The Last September: A Novel

But on this other September day, New England’s sunlight shone dimmer, more nuanced than Colorado’s, and the years had rendered Eli a less welcome sight. At the same time, he was so familiar that in person I didn’t feel afraid of him. I left my keys in the ignition as I waved broadly. Without Sarah, my mother-lion hackles receded. Eli and I had been young together. We had climbed Long’s Peak. We’d eaten pancakes at midnight in cheap diners. He had filled my room with balloons on my nineteenth birthday, and given me away at my wedding.

Eli’s blond hair, bright and unfaded like Charlie’s, hung past his shoulders. He wore a white T-shirt with a funky batik design—more like something that would belong to his brother—and faded jeans that were covered with his tiny, slanted handwriting, rows and columns that looked almost like Asian characters. There was a pen in his right hand, and for a moment he stopped to scribble something new onto his jeans. Then began pacing again. The last time I saw Eli he’d been wearing his animal-control uniform, a khaki polyester blend that stretched over his medication-bloated stomach. Now he looked gaunt, lean, and agitated—almost like a second entity, broken loose from the foggy bulk of compliance. I’d seen him in this state often enough to know that up close his eyes would be a clear, electric blue, echoing the boy I’d known in college. But I’d also see deep grooves in his brow. Elaborate lines spiderwebbed around his eyes. If the two brothers had been standing together, Charlie would easily have appeared the younger of the two.

“Eli.” I waved my arms over my head. “Hey.”

He stopped short, then held his palm up toward me like a crossing guard. “Stop, Brett,” he said. “Stop right there.”

I walked a few steps closer. And then I stopped, but not because of his gesture or command, but because I was close enough to see that Eli’s shirt did not actually have a funky design. It was just plain white, spattered with what looked like brick-colored paint. Lots of it. I tried to remember where such a color would come from, what he and Charlie would have been painting. The only project I knew of were those pale brown shingles, which would soon enough fade to gray in the salty Cape Cod air.

“What’s on your shirt?” I said to Eli.

“Stay back,” he said. “It’s not safe here.” The words sounded anguished and completely sincere. As if the old Eli—somewhere inside this pacing madman—called out to me in warning.

“Where’s Charlie?” My voice seemed to come from somewhere involuntary: behind me, or above. I could feel my throat constrict, and despite one instant of wondering, I knew that this was not a dream. In a dream, I wouldn’t have been able to speak at all.

Eli lifted one arm, wraithlike, and pointed to the back of the house. “Charlie’s right where he’s always been,” he said, his voice rising, not making any sense. Eli never made any sense when he was like this.

I have never been good at dealing with agitated people. Charlie, on the other hand, was excellent at conferring his own self-possession. He had a knack for calming people in distress. As I walked around the house, obediently following Eli’s still-outstretched point, I found myself desperately wishing for my husband to step forward and intervene.

Because I knew already that he couldn’t. Although my back was to him, Eli’s aged and bloodless face loomed clearly in front of me. And I knew that Charlie wouldn’t walk out of the house to help. I wouldn’t have been able to articulate it or explain my exact thoughts as I headed toward the back deck. My emotions had gone AWOL. I forgot to be frightened of Eli or worried for Charlie. I didn’t even think about Sarah. I just floated across the lawn, my eyes flitting habitually out toward the water. I squinted at a cluster of cormorants on a tall rock, holding their wings out to dry, then turned my eyes back to the house. And if I had paused in that moment and closed my eyes, I think I would have been able to conjure up exactly what waited for me.