A Certain Age Read Online Free Page A

already married.”
    â€œI see. And how old is your little darling?”
    He hesitates. “Nineteen.”
    â€œOh, Ox. She’s just a girl!”
    â€œShe’s a very old nineteen,” he says. “And you were married at eighteen.”
    â€œSo I was.”
    â€œAnd Sylvo was thirty-six at the time, wasn’t he?”
    â€œSo he was.”
    â€œWell, there you are.” He nods and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his overcoat. “Smoke?”
    â€œThanks.”
    I accept the cigarette gratefully and allow him to light me up. He starts his own smoke from the same match, shakes out the flame just as it reaches the intersection of his finger and thumb. Like me, he closes his eyes as the virgin draft fills his lungs, and I am reminded of the first time we shared a smoke together, after the bon voyage party (if that’s the term) that Sylvo and I threw for Tommy. You look like you could use a smoke, he said, upon finding me alone on the terrace, staring across the dark wilderness of Central Park, and I agreed that I did, and we stood there smoking together at three o’clock in the morning, not saying a word, until I tossed my stub over the ledge onto Fifth Avenue and turned to him. This is our little secret, Ox, I warned him, and bless the idiot, he’s kept it ever since.
    â€œIt’s not just the lettuce, though,” he says now. “I was falling for her already, before I found out about that.”
    I reflect for an instant on my brother’s extraordinary capability for self-delusion. “No doubt,” I say.
    â€œWait until you meet her, sis.”
    â€œOh, I can’t wait. When are you proposing? I’ll have to consult my calendar and throw you two lovebirds a smashing little engagement party.”
    â€œBut, sis, that’s why I came. Don’t you remember?”
    â€œRemember what?”
    He looks around for an ashtray, and his gaze finally alights on the little oblong tin on the floor. I watch him step confidently to the bed and bend over. He’s not quite the agile young sportsman he was in earlier days—everything takes its toll, and Ox has imbibed plenty of what constitutes everything—but he’s still bendable enough, under that fat Chesterfield overcoat, and his glossy blond hair picks up flashes of light as he moves.
    â€œWell, well .” As if he’s just discovered a second Sphinx hidden between the floorboards. “Hel lo , Sisser. Looks as if someone’s been a little naughty.”
    I choke back a cough. “What’s that?”
    Ox straightens and holds out the sardine tin in my direction. “Eight smokes already? That’s some hibernation.”
    â€œGive me that.” I snatch the tin and set it on the dresser, under the shelter of the lamp. “Now, then. You were talking about asking your young filly to marry you.”
    Ox follows the ashtray and leans against the edge of the dresser, nice and close, so I can examine the dark smudges under his eyes and the chapped skin of his lips, which are bent into a familiar self-assured smile. Underneath the Chesterfield, he’s wearing evening dress, which shouldn’t really surprise me. Nor, for that matter, that he stinks of moonshine.
    â€œ I’m not the one who asks her,” he says. “Don’t you remember?”
    â€œI don’t remember a thing. I hope you don’t think I’m going to pop the question for you. I wrote all your college papers; isn’t that enough?”
    â€œThe ring, Sisser. Don’t you remember?”
    â€œWhat ring? I haven’t the slightest—oh!” I spit out the cigarette. “ Mama’s ring? The rose ring?”
    Ox pats my hand on the dresser. “That’s right. The old family tradition. I had it sent to the jeweler for a good polish, and now all that remains, all I need , which is why, of course, I came to you, Sisser—”
    â€œOh,