Portia plans these adventures with a regularity and reliability that none of us have ever known before, maybe because our parents were too poor or lazy or, in the case of Portia’s mother, mentally unwell to give us these experiences back in the day. It’s like Portia’s trying to prove something to Tommy and me—maybe to herself as well.
I tell myself to just enjoy this—this amazing gift that seems to have magically appeared, right when Tommy and I needed it most—but I wonder a lot about my good luck and just when it will run out.
Tommy does too, I can tell. He always hugs Portia for too long when he says good-bye to her, and I often have to peel him off her limb by limb.
At first Danielle joins us on a few of these family trips, though she’s distant and she bristles when Portia pays for everything, which I understand, believe me. I do realize it’s the twenty-first century, and I’m really not a sexist asshole, but I don’t like letting Portia pay either, even though she insists she’s doing it to get back at her husband, who is apparently loaded. But after the first few excursions, Danielle just stops joining us on our adventures, saying her feet hurt from waitressing, or she wants some time alone. Portia and I each talk to Danielle privately, asking her to be a part of things. Then we both ask to spend time alone with my sister, but she refuses, making up excuse after lame excuse. It’s like we’ve suddenly caught some deadly disease. Portia takes it hard.
“What did I do wrong?” she keeps asking.
“My sister’s not used to kindness,” I offer. “And she has difficulty trusting people—especially people who are good to her. She pushes them away before they can let her down. It’s a pattern that has nothing to do with you.”
But we both feel bad and maybe even guilty about the situation.
I can tell that Danielle quitting our new family bums Tommy out, makes him feel conflicted, even though he never says anything.
After Tommy and I return home from watching Fourth of July fireworks with Portia in the park across the street from Collingswood High School, when Tommy says he had an amazing time and begins to list all of the cool snacks Portia packed for our picnic that was in “a real wooden basket” and “on a blanket in the grass like families on TV would do,” my sister just says, “It’s late, Tommy. You should have been in bed hours ago. Now brush your teeth, buddy.”
When he blinks at her, confused, Danielle says, “You can tell me all about your picnic in the morning.”
Tommy looks like he’s not sure what to do, so I say, “Time to brush those teeth. You heard your mother.”
He nods once at me and does as he’s told.
Danielle has no steady boyfriend, and I’m madly in love. It’s been hard for her, being the only Bass sibling not high on life these days. So I let her hostility slide.
Danielle quit drugs cold turkey, without rehab, and she still drinks alcohol, which I’ve always admired in a slightly suspicious way, because I needed a lot of help to quit drugs. Alcohol is also a dangerous drug for me, which is why I don’t drink. And I worry that Danielle’s never having been to rehab makes her more susceptible to a backslide and prone to start using again. But she seems okay lately, working a full-time job even.
I pour myself a Diet Coke and sit down on the futon.
In the bathroom, Danielle’s getting Tommy ready for bed, and I hear him trying to tell his mother all about what happened tonight—which fireworks he liked the best, and the little American flags on sticks that Portia brought, and everyone chanting “USA! USA! USA!” after the grand finale—but Danielle only gives him instructions, moving him closer to bed.
After a short bedtime story, Danielle returns. She pours herself a large Jack Daniel’s and then sits down next to me.
“Do you wanna watch TV?” I ask.
“You’re not his father, you know.”
“Tommy’s?” I say, which is dumb, I admit, because I know who she’s talking about. It’s a strange comment, because when Tommy’s real father left, Danielle practically begged me to take them in, and when I did, she gave me a big speech about how I needed to be her son’s father, because we never had one.
“I appreciate all that you and Portia do for him, but he’s still my son,” she says.
“I’m aware of that.”
“Good.”
“What do you think about Portia and me?” I ask. “Truthfully.”
Danielle looks down at the drink in her hands. “She’s still married, you know. She could move back to Florida with her rich husband.”
“My worst fear.”
“You asked.”
“So you don’t trust her?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t trust anyone. Remember?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Maybe eighty percent.”
“What?” I say and then laugh. “You don’t trust me twenty percent of the time?”
“Eighty percent is the most I’ve ever trusted anyone. Be proud.”
“How much do you trust Portia?”
“Five percent. Tops.”
My stomach drops. “So you think she’ll hurt me?”
“Everyone hurts you eventually, big brother.” Danielle sips her whiskey. “Can I have your keys? I could really use a drive.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just out to clear my head.”
“Are you okay to drive?”
“Should I walk a line for you, Officer Bass, or say the alphabet backward?” She smiles at me in this wonderfully sarcastic little-sister way. “A short drive around town is healthier than Jack Daniel’s. I won’t be long.”
“Okay,” I say, offer her my keys, and then she’s gone.
I pick her barely sipped Jack up off the floor and dump it out in the sink.
A minute or so later, I hear, “Uncle Chuck?”
I turn around, and Tommy’s standing there in his PJs, wearing my old Quiet Riot mask, which means he’s crying and doesn’t want me to see.
“Did you have another bad dream?”
He nods. “Where did Mom go?”
“Just for a drive,” I say.
The boy leaps up into my arms, and I can feel his little heart beating too hard, which reminds me of all the nights I spent alone in bed trembling when I was his age, hoping my mother or one of her many dickhead boyfriends wouldn’t enter the room I shared with Danielle.
“Can we watch your Mötley Crüe Carnival of Sins DVD?” He loves watching that concert, and his mother sometimes says—depending on her mood—that he’s too young to be taking in metal shows, especially since there are women dressed like strippers onstage with the band. Danielle and Tommy gave me the DVD for Christmas, and watching it has become what Tommy and I do when his mother isn’t home.
“Sure,” I say, because I’d do anything to help the kid forget a nightmare.
I get him situated on the futon and fast-forward through the opening where two strippers simulate sex, the whole time feeling as though I too may be a horrendous role model for the kid, exposing him to 1980s metal at such a young age, and then Mötley Crüe is playing “Shout at the Devil” as pillars of fire explode upward behind them to the beat.
Tommy raises up the devil’s horns through the first chorus, but then he takes off his Quiet Riot mask and nuzzles his head against my chest.
He’s sound asleep before they finish playing “On with the Show,” my favorite Crüe song of all time.
I hit stop on the DVD player and carry him into his bedroom.
Once he’s under his sheet, I hang the Quiet Riot mask on the nail over his headboard for protection from nightmares.
I watch him breathe for a while, and I think about how there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for this little guy—not a thing in the world.
And then I crawl into my own bed on the opposite side of the room, and I think about where Danielle mig
ht have gone.
I’m woken up by laughter, and when my brain kicks in again, I hear Danielle in the living room with a man.
They put the B side of G N’ R Lies on the turntable, and while I agree that it is one of the best late-night B sides to put on after a party, they’re playing “Patience” loud enough to wake up the entire fucking neighborhood.
“What’s happening?” Tommy says.
“It’s okay,” I say, looking at my cell phone: 4:44 a.m.
“Stay here,” I say.
I turn on the light so Tommy won’t be afraid and then close the door behind me.
In the living room, my sister is slow dancing with some guy wearing a skintight Sex Pistols “Anarchy in the UK” T-shirt. His hair is all spiked up. There’s a dog collar around his neck, and covering his arms are dark sleeve tattoos, which I instinctively scan for track marks, the old junkie in me thinking, What is this guy hiding?
“Who are you?” he says when he sees me.
Danielle laughs. “That’s just my brother, Chuck. What the Fuck Chuck, I call him.” She has never once called me that before. She’s slurring her words a little and holding onto Johnny Rotten for support because she’s hammered. “Chuckie Fuckie!” she adds, and then laughs uncontrollably.
I appeal to Johnny Rotten. “Her son’s in the back, trying to sleep.”
“You mean him?” Johnny Rotten says, and points with his long goatee, through which a thin white scar runs.
I turn around and see Tommy staring wide-eyed.
“Back to bed, Tommy,” I say. “Everything is okay.”
“Who is that?” Tommy says.
“Com-ear, Tom-hee!” Danielle says and then opens her arms. “You can stay up all night if you just give me a hug and a kiss.”
Johnny Rotten laughs, and Tommy looks up at me with scared eyes.
“She’s just drunk,” I whisper to him. “She’ll be okay tomorrow.”
“I’m just happy,” Danielle says, “which ain’t no crime,” and then tries to walk over toward me, but she trips and face-plants on the floor.
Johnny Rotten rushes over to my sister.
“Uh-oh,” Danielle says, and when she sits up, her hand and nose are red.
“Mommy!” Tommy says.
“It’s okay,” I say to Tommy as I try to help Danielle up.
Guns N’ Roses is now playing “Used to Love Her” on the turntable, which is still cranked up high.
“That tickles!” Danielle says when I put my hand under her armpit.
Johnny Rotten says, “Maybe we should put her to bed.”
“You think?” I say.
“You can go home, man,” he says to me. “I can take it from here.”
“This is my home.”
“Oh.” Johnny Rotten looks genuinely surprised. “So they’re staying with you.”
“Yeah, he’s like a superhero, my brother,” Danielle says. “Likes to save people like me and Tommy. Best guy you’ll ever meet. Chuck Bass. Gotta love him.”
“Okay, drunk girl,” I say. “Let’s get you into your room.”
“I love you so much, big brother. I really do.”
The little man looks at me, and I can tell seeing his mother smashed like this scares him. “Tommy, go to our room,” I say. “I’ll be right there, I promise.”
He listens, even though Danielle says, “No! Let’s stay up all night long!”
Johnny Rotten and I get Danielle onto her mattress, and then I say, “I’ll take it from here. Thanks.”
“You sure you’re good?”
“Yeah,” I say, and escort him out the front door.
When I return to her bedroom, Danielle’s giggling on her back with a fistful of bloody napkins on her nose.
“Please tell me you didn’t drive home,” I say to her.
“Relax. We were drinking at the Manor. Lisa made him walk me home,” she says and then starts laughing. “But I do like him. Very cute. Noticed a rather large bulge in his pants too.”
“You need to sleep it off, Danielle.” I bring her some water, and then I go back to Tommy, who looks whiter than the sheet covering his legs and torso.
“I didn’t like that guy,” Tommy says.
“Neither did I,” I say, wondering what would have happened to drunk Danielle if I weren’t here to put her to bed and send her escort home.
Of course Danielle sees our man again and makes him her regular boyfriend. Johnny Rotten’s real name turns out to be Randall Street, which has to be the dumbest name ever.
Many times, Tommy tells Portia and me that he doesn’t like Johnny Rotten, and we fumble around for what to say back to him, because Danielle seems happy, albeit distant. I ask her to double date with Portia and me, so I can get to know Johnny Rotten better and alleviate my fears, but Danielle just laughs and says, “We’re dating people from different planets. Let’s not start an intergalactic war, okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re happy. I’m happy. Let’s not push our luck. Just be happy with Portia independent of us. I’m fine. You’ve already done enough for me, big brother.”
The truth is that while I love my sister, and I really do, carrying her financially and emotionally has been draining. The break Johnny Rotten provides is somewhat of a relief.
And so when Portia gets her own place in Collingswood, a little two-bedroom apartment above a flower shop on Haddon Avenue, I gradually move most of my stuff over there. She sets up a small sofa bed in her office for Tommy, so that he can sleep over whenever Danielle asks us to babysit, which is often. Even though I am still paying the rent on the Oaklyn place, Tommy tells me that Johnny Rotten’s been staying there more and more.
Tommy doesn’t like jumping back and forth between the two apartments, but he’ll get used to it, and to Danielle’s new boyfriend, who seems okay, from what I’ve observed. If he makes my sister happy, well, then I’m all for that. And so I tell Tommy, “Look for the good in this guy. He may just surprise you.”
Portia’s writing a novel now. That’s what she does all day long.
I’ve never met anyone before who was writing a novel, and now my girlfriend is a full-time fiction writer, which makes me proud, I have to admit. It seems so glamorous, even though no one is paying her to write this book, it’s just something she does alone in a room. She says she can get an agent when she finishes and then that agent can sell the book to a publishing house in New York City—“a real one,” she’s always saying. She reads books about how to do it and chats with all of these other writers on the Internet, which makes her hopeful.
Portia works with her door closed and always covers the laptop screen with her hands whenever I knock and stick my head in. She says she can’t talk about her book because the talking will rob her of the creative energy she needs to write, which sounds a little like bullshit to me, but what do I know. She even wears this lucky hat when she’s working—it’s a pink Phillies baseball hat that they gave her for free on ladies’ night at the ballpark when one of my customers slipped us tickets as a tip. The writing makes her so joyous—she seems determined and driven—that it probably doesn’t really matter what she’s wearing or doing in that room. It’s all good, as far as I’m concerned.
Late at night, after she’s had a few drinks, she’ll talk about how she first decided she wanted to write a novel back in Mr. Vernon’s class, and how the world knocked the belief that she could do it out of her.
“How does that happen?” she says. “You can’t look back and pinpoint an exact moment when you give up on your dreams. It’s like someone stealing all of the salt from your kitchen, one tiny crystal at a time. You don’t realize it for months, and then when you see that you are low, you still think you have thousands of little crystals left—and then bam, no salt.”
Sometimes when she talks like that I feel s
tupid, because I don’t think about the world the way she does, and yet I love Portia, so I nod and agree. I feel completely lost when she asks, “What do you think about that?” and I can’t think of anything to say.
But she never seems to mind. Portia says I listen to her and “don’t piss on her dreams.” She never really talks about her husband directly—it’s sort of a taboo subject—but I’ve been able to infer that he made her feel stupid and small and weak.
Apparently, when they were in New York City, Portia told Mr. Vernon that she would publish a novel and dedicate it to him, and now she thinks that if she can keep her promise, Mr. Vernon might discover her book, read the dedication, and maybe it will save him after all.
That’s her new great hope.
Portia Kane’s latest master plan to save our old teacher.
We asked the Oaklyn Police Department for information on Mr. Vernon, but by law they weren’t permitted to share any developments or details, or so they said.
Late one slow night, when it was just Jon and me at the bar, he finally admitted after four or five pints that he had driven Mr. Vernon to the Amtrak train station in Philadelphia, and that was the last they heard of him. Because our former teacher had committed no crime, they didn’t even ask him for any of his information.
“It’s damn hard to see a grown man crying the way he was that night, Chuck,” Jon said, staring down into his golden pint of Budweiser. “Shit. Especially after all that had happened to him. So I gave him a ride across the bridge in the cruiser. It’s what any decent person would have done. You would have done the same thing.”