Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons
along the lines of a dragon rampant— not an unfriendly one, just a creature you’d notice.
Michael had all too obviously taken to heart the warnings about using sunscreen. Or perhaps, owing to being a musician, he didn’t get out much before sunset. He had longish brownish thinning hair, which he wore in a ponytail, and he was average height, but a little chubs. His face was apple-round, his features heavy more or less nondescript— and pale as a petal. I wondered why the magnificent Maurizio carried a torch for him. He wore cut-off khakis and a vintage shirt, something from the fifties, I thought, quietly chic in an Atlanta way that probably wouldn’t be noticed, if other clothes I saw were any indication.
He shook my hand vigorously, pumped it good, but didn’t really say much other than “Hi.”
He helped me into a brown Blazer and got back on the ubiquitous expressway. “Maurizio’s condo’s near Sandy Springs. Hardly anyone lives in town, you know.”
“This place is a little like L.A., isn’t it?”
“Not really,” he said, but didn’t elaborate.
“I meant, you know, all freeways and malls.”
He nodded. “Mmm.”
It was going to be a long ride. I decided to get through it by looking out the window. Which afforded lots of great views of cars.
Finally I got up the nerve to say, “I didn’t know your brother, but he was a terrific writer. Everyone thought so.”
He said, “Thank you. We aren’t a close family.”
I went back to the cars.
Maurizio lived in quite a snazzy condo, which, he explained, was possible because he had a roommate (tactfully out for the evening). The feature I liked best was a perfect little backyard, where Maurizio was barbecuing chicken.
Michael headed straight for the refrigerator, silently removed two beers, and handed one to me. Though I’m not much of a beer drinker, I certainly wasn’t going to argue. I popped my top and swigged.
But Maurizio was scandalized, “Don’t drink those filthy things. Let’s have fuzzy navels.”
I don’t know if this is a nationally known drink, but I later questioned a number of San Franciscans who’d never heard of it. It’s a drink ideally suited to Georgia, thoroughly refreshing in the heat; kind of a screwdriver with a Southern accent. I’ve never been quite sure, but I think the ingredients are vodka, orange juice (the navel part), and peach schnappes (the fuzz). What I do know: the result is peachy keen.
As we sipped, the guys talked sports for a while and exchanged tidbits about mutual friends. Michael polished off his fuzzy navel and helped himself to another. His color changed as he drank, grew pinker and friendlier, along with his demeanor. He was shy, perhaps, and drank consciously to loosen up. More likely, I think, he was hostile to me, to the idea of talking about his brother; he’d been roped into the evening, and was oiling up for the ordeal. Maurizio was quite the operator, I thought, remembering I’d flown three thousand miles myself. I still didn’t see what he saw in Michael, but I was getting an idea why Michael would dump him— the man was dangerous.
But heck. He barbecued a mean chicken, which he served with salad— a green one with lots of avocados, black beans and rice, and fried plantains. For dessert he’d made key lime pie. Throughout dinner he kept up a three-way conversation, no small feat considering Michael’s wariness.
By the time we’d made a good-sized dent in the pie, Michael knew pretty much about my family— my mom who’s overprotective, my sister Mickey, who’s sweet as a sundae and works for Planned Parenthood, my dad the famous defense lawyer, and my sister’s boyfriend, the ne’er-do-well actor. It was Kruzick that won him over, I think— the fact that I had to put up with him in my office. Suddenly I had all his sympathy. Either that or the fuzzy navels had done their work. He was smiling at me now, even sometimes, in a fit of wild abandon, addressing the odd remark to me. Maurizio began to lead him skillfully to the matter at hand.
“Listen, Michael, you know what we talked about.”
He sobered. “Yeah.” And looked down at his plate. “Let me get you another drink.”
When he looked up, he had tears in his eyes. “I don’t think I can tell the story without it.”
When he had a new drink— this time a bourbon and water— and had drunk a few sips of it, he said, “This thing tore our family apart. It’s like, really, really hard to talk
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