Page 19 of Requiem

But a cold reception is no deterrent for Jeremy.

“Come on,” he coaxes. “At least let me buy you a beer. A one-drink truce, Brett. That’s all I’m asking for. If I piss you off, you can just get up and leave. No harm, no foul.”

Oh, I passed pissed several days ago. Now, I’m parked squarely in the realm of rage. I consider my state of mind at this very moment, concerned that if I sit down with him for even a single sip, I might just kill him with my bare hands. In the end, I decide I’m more curious to hear what he has to say than anything else. He can see that I’m waffling.

“Please?”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard my brother say that word. He probably spent hours practicing in the mirror so it would look and sound natural coming out of his mouth.

“Fine,” I huff in exasperation and follow him in silence to a pub around the corner.

“Bud, please,” I say to the waitress once we’re seated.

“Make that two,” Jeremy adds.

“So, what do you want?” I demand, getting right down to business.

“How was the funeral?”

“Really, Jeremy?”

“I didn’t want to upset Mom, so I decided it was just best to stay away. God only knows what she would have done if I’d been at the church and the cemetery.”

“Sounds more like you were worried about yourself. About what she might say to you in front of our friends and family.”

“Family? What family? It was just you and Melanie, wasn’t it?” he wonders innocently as the waitress sets our bottles down in front of us.

“Jeremy,” I growl, holding up my wrist and tapping my watch pointedly, “I don’t have the time or the energy for your bullshit. If you keep it up, we might not make it through a one-sip truce.”

“No, no,” he says as he shakes his head. “Sorry. Maggie. I meant to say Maggie.”

I sigh.

“Aunt Elise made an appearance,” I tell him at last.

“Aunt Elise? Jesus, I can’t remember the last time we saw her. Where the hell has she been all these years?”

“Only forty-five minutes away, as it turns out.”

He takes a sip of his beer.

“And she told me she’s a lesbian,” I continue.

“Well, duh!” he mocks me.

“Wait. What? You knew that?”

“Of course! Don’t you remember she brought her girlfriend to Grandma Ruth’s funeral?”

“Did she? Jesus! How is it that you can remember that and I can’t?”

“Are you kidding me?” he laughs. “That was one of the happiest days of my life. I hated that nasty old bitch.”

I think about her finger poking Jeremy’s chest. Yes, I’m sure it did make him happy to see her dead.

We sip in silence as a few locals get loud at the bar, laughing about something we can’t quite hear from where we are. One of them walks over to a vintage jukebox and drops some coins in.

“So, are you and Maggie still living together, then?” Jeremy quizzes me over the beginning of Linda Ronstadt’s ‘Blue Bayou.’