“Sometimes I feel like writing about the moment that changed my brother Stephen, more than thirty years ago. Stephen called me, a few nights ago. (Now it’s July 2002.) “When are you going to show me what you’re writing?” I liked his curiosity. I said, “You didn’t tell anyone, did you?” “No. But I want to see it.” “Why?” “Because you’re my sister. Because you didn’t tell me what was going on, and now I’ll find out.” “What was going on when?” “Last summer. I knew something was going on last summer.... I wondered if that guy was really dead. The guy from ten years ago.” “How did you know something was going on?” “It was clear, the time you were in New York.” That’s still to come, the time in New York. Talking to Stephen the other night, I changed the subject. I didn’t invent Denny’s death. He died ten years ago, two years after I met him. I met him at his grandmother’s house. That wraith had a grandmother—a canny woman who loved him, a schoolteacher who’d taken her small grandson for pancakes each year on the morning of his birthday, and when he was grown (and not in prison) bought him Thai dinners whenever she could invent an excuse.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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