Apocalypse to Go Read Free

except for my father’s old desk, but I didn’t want anyone prowling around in it, empty or not.
    My Aunt Eileen and her family, which at that time included my younger brother, Michael, and his girlfriend, Sophie, live in the sunbelt, that is, the southeast side of the city. The house stands in the Excelsior district, partway up the hill that’s topped with the blue water tower. It’s an odd misshapen house on a double lot, three stories at one end, two at the other, but only one in the middle section: a long living room that the front door divides in half.
    In one half of the living room, a pale orange brocade sectional sofa stands under a portrait of Father Keith O’Brien, my uncle on Aunt Eileen’s side of the family, in his Franciscan robes. I’ve never seen anyone sit there. The family clusters at the other end of the room, where there are shabby armchairs and recliners arranged near the TV, when, that is, we’re not in the kitchen.
    It was in the kitchen that we found Aunt Eileen that afternoon, sitting at the round maple table and reading the newspaper. She wore one of her usual retro outfits, a pair of leopard print capris and a pale blue cotton shirt with rolled sleeves. She had new pink fuzzy slippers with bunny faces, complete with long ears.
    A large pot of stew simmered on the stove. Wisps of herbed steam rose from the surface. Ari inhaled deeply and smiled. I sat down at the table a couple of chairs over from hers. Aunt Eileen folded the newspaper and laid it down.
    “Ari, dear,” she said, “you can take off that jacket. It’s awfully warm in here.”
    “That’s quite all right,” he said. “I don’t mind.”
    “You really don’t have to hide your gun. I mean, honestly, we all know you’re a police officer.”
    I snickered. Ari winced, but he did take off his sport coat to reveal the Beretta in its shoulder holster.
    “He never leaves home without it,” I said.
    Ari shot me a scowl, then draped the jacket over a chair and sat down next to me.
    “Where’s everyone else?” I said.
    “Well, Jim’s at work,” Aunt Eileen said with a sigh. “There was more trouble with the L Taraval line, and so of course they called him in.”
    “That happens too much,” I said, “his boss taking his weekend, I mean.” My uncle worked for Muni, the San Francisco public transport system, which exists in a state of perpetual decay.
    “It’s the budget problems. Since he’s on salary, they don’t have to pay him for overtime.”
    “Makes sense, but very irritating.”
    She nodded her agreement. “Brian’s team is playing today. High school basketball’s over for the year, so now he’s on the baseball team. I don’t know about Michael and Sophie—upstairs probably, and I don’t really want to know what they’re doing. Let’s hope it’s schoolwork.”
    A lesson in human biology, maybe, I thought, but I kept the thought to myself. Apparently Ari was thinking along the same lines.
    “You’ve been quite generous to both of them,” Ari said. “I can have a talk with him about proper manners when you’re living in someone else’s house.”
    “You’re a darling,” Aunt Eileen said. “It’s wonderful how he listens to you. Just make sure you knock before you open the door.”
    Ari left the kitchen by the back stairs that led to the bedrooms on the floor above. Aunt Eileen waited until he was well gone.
    “I hate to admit this,” she said, “but I’m beginning to think your mother was right about Michael.”
    “That he’s an out-of-control juvenile?”
    Eileen held out a hand parallel to the table and waggled it to indicate she could go either way. “At times he’s fine. At others, he’s really hard to handle,” she said. “Jim makes things worse, bellowing at him, usually after he’s downed a couple of glasses of whiskey. Jim has the whiskey, that is, not Michael. I’ve never seen Mike touch any kind of alcohol, which is just as well.”
    “Yeah, it sure is! What’s the