The Book of Joe

my tongue over the inside of my lips and cheeks to savor every last trace of her flavor, like the aftermath of a succulent candy. It’s amazing how perfectly I’ve preserved the memory of her taste, making it feel as if it’s been only days since we last kissed, instead of years. The minute the kiss ended, I was tempted to start another one immediately, but I managed to stop myself, somehow getting that making out wasn’t called for here, that Carly required an attitude of careful restraint from me, even if I didn’t fully understand why.
    “Admitting you need help is the first step toward recovery,” comes Owen’s jocular voice over the phone.
    “Seriously,” I say, and then tell him that Wayne will be moving into my father’s house with me.
    “I understand. What do you need?”
    “A nurse and a hospital bed for starters.”
    “I’ll take care of it. What else?”
    I realize that I have no idea. “I’m not sure. I’ve never really taken care of anyone before.”
    “Me neither.”
    I consider for a moment the sad fact of two intelligent, successful men so clueless in matters of charity. “Are you thinking that we’re a couple of empty, selfish pricks?” Owen says, and I have to smile.
    “Nah,” I say softly.
    “Me too.” He clears his throat. “Joe.”
    “Yeah.”
    “You’re a good person.”
    “I’m an asshole.”
    “That notwithstanding.”
    “Well, do you think there’s someone you could call about what else I’ll need?” I ask him.
    “This is America,” Owen says. “There’s always someone to call.”

Thirty-Three
    I’m pounding away at my laptop later that evening when by some act of god I remember that I’m expected at Brad and Cindy’s for dinner. At least, I suppose I’m still expected; I’m not sure. Perhaps the invitation has been rescinded in view of my earlier unpleasantness with Cindy at the sheriff ’s station.
    No one has called to cancel, but maybe this is one of those glaringly obvious situations that don’t require a verbal confirmation. Hard to say, really. If so, showing up could be awkward - unpleasant, even. But not showing up when they’re expecting me would be further confirmation of my wayward tendencies when it comes to family, the very perception I’m trying to change. And anyhow, when it comes to Cindy’s shit list, I’m already number one with a bullet, so it’s not like I can really do any further damage. And besides, Jared will be there.
    Fuck it. I’ll go.
    Brad and Cindy live in a Dutch colonial about half a mile from my father’s house. Emily and Jenny open the front door when I knock. They are dressed alike, in oversized Backstreet Boys T-shirts and black leggings, and perched on one of their wrists is an alarmingly large white bird with a hand-shaped feather emerging from the top of its head. “Hi, Uncle Joe,” the twins say in unison, their voices just a half-tone off from each other, creating a spooky, alien effect that is enhanced by the bird. The twin holding the bird - let’s call her Emily - turns carefully to lead me into the house while Jenny hand-feeds little biscuits to the bird, who snatches them jerkily from between her fingers.
    “Hello, girls,” I say rather formally, stepping into the house. There’s something about addressing the two of them that makes me self-conscious, as if I’m being reviewed by a committee. I have no experience with adolescent girls, and these two in particular seem strangely jaded, like they can see right through me. The fact that they outnumber me somehow neutralizes the years I have on them, and they seem to know it. “Who’s that?” I say, indicating the bird.
    “Shnookums,” says Emily.
    “She’s a cockatoo,” says Jenny.
    “She can talk.”
    “She can say ‘How are you.’ ”
    “And ‘Oops, I did it again.’ ”
    “Wow,” I say. “Let’s hear something.”
    The twins shake their heads and smirk at each other. “She won’t talk for you.”
    “She only talks for us.”
    “ ’Cause we trained her.”
    “And for Jared sometimes.”
    “Right. He taught her to say ‘Hey, dickhead.’ ” They laugh together and it makes one sound.
    The first thing I see as I follow the girls into the house is one of those museum-type living rooms that exist exclusively for display purposes. Plush white carpeting that has never known the tread of a shoe, Victorian couches that were clearly not designed with the human ass in mind, and a Steinway baby grand lacquered to the