Frank pulled Joe across the concrete paths, winding him past lecture halls and laborites, staying partly shadowed the whole time. Joe wondered again if this was real or if this Frank-like shadow was nothing more than a perfectly packaged product of his chemically imbalanced mind.
The night was cold, and patches of snow and ice still clumped together besides parts of the path, feeding on each other's cold, keeping each other alive. Joe glanced up; the sky was clear, but he couldn't see any stars. Frank's hand tugged at his own, refusing to let him slow down, as if sensing that his brother wanted to turn back.
The brothers stopped outside the main cafeteria doors. Joe didn't want to go in; rather than being warm and inviting the light seemed cold, brutal, revealing. Unforgiving. The younger Hardy wanted to stay in the shadows, stay hidden.
"Don't talk to me when we're inside," Frank interrupted his thoughts. "Don't look at me either, or nod."
"I want to go back," Joe announced.
The elder Hardy turned and stared at him, his face the saddest Joe had seen it since his brother had appeared. But he stayed firm.
"Not until you eat."
"I don't want to go in there. They'll look at me."
"Who? There's hardly anyone around at this time of night. And I'm with you. They can't even see your body in my jacket. Don't worry. I won't disappear."
Frank let go of his brother's hand and stepped neatly through the door, leaving Joe to open it himself. After a moment's hesitation he did, not wanting to cross campus in the suddenly looming dark alone.
He squinted, adjusting his eyes to the fluorescent lights that bared down on him. Frank was surveying the cafeteria; a group of students were studying in a corner, a professor was pouring over notes and sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, a girl and a boy were holding hands and feeding each other cake, and a group of Goths were passing sheet music back and forth while one aimlessly strummed a guitar.
Joe froze in the doorway, hunching inside Frank's jacket, but his brother was suddenly behind him, blocking his escape.
"They're not looking at you," Frank murmured. "They're all eating and working. They don't care that you're here."
"I…"
"Don't talk to me."
Joe bit his lip, but no one had even noticed him come in.
"Go on," the elder Hardy said gently, urging him forward. "I'll walk in front. You follow me."
The two wound their way through the tangled mess of angled tables and chairs pushed away and abandoned, stopped over napkins and bits of food left on the floor. Joe kept glancing about the room, but no one paid any attention, and he felt the tension in his shoulders relent a little.
I'm like a ghost too, he thought as his brother stepped in to the vacant food line.
"Get a tray," Frank commanded. "And a spoon and knife and fork."
Joe did as he was told and slid his tray along the metal rail set up in front of the cafeteria line. There wasn't much set out this late at night—the dinner crowd was long gone—but Frank was taking it all in; the sandwiches, salads, cake slices, rolls, coffee and soft drinks.
"Need help hon?"
Joe nearly jumped and almost dropped his tray, but his brother steadied them both.
"Ask for some soup," Frank said softly. "Tomato. And get a roll."
He obeyed again, struggling to keep his mind on each task his brother gave him rather than worrying about what everyone thought.
"I'll check you out down here," the gray-haired woman smiled as she handed him a large Styrofoam bowl. Joe took it, the warmth seeping into his palms, the tomato scent rising to his nostrils and mouth.
"Your swipe card's in the right pocket," Frank told him as Joe pushed the tray down to the register. "I knew you'd forget it."
He paid and thanked the woman, then glanced to his brother, who was already moving across the maze to a table for four in the far corner beside the last window. Joe could see the football field, lit by the path lights, and a security guard's van moving slowly along. He set his tray down and settled in the seat in front of it, shrinking deeper in to his brother's coat. Frank sat beside him in a chair that had been left pushed back.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked with a smile.
Joe shook his head ever so slightly, afraid to make a big gesture. He surveyed the cafeteria, but no one noticed him.
"Good. Go ahead."
But the younger Hardy just stared at the bowl of red liquid in front of him, then turned away to look outside.
Frank was unfazed. "Why don't you want to eat?"
His brother shrugged ever so slightly.
"You're hungry, I know you are. You said you'd eat and you never did. You haven't had anything but vodka and cigarettes for ages."
Joe felt his eyes stinging and the lights blur at the edges of his vision. He fought to swallow the pain in his throat; he didn't want to eat, although his stomach hurt, although the soup smell was intoxicating, although he'd been feeling dizzy and light-headed and his stomach growled furious protests all through the day.
"You're punishing yourself," Frank murmured, "Because you feel guilty about me. About Iola. About everything. But think, Joe; would I still be here if you didn't deserve forgiveness, or happiness, or strength? I never made it a habit to help bastards who didn't deserve it, and I'm not about to start new ones just because I'm dead. I would have been dead whether you'd gotten to me or not, buddy. At least by you reaching me I got to say goodbye."
Joe clenched his hands into fists to stop their shaking. He wanted to put his head down and cry, coat the tray in tears, curl his stick-like body up in his brother's jacket and die there, under the cold glaring lights, with his brother beside him. It seemed easier than going back out into the dark that nearly swallowed him whole or staying under the merciless lights. He didn't know what would make him happy; he was trapped, hating both night and day.
And then Frank's hand covered his own.
"I always told you never to give up," he murmured. "Put yourself in my shoes; what if it was me killing myself—because you are killing yourself Joe—if I was starving and smoking and drinking and it was all your fault, how would you feel?"
The younger Hardy shut his eyes, wiping impatiently at the tears; when he opened them, the food stared back.
"You should eat," Frank murmured, squeezing Joe's hand. "We'll do it together. Pick up your spoon."
Joe moved his trembling free hand to the silverware on his tray, then slowly dipped it into the bowl. He stirred the soup for a moment, then slowly sank it beneath the surface, bringing it up again full of basil and broth, splashing a bit back in as his hand shook.
"Don't be afraid," Frank soothed. "Try some."
The younger Hardy raised the spoon to his lips and slowly took the broth, the spice and heat burning his throat, the warmth slowly oozing all the way down where he felt it burn into his tight, desperate stomach that gratefully accepted it.
Frank smiled. "Go on. Slowly; if you eat too fast you'll be sick. Take your time. Let it settle."
Joe obeyed, gradually working his way through the bowl, the sickness relenting with each spoonful.
"Cut your roll," his brother ordered, "dip the bread in."
With that he let go of Joe's hand and sat silently, smiling almost to himself as he watched his brother eat.
