Good People by Robert Lopez

wrong with the engine, brakes grinding against each other, metal on metal. After one or two more numbers, we took a walk around the neighborhood, which I remember as Piscataway. But now I’m not sure it was Piscataway. For some reason, I associate my sister with Piscataway, though I could be mistaken. My sister is a fast walker and I had to struggle to keep up. She had a path she always took and so this is where we walked. I remember it led to a park and there were trees and a brook and a playground. It was when we passed the playground that I mentioned something about our father, how he used to take us to the playground when we were kids and the time my sister fell off the monkey bars and we all had to go to the hospital. My sister said she didn’t know what I was talking about. I tried to remind her of the little boy who tripped her while she was climbing up the bars and how she had to get five stitches on her chin. She said I was mistaken, that I must be thinking of something else. To this, I said, The hell I am. This is when she stopped and stood in front me. It felt like she wanted to fight. I was getting ready to defend myself, when she stuck her chin out. She said, Show me the scar. I looked hard for it but couldn’t find one. I didn’t think so, she said. I decided to drop it, but I did consider asking if she’d had plastic surgery.I wouldn’t put it past my sister to have plastic surgery. She’s always been vain, my sister, which is strange for a pious virgin. I remember being told that she was in her room, brushing her hair, whenever I’d ask after her. I think our mother was the one who said this about her whenever I asked where my sister was because it never seemed like she was around. I can’t remember ever seeing my sister and mother and father all in the same place at the same time, not even at dinner. I’m not sure if my sister remembers all of this the same way. You can’t tell with her and also she might be crazy. She looks like someone who has spent time in a sanitarium. I think our father spent a lot of time at the park and on his way home he’d stop at the ROTC. I’d find flyers under my bedroom door almost every day. Our mother was either in the kitchen or the living room, sitting on a chair or sofa, reading or knitting. I can’t remember ever seeing her somewhere else. What I said instead was, Who the hell was it that fell off the monkey bars? My sister said she had no idea, said it was my problem. She accused me of being pathological, but I’m not sure what she meant by this and I didn’t ask. Instead, I asked a question about our family, about what she remembered, but she said she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I asked if we’d ever talked about it and she pointed to some blue jays. She said, Look at the blue jays, how beautiful. Then shemade up a story about the blue jays, how they were endangered due to pesticides and poachers. She could tell that these two had a hard life and that it’d taken a toll. She said she could tell by their energies. She said there was discord for a long time but that they were reconciled now. She said even still everything was tenuous between them. There’s no way you can have an actual conversation with someone who talks like this. All you can do is nod and pretend to care and find a place where you can say I should be getting back . I did look at the two blue jays flitting from branch to branch. They seemed fine to me, maybe a little high-strung, but fine. After the blue jays, we walked back to her house and then she drove me to the train station, which I believe was here in Piscataway. This is why we drove here in the first place, starting out early today, before breakfast. When I say we are driving around, I mean my new wife is doing the driving and I am in the passenger seat, doing the looking. My new wife has never been to Piscataway, has never met my sister, so this is her first