Swedish movie, yet oddly comforting. Sam and Michael had opened the boxes of socks, underwear, and identical Norwegian wool sweaters from their grandparents, along with the cards containing their dadâs checks to them, by the glow of the flickering lights of the television, having abandoned the pretense of a tree. If Michael had looked at Sam even once with any interest Sam would have begged to go to New Hampshire with him the following day. But he didnât, and instead Sam had spent the week between Christmas and New Yearâs in Peter Changâs basement along with Frankie Cole, Stephen Winters, and Johnny Ross. Each day was a minor variation on the day before.
Sam wasnât looking forward to spending three days with his brother. He couldnât remember if he had agreed to call Michael and tell him that he was coming alone or if his father was supposed to. Either way, Sam was pretty sure Michael wouldnât be waiting for him at the station. The truth of it was, without their mother, there was no one to remind them that they once shared something other than a fist bump as they passed in the night.
Michael lived with two other guys in an apartment on the top floor of a five-story building on Benefit Street. After Sam rangthe buzzer ten times and no one answered, he went to the sandwich shop on the first floor and spent twenty minutes reading the chalkboard menus filled with sandwiches named for people he didnât know and whose only similar characteristic was satire. His stomach rumbled from the chips and the soda, so he ordered a Godfather sandwich with the money his father had given him to take Michael out to dinner and sat at a table, hunched over the mound of bread, meat, and cheese, not coming up for air until he was done.
When he tried the bell again at Michaelâs he was surprised to be buzzed in. The paper on which his father had scribbled the address said top floor, number nine. Sam glanced at it before he started up the stairs and then shoved it back into his pocket. He didnât want to arrive on his brotherâs doorstep with a piece of paper pinned to his jacket like a kindergartner.
The sandwich was heavy in his gut and Sam burped his way up. After the air cleared he discovered he was still hungry. He could never seem to get enough of anything these days. On the top floor he hung a right down a hall that had only three doors, one on each side and one at the end. For a place that housed college students, the halls were surprisingly quiet. Heâd expected something out of the movies: open doors, music blaring, guys walking around in their boxers.
The door to his brotherâs apartment swung open before Sam had even raised his hand to knock, and then Michael stood before him in bare feet, shorts, and a T-shirt. It was March and cold outside, but waves of heat snaked out the open door around Samâs ankles.
âSammy,â Michael said casually, as if they were used to talking to each other. He turned and Sam followed him over the threshold, closing the door behind him. Sam was careful not to followtoo close, not wanting to seem eager, the last puppy picked from the pound.
Michael stopped in the center of the large living room. One entire wall was taken up by stereo equipment, shelves of record albums, two turntables, speakers and receivers, and several pairs of headphones. On the opposite wall was an old red couch that dipped in the middle, covered with a tapestry.
âYour bed,â Michael said when he saw Sam looking.
Sam shrugged out of his backpack and his coat and tossed them on the floor by the couch.
âYou might want to take that off.â Michael pointed to the sweater Sam was wearing, a stretched-out navy blue pullover that Bella Spade once told him made his eyes look really blue. âIn case you didnât notice, itâs like Africa in here.â He shrugged. âThatâs what you get for living on the top floor in a student
Sam wasnât looking forward to spending three days with his brother. He couldnât remember if he had agreed to call Michael and tell him that he was coming alone or if his father was supposed to. Either way, Sam was pretty sure Michael wouldnât be waiting for him at the station. The truth of it was, without their mother, there was no one to remind them that they once shared something other than a fist bump as they passed in the night.
Michael lived with two other guys in an apartment on the top floor of a five-story building on Benefit Street. After Sam rangthe buzzer ten times and no one answered, he went to the sandwich shop on the first floor and spent twenty minutes reading the chalkboard menus filled with sandwiches named for people he didnât know and whose only similar characteristic was satire. His stomach rumbled from the chips and the soda, so he ordered a Godfather sandwich with the money his father had given him to take Michael out to dinner and sat at a table, hunched over the mound of bread, meat, and cheese, not coming up for air until he was done.
When he tried the bell again at Michaelâs he was surprised to be buzzed in. The paper on which his father had scribbled the address said top floor, number nine. Sam glanced at it before he started up the stairs and then shoved it back into his pocket. He didnât want to arrive on his brotherâs doorstep with a piece of paper pinned to his jacket like a kindergartner.
The sandwich was heavy in his gut and Sam burped his way up. After the air cleared he discovered he was still hungry. He could never seem to get enough of anything these days. On the top floor he hung a right down a hall that had only three doors, one on each side and one at the end. For a place that housed college students, the halls were surprisingly quiet. Heâd expected something out of the movies: open doors, music blaring, guys walking around in their boxers.
The door to his brotherâs apartment swung open before Sam had even raised his hand to knock, and then Michael stood before him in bare feet, shorts, and a T-shirt. It was March and cold outside, but waves of heat snaked out the open door around Samâs ankles.
âSammy,â Michael said casually, as if they were used to talking to each other. He turned and Sam followed him over the threshold, closing the door behind him. Sam was careful not to followtoo close, not wanting to seem eager, the last puppy picked from the pound.
Michael stopped in the center of the large living room. One entire wall was taken up by stereo equipment, shelves of record albums, two turntables, speakers and receivers, and several pairs of headphones. On the opposite wall was an old red couch that dipped in the middle, covered with a tapestry.
âYour bed,â Michael said when he saw Sam looking.
Sam shrugged out of his backpack and his coat and tossed them on the floor by the couch.
âYou might want to take that off.â Michael pointed to the sweater Sam was wearing, a stretched-out navy blue pullover that Bella Spade once told him made his eyes look really blue. âIn case you didnât notice, itâs like Africa in here.â He shrugged. âThatâs what you get for living on the top floor in a student
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