Blameless

I have written this story too many times. The cast is the same, the drama, too. Brother. Brother. Sister-in-law. Sister. Sister. Boyfriend. This time, at least: no Mom, no Dad. No dogs.

Brother 1 (the eldest)—Moe—has two children now. Too young to be counted as characters. Symbols. Catalysts. They make this story sadder.

We’re in Chicago here. At an outdoor concert venue: Ravinia. Our belongings include a sheet spread out on the grass, two coolers, three lawn chairs, a Pack ’n Play. We’ve planned for a long, hot Saturday in this sea of truncated people. Chicago, the band, will not perform until dark.

In the coolers: two thirty-packs of PBR; two five-liter bladders of chardonnay, their boxes shed . . . I’m forgetting what else—a handle of vodka? It doesn’t matter.

This story happened years ago now. It isn’t even my story. I shouldn’t be telling it.

How it all started. Brother 2—Alan—abandoned us during the first hour. The quantity of alcohol we’d brought, Moe said, was figured, he said, dependent upon Alan’s drinking.

Now Moe would have to pick up his pace. Make up the difference.

As it was, with Alan’s help, we’d struggled carrying our stuff on and off the Metra, down and up the stairs. The coolers weighed like fire hydrants. And there were the chairs, our bags. The kids. All of their shit. And now there’d be no Alan to help carry.

Plus, the sister-in-law was hammered, had been since before we’d left the house. And was useless, carried nothing when sloshed. Not even her damn purse.

Usually, in this not-uncommon scenario, the sister-in-law—Crystal—refuses also to carry her cell phone. And then, eventually, always, she wanders off and gets herself lost.

As soon as he notices her gone, Moe, the husband, sends out a search party. It is not a welcome duty. When we find Crystal, at last, two hours later, this is what she has to say, usually:

“Where in the fuck were you? I’ve been walking around this fucking place looking for you fucks for hours! What the fucking fuck!”

There is no use, with Crystal, in pointing out that it was she who, for some reason and without warning, walked away from our spot. That our spot is still our spot, it hasn’t moved. In fact, it’s the same spot on the map we drew on a napkin for her when we sat down. The napkin, right there, in her pants pocket—See?—where we told her we’d put it, when it dropped from her hand onto the grass. No use in telling her we were worried, searched in shifts, our time ruined. We called her cell, but it rang beside us in the Pack ’n Play next to the baby, where she must have hidden it after Moe asked her to at least carry the phone, if she wasn’t going to wear her purse. No use in saying anything, no use at all, because she’s pissed off, mad, and it’s all our fault.

Something you should know about Crystal: She isn’t one to apologize. Not now. Not ever. She’s a good Christian, raised by devout Christians. Thank you, God, Jesus. Amen.

Something else you should know: Alan has a low tolerance for Crystal. He lived with her and Moe in Chicago for three years before getting a decent job and finding his own apartment.

I don’t envy Alan those years.

I don’t envy Moe those years, either.

I don’t envy Crystal.

Alan stands up, says, “Uh-uh. No. I’m leaving.”

What has just happened is so tiny, I have to zoom in, slow things down, rewind.

What has happened is: Crystal groans. Crystal mumbles, “What the . . .”

You might have missed it, if you were there. I almost did. It certainly wouldn’t have been etched into my memory, even a minute later, if Alan hadn’t declared his departure over it.

Alan is in a lawn...