkest, “or you’ll hang yourself in a lyrical noose.”

“Drink!” shouted Sarah and Jane. “Doesn’t rhyme!”

“Yeah,” said Lyle, “it doesn’t rhyme. Not very lyrical news.”

72

Mike sees a crowd gathered on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, bigger than the one up at St. John the Divine. But this crowd doesn’t look like Sunday after the service. By now, they know too much.

Usually there are tourists, tentatively picking their way up the steps to walk a lap in the church. Not today. Almost everyone is going home. Mike imagines that those who linger have no home to go to. But maybe they do and there’s just more comfort to be taken from sitting on the cathedral steps in Midtown.

Mike remembers sitting there with Lyle. They sat on steps and stoops in Manhattan so many times. It was one of the primary activities of childhood and then high school. He and Lyle were so comfortable doing it that once they fell asleep, sober, on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. When they woke up at sunrise they were both surprised and happy. It felt like a victory, some ascension to a higher plane of city living.