Unveiling

“Room 12” by Michelle McElroy

The AC was busted. The office was an oven. Ira Shapiro’s thin grey T-shirt clung to him, patches of sweat spreading beneath his armpits and at the small of his back. He hoped his co-workers couldn’t see it or smell him. The only consolation, Ira thought, was that they were sweating like pigs, too. His cell phone beeped, another text from Will: Where have you been? Are you coming to the cemetery? Ira dropped the phone face down on his desk, pushed his chair away from his computer.

The chair’s vinyl seat made a sucking sound as he stood up. Ira wished he were the kind of person who kept a fresh change of clothes in his desk. As it was, he was sure someone would notice he was wearing the same clothes he’d worn the day before. He went to the water cooler and refilled his mug. As he started to sit back down at his desk, imagining Will waiting for him by the gate of Beth Shalom cemetery, Paul’s hands appeared over the top of Ira’s cubicle.

“Lunch time,” Paul signed. Paul’s hands were mottled red and pink from the heat.

“Finally,” Ira said, as he signed back. Ira worked as a social worker and an American Sign Language interpreter for the Department of Social Services in Boston. A good half of his co-workers, including Paul, were deaf or hard of hearing.

Ira slung his messenger bag over his head and maneuvered his arm through the strap. Paul headed for the lobby. Ira dawdled, cinching the strap so short that his bag rested on his upper back, right under his arm, a style he’d adopted from the bike messengers who hung out between jobs at the coffee place down the street.

Paul waited for him by the elevators. “Want to grab something in the cafeteria? And we can talk.” Paul’s hands moved quickly.

Ira would normally say yes but he knew what Paul wanted to talk about.

Paul wanted Ira to move in with him, or at least to tell him he wouldn’t—Paul’s lease was up for renewal and he’d move to a smaller, more affordable studio if he was going to be living alone.

Ira had deflected the question several times already. “I can’t,” he had said. “Will needs me.” He’d said it again last night—they were eating Indian takeout at Paul’s place—and Paul had taken his time responding. He stood up from the table and walked into the kitchen. “Fine, but that’s an excuse,” Paul said through the open doorway. “He’ll always need you, and I won’t wait around.”

Ira wanted to take back what he’d said, because while Will did need him, Ira couldn’t take care of him forever. Paul hadn’t talked to him the rest of the night.

This morning they’d sprinted through their morning routines—Paul’s vibrating alarm clock, always kept tucked under his pillow, hadn’t gone off, so they’d woken forty minutes late. They’d rushed into the office, with no chance to argue some more about whether Paul or Ira would move.

“I have some stuff to do, actually,” Ira said, signing as he spoke. “But we’ll talk later. Want me to bring you anything, while I’m out?”

“I don’t need anything,” Paul signed, throwing his hands forward, then turned away from Ira and stood in front of the elevator, jabbing the down button.

Ira pushed open the door to the fire exit. The stairwell smelled like lemon-scented cleaning fluid and the faint, lingering odor of fast food chicken. He took the stairs down two at a time. Out on Boylston Street, he walked towards Copley Square, stopping in the Christy’s convenience mart for a large fountain drink.

He couldn’t postpone Paul’s question much longer. And really, didn’t Ira already know what his answer should be?

Ira remembered the first few times they’d gone out together without their coworkers. Paul was so friendly and outgoing no matter where they were and it always seemed like he knew everyone. Their favorite bar was a bicyclist hangout in Allston with indoor bike racks from floor to halfway up the wall that were always full. The music was good, lots of classic stuff—the Stones, Springsteen, The Velvet Underground. It was a loud bar but Paul never had a problem being understood by the bartenders or the regulars and Ira knew this was a lot of the appeal for Paul.

Paul had a strange habit of signing sloppily, lazily, when it was just the two of them alone. He’d say over and over, either mouthing the words or out loud, “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t understand,” Ira had said that first night they were alone, grinning, grabbing Paul’s hands to make him stop. They sat facing each other so that Paul could read Ira’s lips. On his way back from the bar with more drinks, Paul fed handfuls of quarters into the jukebox and put on songs he remembered from before he lost his hearing at age five. Though he couldn’t hear them anymore, he closed his eyes and danced over to Ira.

Later they cabbed it back to Paul’s apartment. Ira sitting against the headboard of Paul’s bed while Paul put on some music. Ira’s hands on Paul’s face, or the other way around. Kissing each other hard. Bruising their mouths, Ira’s chapped lips cracking. Their hands too busy, unable to form signs. Razor burned cheeks and chins. They fucked, the lights on.

Now Ira sat outside on the steps of the Boston Public Library in the shade, facing the park. He unwrapped his chicken sandwich and, between bites, sucked down soda and admired a group of skaters practicing their moves, illegally, off the steps.

Ira watched with a twinge of longing. He recalled one summer when he was, what? Four? Five? Sitting cross-legged on the edge of the lawn where it met the driveway, watching his big brother mess around with his skateboard and an obstacle course made out of beat up cardboard boxes, empty canisters from Streit’s Passover Macaroons and Folger’s Crystals. His brother, Zach, wouldn’t let him join. Ira pretended he was happy with his Matchbox cars, vrooming them around where he sat, under the bridge of his legs. Most of the time his brother never made it all the way through the obstacle course, once crash-landing on his stomach, bruising his ribs and shredding his favorite Red Sox T-shirt. But before he’d wiped out, Ira remembered, Zach had flown.

And then, just under a year ago, the night when Will, Zach’s husband, Called Ira from the ER.

“Zach’s been hurt—you need to come quickly,” said Will. Ira raced across town on his bike.

The minute Ira walked into the hospital room, he knew his brother was dead. The room was too quiet. Will was crying, moaning, but there weren’t any machines beeping or humming. No tubes pumping air or medication into Zach’s body. Ira didn’t know what to do. He wanted to pick up his brother and carry him as far away from this place as possible. He wanted to shake him.

A few months after the funeral, Ira’s father mailed a shoebox of knickknacks from Zach’s childhood bedroom. Thought you and Will might want these, read the note he’d written on the top of the box.

Will still lived in the house he and Zach had bought together five years ago. When Ira brought the box over to share with him, he realized his brother-in-law needed help. Will had claimed he was doing all right but when he let Ira into the house Ira could see this was not the case. Will looked tired and much older than his forty-three years. He had dark, purplish half-circles under his eyes. His black hair needed a cut. When they hugged, Will squeezed Ira. Hard. And was reluctant to let go.

Even though it was still light outside all the shades were down and the lights were off. It was so dark Ira had to feel his way along the wall to follow Will into the kitchen. The house smelled stuffy, as though it had been closed up for a long time. There was a tang of rotten citrus in the hall where Will had left three full trash bags by the door.

In the kitchen, Will put the kettle on the stove, then flopped down in one of the mismatched wooden chairs. Ira sat down across from him. There were a few unopened envelopes near his elbow. Utility bills and letters.

Ira passed the shoebox to Will. “My dad sent this, thought we’d like to have this stuff of Zach’s from when he was a kid.” Ira tapped the top of the box.

“I thought you could pick what you wanted to keep first and I’d take whatever you didn’t want.”

“Thanks,” Will said. He didn’t make a move to open the box.

The kettle whistled. Will dropped teabags into a pair of mugs, filled them with water and brought them to the table. Ira watched the teabag float along the top of the water line, leaching ribbons of color. Will did not offer milk or sugar. Ira had a feeling there wasn’t any. Will swirled his teabag around.

“Are you okay?” Ira asked.

“Sure,” Will said, an automatic reply.

Ira reached for the box. “Hey, let’s see what’s in here.”

He pulled the box across the table and opened the flaps, and took out a comic book, two autographed Red Sox baseball cards, a small plastic photo album and a few cassettes, stacked and rubber banded. Ira hoped for a reaction from Will, but his brother-in-law was still unresponsive. Ira flipped one of the baseball cards toward Will. “Roger Clemens, think it’s worth anything anymore?”  

Will shrugged. He leaned forward and looked at the card and said, “I don’t know anything about baseball.” He pushed the card away.

Ira watched Will hunch over his tea and it seemed to Ira that Will was shrinking, folding into himself. If Ira blinked, Will would disappear altogether. Ira felt paralyzed for a moment, and panicked. He couldn’t lose Will, too. Ira packed Zach’s things back in the box and closed the top.

At first, he treated Will like he was one of his clients. He would stop by after work on Tuesdays and sit with Will in the kitchen. He listened to Will talk about his recent visits to the neighborhood Synagogue to talk to Rabbi Shulman. Will had been raised Catholic by his Mexican-American family but since losing Zach he had spent a lot of time discussing Jewish death rituals and whether or not there was an afterlife.

Some days Ira coaxed Will out to the café or for a walk. Eventually they could talk about Zach without one or both of them crying. In the health food store, Will recalled Zach’s sneak attempts to replace all their dairy.

“Oh god,” Ira said, laughing. “Yeah, he made us cappuccinos once and put in steamed oat milk.”

“He tried making pizza with soy cheese,” Will said. “It was terrible. We went out to Regina’s that night and I ordered extra cheese just to make him mad.”

“He never could have gone all the way vegan, though,” Ira said. “He liked his ice cream way too much.”

Will still wouldn’t ride in cars, let alone drive one. He walked or took the bus to get around. He held on to Zach’s overdue library books—Baseball: An American Obsession and Mexi-Veg: Mexican Recipes for the Discerning Vegetarian—despite the stack of past-due slips that appeared every week in the mail.

When Ira’s roommate told him her sister was moving in and Ira had to leave, Will invited him to move in until Ira could find a new place of his own.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ira had hedged, not wanting to offend Will by outright saying no. Ira searched Craigslist and the classifieds but couldn’t find any affordable roommate situations. With just a few days left before he was supposed to move out of his current place, Ira called Will and asked if the offer was still open. As the two of them loaded the rented U-Haul Ira remembered his last move, how it had been Zach carrying Ira’s bright red nightstand instead of Will.

Ira had been living there almost five months already. He ate off of Zach’s dishes and slept in the room that had been his brother’s office.  

Ira sometimes went to Saturday morning services with Will, if he was around. It felt strange to stand next to Will while the congregation said Kaddish. Ira knew the prayer for the dead by heart. Will read the English transliteration out of the prayer book, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. Living in his brother’s house was a comfort most of the time. Sometimes, though, it felt suffocating and Ira wondered what he was doing.

Ira came home late one night, soon after moving in with Will. He’d been out with Paul and some of Paul’s friends. Ira’s keys, he realized with dismay, were on his desk at the office, right where he’d left them that morning. It was past midnight and the porch light was out. Ira rang the doorbell and hoped he wasn’t waking Will.

A few minutes later Will threw open the door. “I thought something had happened,” Will said, blocking the entryway.

Ira shook his head. “I’m sorry. Left my keys at work. Were you sleeping?” Will padded back into the house. He wore a pair of flannel pajamas Ira recognized as having belonged to his brother. For a moment he wanted to bury his face in the fabric and see if it still smelled like Zach.

The TV in the living room was on, tuned to a PBS pledge drive rerun. Will settled back down on the couch, pulling a fleece blanket over his shoulders like a cape. “I thought,” he began, tugging the blanket closer and closer to him. “I thought there’d been an accident or something.”

Ira had been halfway into the kitchen to get something to drink but he stopped and went back into the living room. Will had the lights out, as usual. His face was illuminated from the television. Ira saw that Will’s eyes were puffy, as though he’d been crying.

“I was out with Paul. I took the T home. You didn’t need to wait up.” Ira squeezed Will’s shoulder in an attempt at comforting him.

Will readjusted the blanket so it covered his head. He lay down on the couch. “You should have Paul and his friends come over here, then you’ll be safe. We won’t have to worry.”

Ira didn’t reply. He couldn’t imagine Paul hanging out with Will. Will, who mumbled and rarely made eye contact, in a house where he kept the lights low, and Paul, who needed to see faces to lip read.

Zach had been gone almost a year now. That Ira could function without Zach around, that he could have a full life, felt like a betrayal. Ira felt like a hypocrite wishing that Will would move on, when he wasn’t sure he could, either.

Ira felt it the most when he was with Paul. He’d be in Paul’s bed, Paul snoring beside him, when he’d feel the urge to pick up the phone and call Zach. He wanted to say, “Guess where I am?”

He wanted to say, “Paul’s lying right next to me but he’s asleep, so let me tell you all about it.”

They used to do this, Ira and Zach, call each other to brag about their exploits. How often had Ira snuck away from a date to call his brother from a payphone? “I’m out with David,” Ira would murmur, his hand cupped over the receiver. “I’m about to go home with Camilo.” The two brothers whispering on the phone, comparing notes. He missed their chats so much. He’d give anything for just one more.

What would he tell Zach about Paul? That he cooked a mean pad Thai? That he had a shamrock tattoo on his shoulder, a souvenir of a college trip to Ireland, the color faded to a pale green? Zach would laugh, ask, okay, but how is he in bed? And Ira would laugh too. And tell him.

It was a comfort to Ira that Paul, while curious about Zach, didn’t talk about him much, unless Ira initiated the conversation. They hadn’t ever met—Paul had been just a colleague when Zach had his accident. That they would never meet now hurt Ira. Made him feel breathless when the reality of it caught him off guard.

Paul belonged to several Deaf social clubs that hosted regular meet-ups all across Boston—Ira joked that they’d hit every bar, coffee shop and art gallery in the city. Ira and Paul went to at least one meet-up a week, but more often they’d grab a beer and something to eat after work, then go home to Paul’s apartment near Fort Point Channel.

Paul’s apartment was comfortable. He had moved in right after college and still had the couch from his old dorm, more discarded furniture plucked off the sidewalk. Paul owned more records and CDs than Ira did. Crates and crates of them were stacked next to the entertainment center. Paul loved to turn the stereo all the way up and feel the thumping of the music vibrating through the floor.

One corner of the living room was plastered with Deaf cultural memorabilia. There were Deaf activism fliers proclaiming “Deaf Pride!” and “Deaf, Not Disabled” and years’ worth of magazine and newspaper clippings. Ira especially liked one article that featured a black and white photo of Paul at a rally, his clenched fist pumping toward the sky.

Ira claimed he’d missed the last train, necessitating yet another overnight stay, several times before Paul called him out on it. “You don’t have to lie about the T to spend the night,” Paul said, as they went to bed. “You can stay here whenever you want. I’d like that.”

Ira could see himself living there with Paul. But then he’d picture Will cocooned on the couch in his blanket. If Ira didn’t keep an eye on Will, who would?

The sun had shifted and Ira’s cool, shaded spot on the library steps was now flooded with sunlight. He stood up and moved a few feet away where there was still some shade. Ira’s cellphone beeped. He dug it out of his pocket and saw that he had a missed call from Will. He tucked the phone into his bag.

He didn’t have to check the message: another reminder about coming to the unveiling, he assumed, just like every other text and message he’d had since eight o’clock that morning. The unveiling of Zach’s tombstone was scheduled for this afternoon. Will insisted on honoring the tradition and Rabbi Shulman was to say a few words at the graveside. Ira wasn’t going. His family hadn’t had unveilings for his grandparents when they’d died and they hadn’t planned to have one for Zach, either. Ira’s parents had been invited but he didn’t know if they were going to be there. Not that it made a difference. Ira didn’t need a formal ceremony to remind him that Zach was dead. Mostly, though—and this was a new and terribly guilty realization for Ira—he didn’t want to be the arm Will leaned on at the cemetery, or anywhere anymore.

The skater kids thundered past Ira on their boards, heading down Exeter Street towards the river.

Ira looked at his watch. He wasn’t ready to leave but it was time to head back to work. He finished his drink, wadded the cup into a ball and shoved it into a side pocket on his bag, and walked back.

In front of the Prudential Center, WERS, a college radio station, was having a promotion. A kid with a microphone interviewed a few people gathered around a small pushcart, where the vendor handed out free popsicles. Zach had been a college radio DJ at Boston University. He’d done a late evening music show, mostly early nineties rock and punk, whatever he felt like playing. He was famous for taking even the most obscure or absurd requests—he’d found specific Pearl Jam bootlegs, and once even tracked down the Into the Woods London Cast recording just so he could play the first song on the album.

Ira had listened to the show sometimes while he did homework. When he was bored, or if he hadn’t talked to Zach in a while, he’d call the radio station and request a song. If it was a slow night without many callers Zach would put on an entire album of Ira’s choosing and they’d talk while the record played.

In the office, everyone looked occupied. Several people were lined up to use the copy machine. Paul was engaged in an animated conversation with another co-worker, their busy hands flying and jabbing in the air. He looked over at Ira and smiled slightly—an indication, Ira hoped, that Paul wasn’t angry with him anymore. What a relief. Ira felt his shoulders relax. He hadn’t even noticed they were tight. Since they were at work he didn’t think there would be a big reconciliation but he wouldn’t mind if there was.

Ira sat down at his desk and read a couple of client files. His phone buzzed again, then again, each buzz sounding like Will, Will, Will. Ira turned off the phone. I’m a selfish asshole, he thought.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of paperwork and trips to the water cooler. Ira hadn’t been thirsty but it was the best way to see what Paul was up to without being too obvious about it. Half the time Paul was talking with someone and the rest of the time he seemed focused on his computer screen. He didn’t acknowledge Ira at all. Shit. Had Ira misread Paul’s after-lunch smile? At six-thirty Ira was done for the day. He switched off his computer and sat back in his chair with his eyes closed for a few minutes.

Paul rapped his knuckles on Ira’s desk. Ira opened his eyes, and Paul sat down on the edge of the desk. “Hey,” he signed. “You coming with me to the YDP meet-up tonight?” He fingerspelled the acronym.

“What’s YDP?” Ira asked.     

“Young Deaf Professionals,” Paul signed. “You haven’t been to this one yet, but it’s fun. They started at six, so we’d only be a little late. Come on.” He smiled at Ira. “We can talk about stuff later. Besides, you look like you could use a drink.”

“Yeah, okay.” Ira stood up. “Let’s go.” He welcomed the distraction. He’d be so busy trying to read the dozens of signing hands that he wouldn’t have time to imagine Will, in his best suit, riding the T back from the cemetery, then getting home and sitting in the dark like he always did.

The sun was setting behind the downtown skyscrapers and the evening felt comfortably cool as they walked down the street towards the bar. They didn’t talk. Ira was okay with that. For now, even though Ira knew he wasn’t off the hook about moving in, it was enough to just know Paul was there.

The Young Deaf Professionals meet-up was in the mezzanine-level bar at the Marriott a few blocks away from Ira and Paul’s office.

The bar was full of young men and women clustered around tables and couches. The music had been turned down so that the hard-of-hearing members of the group wouldn’t have to compete with it.

Ira wasn’t surprised at how loud the room still managed to sound. He knew from experience that Deaf people could be just as loud, louder even, than hearing people. Paul was no exception. He grabbed Ira’s wrist and pulled him deep into the line at the bar, signing and calling out to several friends who were already waiting three-deep to put in their drink orders.  

Paul introduced Ira to a half dozen people Ira immediately forgot. He wanted to be friendly, wanted to make a good impression on Paul’s meet-up group friends, but he wasn’t into it. He had to really concentrate to keep up with all the signed conversations going on around him and it kept him from saying anything more interesting than “that’s cool,” or “Paul’s told me all about you.” God, Paul’s friends would think he was an idiot.

Ira wanted to be on Paul’s saggy old futon couch, the stereo blasting The White Stripes (Paul’s latest obsession), Paul stretched out beside him with his feet in Ira’s lap.

Ira asked Paul what he wanted to drink.

“I’ll take a Stella,” Paul said. He turned back to his friends and Ira waited for his turn at the bar.

He put in his order, the beer for Paul and a double Jameson for himself, and slowly maneuvered through the crowd, sipped off the top of his drink.

“Thanks,” Paul said, taking his beer from Ira’s outstretched hand, and clinked the glass against Ira’s.

Ira drank slowly. He wasn’t paying much attention to the conversations going on around him, though Paul and his friends did their best to include him. One woman spoke while she signed and an older man stood facing Ira so he could watch his hands. The man was one of Paul’s mentors from undergrad and he teased Paul, telling him he’d show Ira some old photos next time they got together. “You wouldn’t,” Paul signed, “no one needs to see that.”

The men laughed. Ira just smiled politely—he’d missed the gist of the conversation.

Paul ran his hand up and down Ira’s back. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Ira said. He pictured the afternoon at the cemetery. Will and the Rabbi by themselves, or maybe some of Zach’s friends had shown up. His parents would be late if they came at all. Two, maybe twelve people standing beside Zach’s grave. Hurried prayers. The Rabbi bending stiffly to take the cloth covering off the front of the tombstone. Will wanting to say a few words, but unable to. Instead, they would all place pebbles on top of the stone and leave to go home.

Ira finished his drink in one gulp.

“I guess you’re ready for another.” Paul took the empty glass out of Ira’s hand and turned toward the bar. Ira realized Paul’s friends had left. Shit, he thought. He hoped it wasn’t his fault.

Ira grasped Paul’s shoulder and Paul turned around enough to see Ira’s face.

“Did I scare away your friends?” Ira asked him.

Paul shook his head. “Nah, they went to go eat. Don’t worry. They liked you.”

Paul ordered more drinks. Ira said to Paul’s back, “I’m sorry.”

Fresh drinks in hand, Paul led Ira over to a couch at the back of the bar, away from the meet-up group.

“You’re upset,” Paul said. “What’s going on?”

Ira pulled his legs up onto the couch. He set his drink down next to Paul’s on the table. Ira couldn’t meet Paul’s eyes.

“Today was Zach’s unveiling,” he signed.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s a Jewish ritual people do in the first year after someone dies. It’s fine. I didn’t want to go, wouldn’t have gone, but it means Zach’s been gone almost a year.” Ira sipped his drink. “He gets further and further away, you know?”

Paul nodded. Clutching his drink in both hands, he spoke aloud. “I know how much you miss your brother.”

Ira realized he’d never heard Paul say Zach’s name using his voice. Was he afraid he’d say it wrong?

“Yeah,” Ira said. “I do. It’s more than that, though, I don’t know…” He didn’t finish his sentence. Ira felt that breathless tickle in his chest that he knew usually came before he started crying. It must have shown in his face or his body language, because Paul pulled Ira into a tight hug.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered into Ira’s ear. And then, “I’m a social worker, I know what I’m doing.”

Ira couldn’t help but laugh at that. He closed his eyes and let Paul hold him. Paul’s dress shirt smelled like laundry detergent and his preferred cologne, something subtle and lightly flowery that Ira sometimes put on when Paul wasn’t looking. Ira’s breath caught double as he calmed down.

“You want to go home?” Paul asked.

Ira wiped his eyes on his forearm. “Not to my home,” Ira said. He reached for his drink and took a sip. It hadn’t ever been his home, no matter that all his stuff was there. It was Zach and Will’s house, and Ira knew he shouldn’t be there. It wasn’t good for him or for Will. They reminded each other too much of Zach.

“Then we’ll go to my place,” Paul said. “I know you don’t want to talk about moving in right now,” he said quickly, the words running together. “So I’ll shut up about it. But at some point, you should probably get your stuff, don’t you think?” He slid his hand under Ira’s chin and tipped it up so he could read Ira’s face clearly. “Don’t you think?” he repeated.

“Yeah, maybe this weekend,” Ira said.

Back at Paul’s, he told Ira to relax in the living room while he made them some sandwiches.

“Maybe you should let your brother-in-law know where you are?” Paul suggested. He disappeared into the kitchen.

Ira took his phone out of his bag. Ten missed calls, all of them from Will. He listened to his messages. Fuck. Will’s first few messages sounded normal for Will, all concerning the unveiling and hoping Ira was planning to attend. The last three messages were frantic. Where was Ira, was he okay, was he dead?

Ira hit the redial button. The call went straight to voicemail. He texted Will, instead. Told him he’d had the phone off all day but that he was around if Will wanted to call. Will usually texted him right back. Ira put the phone down and waited for it to chirp Will’s reply. Nothing happened.

Ira pictured Will passed out on the carpet, the phone and an empty prescription bottle beside him. Will always had his phone with him, answered it obsessively. Ira called Will’s landline phone next. It rang and rang. When the voicemail picked up, Ira didn’t bother leaving a message.

Paul carried a plate of turkey and Swiss cheese sandwiches into the living room. He turned on the television and sat down next to Ira. “Everything okay?” Paul asked.

“Will’s not answering his phone.”

Paul sat for a moment, thinking. “Do you want to go check on him?”

“I don’t want to,” Ira signed. “But maybe I should.”

“I’ll come with you,” Paul signed. “I’m sure he’s fine, but you’ll feel better knowing for sure.” He put the sandwiches back in the fridge and went to find his car keys. “We’ll drive. It’s faster.”

Ira rested his hand on Paul’s knee as Paul drove. He wondered what Paul and Will would make of each other.

Ira knocked on the front door, his keys in his hand. As they waited to see if Will would come to the door Ira turned to Paul and said, “He’s a good guy, but he’s in a bad way.”

“He’s not coming,” Paul signed. “Should we go in?”

“Yeah.” Ira unlocked the front door and they stepped in. As usual the house was dark. In the living room, Will was sitting on the floor, his back against the couch. A shoebox full of cassette tapes upended on the floor beside him.

“Will?” Ira said, coming around the front of the couch. Will didn’t answer. He was wearing headphones and clutching an old Walkman in his hands. Several cassettes were strewn around on the carpet. He didn’t react until Ira was right in front of him. Then Will jumped up, dropping the Walkman on the floor.

“You scared me,” Will said, ripping the headphones off. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Ira picked up the Walkman, the headphones. He heard voices speaking through them. “What are you doing, Will?”

“I was listening to Zach. He used to tape every show. After I got home all I could think about was listening to them.” He shrugged. “And you weren’t here, so...” Will noticed Paul standing a few feet away from Ira, looking at the books on the shelf between the living room and the kitchen.  

Paul stepped forward and held his hand out to Will. “I’m Paul,” he said.

“Will.” Will seemed unfazed by Paul’s speech. He looked at Ira.

“You were supposed to be there today… When you didn’t show, I just…” Will paused. “Did I do something wrong?”

Ira could hear Zach’s voice through the headphones. He pressed the stop button.

“Of course not,” Ira said. The truth was that they’d both made things worse for each other just as often as they’d made things better. “But it’s too much, Will. This isn’t working.”

Will said, “I don’t know what to do.”

“I can’t live here anymore.” Ira felt Paul’s hand on his shoulder.

Will froze. Stared down at his hands. “I’ll be better. I’ll take out the trash. I’ll get nicer groceries.”

Ira let out a deep breath. “It’s not like that. Being together, in this house, it isn’t helping either of us.”

Will didn’t reply.

“I’ll still come see you.”

“You’d better.” Will spoke barely above a whisper. He didn’t move.

Ira hated seeing his brother-in-law look so deflated. He leaned over and hugged Will around his shoulders. “We’re always going to be family,” he said. Will was wearing Zach’s flannels again. Ira couldn’t help it. Before Will pulled away, he buried his face against the soft fabric. It didn’t smell like Zach, though. It smelled like Will.

In his free hand, Ira still had the Walkman. He held up the headphones. “Can I listen, for a minute?”

“Of course,” Will said. Ira started to put on the headphones. Paul grabbed them out of Ira’s hands.

“Music?” he asked Ira.

Ira shook his head. He grabbed a tape from the box and handed it to Paul.

“My brother’s show,” Ira signed.

Paul turned the cassette over in his hands. “Can we put it on?”

“What did you say?” Will asked.

Paul nudged Ira in the side. Ira said, “Can we put the tape on the stereo?”

Will glanced over at the stereo in the corner of the room as though he’d forgotten it existed. “Go ahead,” he said.

Ira hadn’t played a tape in a long time and it took a minute to find the button to open the tape slot. The tape clicked into place and Ira turned it on.

“If it’s two o’clock and you’re looking for Zach on the mike, you’ve found him,” Zach’s twenty-year-old voice said, a little hoarse and sleepy but inviting, too. The tape wasn’t great quality but Zach’s voice came through clearly. Ira smiled. Paul had moved onto the couch. He gestured for Ira to turn up the sound. Ira made it a little louder. Paul signed, “All the way, please.”

Ira glanced at Will, who was sitting back against the couch cushions with his eyes closed. Ira turned the dial all the way up, so that the sound of Zach’s voice echoed through the house. When Zach laughed, Ira could feel the reverberation through the floor. Paul smiled and beckoned Ira over to the couch.

“I can hear him breathing,” Will told Ira, his eyes wide.

“Me too,” Ira said. He sat between Will and Paul, leaning against Paul’s chest.

“This is still Zach talking?” Paul asked Ira. He pronounced ‘Zach’ perfectly.

“Yes,” Ira signed. “It was a music show, but he’d usually talk at the beginning.”

“I can hear him,” Paul said.

“I thought you were deaf,” Will asked, but Paul couldn’t see him, and so he didn’t answer.

But Ira knew what Paul meant.

About the Author

Rachel B. Moore earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University in 2012. Her work can be found in Debs: Four Women Writers on the Verge, BorderSenses, The Lindenwood Review, the Crack The Spine “The Year” Anthology and The Stonecoast Review. Rachel’s literary obsessions include disappearances of all kinds, missing people, architecture, displacement and disconnection. Her travels in Latin America, the fluidity of language and identity, and her interest in immigrant communities around the world also inspire her writing. She lives and works in San Francisco, California.

about the artist

Michelle McElroy is a native New Englander who studied painting at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Interested in how light and shadow can transform everyday scenes are a constant inspiration. She may see these while on early morning runs, getting midnight snacks in the kitchen or simple common observations that people can connect with or create a narrative of their own. She enjoys connecting with the viewer who can relate and share a similar feelings from common scenes that are actually special moments. You can find Michelle's work at www.michellemcelroy.com.