Part 5 (2/2)
”Yes, but not this big Hollywood production. They're trying to set me up with some guy in the group. It's so clinical and mechanical.” She looked out onto the lawn. ”They're pretty efficient. I have to hand that to them. All I had to do was open the door and look wounded.”
”Charitable.”
”Stick a potato in it. Your job, by the way, is to continue being the doomed loser brother. It shouldn't be a stretch.”
”And your job?”
”Stoic widow who at least has two kids as a souvenir.”
I went out to the car and brought in a canvas duffel bag filled with some presents for the two of you, but your mother got mad at me for spoiling you, a battle that will never stop, because I'll never stop spoiling you. I went in to see you in your cribs - chubby, a bit of curly hair, Kent's smile, which is actually my mother's smile. I gave you each some animal puppets and entertained you with them for a while.
Out on the patio, I shook a few hands and tried not to look like a doomed loser. Kent's friends were using the technically friendly Youth Alive! conversation strategy with me. Example: ”That's great, Jason, Gina and I were thinking of redoing the guest bathroom, weren't we, Gina?”
”Oh yeah. We really were. We ought to take down your phone number.”
”We'll get it from you after the service.”
”Great.”
After a few minutes of this, Gary, Kent's best friend, tinkled his gla.s.s and the group sat down. On easels up front were color photocopy enlargements of Kent's life: Kent white-water rafting; Kent at a cigar party; Kent playing Frisbee golf; Kent and Barb lunching in a Cabo San Lucas patio bistro; Kent at his stag party, pretending to drink a yard-long gla.s.s of beer. Each of these photos emphasized the absence of similar photos in my own life.
Gary began giving a speech, which I tuned out, and when it felt as if it was nearing the end, I heard a click behind me: Reg trying to open the latch on the living room's sliding doors. Barb got up, offered a terse h.e.l.lo, brought him down onto the lawn and gave him a chair. We all remembered Kent for a silent minute, which was hard for me. Kent's death meant that there were more Jasons in the world than there were Kents, an imbalance I don't like. I'm not sure whether I'm any good for the world.
I sprang up when the minute of silence ended, and dashed to the bar in the kitchen. There was nothing hard there, just wine; chugging was in order, so I poured most of a bottle of white into a twenty-ounce Aladdin souvenir plastic drinking cup, then downed it like Gatorade after a soccer game. Barb saw me do this and spoke in a sarcastic d.i.c.k and Jane tone: ”Gosh, Jason - you must be very thirsty.”
”Yes, I am, Barb.” She let it go. Outside, all of Kent's friends were doing Dad duty, fine by me. I asked Barb if she ever spoke with Reg these days.
”No.”
”Never?”
”Never.”
I decided to be naughty. ”You should try.”
”Why on earth would I want to do that?”
”Jesus, Barb. It's Kent's memorial. You have to do something.” This was not strictly true, but I'd pushed a guilt b.u.t.ton.
”You're right.”
She went outside and joined a trio of Kent's friends with Reg. I stood nearby so I could hear their conversation.
Barb said, ”Reg, I'm glad you could come.”
”Thank you for inviting me.”
Barb turned to Kent's friends. ”What were you guys talking about?”
”Cloning.”
Barb said, ”This Dolly-the-sheep thing must be raising a few eyebrows.”
One friend, whose name was Brian, said, ”You better believe it.” He asked my father, ”Reg, do you think a clone would have the same soul as its parent, or perhaps have a new one?”
”A clone with a soul?” Dad rubbed his chin. ”No. I don't think it would be possible for a clone to have a soul.”
”No soul? But it would be a living human being. How could it not . . . ?”
”It would be a monster.”
Another friend, Riley, cut in here: ”But then what about your twin grandsons? They're identical, so when the embryo splits, technically, one nephew is the clone of the other. You think that one of them has a soul and one doesn't?”
Barb, trying to lighten things, said, ”Talk about monsters - if I miss feeding time by even three minutes, then I become Ripley, and they become the Alien.”
Reg wrecked this attempt at cheeriness. He'd obviously been thinking hard, his face sober like a bust of Abraham Lincoln. ”Yes,” he said, ”I think you might have to consider the possibility that one of the boys might not have a soul.”
Silence. All the real smiles turned fake.
”You're joking,” said Riley.
”Joking? About the human soul? Never.”
Barb turned abruptly and walked away. The three guys stood there looking at Reg. Then Barb returned with one of the wooden folding chairs, holding it sideways like a tennis racket.
”You evil, evil b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Never ever come back to this house, ever.”
”Barb?”
”Go now. Because I'll break you in two. I will.”
”Is this really - ”
”Don't go meek on me now, you s.a.d.i.s.tic b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
I'd seen this side of Barb before and knew she would push this situation way further if she wanted to. Riley made some gesture to stand between her and my father. I went over to Barb and tried removing the chair from her grip, but she clutched it using every sinew she'd developed as captain of the girls' field hockey team.
”Barb. No.”
”You heard what he said.”
”He's not worth the effort.”
”He should die for the things he's done to people. Someone has to stop him.”
I looked at my father, into his eye slits, and knew that nothing had changed, that he had no real understanding of what he'd done to deserve this. I would have poured the remains of my wine on him, but that would have been a waste.
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