The Book of Joe

says. “Not for nothing, but I am probably the smartest and most insightful person you know, bar none.”
    “Thanks. What more could I ask for?”
    “Drugs,” Owen says. “If I could prescribe, now that would be something.”

Twenty-One
    Night comes quickly in the Falls, where streetlights are at a minimum, used only to light significant intersections. By the time I finish talking to Owen and step onto the front porch, it’s dark out, the meager light radiating from porches and lawn lanterns barely making a dent in the thick shroud of suburban night. Somewhere nearby a dog howls inquisitively at a moon obscured by gray clouds, and in the distance there is the faint sound of a car speeding down Stratfield Road.
    There are approximately ten books arbitrarily strewn across the front lawn, the word apparently out as to what to do with your used copy of Bush Falls.
    Jared is sitting on the steps, reading a worn paperback copy of The Sirens of Titan in the dim porch light. He looks up at me as I step out onto the porch and grins. “Hey, Uncle Joe.” The uncle thing still rings discordantly in my ears, like a word continually repeated until it’s shed all meaning.
    “Do you ever actually go home?” I say.
    “Not lately.” His lips crease into a frown.
    “You like Vonnegut?” I sit down beside him, my arrival momentarily dispersing the congregation of moths and mosquitoes worshipping in furious circles around the overhead porch light. We both spend a few seconds batting them away with lethal force, the survivors ultimately regrouping in frenzied congress under the naked bulb, reviewing their battle plan, discussing options.
    “He’s pretty good,” Jared says. “I had to read Slaughter-house Five for school, and I just kind of got into him.”
    I take the book from him and flip through it cursorily, finally coming to rest on the author’s quirky inscription at the front. All persons, places, and events in this book are real, it reads. No names have been changed to protect the innocent, since God Almighty protects the innocent as a matter of Heavenly routine. Vonnegut has missed the point, I think. It’s only for the guilty that names need to be changed.
    I hand the book back to Jared, who slides it easily into his back pocket. He is wearing loose black jeans and a gray pullover jersey that hangs loosely over his lithe frame.
    “Where are you headed?” he asks me.
    “Nowhere, really,” I say. I intend to call Carly soon, but I’m still somewhat wobbly from my minor breakdown and Owen’s subsequent long-distance head shrinking, and I need some time to regroup before I attempt to hold my own with her.
    “You look like you could stand some fun,” he says, getting up. “You want to come for a drive?”
    “Where to?”
    “It’s a surprise.”
    I consider my nephew for a moment, listen to the three-part harmony of the crickets, and breathe deeply of the cool night air. “What the hell.” I pull myself up to join him. Things seemed to be happening to me, gathering a subtle momentum all their own. Relinquishing my will and adopting the attitude of a carefree passenger feels like the way to go, is actually a relief.
    “Cool,” Jared says. “We should probably take your car.”
    “You have a car?”
    “Nah. That’s why we should probably take yours.” He flashes me his trademark smirk and shuffles lazily over to the Mercedes, pulling his hair out of his face and tucking it behind his ears as he goes. I decide to overlook the fact that I’ve been invited along to wherever primarily because I come with wheels. When he reaches the car, he takes a moment to examine the disfigured door and the smashed taillight, whistling sympathetically, expressing the universal masculine sensitivity to marred beauty generally reserved for circumcisions and damaged imported cars. He turns back to me, eyebrows raised, holds out his open hand expectantly, and says, “Maybe I should drive.”
    “I heard it was Sean Tallon who beat your ass yesterday,”
    he says conversationally as he pilots the Mercedes at dangerously high speeds through the shopping district of Bush Falls.
    I pull on my seat belt. “Where’d you hear that?”
    He ignores the question. “He’s one crazy fuck, you know.”
    “So I hear,” I say. “But what exactly does that mean?”
    He shrugs and takes a hard right. “Probably that you shouldn’t have fucked with him.”
    “Your dad didn’t seem scared of him.”
    “Go Dad,” Jared