“What?” He looked genuinely confused. “Oh, behind the screen. Is that what you mean?”
I nodded.
He sighed and looked at the floor. “I love Sandrine, I really do. But it’s so hard to say no. Why would I say no? You understand that now, don’t you, Fiona?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look at you,” Joe said. “Look at how you dress. Look at how you talk to guys. I’ve seen you flirt. You’re practically a different person since you lost weight.”
This was a new Joe regarding me. A starkly serious Joe with a cold calculation in his eyes. He was judging me, assessing me. And suddenly my brother became a stranger. I recognized in Joe the kind of man about whom I wrote most viciously on the blog, the kind who carried himself with an entitlement that masqueraded as confidence. Joe believed that he deserved whatever he wanted—Sierra, Sandrine, an annual raise, a six-figure bonus.
“This isn’t about me,” I said.
He rolled his eyes. “I did not harass Sierra. I didn’t. We’ve flirted, yes. She’s a very attractive woman. Once we kissed, a long time ago. We made out, at an office party. Okay? Happy now, Fiona? This was before Sandrine and I were serious. Way before.”
“Before you were serious? But you were already dating?”
“Yes. Before we were serious.” He put his face in his hands, and then he sat up straight. “I need to call Kyle. I just need to talk to him. We’re brothers, for Christ’s sake. I know we can work this out.” He punched a number into his phone. I watched his face as the line rang and rang and rang.
Joe hung up. “I’ll call Derek,” he said.
And so he did. On and on, friend by friend, fraternity brother by fraternity brother, the wide circle he shared with Kyle: Kevin, David, Lance, Kurt, William, Xavier, Mike B., Mike H., Mike S., Hank, Matt, Camden, Bobby, Logan, Cal. Joe would often bring one or two or five of these boys back to Noni’s house on weekends or breaks, for home-cooked meals and movies. Generally they holed up in Joe’s room or piled themselves in front of the television with beers and bags of Doritos. To me, adolescent hormonal Fiona, they were like great cats, sultry and sleepy, launching into quick, explosive motion before languishing again into blurred half sleep. Eyelids lowered, voices so deep, grunting at one another in monosyllables, like the language of some ancient tribe. They moved with a certainty about their place in the room, their place on the planet. I marveled at it. I wanted it.
I remember writing in my book, Muscle, tooth, solid, sex, skin, languish, stubble, power.
No one picked up Joe’s call. His face drained. “They all know,” he said, his voice thin.
“You can’t be sure.”
“Yes I can. It’s been . . . what? Two hours since I left. That’s enough time. They all know.”
And then Joe’s phone rang with an unidentified number. With a small, hopeful smile, he picked up.
“Hello? Yes, this is Joe Skinner.” I leaned forward to hear the other side of the conversation, but I caught only a deep, ominous babble.
“Uh-huh, okay. . . . Yes. . . . Okay, I will,” Joe said. “Okay. . . . Yes, thank you, Officer.” He hung up. “Well. Kyle reported me to the police. They’re investigating an assault charge. I have to go down to the Seventeenth Precinct and turn myself in.”
“Oh, Joe,” I said. “I’m so sorry. Let me go with you.”
“No. Absolutely not. But can you call Sandrine? I can’t talk to her. Not right now.”
I nodded.
“But don’t call Noni, okay? Don’t tell Caroline or Renee either, not until . . .” Joe paused. “Not until I know what to tell them.”
I nodded again. I waited for Joe to make the first move toward departure, but he just sat in the deli’s flimsy plastic chair, legs crossed at the ankles, back curved, folded into himself as though seeking to protect some tender inner spot. Once I would have said that I knew my brother better than any other person. At the pond we would play gin rummy for hours, barely speaking, and then rise together at the exact moment when the heat became unbearable, run into the water, and then return, dripping and cool, to the game. Now I didn’t know what to say, how to comfort him, or if comfort was what he deserved.
“Fiona,” he said without looking at me, “do you think it’s unfair