Revolver Read Free Page B

laugh or burn the goddamned CD. Then again, his parents never stopped him from listening to whatever he wanted. Songs about how sweet brown sugar tasted probably went over Ma’s head anyway.
    He twists the cap off another Yuengling, flips the kielbasa, tries to slow down time enough to enjoy the moment, because in this life moments like this are all too rare. His boys fighting, Audrey running around the deck like a spaz. All of them together, kielbasa on the grill, cold beer in his hand, Claire surprising him, slipping her hand around his chest, kissing him on the side of his neck. She’s happiest when everybody’s home. Jim has to admit—he is, too.

Audrey Kornbluth
    May 7, 2015
    Audrey Kornbluth, twenty-five, hasn’t set foot in Philadelphia for close to two years.
    She also hasn’t seen her father, aka the Captain, in over three. Word is, he’s shaved his beard because it went gray. Which must be weird—she’s never seen him without facial hair. Whatever. Either way, he’s no doubt the same old grim asshole.
    The flight from Houston to Philly took four hours and change. She’s essentially trading one oppressively humid city (the fourth largest) for another oppressively humid city (the fifth largest—or is it sixth or seventh now? Audrey’s lost track). A wasted morning flying from one armpit to the next. All in an ill-fitting black dress with long sleeves that hug her arms a bit too much.
    “Your grandmother asked me to remind you about the sleeves,” her mom texted her, although she speaks her texts so it came out Your grand mopper asked me to rewind you about the Steves.
    That is, Steves/sleeves to cover her beautiful fully inked arm sleeves. God forbid a young lady should show off her tats in mixed company. But she complies, because Audrey loves her Grandma Rose. Or maybe she loves the idea of Grandma Rose more. Because in real life, she’s kind of a pain in the ass.
    Outside the terminal the hot humid air smacks her in the face. Her long black hair goes whipping around like Medusa’s snakes. Her eyes tear up. She clutches her overnight bag—oh yes, this is going to be a short visit, guilt only buys you twenty-four hours, people—and looks for the limo. For all this hassle, she was promised a limo.
    No limo.
    Instead what she gets is a minivan. Cyanotic blue Honda Whatever, a few years old, dinged up here and there.
    She gets a sister-in-law, the only one who talks to her, waving and yelling at her, hurry up, hurry up, we’re running late. Cheering kids in the back. Wait; they’re not cheering. They’re yelling.
    This is going to be a nightmare.
    She was promised a limo, goddammit.
      
    So Audrey Kornbluth, grown-ass woman, wedges herself between two toddlers in the third row of a six-year-old minivan. A dirty finger violates the personal space around her face.
    “Who are you? ”
    Patience; he’s an innocent.
    “I’m your aunt Audrey.”
    “No you’re not! Our aunt Audrey lives in Texas.”
    “Psst, kid. See those buildings?” She points at the squat ugly gray terminals of concrete and glass that they are currently speeding past. “Behind them are these magical devices that transport you from one location to another. One of them brought me here from Texas!”
    “Aunt Audrey is pretty.”
    “You’re not pretty,” says the other toddler with the certainty of a judge delivering a verdict.
    Audrey twists up her face and leans in close to her nephew.
    “Yeah, and you’ve got peanut butter on your lip.”
    Audrey pulls the seat belt across her torso. It locks up. She pulls again. It locks up. Yanks it hard. Locks up. Oh fuck it. If they crash she’ll be well protected by all the human meat around her.
    “Who are you two firecrackers, anyway?”
    Audrey is not being funny. She can barely keep her nieces and nephews straight. She hasn’t been home in close to two years, and her two brothers keep multiplying, as if they’re making a hedge against Armageddon. In the second row in front