Free Something Right Behind Her by Claire Hollander Page B

whole story in a
tone of amazement, as if the weird family tree were somebody else’s bizarre
reality.
    George stayed in
his own row the whole time this conversation was taking place, but sat leaning
over, as though he were uncomfortable with actually crossing the physical
barrier of the train aisle – as if this would be too forward, too great a
leap across the social barriers that separated us at school.
    “Well, I was
looking forward to meeting my Dad at this restaurant he likes to take me to,” I
said. “Only now I think I’ll get a huge lecture on how lame and irresponsible I
am.” I told George all about the car and how I really suck at driving. To my
surprise, I heard my voice get kind of wobbly when I got to the part about
hitting the tree, and how my Mom found out about it. He raised his eyebrows,
intrigued by my wrong-doing, and reached over and put a consoling hand on my
knee. “You know, Andy,” he spoke in a confidential whisper, “my half-brother is
a part-owner of the auto-body place on 117. I could set you up there - bang the
thing out.”
    “I thought you
just said you were going to meet your brother in the city - why does he own a
business out there?” I was getting confused and I wasn’t sure if he meant free
of charge or what.
    “Oh, yeah, he
owns things out here and he does some shit in the city,” George said, as if
this cleared everything up.
    “OK, I’ll tell
my Dad. I’m sure that’ll make the whole thing go down a bit easier,” I said,
even though I had no intention of mentioning George’s half-brother to Dad. My
agreement to tell Dad about his offer seemed to please him, though, as if he
had solved my major life’s problem and now we could have some fun.
    What fun meant
for George was, of course, smoking, and he impishly flashed me the baggy he had
stored in the front pocket of his washed-out jeans. As thankful as I was to
have George to keep me company, I knew I was not invested in the idea of
lighting up on a Metro North train on the way to see my Dad for lunch. But when
I looked alarmed, he immediately pocketed the bag and raised his hand up as if
to silence my fear.

 
    CHAPTER SEVEN

 
    Grand Central
station is a big place, and George was familiar with all its nooks and
crannies. As soon as we got off the train, George took me by the wrist and
pulled me to the end of the concourse – the opposite of the direction I
should have been headed in. We walked past all the shops and stalls and then
out one of the lesser-used exits, so we ended up on forty-first street instead
of out where most of the cabs wait. We walked a block and a half east to this
tiny enclave of Tudor buildings with a little park out front. It had gotten
even colder than it had been that morning and I was shivering. The sidewalk was
quiet, even though we were still in midtown. The sky was overcast, and it
looked, improbably enough, like snow.
    George pulled me
off the sidewalk, onto a kind of drive that headed up to an apartment complex,
so we were a few yards away from all the other pedestrians. George produced a
perfectly rolled joint and handed it to me with a light. I didn’t stop to think
any of the prescribed thoughts, just took a nice long hit and handed it back to
him. We smoked like that in silence for a few minutes. The trees looked
uncommonly pretty. It was, in fact, beginning to flurry - large, wet, white
flakes landed on George’s eyelashes, stuck to his faded denim jacket. He
smelled like cigarettes and a sweet, licoricey smell. I wondered for a second
if it was some kind of cologne, or, actually, licorice. When he smoked, George
got a far away look in his eyes. Actually, he always had sort of a faraway
look, but he became, while we stood there smoking on a public street corner in
the middle of Manhattan, vacant-looking. His blue eyes were very pale and his
wispy brown hair fell over his eyes - he was continually sweeping his hair out
of the way with the hand that held the joint.
    “You