Eli stifled a sigh. He’d been ready for this. “How much?”
Ari’s voice was affronted. “What?”
“How much do you want?” Eli asked.
“I don’t want your money,” Ari snapped.
Well, that’s a change of pace, Eli thought. “So what, then?”
“Meet me tonight at eight o’clock in Prospect Park by the boathouse.”
Eli agreed. That night, after dinner, he leashed Lord Farquaad, put on a WFMU T-shirt, shorts, and his miracle flip-flops, and made sure he had his checkbook in his pocket. Although Ari was probably using Venmo or Cash App, or whatever the most up-to-the-moment grifters preferred.
For once, Ari didn’t keep him waiting. When Eli got to the appointed spot his brother was sitting on a bench, his face tilted toward the setting sun. That night, the ironic hat was a porkpie, and he wore a dark-blue shirt and what Eli assumed were fashionable sneakers. A few of the women and some of the men walking by gave his handsome brother approving glances. Don’t be fooled, he thought about telling them. He’s basically the essence of uselessness in the shape of a man.
“Hi, Ari,” he said.
His brother nodded at him. “Hey, dog,” he said, and bent to greet Lord Farquaad, who growled and crowded behind Eli’s knees.
Eli took a seat. “So, what’s up?”
“I did what you wanted. I went to Ruby and Gabe’s place, and I got a toothbrush, and I mailed it in. Here are the results.” From his pocket, Ari removed a Ziploc bag. Eli could make out a folded sheet of paper and the outline of a toothbrush inside of it. With a superhuman effort, he kept himself from reaching out and snatching it out of his brother’s hand.
“So can I have them?” Eli finally asked.
“I asked Ruby when Gabe’s birthday is,” Ari said.
Eli stared. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I told her,” Ari continued, “that one of my old girlfriends does astrology, and she’d do their charts as a wedding gift.” He paused. “And then I did a little math.” He sat back, smirking at Eli. “He’s, what, four and a half months younger than Ruby?”
“I’m surprised you remember Ruby’s birthday,” Eli said coldly.
If Ari heard the implied criticism, he chose to ignore it. “I looked it up. And I realized that you and Annette were still together when Gabe was conceived. Still married,” he amplified, as if Eli might have forgotten, and pointed at his brother. “That’s the part you don’t want Ruby knowing about.”
Eli didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. He could do nothing but sit still on the splintery park bench and absorb the consequences of his own idiocy. Why, why had he thought he could go to his brother for help? Ari Danhauser had never done anything altruistic in his life. He always, only, ever looked out for himself.
“What do you want?” Eli finally asked.
There was what felt like another endless pause. “Do you know I’ve been in therapy?” Ari finally asked.
“Recently?” Eli knew his parents had started sending their bright, troubled younger boy to therapists right around the time he’d refused to be bar mitzvahed, but as far as Eli knew, Ari had never taken therapy seriously, or gone of his own free will.
“Yeah,” Ari said, and rubbed his hands along his shorts. “I, uh, met someone, and I decided it was time.”
“Good for you!” Eli said, and tried to find the generosity to mean it. If Ari could actually, finally grow up; if he could find a job and stop hitting Eli up for money, it would be a good thing. A great thing.
“Are you familiar,” his brother inquired, “with the term ‘identified patient’？”
Eli indicated that he was not. He refrained from telling his brother that he didn’t want to learn new therapeutic terminology, he just wanted the results of the DNA test.
Ari cleared his throat and adjusted the angle of his hat with one graceful, long-fingered hand. “An identified patient,” he began, in a lecturing tone, “is a dysfunctional family’s scapegoat. The other family members project their issues onto that person, and he or she gets blamed for everything. Which means that the other members of the family never have to face their own issues, or deal with their own shit. And,” he concluded, “the identified patient is never allowed to get better. Because if that person did get mentally healthy and stopped being the scapegoat, it would expose the real problems. The stuff the rest of the family doesn’t want to talk about, or face up to, or fix.”