A Song for Julia

was go to sleep. Mark wasn’t there, thank God, so I crashed. And the next morning we were up, loading the van, and heading back to Boston. I spent the ride in back, headphones on with my guitar, writing a song. I just wasn’t in the mood for the banter and occasional bickering going on with Mark and Pathin. You’d think they’re siblings, they fuss so much. Serena didn’t talk to any of us during the drive; she was busy studying, which was fine by me.
    We got back to Boston at three in the afternoon, and I caught the T over to my dad’s. I was dragging: I hadn’t slept well, my head was hurting, and I couldn’t stop thinking about Julia. I couldn’t stop thinking about how her clothes had hugged her body, how her hair sometimes slipped in front of her face, and she would casually swipe it back behind her ear. I couldn’t stop thinking about how we’d laughed at the Chinese restaurant, about how easy and comfortable it was with her.
    Jesus. What the hell was wrong with me?
    It was near enough to four when I got off at Broadway station and walked the eight blocks to the house I’d grown up in. It was a narrow old house, three stories with greying wood, sitting on Gold Street. My dad kept it up the best he could, but he didn’t make a huge amount of money, so there was always more to do. Gold is a narrow street, no more than twelve feet wide, with narrow sidewalks on either side. I rapped once on the door, then unlocked it and stepped inside.
    “The prodigal son returns!” my dad shouted when I walked in. He was standing in the kitchen, a grimace on his face as he cooked. My dad says everything at a shout. With a classic Irish face, a knob for a nose and cheeks red from a little too much to drink over the years, he didn’t move from his station in front of the stove when I walked in.
    “Hey, Dad,” I said as I came in. “Hey, Sean.”
    My little brother Sean didn’t answer. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a huge medical textbook in front of him. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was rocking forward and back in his seat. His eyes never looked up from the page. He was sixteen years old, but at moments like this, seemed more like twelve. Except that he’d inherited the same genes from Dad that I had … he was already over six feet tall and would probably gain another four inches before he stopped growing.
    I looked at my dad, a question on my face. He shrugged. “I know you had your big show in Washington yesterday, we told him. But … you know.”
    Yeah, I knew. Sean didn’t deal well with change, and Saturday evening dinner was every week. I sighed. I didn’t often miss it, but when I did, it put Sean off-balance. I opened the fridge and searched around until I found a beer, then cracked it open, took a deep pull, and sat down next to Sean.
    “Make yourself at home, Dougal,” my dad said, his voice sarcastic.
    “Thanks, Dad. You know I go by Crank now.”
    “Yeah, I know. But I’m not going to start calling you that. Your mother and I gave you a good Irish name.”
    I sighed. “How’s it going, Sean?”
    Sean spoke, in a landslide. “Can I tell you something? Did you know the arm has two complete separate compartments for muscles? It’s divided by the fascial layer, which merges with the humerus. But it’s the same nerve that controls both sets of muscles.” He began to recite the names of the muscles.
    “No, man, I didn’t know that. That’s pretty cool.”
    He started talking about how the muscles connected to the bone structures, and I looked up at my father. Dad had stopped whatever it was he was doing and was standing watching us, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes rested on Sean, and they looked sad.
    Moments like this, my dad and I got along. We didn’t agree on anything else, at all. But both of us would do anything in the world to protect Sean.
    “Sean,” my dad said, “I’m gonna put dinner on the table. Can you put your book away now?”
    Sean slipped the book off the table, carefully setting it under his seat.
    “Let me help,” I said, starting to get up.
    “Nothing to help with,” he said. “How did your show go?” He started setting plates on the table.
    I shrugged. “It was good. Crazy large crowd … hundred thousand at least. But it was mostly just the college kids who got the music.”
    He grimaced. “Speaking of college …”
    “I know, Dad. Can we have that conversation later? Much later?” I nodded my head toward Sean.