“That you ended up at a college in the off-brand book, and they ended up at an Ivy League school.”
When he didn’t respond, I looked up from the book. He seemed to be dealing with a completely new idea, and not at all happy about it.
“Well, in due course I did as well,” he finally said.
I smiled. “Of course you did. Anyway, thanks.” I closed the book and set it down on the couch beside me. “I hope it’s been updated since the year you applied to college.”
“I’m sure it has. Roarke has been updated, too, you know. The board voted last spring to admit women. I disagreed, but it’s been settled. You should think about applying. It changed my life, just like the title says.”
It was the most intimate thing he had ever said to me.
“All right,” I told him. “I will read it.” Then, grudgingly: “Thank you.”
I lifted the mug of chilly tea to my lips. It was as bad cold as it had been warm.
“You’re wrong about Lewyn, you know,” I told him. “At the very least you have to see he’s done an excellent job with the art. He’s published exhibition introductions, and articles in art journals. Not to mention a book about the collection as a whole.”
“Self-published,” said Harrison, with deep scorn.
“No, Harrison. Not self-published. A very good academic publisher.” I shook my head. “For some reason I don’t understand, you have made up your mind that he’s some kind of incompetent buffoon. Maybe he was, once. I wasn’t here. But he isn’t today and he hasn’t been for many years. He’s the only brother you’ll ever have, and you’re missing your chance to know him as he actually is. Right now.”
“Thank you, Phoebe. Very heartfelt.”
“And Sally, too. Sally is a wonderful person. And an entrepreneur.”
“Sally cleans houses. Lewyn went off to be a Mormon, like somebody joining a cult.”
“Well, so what? So he went walkabout for a year or two. He had to figure things out, and he did. So did Sally. Just because you already knew everything, that doesn’t mean … I don’t know. That you win.”
“The person who knows the most wins. Not necessarily the smartest. The one who knows the most.”
“Oh my God, Harrison. You are absolutely pathetic.”
The two of us sat in silence for a while.
“Here’s something else I’d like to know,” I said, opening up my backpack and removing the letter from the American Folk Art Museum. “What about this Achilles Rizzoli? Subject of a documentary by Stella Western. Apparently we’re hiding his entire life’s work somewhere. What do you know about it?”
He was scanning the letter. He did not look pleased.
“I see you’ve opened your mother’s mail. Is this a habit for you?”
“I opened it by accident,” I said. “I’m getting so much mail from colleges right now. Please answer my question.”
He said nothing.
“Did you know there was an earlier request about these paintings?”
“Drawings. Not paintings. I can’t say.”
“So you did know.”
“That’s a possibility.”
“And you won’t tell me.”
“I’m not at liberty to do so. Not at the present time.” He crossed his arms like a petulant toddler.
“Jesus, Harrison.”