When Connor was still living here, I played all the time. Filling the nights, drowning out the sounds of my parents’ fights, beating down the silence of the house while we all waited to see if my brother was going to come home from wherever it was he’d gone. I played until my fingers bled, until calluses formed, until I was better than I ever thought I could be.

Then Connor got kicked out, and I stopped playing for a while because I didn’t want to join a band, and I wasn’t sure of my voice, and my father kept telling me to shut the hell up because without all the noise Connor made, the neighbors could hear, and who did I think I was anyhow? John Lennon? Because he was damned if I was going to turn into one of those lipsticked, eye-shadowed, black-wearing weirdos who hung around on St. Mark’s looking like they were dead.

My father sells insurance and hates every minute of it.

My father is angry that it’s only money from my mother’s parents that allowed us to move from Queens to Manhattan.

My father hates that Little Italy is being taken over by Chinatown, but he won’t spend any time there because he doesn’t want to ride the subway downtown with “all the crazy tourists.”

My father has gotten meaner as I’ve gotten older. Or maybe I’m more aware of it now.

My father plays poker on the first Thursday of every month. He treks to Queens, picking up a six-pack or a bottle of whiskey on the way and doesn’t come back until late.

Sometimes he wins money and brings my mother a cake from the Greek bakery she likes. Sometimes he loses money and wakes me by slamming the pantry door too loudly, or drunkenly ranting under his breath about the “damned foreigners” on the 7 train.

But while he’s gone, the apartment is quiet, peaceful, relaxed. Mom and I can use the phone without worrying that we’ll say the wrong thing. Instead of the TV, Mom will put on music and read or bake or simply hang out.

I leave my bedroom door open on these nights, not worried about being told that I’m a disgrace.

Friday afternoon there’s enough snow to close businesses and schools. Seven inches and still falling. My parents wander through the house, unsure of how to interact in daylight when they’re both stuck at home.

I’m going out, James says on the other end of the phone.

Out where?

Into the world. Come with me.

I hang up. Pick up the receiver again. Wait for the tone. Dial. Let it ring twice. Hang up.

Miracle; it rings back. I pick up.

You’re going to owe me, Connor says instead of hello.

Put it on my tab, I answer, making sure he can hear the sarcasm in my voice.

I throw some gel in my hair, grab my coat, and tell my parents that Connor is working and I have to walk his dog. Which I would do, I think, if he had a dog, because I don’t trust my brother to stay home often enough to keep another creature alive.