Jack was tall, even for a ninth grader. Jack Nelson-Simpson, tall and blond, funny and quirky.
"My dad was in a band," he said, banging on the drum set. We were in his basement.
"I know. The Zit Remedy. My dad was in the same band,"
"Oh, yeah," he laughed, did a rippling little effect on the drums.
I lit a cigarette, feeling a little lurky about it since my dad was upstairs. Even though I was 20 I didn't want him to know I smoked or did anything less than perfect. I inhaled, feeling that nicotine buzz. Being less than perfect was Craig's job.
"Angela? Jack? You down here?" That was Snake, Mr. Simpson, Jack's dad.
"Yep!" Jack called, doing a little end of the joke ba tum bum.
"We got grinders. Come up,"
I took one last drag and crushed the thing under my heel. We climbed the stairs and emerged in the Simpson-Nelson kitchen, grinders freshly delivered and wrapped up in white paper. Joey, my dad, looking like warmed over dog shit. His face was harrowed. My brother Craig, who was 29, was missing. Missing from the half-way house or shelter or group home or whatever type of fucked up place he lived at. I'd lost track after all the drug addictions and rehabs and psych hospitals. And dad lost his mind with each one, with each bump in the road of Craig's life. He was in therapy. Not Craig, my dad. I'm sure Craig was, too, not that it was helping.
"Joey, eat," Snake said gently, and dad looked at him with his red troubled eyes. I ate, taking small bites, my stomach in knots because who knew, maybe this time Craig wouldn't be okay.
"Have you heard from the police? Has anyone seen him?" The desperation in dad's voice made me cringe. I'd felt that way, too, when Craig first got diagnosed with bipolar, when he started snorting coke, when he started shooting heroin, when he started drinking. When he got arrested and committed. I was burning out on it now. I loved my brother but he was hard to deal with.
"We haven't heard anything yet," Snake said, "but we will. They'll find him,"
"Angela, how's school?" Snake said, changing the subject. Dad looked at me with wet eyes and a sad smile. At least he had one kid who was working out.
"Good," I said, despite missing classes and scrambling to catch up and doubting my major and my future, doubting everything, I smiled and said good. I didn't want dad to worry about both of us.
"Jack's started high school," Snake said, and Jack gave him a thin smile.
"Yeah. Hey. How about that?" dad said, but he was just mouthing the words. He wasn't thinking about anything but Craig. It consumed him.
We finished the grinders and dad stared at the phone, willing it to ring. Willing some authority figure to tell him that Craig was safe and sound. How bad could it be? How far could he get? Well, let's see. Craig's been on the streets a dozen times, including the time in high school. He's been mugged and beaten and god knows what else. God knows what he's done. I couldn't take it. I headed outside for a cigarette.
In the soft darkness I lit it, and heard the door creak open and hid the butt behind my back, but it was just Jack.
"Hey," I said, puffing away, listening to the traffic.
"Hey, can I bum one?" he said, pointing at the butt.
"You smoke?" I said, pulling out my pack, plucking one out for him.
"Yeah, well, you know. Don't tell dad. He'd die if I'm not as perfect as Emma,"
Emma, Jack's older sister. She was 28 . Half-sister, like Craig was my half-brother. Jack and Emma had the same mother, Christine "Spike" Nelson. Craig and I also had the same mother, Julia Jeremiah. The late Julia Jeremiah.
He smoked like a novice, but hey, we all had to start somewhere.