4
Stephen’s Cousin Miranda
That can’t be Miranda. It just can’t be.
 
     The blonde approaching Stephen looked like Michelle Pfeiffer—she was almost preternaturally beautiful. And apparently, cousin Miranda looked just like her.
     Well, she’s not a brunette anymore. Or a B cup, either.
     With a shriek and a squeal, Miranda cried, “Stephen!” and then rushed toward him and wrapped him in a bear hug that he couldn’t help but notice pressed her buxomosity against his chest. She then immediately stepped back, held out her arms, and said, “So? What do you think?”
     Stephen smiled and said, “My God, Miranda. You look incredible. Really. You’re absolutely beautiful. I’m speechless.”
     Miranda pinched Stephen’s cheek and said with a smirk, “You are? You are without speech?”
     Stephen laughed and nodded. “Still the Seinfeld fan, eh?”
     Miranda leaned in closer to Stephen and said softly, “Is it true everything I read about you, cousin?”
     Stephen smiled and said, “I don’t know. What do you read about me?”
     “That you’re, like, a gazillionaire, and that you were dating Kirsten Daggett for awhile, and that you bought a sub-Saharan country, and that you’re the one who gives the launch codes to the Pentagon every morning.”
     Stephen laughed aloud and said, “Jesus, Miranda. Let me guess. The Star? Buzz? The Enquirer?”
     Miranda giggled and said, “Guilty as charged. But is any of it true?”
     Grinning, Stephen shook his head and said, “Tabloids. The bane of my existence.” The look on Miranda’s face told Stephen she was not going to let him get off easy on this, however, so he said, “Okay. Yes, I’m worth a lot of money, but most of it is tied up in stock in my company. Second, yes, I was seeing Kirsten briefly, but we haven’t dated in months. Third, I did not ‘buy’ a sub-Saharan country. I just made a substantial donation to one particular impoverished nation ... which turned out to be larger than their previous year’s Gross Domestic Product. And no, I have nothing to do with the launch codes. Although I do know that the President uses Zephyr. Lots of people in DC do, in fact.”
     Miranda’s face wore an expression that was a combination of awe and delight. “Wow. So tell me. What’s she like?”
     “Kirsten?”
     “Yeah.”
     “She’s very sweet.”
     “Oh, come on, Stephen. Can’t you tell me anything, y’know, juicy?”
     Stephen glanced around and then gestured for Miranda to move with him into a small alcove just off the dining room. “Okay, but you have to promise not to say a word about this.”
     Miranda nodded eagerly and said, “I promise.”
     Stephen moved in closer and whispered, “She’s ... no, I can’t say it.”
     Miranda’s eyes flew wide and she punched Stephen on the arm. “Asshole! Come on! You promised!”
     Stephen rubbed his arm in mock pain and laughed. “Jesus. You can punch.”
     “Come on, tell me.”
     “Okay, okay.” He looked around and then whispered, “She’s ... um, she ... let’s just say she likes a smooth appearance.”
     Miranda’s gasp was loud enough to turn heads. She quickly recovered and pulled Stephen deeper into the alcove.
     “Are you serious?”
     “Yes, lots of actresses are doing it these days. Brazilian waxes are the hottest thing in LA.”
     “So that means you and she ...”
     “Miranda ...”
     Miranda put up her hands and said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I won’t go there. But damn. Damn, damn, damn.”
     She’ll probably eat and drink free on this story for the next three years. I should start making the rounds or I’ll never get out of here.
     “So tell me, cousin. What are you up to now?” Stephen asked.
     “You mean work?”
     “Whatever. What’s going on your life? How do you spend your days?”
     Miranda then did that move that all women do where they use the tips of their fingers to slide strands of hair behind an ear. The hair never stays put, but they do it all the time and Stephen always found it to be a very endearing habit.
     “Well, I’m living at home. Again.”
     “Weren’t you in college?”
     Miranda nodded and said, “I left. About three years ago. Couldn’t afford it. And Mom needed me at home with her. She’s not all that well and there’s really no one else who can take care of her.”
     In the span of a millisecond, an image suddenly flashed into Stephen’s mind of him sitting atop an enormous mountain of gold on a college campus and Miranda skulking her way out of the Admissions Office, head down, immediately after she withdrew because she couldn’t pay her tuition. It wasn’t your responsibility to pay for her education, Stephen heard a voice say. He knew the voice was technically right, but he also knew that it probably should have—or at least could have—been his responsibility. Who are you? King Croesus? Stephen ignored the image and the voice and said, “You’re mom’s sick?”
     Miranda nodded and her ebullient mien faded right before Stephen’s eyes. It was an actual physical change. “Alzheimer’s. It’s not too bad yet...” She hesitated. “But it will be.”
     “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Who’s with her now?”
     “I hired an aide.” Miranda chuckled. “More money we can’t afford, but I was not going to miss this.”
     Stephen led Miranda out of the alcove and said, “Want to sit at the bar for a few minutes?”
     Miranda nodded and they were soon seated on stools with drinks before them. Stephen was still troubled by what he had learned about Miranda and his Aunt Grace’s situation.
     “What’s your mom like most days?” he asked, tasting his ginger ale.
     Miranda took a healthy sip of her Cosmopolitan and said, “Oh, I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. She spends most of the day in a recliner in the living room watching TV. But I can’t really tell what she understands anymore. And then sometimes she’ll come out with the oddest things. The other morning, out of a clear blue sky, she said, ‘The piano in the church basement is out of tune. It needs to be tuned. Miranda, will you please call the piano tuner? You can get the number from Margaret at the Rectory. Father Bollea can’t do it because he’s in Florida visiting his sister. It’s a Cable-Nelson piano. A Cable-Nelson piano. A Cable-Nelson piano.’ Just like that. Three times in a row. I looked at her and said, ‘Mom, what are you talking about? There’s no piano in the basement of our church. And who is Father Bollea?’ Miranda took another sip and smiled. “I finally figured it out. She wasn’t talking about the church we go to now. She was talking about the church she went to when she was a little girl.” Miranda ran her finger around the edge of her glass and then turned and looked at Stephen with an expression that was both resigned and sad. “She can’t remember to put on underwear, Stephen, yet she remembers the brand of the piano in the basement of the church she went to when she was a kid.”
     Stephen nodded and said, “That’s not uncommon. Alzheimer’s destroys short-term memory, yet for some reason still not understood, it doesn’t touch long-term memory. This can be very frustrating for caregivers.”
     Miranda chuckled and downed her Cosmo. “Is that what I am? A caregiver? I don’t see myself that way, Stephen. I just see myself as a daughter taking care of her mother.” Her gaze was piercing. “That’s what family does, right?”
     My God, she’s beautiful. She could be a model. And she’s smart. She’s also obviously quite gifted at communicating a message. And I got the message. “That’s what family does, right?” I can’t get into this with her.
     “Listen, Miranda, I need to start hitting the tables or people are going to get annoyed with me. Is your sister here?”
     “Yeah, she’s over with Uncle John and Aunt Louise.”
     “Okay, I better go see them.”
     “Sorry if I put you on the spot, Stephen. Y’know ... with the questions.”
     “No, don’t worry about it. It’s fine. Lots of people are curious about me. The more I hide, the more the rumors fly.”
     “‘Hide.’ That’s an interesting word, Stephen. Is that what you’ve been doing for the past five years? Hiding? From us? Why in the world would you want to do that? Hide from your family. Well, it doesn’t really matter. It was your choice and I guess you must have had a good reason. But I hope you know that everybody’s missed you these past few years. We’ve all been wondering what we ever did to make you distance yourself from us, but whatever it was, I know I speak for everyone when I tell you that we’re sorry.”
     “Oh, no, Miranda. No one did anything to make me mad. Things just got ... complicated and I needed to ... withdraw, if you know what I mean.”
     Miranda’s expression told Stephen that she really didn’t know what he meant, but she simply smiled, nodded, and said, “Okay, Stephen. We’re just happy to see you. We all love you and it’s been hard these past few years without you.”
     “Good Lord. I had no idea.
     “Thanks, sweetie. That means a lot to me. Well, let me start the Grand Tour.”
     “Okay. I’ll catch you later?”
     “You will.”

5
Stephen’s Cousin Gregory

     “Hey! Asshole!”
     Stephen turned to find his cousin Gregory standing behind him, a mischievous smirk on his face. “Hey, Greg! How you doing?” Stephen said with a big grin on his face.
     A quick one-armed guy embrace, a back pat, and then Stephen and Greg laughed and fake punched each other in the mouth.
     “Can I see your bank book, dude?”
     “Nah, it’s too heavy to carry around.”
     “Why do I get the feeling you’re not kidding?”
     Perfectly straight-faced, Stephen said, “I’m not,” and held his somber expression until they both burst out laughing,
     “Seriously, Steve, Zephyr kicks ass. Man, I wish I had paid more attention in school. We’ve got the same genes. Maybe I could be dating Kirsten Daggett and using hundred dollar bills as mattress stuffing.”
     Stephen gestured at two empty seats at a nearby table and he and Greg walked over and sat down.
     “Jesus, man. You look good. Money must agree with you.”
     Stephen chuckled and said, “You don’t look too bad yourself. And I say that of you with you wearing clothes. I’ve showered with you so I know you’re rolling with the complete package. Life must be very good for you, huh? And speaking of your sex life, how’s your charming better half Emily?”
     Greg’s smile wavered and Stephen knew he had asked the wrong question. “Oh, I’m sorry, man. Was that the wrong question? Did you two split up? I’m sorry if you did. I ...”
     “Emily died last year, Steve. Ovarian cancer.”
     Stephen’s mouth dropped and a chill went up his spine. “Oh, man, Greg, I am so sorry. No one told me. I mean, I didn’t hear.”
     Greg smiled a sad smile and said, “Nobody’s in touch with you, Steve. Nobody. Not even your own brothers and sisters. I think someone sent you a death notice, but I knew it wouldn’t get to you. I can’t even imagine how many levels of protection there are between you and your mail. But Jesus, man, don’t you at least look at stuff your family sends you?”
     “I’m sorry, Greg. I’ve been busy with the company and I ...” Stephen stopped. He knew how lame he sounded. “I’m sorry.”
     Greg reached over and patted Stephen on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, man. Nobody held it against you. Everybody knew you probably wouldn’t make the funeral. It’s no biggie.”
     “Is there anything I can do? Do you need anything?”
     “Nah, we’re fine. It took Elizabeth ..., uh, that’s my daughter, Steve, your second cousin?” Greg winked and Stephen knew he was joking around. “It took Elizabeth a while to get used to the fact that Mommy wasn’t around anymore, but now she’s okay. She still talks about her, and that’s kind of hard for me, but all in all, we’re fine.”
     “I don’t know what to say, Greg.”
     “You don’t have to say anything, Steve. You’re family. It’s fine. So tell me, whatcha got coming out that’s new and delicious?”
     Stephen was distracted, but he launched into his usual rap about the new Zephyr upgrades. He couldn’t finish describing it, though, and suddenly stood up and said, “Listen, I better go see the aunts, Greg. I’m sorry. Let’s hook up before I head back, okay?”
     Greg nodded and Stephen turned and walked quickly away from the table.
     I think she was only twenty-nine. And now I remember. I did see the death notice. Because it had a Santamaria return address on the envelope, the card inside the envelope did make it through to me, but I didn’t make the connection. Emily used her maiden name. She was a contracts lawyer with clients who knew her by her birth name and, after she married Greg, she decided to keep her name. I remember somebody telling me that. The death notice said “Emily D. Rodgers passed away on ...” and I even remember thinking, “Who the hell is Emily D. Rodgers and why did the Firewall Team pass this on to me?” I didn’t take the time to think about the possibility that I might actually know an Emily D. Rodgers. Jesus. What am I doing here?
     Stephen suddenly stopped in his tracks, turned around, and went back to the table where Greg was still sitting. Greg looked up at the tap on his shoulder and his face showed his surprise and confusion that Stephen had come back.
     “Hey,” Stephen said.
     “Hey yourself. I thought you had aunts to see.”
     “Yeah, well, they can wait,” Stephen said as he sat down. “Maybe we can talk a little before I start working my way through the seniors.”
     Greg’s face lit up and he smiled. “Sure. That’d be great.” He then raised his hand, caught a waiter’s eye, and gestured her over. Reaching into his pocket and placing a twenty on her tray, Greg said, “Could I get a Stoli on the rocks?” He then looked at Stephen, who said, “Ginger ale with two cherries, please?” The waiter wrote down their order and said, “I’ll be right back.”
     “So,” Greg began, “what do you want to talk about?”
     Stephen chuckled and said, “How about our band days?”
     Greg leaned back, eyes wide, laughed, and said, “Whoa, Nelly. Are you sure you want to go there?”
     Stephen and Greg had been in a rock band together when they were in their late teens. Dense Matter. Stephen had played keyboards and Greg had been lead guitarist. Their repertoire had been mainly metal and stadium rock. Now and then, the occasional Top 40 hit would make its way onto their set list. But only if it was a band that had metal cred: Alice Cooper, Journey, and Boston were mostly acceptable. Three Dog Night and the Guess Who were not.
     Stephen laughed and said, “Hell, yeah, I want to go there. Dense Matter. Metal at its densest.”
     “Yep. I remember.”
     “Remember the Utica gig?” Greg held off answering as the waiter placed their drinks in front of them, and then started scooping up bills and coins to hand Greg as his change. “Keep it,” he said, and then, “You’re welcome” to her “Thank you.”
     Once she was gone, Greg said, “Yeah, I remember the Utica gig. You saved my life that night.”
     Stephen sipped his ginger ale and then plucked one of the cherries out by its stem and took a bite of it. “I did not save your life, Greg.”
     Greg sipped his Stoli and said, “You’re right. You probably saved everybody’s life.”
     “Come on, it wasn’t that big a deal.”
     “Let me say this, cousin. If I had been behind the wheel—like I wanted to be—when the acid kicked in, we’d all be dead.”
     “Yeah, it did hit you pretty fast.”
     “Pretty fast? I popped the tab while we were loading the equipment after the gig, and a half hour later, I was seeing dozens of giant green snakes coming out of the door—the closed door—of the tractor trailer in front of us. I was just staring at the double door when snakes erupted from its surface. Lots of ‘em, too.”
     “I remember. You let out a scream, closed your eyes, and then curled up in a ball on the floor.”
     “That’s right. And the reason I am adamant that you saved our lives is because you were driving, and I can state with absolute certainty that I would have done exactly the same thing if I had been behind the wheel, and then we would have gone off the road and probably exploded and almost certainly all been killed.”
     Stephen chuckled and sipped his ginger ale. “That was some night. And if I recall correctly, we were pretty good that night, too.”
     “Pretty good? We killed. Don’t you remember? That was the first night we did ‘Communication Breakdown.’ Zeppelin. Nobody in the club believed we pulled it off the way we did.”
     “That’s right. I can still hear Larry’s voice singing it. What ever happened to Larry Fine the Third anyway?”
     “He’s doing thirty to life for pushing heroin.”
     “Really? He never outgrew the drug stage, I guess, eh?”
     “Outgrew it? He ‘grew into it’ would be more like it. I mean, we were all screwing around with weed, and Quaaludes, and acid back then, but Larry never stopped after the band broke up. He got into speed, and then coke—very heavy—and then started dealing H to pay for his habit.”
     “How’d he get caught?”
     Greg laughed and said, “He sold a kilo of pure heroin to a narc.”
     “Larry never was the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
     “That’s true, but the kid could sing.”
     “Yes, he could.” Stephen took another sip and then said, “Tell me what happened with Emily, Greg.”
     Greg downed half his drink, looked at Stephen, and said, “Why?”
     He’s not smiling now. Maybe I should let it be.
     “Because I still feel terrible I didn’t know, and I want to hear what happened.”
     Greg stared down into his drink and said, “What happened was a 29-year-old mother got cancer and died.”
     “How’d you two find out?”
     Greg finished his drink and Stephen summoned the waiter and pointed at Greg’s glass.
     “It hurt during sex.”
     “That was the only symptom?”
     “Well, she had irregular periods, which we were later told was also a symptom, but she had been irregular all her life, so we never thought anything of it.”
     “And then she started having pain during intercourse?”
     “Yeah. At first, she would try to hide it, but I could tell. When I asked her why she didn’t tell me, she’d say she wanted me to finish and she knew I wouldn’t if she told me I was hurting her.”
     I can easily imagine the rest. Making the appointments, the doctor visits, the tests, the waiting for results, the treatments, the pain, the last days ... poor Emily ... poor Greg.
     “So she went to the doctor,” Stephen said as he plucked the second cherry out of his drink.
     “Yeah. Downtown. Temple Medical. The waiting room was ridiculously small. Narrow. Two people almost couldn’t stand up in the center of the room at the same time. And the magazines were literally the worst collection of magazines in any doctor’s waiting room I have ever been in. They actually had copies of Lapidary Journal and Alaskan Caver magazines. Alaskan Caver. In a New Haven, Connecticut waiting room.” Greg shook his head and took a sip of his drink. “I went to every appointment with her.”
     “She had chemo?”
     “First they operated. Then she had chemo. But it was a lost cause. And I think Emily knew it, and I know the doctors knew it.”
     “What makes you say that?”
     “She was diagnosed at Stage 4.” Greg stirred his drink. “And there ain’t no Stage 5, cousin.”
     “It had spread.”
     “Yeah. But, of course, doctors can’t just send a cancer patient home to die these days. They’ve got to give it the old college try. And they did. And so her last few weeks were spent puking, and losing her hair, and being ferried back and forth to the hospital.” Greg looked at Stephen, and Stephen saw a complex range of emotions on his face: sorrow, rage, frustration, guilt. “And to this day, I regret I didn’t make a greater effort to spare her all that.”
     “Did she die in the hospital?”
     Greg shook his head. “No. She died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Blood clot.”
     “Jesus, Greg, I am so sorry.”
     Greg turned on his stool and leaned his elbow on the bar. “Thanks, Steve. I appreciate it. It was just one of those things, y’know? We’re all gonna get sick and die. I know this. But twenty-nine? I thought we’d have at least fifty years together.” Greg paused a moment and gazed up at the ceiling, or perhaps what was beyond it. Stephen couldn’t help but feel that he was looking for Emily. And that this was a routine ritual. He lowered his gaze to Stephen and said, “We barely had five.”
     Stephen downed his ginger ale and pushed the empty glass away. “So what’s your life like now? You’re still working, aren’t you?”
     “I’m on a leave of absence. Part of it’s paid. Plus the insurance money is carrying us for now. Emily had a two hundred grand life insurance policy. I’m trying to do what I can to maintain as normal a life as possible for Elizabeth. Once the leave is over, and the money starts to run out, I guess I’ll have to go back to the firm, but for now I’m taking care of Lizzie.” Greg’s eyes filled up with tears. “In her mother’s absence.”
     Stephen placed his hand on Greg’s shoulder and said, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, big guy, but is there anything I can do to help? Name it. Anything at all.”
     “Why would I take it the wrong way?”
     “Because you may think I’m trying to make up for being a complete jerk ... that I’m trying to, y’know, buy my way out of my unforgivable mistake in not knowing about what was going on with you and Emily and not being there to help.”
     Greg smiled and grasped Stephen’s hand. “Steve. Don’t sweat it. It’s fine. We’re family. You don’t have to ‘make amends,’ for heaven’s sake. But I appreciate the gesture. I do.”
     “There’s nothing I can do for you?”
     Greg sniffled, winked, and said under his breath, “You wouldn’t happen to have Scarlet Johansson’s phone number, would you?”
     Stephen laughed out loud and said, “I don’t know if I have Scarlet’s number, but I do know I have her voice.”
     Greg’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Her voice? What in the world does that mean?”
     “I’ve got a bot at the house. Her name is Marie. And I chose Scarlet’s voice for her.”
     Greg’s eyes widened. “I read about those. You’ve got one? What does she do for you?”
     “Pretty much anything that doesn’t require physical involvement. Like I’ll call out her name in any room in the house, and she’ll immediately acknowledge me and ask me what she can do for me. And I’ll then say something like, ‘Please call my accountant and tell her I’m going to be a half hour late.’ And she does it.”
     “Wow. I’m impressed.”
     Stephen smiled and said, “Don’t be. It’s not that big a deal. Which you will learn when you and Elizabeth come and visit me.”
     “Visit you?”
     “Yes. Whenever the time is good for you. I’ll send a plane and a car and you and Lizzie will come out to Oregon and I’ll show you around.”
     “Gee, thanks, Steve. I may actually take you up on that.”
     “I insist that you do.” Stephen rose from the table and extended his hand to Greg. Greg grasped it and they shook. “I’m really sorry about Emily, Greg. We’ll talk before I go. But now, however, I can no longer put it off. The Gauntlet of the Aunts awaits me.”
     Greg laughed and said, “Okay. We’ll talk before you go. And thanks.”
     Stephen nodded, and then said portentously, “I, a grown man, now leave to be tormented by authoritarian Italian females who are much older than me,” bowed, and headed off to whatever encounters with aunts he knew lay before him.

6
Stephen’s Aunt Louise

Nothing has changed. Everyone is exactly the same. It’s as though I never left. Or is it?
 
     Stephen sat next to his Aunt Louise and tried not to notice that she still talked with her mouth open while she was eating.
     “Stevie Santamaria, you are a sight for sore eyes, dear boy. I ask your mother all the time about you, but she says she never talks to you. Is that true, Stevie? Do you never talk to your mother? You should know better. When you were little and you spent summers at my house with your cousins Margie and Danny, I always tried to teach you manners and how to behave. Didn’t I, Stevie? Danny calls me every day, Stevie. And now that I’m living with Margie I get to see my grandchildren all the time. That is a wonderful thing, Stevie. Will your mother ever get to hold your children in her arms, Stevie? Are you married yet? I’m so sorry I have to ask, but no one knows anything about you, and it would not surprise me one iota if you told me you were married out there in Oregon, or wherever it is you live, and that you had kids, too. Tell me, Stevie ... do you have kids? Is your mother a grandmother, Stevie? And why don’t you call anybody? Did I tell you Danny calls me every day? Did you know Emily passed away? I’ll bet you didn’t, right? How could you? You never keep in touch with anybody, and nobody knows what the hell is going on in your life out there in Alaska. Or is it Oregon? It’s Oregon, right? Stevie, why don’t you keep in touch with your family? Why, Stevie? Did we do something that made you mad at us?”
     Stephen picked up an olive from the antipasto tray in the middle of the table and popped it into his mouth. Family style. I never liked family style buffets.
     He finished chewing the olive and then said, “Of course not, Aunt Louise. I’m not mad at anyone.”
     Aunt Louise turned to look at Stephen and said, “Then why, honey? Why don’t you keep in touch with your family? Not me so much, but at least your mother. And your brothers and sisters. You’re out there in Seattle ...”
     “Oregon,” Stephen interrupted.
     “Wherever. I just know it’s far away. It’s far away, isn’t it, Stevie? It must be because you never come around no more. It must be a long trip. You’re out there and nobody hears hide nor hair of you.” Aunt Louise leaned in closer to Stephen and said, “I try to understand and not let it bother me but some of the family have hurt feelings, Stevie. I won’t mention any names, but you hurt some people’s feelings by being so ... so ...”
     “Distant,” Stephen said softly.
     “Yes, honey. Distant. Would it kill you to pick up a phone once in a while? Would it kill you to drop a postcard in a mailbox? Or maybe write a letter? My kids do that computer mail thing. Do you know how to do that, Stevie? That computer mail thing? Would it kill you to pick up the phone once in a while? Huh, Stevie? Would it kill you?”
     Stephen smiled and said, “No, Aunt Louise. It wouldn’t kill me, and I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.”
     Aunt Louise patted Stephen’s arm and said, “That’s a good boy.” With a twinkle in her eye she then said, “So. Tell me. Are you married, Stevie? You never said.”
     Stephen laughed and said, “No, Aunt Louise, I’m not married.”
     “But I saw you on TV at some affair with that actress. In that movie. The one with the big bosom. The actress I mean. In that movie.”
     Stephen shook his head and said, “She’s just a friend, Aunt Louise. The woman you saw me with. Kirsten is just a friend.”
     “Kirsten! That’s right. Kirsten Daggett.” Aunt Louise giggled and winked. “She’s very pretty, Stevie. She’s very bosomy.”
     “Yes, I know, Aunt Louise.”
     “You don’t see her no more?”
     “No. We’re just friends now. Although we do keep in touch.”
     “That is some lifestyle you got, Stevie. Little Stevie Santamaria. I remember when you used to eat paste. It was when you were in the first grade. With Sister Mary Angela. Your mother was very upset. Now look at you. Actresses and all that money. Some lifestyle you got there, honey.”
     Stephen chuckled and said, “Yes, I suppose it is, Aunt Louise. I suppose it is.”
     Aunt Louise then turned sideways in her chair so that she was facing Stephen, grasped his hand, and said softly, “You happy, Stevie? And tell Auntie the truth.”
     Stephen felt himself welling up and he blinked several times. He was unable, though, to free himself from Aunt Louise’s penetrating gaze. Why am I getting so emotional? What the hell is wrong with me?
     “I guess so, Aunt Louise. Not having to worry about money removes a lot of life’s pressures, but then you have to turn inward. You’d be surprised how much of our energy and concentration is focused on making a living. And when that need is removed, then it’s only you.”
     Aunt Louise smiled, squeezed his hand, and said, “Bullshit.”
     Stephen gave Aunt Louise a puzzled look, but remained silent.
     “It’s always only you, honey. Whether you’re broke, or rich like you, all you’ve got is what’s inside you. You know that, don’t you, Stevie?” Aunt Louise looked into Stephen’s eyes. “Don’t you?”

7
Stephen’s Brother Tommy

He looks terrible.
 ​
     Stephen put a smile on his face as he watched his oldest brother Tommy approach him from across the room.
     He looks terrible. He’s puffed up like a balloon.
     When Tommy reached Stephen, he stopped, held out both his arms, tilted his head, and said, “Hey now!”
     How long ago was The Larry Sanders Show on HBO? And he’s still quoting Hank Kingsley? Sheesh.
     Stephen allowed himself to be embraced by Tommy and said, “Hey, Tommy, how you doing?”
     Tommy did not respond to Stephen’s question and instead said, “Jesus, Steve, you look fantastic. Money must agree with you.”
     “Let’s sit, Tommy.”
     The two brothers sat down and Tommy immediately pulled out an inhaler and gave himself a blast. To Stephen’s raised eyebrows, he said, “Asthma.”
     “Really? Since when? Nobody told ...” Stephen stopped when he realized he was once again setting himself up for a lecture. “How long have you had it?”
     “About three years.”
     “How bad is it?”
     Tommy chuckled and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a bottle of pills and placed them on the table. “Prednisone. It’s a steroid. I have to take one every day.” Tommy smirked. “You didn’t notice my face looks like a pillow? Don’t answer that. Plus this.” He gestured to the inhaler. “Plus the occasional emergency shot.” He pulled open his jacket and Stephen could see a thin leather case that he knew held a syringe and a vial.
     “Holy shit, Tom. I’m sorry.”
     “Yeah, it sucks. But thanks.”
     “You still working?”
     “I’m retired. On disability. I am writing though.”
     “Really? What kind of stuff?”
     “Poetry mostly.”
     “Anything published?”
     Tommy smiled and shook his head. Stephen saw a hint of disgust in his expression. “Jesus, little brother. You really have been locked away in that castle of yours, haven’t you?”
     Stephen bristled. “What do you mean?”
     “Yeah, I’ve been published, Steve. My first book of poetry--Woodward Avenue—won the 2007 Pushcart Prize. And my poem ‘A Victorian Funeral’ won the Robert Frost Prize for Poetry last year. And my kong essay about Kurt Cobain was nominated for a Pulitzer. Yeah. I’ve been published.”
     “I had no idea, Tommy. Again, I’m sorry.”
     Tommy chucked Stephen on the shoulder and said, “Don’t sweat it. Would you believe a couple of the journalists who interviewed me made the connection and figured out we were brothers? Yeah, I had to do some tap dancing to answer their questions. ‘Aren’t you Stephen Santamaria’s brother?’ ‘What does your brother think of your achievement?’ ‘Do you ever discuss your work with your brother?’ ‘Does he ever comment on any of the autobiographical elements of your work?’ Those are always fun questions to try to answer.”
     “What do you say?”
     “I tell them you’re my kid brother and that you’re very proud of me, and that I don’t like to discuss my work with anyone, and that you never comment on my poetry.”
     “And I’ll bet you got pissed off every time you had to do that, right?”
     Tommy didn’t say anything for a few seconds, but then smiled and said, “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t annoy me to have to lie like that, but ultimately I didn’t mind. You’re my brother. It’s my job to cover for my family. No one needs to know anything about what goes on in our family, Steve.”
     A tall blonde waitress wearing pearl earrings and carrying a brown tray with a cork surface approached the table where Stephen and Tommy were seated and said, “Champagne, gentlemen?”
     Stephen shook his head no thanks, but Tommy said, “Sure,” and took the extended glass from the waitress.
     “It’s okay for you to drink?”
     “Of course not,” Tommy said as he winked and downed the champagne. He placed the empty glass on the table and said, “You didn’t see that.”
     Stephen chuckled and said, “See what?”
     “Thanks, bro.”
     “So tell me, Tom, do you happen to have any copies of your book with you?”
     “No, why?”
     Stephen reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out his business card. On the back, he jotted a name and then handed the card to Tommy. “Here’s what we’re going to do. How much is your book?”
     “Fifteen dollars.”
     “Cost is $7.50?”
     “Yeah, why?”
     “Fifty thousand copies would cost $375,000.”
     “Right.”
     “Call the number on the card, say ‘Sedna is our newest planet’ to whomever answers, and then ask for Lucy. Her name’s on the card. Lucy will ask you for a bank account number and she will then wire $375,000 to you within the hour.”
     “I don’t want any money from you, Stephen.”
     Stephen smiled and said, “Let me finish. I know you’d never take money from me, but what I think you will do is let me buy some books from you. Specifically 50,000 copies.”
     “I’m not following.”
     “Who’s your publisher?”
     “Of Woodward Avenue?”
     “Yeah.”
     “Stone & Shadow Press. They’re in Virginia. Williamsburg. George Beahm is my editor.”
     “You’re going to call them tomorrow and tell them you’d like to order 50,000 copies of Woodward Avenue. I’m betting they don’t have that many copies in stock, so they’ll have to go back to press, and I’m also betting that since they’re a relatively small publisher ...” Stephen paused and raised his eyebrows questioningly. Tommy nodded, and Stephen continued, saying, “... they’re not going to be able to pay the printer upfront for such a large order, and the printer will certainly require the money in advance. Am I right?”
     Tommy nodded. Stephen couldn’t help but think he looked a little dumbstruck.
     “So you’re going to pay for the books, in advance, with your own personal check. Once that’s done, Lucy will then send you a purchase order for 50,000 copies of Woodward Avenue, which the publisher can have drop-shipped to my Oregon offices. I’ll pay the shipping, of course. As soon as you receive confirmation that the books are being printed, Lucy will wire you $750,000 as full payment for the books.”
     Tommy was stunned. “What are you going to do with all those books, Steve?”
     Stephen laughed and said, “Tommy, the correct question is what are you going to do with all those books?”
     “What do you mean?”
     “I’m putting you in the philanthropy business, big brother. I’m giving them to you. The books will be yours to do with as you please. But what I’m suggesting is that you give them away. Whenever you have the time, make a list of every person, grammar school, high school, university, public library, charitable foundation, hospital, theater group, museum, and art gallery you can think of or find through research, and e-mail that list to Lucy. She will track down their mailing addresses and take care of shipping the books. You should also write a personal note that Lucy can run through the auto-signer so it’ll look like it was handwritten by you. Whoever receives one will be delighted. After all, they’re getting a copy of a Pushcart Prize-winning collection of poetry, straight from the author.”
     “I don’t know what to say.”
     “You don’t have to say anything. And I have another idea. It’ll be a pain in the ass to ship the books to you for signing, so what do you think about my art department designing and printing up a bookplate? If you’re up to it, you can sign each plate, or we can have Lucy auto-sign them.”
     Tommy’s eyes lit up and he said, “Oh, no, I would absolutely love to sign them individually.”
     “You’re up for signing 50,000 bookplates?”
     “Sure. I’ll do them in batches while I’m sitting in front of the TV or listening to music. If I can do, say, a thousand a day, I’ll have them all signed in a couple of months or so. It’ll probably take all day to do a thousand, but it’ll be fun.”
     “Well, it’s up to you. There’s no rush, and if it becomes too taxing, the auto-signer is at your disposal.”
     “Steve, I’m ... I ...”
     Stephen squeezed Tommy’s arm and said, “Don’t say a word. It will make me very happy to know that you’ve got this project going on, and that you also have 375 grand in the bank.”
     Stephen saw Tommy’s lower lip begin to tremble ... it’s just like when we were little ... and suddenly he burst into tears and threw his arms around his brother.
     Stephen simply smiled and hugged him back. Mental note. Tell Lucy to snag a copy of the book for me. Who knew my brother was a poet?

                                                           In the next installment...
Stephen’s Sister Danielle • Stephen’s Cousin Jordan • Stephen’s Brother Andy • Stephen’s Cousin James