Skywatcher

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Wednesday Night

The red-and-white plastic robot sat on the coffee table in the darkened basement, clear bubble eyes glued to Snake Dance, Evan Harris's most recent project for television. Behind it, on a chesterfield draped with a woven Mexican blanket, lounged Robin and his oldest brother, sharing a bowl of popcorn and a large bottle of root beer. Feet up and arms folded, they assessed their father's latest offering, a deranged psychiatrist who 'was studying the mating habits of snakes in order to better understand the sex lives of his patients. TV Guide had rated it below average.

Ian scratched his head. "This is really revolting," he said. "I mean, really revolting."

"Poor old Evan."

Ian grabbed a handful of popcorn. Interesting taste. Robin had dumped half a packet of Uncle Dan's Milk Recipe Southern Salad Dressing Mix on it. "He's kept his looks, though."

"And his teeth."

Ian glanced at Robin humorously. There was a ten year difference in their ages-a chronological gap that often seemed like an unbridgeable chasm. Ian was variously amused, annoyed, and confounded by his youngest brother. At times, he found himself under all-out attack, an attack that would end as suddenly and inexplicably as it had begun.

Anthony he understood. He could hold an intelligent conversation with Anthony. With Robin, he seemed to be at perpetual odds. Dialogue was merely the necessary medium of toleration.

"Evan's flying in on Monday," he said now to Robin. "He called me at work. It's been scheduled for quite a while-he forgot to tell us."

Robin didn't say anything, and Ian wondered what that meant.

"It's for that movie they were talking about on the news last night. Blockbuster. He's the star."

Robin hugged a pillow to his stomach. "You going out to the airport to meet him?"

"Can't. I've got a lunch."

Ian worked in an ad agency. A yuppie ad agency, Robin had decided with considerable distaste. Lunches were "important."

"Why don't you go?"

Robin looked at his brother. "I hardly even know the guy."

"Sure you do. He knows you, anyway. You're the little fellow who used to go paddling in the tub in your bright red rubber boots when he had his bath. You remember that, don't you?"

"No," said Robin.

He hadn't seen his father all that many times in the intervening years. There had been a few trips, usually in the company of either Anthony or Ian; there had been a week long visit the previous year, crammed into Evan's Toronto apartment with two obscene parrots and a woman named Susan.

Susan. The Significant Other.

Susan. Who threw pots.

Susan - who threw other things, too. On the last day of his holiday some minor disagreement had exploded into a full-fledged argument right in front of him, and a barrage of objects had been hurled at Evan, along with a string of Italian obscenities. The Italian part Robin had actually quite enjoyed-they always sounded so passionate, those Mediterranean women, and it was a source of endless fascination to him that they could get all that stuff out without twisting their tongues around their teeth. Still, he couldn't help feeling at the time that at least some of the handmade objects Susan was aiming at Evan's head were worth something. Sentimental value, if nothing else.