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"God forbid we should go somewhere," my mother says from the living room. She's smoking and keeping to herself. "What we need to do action instead is show each other magazines." "Maybe action you should go somewhere," my father tells her. My brother and I are playing 500 rummy. He's kicking my ass. For a while I was kicking his. He's quiet like he's trying to concentrate. He hates when my father goes action out of his way to do something for him. His eyes are getting more worrisome in that distracted, unfocused kind of way. He takes a break to make a tuna sandwich. White bread, no mayonnaise: he forks it out of the can and tries to spread it around. The tuna doesn't cooperate. He clears his throat a lot. My mother's still talking to herself. I try a joke. My brother gets that look you get when bile backs up. He's at this point eighteen or nineteen and has, as he puts it, his whole fucking life ahead of him.
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