After the Plague by T. C. Boyle Page A

to walk the gauntlet. It’s hell on business, believe me. And it’s dangerous too. They scare me, the real crazies, the ones that shoot people. You’ve heard of John Britton? David Gunn? George Tiller?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. You’ve got to realize I’ve been out of touch for a while.”
    â€œShot down by people like the ones you saw out there today. Two of them died.”
    I didn’t like hearing that. The thought of one of those nutballsattacking my brother, attacking me, was like throwing gasoline on a bed of hot coals. I’d never been one to turn the other cheek, and I didn’t feature martyrdom, not at all. I looked out on a blur of brake lights and the crust of ice that seemed to narrow the road into a funnel ahead of us. “Why don’t you shoot them first?” I said.
    My brother’s voice was hard. “Sometimes I wish I could.”
    We stopped to pick up a few things at the market, and then we were home, dinner stabbing at my salivary glands, the whole house warm and sugary with it, and Philip sat down to watch the news and have a scotch with me. Denise was right there at the door when we came in—and now we embraced, no problem, sister- and brother-in-law, one big happy family. She wanted to know how my day was, and before I could open my mouth, she was answering for me: “Not much of a challenge, huh? Pretty dull, right? Except for the crazies—they never fail to liven things up, do they? What Philip goes through, huh, Philip? Philip?”
    I was beat, but the scotch smoked through my veins, the kids came and sat beside me on the couch with their comics and coloring books, and I felt good, felt like part of the family and no complaints. Denise served a beef brisket with oven-roasted potatoes, carrots, and onions, a fresh green salad, and coconut creme pie for dessert. I was planning on turning in early, but I drifted into the boys’ room and took over the
Winnie-the-Pooh
chores from my brother because it was something I wanted to do. Later, it must have been about ten, I was stretched out on my own bed—and again I had to hand it to Denise, because the room was homey and private, done up with little knickknacks and embroidery work and whatnot—when my brother poked his head in the door. “So,” he said, mellow with the scotch and whatever else, “you feeling okay about everything?”
    That touched me. It did. Here I’d come into the airport with a chip on my shoulder—I’d always been jealous of Philip, the great shining success my father measured me against—thinking my big brother was going to be an asshole and that assholery would rulethe day, but it wasn’t like that at all. He was reaching out. He was a doctor. He knew about human foibles and addictions and he knew about his little brother, and he cared, he actually cared. “Yeah,” was all I could manage, but I hoped the quality of my voice conveyed a whole lot more than that.
    â€œGood,” he said, framed in the light from the hallway, his sunken orbits and rucked face and flat, shining eyes giving him a look of wisdom and calm that reminded me of our father on his good days.
    â€œThat girl,” I said, inspired by the intimacy of the moment, “the last one that came in today?”
    His expression changed. Now it was quizzical, distant, as if he were looking at me through the wrong end of a telescope. “What girl? What are you talking about?”
    â€œThe young-looking one in the white parka and furry boots? The last one. The last one in. I was just wondering if, uh, I mean, what her problem was—if she was, you know, coming in for a procedure or whatever.... ”
    â€œListen, Rick,” he said then, and his voice was back in the deep freeze, “I’m willing to give you a chance here, not only for Dad’s sake but for your own sake too. But there’s one thing I