Carver struggled to reenter himself as he stood there in gawping silence. “Remember,” he repeated.
“Forget it,” Scott said, and took a terrifying step toward Carver, then offered him the cigarette.
Carver took it and took an inappropriately hard drag like it was a joint. He handed it back, feeling like his lungs were singed.
“They’d also prefer I don’t smoke in here, I’m guessing,” Scott said. “Sorry. Honestly, it’s a better smell than burnt transmission fluid.”
“Oh, that’s what that is,” Carver said, like a fucking idiot.
“Yeah.”
Carver handed the cigarette back. Scott puffed on it, looking at him with those terrible dark liquid eyes, so delicately fringed by those terrible long dark eyelashes.
“Uh,” he said, swelling with sudden bravery. “To be clear — I do, uh, remember. Yes.” His pride wouldn’t allow him to be thought of as a completely delusional and sinister closet case.
Scott’s eyes softened again. He tipped his chin up to blow smoke at the ceiling, his full lips slightly parted.
“So,” Carver said. “S — uh. I think my mom’s probably gonna be looking for my help soon, if she isn’t already.”
“Sure,” Scott said, nodding.
“So I’ll leave you to your… funeral here.” He tapped two fingers on the hood of the van.
“Hey, no funeral. I’ll get her back up and running.”
“Yeah. I’ll leave you to your hospital room, then.”
Scott smiled. “Right on.”
Carver walked away, then, in what he hoped was a dignified and cowboy-esque manner.
Though Carver expected that his family would press upon him some task he could busy himself with, he soon realized he wasn’t actually needed. Letty and Sana were upstairs with Josie and Priscilla getting ready; Conway had already set up their long drop-leaf holiday table on the covered patio and was decorating it; his mother was coordinating the food delivery; his father was hauling chairs loaned by a neighbor from the front of the house to the back of it. The only people who weren’t busy were Lillian and Chip, who were sitting in the wood-paneled den at the back of the house, watching PGA Championship coverage on ESPN.
Lillian was curled up on the tufted leather sofa in a chic black sheath dress, twirling a finger in her hair, while Chip sat in Doug’s Eames lounge chair, looking exactly like him exceptfor the fact that he was wearing a t-shirt and drinking a Miller High Life. Their father, who had grown up at the lower end of middle class, didn’t wear t-shirts or drink beer from cans. He was primed by his childhood to see this as gauche: the behavior of out-of-work union guys sitting on a stoop. Chip — and most of the people their age at the yacht club who were raised with money — thought beer in a can was a beautiful and convenient American invention, best enjoyed while operating a boat.
Both his wife and brother looked up as he entered. Lillian smiled at him, and Chip did not.
“Golf?” Carver said to his brother, leaning against the doorway. Lillian went back to looking at her phone.
“Nothing else on,” Chip said, spinning the remote in his hand.
“NBA playoffs.”
“I’m sick of the NBA, I only watch college now. Speaking of which — devastating what Michigan did to Duke this year, my condolences.”
Carver smirked. “You’re gonna be real quiet when Merrimack finally makes it to Division 1 and starts getting their teeth stomped in by real teams.”
“See, that doesn’t work, Carver, ‘cause I actually played football for Merrimack, and what did you contribute to Duke besides a hazing statistic?”
“The only season where you got real time on the field, you guys went 2-9,” he shot back.
“Oh, good, he’s feeling mouthy today.” Chip muted the TV. “Guess what I found earlier?”
“What?”
Chip reached over along the left side of the recliner and retrieved a football, which he tossed at Carver. Carver caught and examined it. It was the old football they’d practiced passing with in their youth.
“We should go toss it around,” Chip said. “I asked my kids, but they’re not interested. I thought Bailey might be, but no. Maybe she’ll join us if we look like we’re having a good time.”
