Books by Bart Yates
LEAVE MYSELF BEHIND
THE BROTHERS BISHOP
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
THE BROTHERS BISHOP
BART YATES
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2005 by Bart Yates
INTO THE MYSTIC by Van Morrison copyright © 1970 (renewed) WB Music Corp. (ASCAP) and Caledonia Soul Music (ASCAP). All rights administered by WB Music Corp. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, FL 33014.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2004110756
ISBN 978-0-758-28252-1
For Lois J. Yates:
The Mother of all Mothers,
and a damn good friend, too.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The first ten people I want to thank are all Gordon Mennenga. Gordon is a superhero; I once saw him go into a phone booth as himself and emerge a few seconds later as The Phenomenal and Brilliant Writer/Teacher/Mentor Man. He deserves a better name than that (Fictionguy? Storydude?)—and maybe a costume with a cool cape or something—but the rest is top-notch. Thank you, Gordon, for so many things, not the least of which is letting me get to know your lovely wife, Lynn.
I couldn’t ask for a more supportive editor than John Scognamiglio, nor could I wish for a more capable agent than John Talbot.
Gratitude and love to my family, especially my brothers, Jeff and Joel—who, thank God, are not even remotely like the brothers in this book.
Ed Leff was at the wrong place at the wrong time and was foolish enough to answer legal questions for FREE. Sucker! (Thanks, Ed. I owe you a fortune in beer. But please bring Lisa along; she’s more fun to talk to…)
Sifu Moy Yat Tung (a.k.a. Dr. Robert Squatrito) is a major source of inspiration in my life, and I wouldn’t know what to do without each of my kung fu brothers and nephews from the Moy Yat Ving Tsun Kung Fu Academy. The amount of kindness you all heaped on me while I was writing this book was humbling, especially considering how many times I behaved like an idiot during the process. No matter what I tell you to your faces, you guys rock. Special thanks, as ever, to Brad and Liz Schonhorst, John Perona, Peder Bartling, Robert Burns, Mick Benner, Andrew Knapp, Simo (Jennifer Squatrito), Bryan Pierce, Lucas Readinger, and Rob Weingeist.
Paul Robbins gave me a book on archaeology, Jack Manu humored me on the phone, Libby Shannon designed my website, and Rob Shannon is who I want to be when I grow up.
I stole the setting for this story from Mrs. Jeanne Cassidy, but she got even by drinking me under the table—yet again.
And finally, thanks to all of my friends. I wish I could mention each of you, but I’m afraid of leaving someone important out, so please accept this pathetic blanket thanks instead. You never know where friendship will spring up, or how long the driving force behind it might last, but I am grateful beyond words for the people who have shared their lives and their love with me, regardless of how much or how little time we’ve had together.
That being said, though, I do have a question for two especially benighted souls—Marian Clark and Michael Becker—who have somehow stayed close to me for more than twenty years, in spite of everything that usually gets in the way of deep and abiding relationships like ours:
Are you guys retarded or what?
CHAPTER 1
When I was five years old I stuck a pencil in a nice man’s eye. He was at a desk, typing a letter, and I was sitting on a stool next to him, scribbling a brontosaurus on a sheet of typing paper. I remember looking over at him and wondering why he was so intent on what he was doing, and I remember wishing he’d pay more attention to me. So I held the eraser end of the pencil by the corner of his eye and waited until he turned toward me before making my move. I didn’t push too hard and his lashes caught the bulk of the attack, but it still must have hurt like hell.
“Jesus Christ, kid!” he yelled, cradling his eye socket. “What did you do that for?”
I didn’t have an answer for him then. I still don’t. Sometimes you hurt people for no reason. Just because you can.
So this is how it ends. The day, I mean, with the sun dropping in the dunes at my back, coloring the surface of the water red and gold. I’m standing barefoot in the sand and the cold tide is licking at my ankles like a mutt with a foot fetish. I live half a mile from the beach, so I come here almost every day of the year to clear my head. It’s summer now so I don’t have the place to myself like I do in the winter, but I can usually find a quiet spot and pretend the ocean belongs exclusively to me.
Tommy’s coming home tomorrow, with his new scrotal-buddy and a young married couple in tow. He called last week and asked if he could come see me, but he waited until I said yes before he told me he was bringing an entourage. When I told him I wasn’t really in the mood to entertain anybody besides him, he got pissed.
“Don’t be a dick, Nathan. You’ve had the cottage to yourself for three years. Is it going to kill you to have a little company for a couple of weeks?”
I told him that was the whole point, because we haven’t seen each other since Dad died, and it would be nice to get together without a bunch of strangers barging in and taking over. He said his friends weren’t really strangers, though, because “Philip is practically your brother-in-law” and “Kyle and Camille are my two best friends in the world.” He assured me we’d all get along famously.
He’s been like this his whole life. He thinks if he loves somebody, everyone else he cares about will automatically love that person too. What an idiot. But of course I caved in. I always do. You can’t say no to Tommy.
Tommy’s my younger brother and a complete flake. He bounces from one job to another and one relationship to another and one financial crisis to another and all he does is eat, sleep, shit and fuck.
But he gets what he wants from everybody, anyway, because he won the genetics lottery. He got our mother’s looks—thick blond hair and startling blue eyes, clear skin, high cheekbones, delicate hands and feet—and he also got every ounce of her charm. I’m a clone of my father—pug nose, high forehead, black hair, brown eyes, sloped shoulders, heavy limbs, and yes, okay, an admittedly unattractive tendency to think