This Is Where I Leave You

toddlers, we would cling to his sausage fingers as he walked us down the block, and he would lie down with us at bedtime, often falling asleep on the bed with us, until Mom came to get him. But he seemed hopelessly bewildered by us once we got a little bit older. He didn’t understand our infatuation with television and video games, seemed bewildered by our able-bodied laziness, by our messy rooms and unmade beds, our longer hair and our silk-screened T-shirts. The older we got, the further he retreated into his work, his weekend papers, and his schnapps. Sometimes I think that having Phillip was my mother’s last-ditch effort to find her husband again. The hunter-green awnings of the shop, usually speckled with dried bird droppings and water stains, have recently been cleaned, and the windows, anticipating the fall season, are crammed with hockey, ski, and snowboard gear. The mannequin in the corner is wearing a goalie mask, and in the ominous flicker of the fluorescent light he looks like Jason, the serial killer from those Friday the 13th movies. Elmsbrook is the perfect town for a serial killer, and I mean that in the best possible way. It’s always the picturesque towns, with clean sidewalks and clock towers, where Jason and Freddy come to slaughter oversexed teenagers. Centre Street has a cobblestone pedestrian walkway with benches and a fountain, the stores have matching awnings, and the overall vibe is pleasant and well kept.
    And maybe because I’m thinking of serial killers, when Horry suddenly knocks on my window, I jump in my seat. Or maybe it’s because he looks kind of scary. His long hair is held off his face by a white Nike headband with the price tag still attached, flapping against his forehead, and there’s a good inch of ash suspended at the tip of the cigarette wedged between his lips.
    “You scared me,” I say.
    “I have that effect on people.”
    I laugh, not because it’s funny, but to be polite. You can’t help but feel bad for Horry, but you’re supposed to treat him like anyone else, because he’s damaged but not an idiot, and he’ll sniff out your pity like a dog sniffs out fear.
    “Shouldn’t you be at home, sitting Sheba?”
    “Shiva.”
    “Shiva is an Indian god, the one with six arms. Or maybe it’s four arms and two legs. I don’t know. Six limbs, maybe.”
    “Well, it also means ‘seven’ in Hebrew.”
    “Six limbs, seven days...” He pauses to ponder the potential theological implications for a moment but reaches no conclusions other than now would be a good time to take another drag on his cigarette.
    “Well, shouldn’t you be there?”
    “Yes, I should,” I say. “How are things inside?”
    “Dead.” He shrugs. “You coming in?”
    “Nah. I just stopped by because your mom thought you’d want a lift home.”
    “She sent you?”
    “She knew I was going out.”
    He shakes his head and grimaces. “I need to get my own place, like, yesterday.”
    “So why don’t you?”
    He taps his head. “Brain injury. There are things I can’t do.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like remembering what the fuck it is I can’t do.” He opens the passenger door and throws himself down in the seat. “You’re not allowed to smoke in Mom’s car,” he says, blowing a ring.
    “I’m not. You are.”
    “I have plausible deniability.” He flicks his ash onto the floor mat.
    “You used to date Penelope Moore, didn’t you?”
    “Penny Moore. Yeah. We were friends. Whatever happened to her?”
    “She teaches ice skating over at the rink. The indoor one, where we played hockey.”
    “Kelton’s.”
    “Right. I still skate there sometimes.”
    “You were a pretty good hockey player.”
    “No, you were a pretty good hockey player. I was a great hockey player.”
    “I never would have thought she’d still be living here.”
    “Why, because she doesn’t have a brain injury?”
    “No! Horry. Jesus! I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
    But he’s grinning at me through the haze of smoke that has filled the space between us. “I’m just messing with you, Judd. Lighten up.”
    “Fuck you.”
    “I am already good and fucked, my brother from another mother.”
    “Wow. Penny Moore. What in the world made you think of Penny Moore?”
    “She’s in the store.”
    “Right now?”
    “Yeah. She works the register on weeknights. You should go in and say hello.”
    “Penny Moore,” I say. The name alone conjures up her wicked smile, the taste of her kiss. We