These paper boats of mine are meant to dance on the ripples of hours, and not reach any destination. - Rabindranath Tagore

Part III

Daphne ran her hands across her friend's shoulders as they looked out over the darkening water. Justin had become obsessed with the river - she'd figured that out a while ago. She could almost understand why, the way it must play with his emotions and his artist's sensibilities. It was at once a thing of immense power and clandestine beauty. It wasn't truly a place of recreation and Daphne wasn't sure if it ever had intended itself to be. It was a working waterway in this part of the city, a transport lane for freight to be hauled in and waste to be hauled out. The fish that had managed to acclimate to the toxins oozed out from the bowels of old freighters were of a heartier breed than any angler would care to claim, and certainly would not end up on anyone's dinner table. Concrete walls and rusting abutments had replaced what vegetation may once have stood on its banks.

No, the Hudson in late summer wasn't exactly a day at the beach, but it had become a comfort to Justin. He'd talked at length about watching the tankers or the opposing skyline distort through the shimmer of heat that hovered just above the water's surface, that he sometimes imagined it was all hallucination. He wasn't really in New York, he would tell Daphne, not standing beside a polluted waterway. He was in Pittsburgh, playing with a younger Molly beside the small pond his mother used to take them to. There would be a picnic and games of chase, with the little girl squealing as she was scooped up and tossed in the air by her big brother. She would hug him tightly and call him Jester and fall asleep on his shoulder as the sun sank behind the tree line.

It had been months since he'd see her, since they'd buried their mother and rearranged their lives forever. He'd called her once, in March, and they'd talked about school and her crush on Casey and missing their mom. When he called again in April the phone number had been changed. Unlisted. So Justin began to write. Instead of a reply, he got returned letters. It all broke Daphne's heart and she cursed the hateful man who'd been Justin's father.

"I'm thinking we should head over to Tellie's for awhile," Daphne said which a shrug against Justin's shoulder. "You know, for a drink and a game of darts?"

"You're only in the city for the day, Daph, and you want to spend it at a cheap bar tossing darts?" He grinned. "I figured you'd at least want to go somewhere you could find a half-naked guy."

"Yeah, well... half-naked guys are so over-rated." What she really wanted was to stick a picture of Craig Taylor on the bulls-eye. Or maybe one of Brian. Didn't matter. Either one should improve their dart game a bit. "Now... if you know a place where there are totally naked guys..."

"You slut!" Justin punched her lightly on the arm and laughed just a little. "So... Tellie's it is," he said, and rested his head against her curly hair. "Something I want to do first, though."

Justin took a well-traveled envelope from his pocket and opened it. Hey, Mollusc. He had practice now, creating his boats. Knew exactly on which line he should crease left and on which he should crease right. Knew how many folds to make quickly and exactly where to tuck in the ends. Love, Jester. He'd perfected the placement of the letters and wondered if he'd known somehow when he'd written those words that he should sign his name just there so it would work out like this.

He finished folding and tucked a candle in one end, lit it, and set the little paper boat out onto the Hudson. "Happy birthday, Molly."

Mr. Marcuso nodded as Justin walked up the final steps to his apartment. The smell of oregano seeping through the man's open doorway competed with the odors of the Hudson and Tallie's still lingering on Justin's clothes and made him a little nauseous. "Share lasagna tonight, Justin?" Justin thanked him and promised, perhaps, another night. Mr. Marcuso nodded again and looked worried. Justin knew it was because they always spent Friday evening together and he was turning him down again. It had been weeks since he'd visited with the old man and he felt a little guilty about that. He didn't make friends easily of late and, his visit with Daphne today aside, he hated to ignore the few he already had. It was always just a little too much for him on lasagna night, though, and Mr. Marcuso always plied him with too much wine - Justin got melancholy with wine these days. He turned the keys in the locks and pushed open his own door and thought he'd had enough melancholy today.

He'd come to appreciate his battered little walk-up, with the hints at an outdated beauty it no longer had. It was small and there was a crack in the ceiling about three inches from the south wall. The window air conditioning unit cooled sporadically in summer and the radiator heat didn't quite reach the middle of the room in winter. But it was safe and affordable and his. That was all that mattered. It was his cocoon, a chrysalis where he worked on shedding his old skin and finding his wings. As he glanced at his easel, with yet another painting in which there were no tones of green or gold or brown, he didn't think he was succeeding so well at that.

Emmett laughed at something and Theodore blushed. Brian thought it almost... charming that anyone could still blush in this day and age. He had just enough wine in him tonight to think words like charming were...charming. He'd come to detest this house which had been his haven for so many years, to dread this ritual of the family dinner. What had once embraced him now felt claustrophic. Certainly felt forced. He poured himself another drink and counted all the chairs nobody used anymore. Debbie had never gotten around to condensing the table for her get-togethers, even though Vic was no longer with them. Or the girls and Gus. Or... Brian closed his eyes and swallowed his wine.

"Oh! Oh! I was looking over my old diary today. Did you all know I kept a diary?" Emmett clapped his hands above the plate of Debbie's lasagna. His enthusiasm became a thing unto itself when he was drinking. "Well, I do, and my diary says it was exactly six years ago today that we took that little road trip." A sudden silence descended over the table, which Emmett misinterpreted and simply had to fill with more words. "You know, the one all us boys took to New York?" He then caught Brian's eyes. Maybe Emmett hadn't misinterpreted at all.

"Em," Theodore cautioned, "I don't think..."

"We should all do that again!" Emmett tipped his glass back and finished off the remainder of his wine. "Don't you think so?"

There was a scraping of wood on linoleum, a clatter of metal on melmac and a labored "No, we don't think so, Emmett," as Michael stormed toward the front of the house. Brian rolled his tongue in his cheek and caught the slight upward curve of Emmett's mouth just as Debbie waved her finger in Brian's face and hissed, "Fix this!"

Brian patted his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. One could almost hear Emmett gloat as Brian popped a Marlboro between his lips, pulled car keys from his jeans and headed for the door.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Brian shook Debbie's hand from his arm and looked up the stairs into Michael's defiant eyes. He brought his gaze back to the questioning woman before him, the grand dame of her little family. He saw the hurt and anger, the challenge on her face. He didn't need to hear the words to know she was daring him to walk out that door and hurt her son. Her only son, no matter how quickly she'd deny that claim if asked. Brian had no doubt Debbie loved him. She loved them all. But, whether she'd admit it or not, all her other sons were merely outliers, a floatilla meant to circle around for the protection of Michael.

Brian turned his eyes to Emmett, caught the slight smile and gentle nod, and wondered when the man had become so fucking wise. He gave his own wan smile and a small, ironic laugh before looking back up at Michael. He answered Debbie's question as he held Michael's gaze - "To try and fix my fucked up mess."