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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

The season was over and the locals were ready, after a summer of New Yorkers, for the quiet of fall. The town looked the same. It was a fishing town and a tourist town—a good place for the boys to grow up, their parents thought. Even if they also lived in a co-op in the city and went to private school, the beach house was always really home.

Out beyond town, the low ocean scrub rushed by as he drove closer. Everything looked the same all the way to the long gravel driveway. He and Lyle remember the driveway the same way: they are lying on the backseat and can’t see where they are out the windows as their father is driving them home from wherever, but they can always recognize the sound of the gravel through the bottom of the car, recognize the vibration, and know they are home.

All that remained was an ash-filled concrete foundation, a hole in the ground. The house used to rise up two stories, plus a tower at one end where his parents’ office was. The tower was a short staircase up from the second floor. It was a round, open room, with the ocean out beyond the windows. This was where gifts were hidden in the days leading up to Christmas. It was where his parents worked at opposite ends of the same long wooden table. In the fire, Lyle had told him, the tower fell off sideways like the head of that clown punching bag they had, bending too far, reversing, and snapping off its hinges.

Mike stepped down into the hole. The ash was still thick on the ground and in drifts from the wind. He walked the perimeter of the house and was struck by how small it seemed. Behind him, he saw his own footprints. I hope there’s none of Mom and Dad in this stuff, he thought, and then was sickened by his own morbid joke.

They’d had good times in the house. It was so close to the beach that they could smell the ocean. Starting when they were quite young, Mike and Lyle often cooked together over a stone barbecue pit set into the lawn. They grilled for their parents, and in the best of times they ate together outside nearly every day. When they were older, as the sun set and they would smoke and talk and have a beer and cook tuna or swordfish or steak or burgers. Lyle was more the fish cook, and Mike the meat. In the execution of a difficult burger flip Mike would hand off his cigarette to Lyle and focus his free hands over the fire.