Bones and Roses by Eileen; Goudge Page B

grocery shopping and errands.
    â€œWhat if he finds out before then?” Trust Daniel to think of that.
    â€œHe won’t.” Arthur rarely goes out in the evenings. He’s usually at his computer working on some program.
    â€œWell, you know best.”
    â€œWhen it comes to my brother, yeah I do.” I grow prickly at the understated disapproval in his voice.
    Daniel and I get along for the most part although we’re polar opposites in most respects: He thinks like a scientist whereas I’m driven by emotions. He’s slow to anger and I have a short fuse. He watches PBS documentaries for fun and my favorite TV show is The Good Wife . We only butt heads where Arthur is concerned. Daniel thinks he’d be better off in a group home and I know for a fact my brother would sooner be homeless. He’s weird about sharing a bathroom and he’d hate having to follow a bunch of rules. Living independently, he can stay up all night, eat Cocoa Puffs for supper, or smoke indoors if he so chooses. No, it’s not ideal, but the alternative would be worse; he’d be miserable. But whenever I point this out to Daniel, he argues—correctly—that the problem with schizophrenics is they often forget to take their meds, which wouldn’t be the case with proper supervision. He’ll quote stats about improved mental and physical health and increased life expectancy. I, in turn, point out that I make sure Arthur takes his meds, and who cares if he showers regularly as long as he’s happy? At which Daniel will shrug and say, “Well, you know best,” in a tone that implies the opposite. This has led to some heated arguments.
    Tonight Daniel ignores my snappishness to give me a patient look that says, I know you’re under a lot of stress so I’ll try not to take it personally that you’re being a bitch . “Why don’t I fix you something to eat?” he offers. “I could warm up some of the lobster bisque from last night.”
    â€œSounds good.” I suddenly realize I’m starving, having only picked at my sandwich at lunch.
    He heads for the kitchen, leaving me to gaze out the window at the darkened landscape, the lights of the swimming pool glowing in the near distance. Arthur was only eight when Mom left, but he remembers details about her I’d forgotten—that’s how his mind works. On any given day if you ask what he did that morning, he can’t always tell you, but he remembers the mincemeat pie Mom baked for Thanksgiving one year. How will he react when I tell him she turned up dead? Lately he’s been on an even keel, but this could send him veering off course. He could even capsize. I pray it won’t come to that. Because there’s no mayday like an Arthur-related mayday.

CHAPTER FOUR
    â€œArthur,” I say to my brother as he tosses another economy-size box of Honey Roasted Cheerios in the shopping cart he’s pushing down the cereal aisle at Albertson’s, “can you afford all this?”
    It’s Saturday morning and we’re doing his weekly grocery shopping. The day before yesterday when I broke the news about our mom, I thought he handled it pretty well—he smoked three cigarettes in a row without saying a word. When he finally spoke, it was to ask, calmly, if I thought a memorial service would be appropriate—but now I’m not so sure. He’s acting so squirrely I don’t need his shrink to tell me he’s verging on another one of his psychotic episodes. For one thing, he’s loaded the cart with enough food to feed a family of ten and we’re only on aisle two.
    Arthur regards me as though I’m the one who’s being unreasonable. “Tish,” he answers with exaggerated patience, “I need all this stuff. I have to keep up my energy.” He drops his voice to a confidential whisper. “ For the project I’m working on .”
    No doubt a