Truth in Advertising Page 0,72

represent a man, a very wealthy man, who has his eyes on them.”

“Wow. That’s amazing. You’re not going to take them away, are you? We love our Pats.”

I say, “No, no. We’d never do that.”

A couple has sat down at the far end of the bar.

She smiles and says, “Don’t go anywhere.”

Don’t go anywhere? What does that mean? Is she flirting? Is that possible? Or is she just being friendly? Is she propositioning me? What does she look like naked? Someone taps me. I look up and see a guy, late fifties, suit, tie undone, sitting a few stools away. He’s had a few drinks. He says, “James Dean dying in a Porsche accident?”

I smile. “Yes.”

He says, “Who cares, besides maybe Mrs. Dean and the guy’s agent? He made three movies and they were lousy. Rebel Without a Cause? How about rebel without a friggin’ clue? What a little girl in that red windbreaker. Brando read for that role.”

He nods. Grace Kelly is back and rolls her eyes and smiles.

“And what about Duane Allman?” he says. “The day he crashed his Harley-Davidson Sportster a few months after the release of Live at the Filmore East . . .”

He turns quickly to face me. “What day was that?”

“I have no idea.”

He says, “October 29, 1971. Where was it?”

“Belgium,” I say, though he’s not really listening.

“Macon, Georgia. The day he . . . well, something ended in this country. For me, anyway.”

He sips his drink. Brown liquid. He sings softly, in a not unpleasant voice.

“Lord, I was born a ramblin’ man, tryin’ to make a livin’ and doin’ the best I can . . .”

He’s looking straight ahead now. “Ever notice no one talks about Scope anymore?”

“The mouthwash?”

“Scope, Boraxo, wax paper, paper lunch bags, Colgate Tooth Powder. Came in a red tin with a little plastic cap. What happened to that stuff?”

“I guess people just stopped using it.”

“That makes no sense to me. How can you just one day stop using something like Scope?”

I shrug. Grace Kelly puts a fresh beer in front of me and winks.

He checks his BlackBerry. He types quickly with his thumbs. This is a man with a job. Perhaps he runs a company, is responsible for other people’s jobs. He makes decisions, determines what kind of ad agency is chosen. I fear he’s going to remove his pants. He puts the BlackBerry down.

He says, “I mean, seat belts, for Christ’s sake.”

He looks at me, as if those two words explain it all, as if they are a kind of genius answer to Fermat’s theorem.

“Seat belts,” I say, as if I understand what he’s talking about.

“Right?” he says. “I mean, we used to crawl around the station wagon like cosmonauts in a weightless environment. Adults would literally blow cigarette smoke in your face for fun. We drank whole milk with five tablespoons of Bosco in it. We ate Chips Ahoy like kids eat vitamins now. And look at us. We’re fine. Aren’t we fine?”

“I certainly think so.”

He picks up his glass, smiles, and clinks it against mine. He drinks.

He says, “I’ve gotta take a piss. Be right back.”

I say, “I can’t wait.”

And then I turn and look toward the door and see my sister walk in. How bizarre, I think. I am related to her. We have the same parents. We grew up in the same house. And yet she is a stranger to me. I read once that 99.9 percent of one person’s DNA is identical to another’s. I walk over as Maura hands her coat to the hostess. I watch her undo her scarf, stuff it in the arm of the coat, fix her hair by rolling it back behind her ears. I have watched her do these things a thousand times. The youngest always watches his brothers and sisters more than they ever know.

“Hi,” I say.

My voice jerks her head up.

“Fin. I didn’t see you there. Am I late? Hi.” A fast blinker, often nervous, high-strung. We hug, the awkward hug of strangers, the flat hand pat, slow repeat, on the back.

“Not at all. I just got here.”

The hostess seats us at a table for four and hands both of us an array of enormous menus—daily specials, wine lists—as if we’re taking part in a food-and-beverage convention. Maura has put on lipstick for this. She has done her hair, which she wears in the chin-length bob of a Boston suburban mom, sensible, non-sexual, kind-of-cute. She wears a canary-yellow sweater set with black pants. Her shoes