The Honor of the Layward Brothers

I t’s about a five-hour drive from Akron to South Bend. Things get a little tricky on the outskirts of Cleveland, but after that you just stick to I-80. I stopped for gas and a Subway sandwich and reached my brother’s apartment around two in the afternoon. He lived in an old hotel, which had been dolled up and turned into residential units. This was part of a compromise with his wife, who didn’t like the thought of their kids living downtown (in South Bend! that hub of degenerate America), so after they separated, he picked a supervised building to calm her down. But it meant he could only afford a two-bedroom; both girls had to sleep in one room. I had never been there before. I don’t see my brother often but whenever I’m about to … I feel this onrush of eagerness. All day it came in waves, as the miles strung out behind me. The highway takes you north of the city, and I turned off and drove past Notre Dame, then nosed along, following my phone and staring out the window at every stoplight. South Bend is pretty wide open. The river is like another blue highway between roads. There are public gardens on street corners and low-rise banks and apartment blocks. It’s funny to think, we grew up in the same house, but this is where he made his life. The Hoffman is opposite a Burger King, where I left the car. Later I had to move it underground—his apartment comes with visitor parking. Eric’s working day is unpredictable. Sometimes he’s in the office, but he also spends a lot of time visiting schools, not just in South Bend but across St. Joseph County. When I spoke to him on the phone, he promised to leave a key with the super. It took me a while, but I found the super and got the key and let myself into his empty home, which was on the sixth floor and had a view of the river from the kitchenette. But the whole place still felt like a hotel, the carpeting, the furniture, the pillar holding up the living room, the windows that you couldn’t open. At least the girls’ room had toys on the floor and pictures on the wall—kid pictures in crayon and watercolor, stuck on with Blu Tack. What was nice about the apartment was that you got the feeling he didn’t care what it looked like to other adults, but that was also a little depressing. I left my backpack on the floor and lay down for a minute in one of the bottom bunks. When I woke up, Eric was leaning over me. The curtains were closed; it was still sunny outside, and the glow of the afternoon came through in dusty lines. “I didn’t know if I should wake you. It’s after five.” “Hey.” Then I said, “That’s all right. I didn’t sleep much last night. It’s nice to see you.”...

Preview: ~500 words