Five(59)

“You—do—not—think—some—one—could—love—me—how—I—am—”

“That’s not true, of course that’s not true, but I’m not going to let some arsehole steal from you and pretend he’s doing it because he loves you,” Liam argues.

“He—does—love—me.”

“He fooled you, Danny. You know it, deep down, you know I’m protecting you, like always—”

“You—want—to—show—me—no—one—can—love—me!”

“No, that’s not it, not at all, I don’t think it’s ’cause you’re disabled, I think it’s ’cause you’re rich and disabled, and he hit the jackpot with you, didn’t he—”

“Why—did—I—do—it?”

“To stop us, to make it stop, look, I get it—”

But Danny will not be spoken over, not this time. He pounds the table next to him. “No!—To—make—you—stop.—You!—So—you—would—not—kill—him.—To—save—you!—If—he—dies,—what—hap—pens—to—you?—To—your—kids?—The—com—pa—ny?—I—did—it—to—save—your—life.—And—his.—But—you—first.”

Many truths can be true.

Many loves can be loved.

Danny will always love the toddler Liam who slept curled around him, and the boy Liam who pushed his chair, and the teenage Liam who tarred roofs to help pay the rent, and the young man Liam who built a fortune with him, and he even loves this Liam, now, who has only ever used Danny to make himself the center of their story, to be the man of the house even though Danny was also there, in that same house with him, and also a man. But Liam could not see Danny that way then, and he still can’t do it now.

Danny triggered the alarm, he pretended to collapse, he caused a scene on top of the scene already caused and saved Brendon. But Danny also saved Liam from going too far, from making a worse mistake. Danny chooses Brendon over Liam, but Danny will always love his brother because “I love you” and “Goodbye” can both mean the same thing.

“I lost control, it was a mistake, it’s just, can’t you see I’m trying to protect you?” Liam says.

“I—do—not—need—you—to.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” Liam says in the flat, impotent way of someone who cannot admit defeat. He stands up and walks to the window overlooking the century-old hedge maze in Danny’s garden and leans one arm against the wooden frame.

“I—do—not—need—you.”

There is silence between the brothers. Danny’s words settle on the room. A nerve struck, a truth told, words spoken that cannot be unsaid.



* * *





Liam picks up Emma’s gown off the floor, gets in front of her in the doorway so she can’t pass. He will not let her walk away. He hands her the gown, unnerved by her vulnerability. “Cover yourself,” he says. “What do you mean, what you did to the boy? Where is my son?” he says.

“Your son?” Emma laughs, surprised. “Oh, Daddy, aren’t you cute,” she says, slyly, stroking his face with the back of her hand. He bats her away. She is again two women in one. The bitch and the lunatic. But she has miscalculated.

He turns and bolts down the hall, runs up the stairs.

“What are you doing?” she yells frantically, panicked, behind him. “You signed your rights away, remember?” she says impotently to his back as he darts from room to room. “Gideon is none of your business!” she shouts, wedging herself in her bedroom doorway, trying to keep him out of it. He notices how the skin stretches over her upper ribs.

“He is now,” Liam says, pushing open doors, turning on lights, scanning the mostly dark and empty rooms, the blinds drawn, all the furniture sold, to pay for years of spending on clothes and cars and her beautiful things, and years of spending on Gideon.

“You can’t do this! You can’t go in there!” she screams as he approaches the door to Gideon’s room. She jumps on him, beats on his shoulders, uncertain how this has all turned around so fast and gotten out of her grasp.

He unbolts the top bolt. “What the fuck, Emma,” he says, “bolts?” unbolting the bottom one.

“I’ll do what you want!” she screams, desperate to get in front of him, to stop him opening the door. “Whatever you want!” But she cannot stop the inevitable.

“Where is he?” Liam shouts as he opens the door. The television, on mute, flashes cartoons in the corner. He stops short. He can’t walk into the room because the floor is covered in precise, straight lines of Gideon’s belongings. The first is a line of toy cars and trucks, in size order, according to color, each parked behind the other, exactly half an inch apart. The second is a line of Cheerios, impossibly straight, each O touching the next, more than a hundred of them, not one out of place. The third, a line of children’s books laid flat, face down, their bindings touching, straight as a ruler. The bare mattress smells faintly of urine.

“I was just washing his sheets, it’s not normally like this,” she says, quietly, as if this explains everything.