To Build a Home

4 | Onion Tears

"On the other side of the sink," Darren pointed, again with the knife.

I grabbed the knife from the drawer and made my way back to the counter, where I stared at the onion.

Darren laughed. "Cut it in half and then slice each half with nice long strokes."

I did as he said. There was a cacophony of chopping sounds as both of our knives sliced through the vegetables and landed on the woodblock. "So where did you learn to cook?" I asked.

"It was either cook or starve or go to your house. And I couldn't do that every night."

"I didn't know that. Your mom didn't cook?"

"No, she drank."

"I didn't know that. I mean, I knew your dad left. But I always wondered why Phil never went to your house." I looked at him, for the first time seeing who he had become instead of the kid who would use up all the butter at family dinners so I had to eat a plain roll more times than I could count. "I was sorry to hear about your mom."

"She got more years than she deserved. At some point you just have to be grateful for what you have. And control what you can. That's why I don't drink. Here," Darren stopped chopping abruptly. "Let me help you."

I was struggling to keep the onion together after a few strokes. There was a growing pile of half-chopped and abandoned onions in front of me and we were going to run out if I continued to do it on my own. Darren stood behind me and reached around to place his hand on mine. I could smell the fresh scent of soap on his skin and the shampoo in his hair. His breath was warm on the back of my neck as he instructed me. He lifted my hand as I held the knife and guided it with even strokes. He turned the onion with my other hand as we continued to chop across together. "There," he said.

He released my hands. It suddenly felt cold in the kitchen without the heat from his skin on mine. I continued to chop and my eyes started to tear up. The sniffle of my nose gave me away.

"Are you ok?" he asked.

"Yeah. It's not the first time I cried today." We exchanged a knowing look. When I couldn't see through the tears any longer I put down the knife. "Maybe I should just watch. To preserve the quality of the soup. Do you mind if I have a glass of wine?"

"It's in the pantry," he said.

I kept the apron on and went inside the pantry, suddenly self-conscious and aware of my half-naked body in the kitchen. There was a case of wine on the floor, red and white, and I grabbed a Cabernet. I looked around for a glass and a corkscrew. "I can't find anything in this kitchen!"

Darren directed me to both while he poured the broth, chopped onions, carrots, and celery into the crockpot. Then the leftover chicken from lunch and egg noodles.

"You must have spent a lot of time here," I noticed. I uncorked the bottle with a soft pop.

"My house is too big and empty to eat alone every night."

"You two were always inseparable. I wasn't surprised when he bought a house down the block from yours." I sat back down on the stool and poured a glass of wine. I raised it for a toast. "Cheers," I said and took a sip. There was a long silence. "I was surprised to see Phil allowed Noah to have a dollhouse. I'm sure that was all Theresa, but I was shocked to see it in his room."

"You're wrong about Phil," Darren said. "I know he gave you a hard time in high school, but he's the one who bought the dollhouse. He wanted to teach Noah how to renovate houses, start grooming him for the family business while he was young. But Noah just wanted to play house with the dolls and Phil would sit there with him, cross-legged, and put on voices. Like you did in the tub."

I took another sip of my drink. It was weird to hear Darren talk about my brother as if I didn't know him. "I would have loved to see that. You saw everything."

"He was my brother, too."

"No, I know. Probably more so than me."

Darren stopped what he was doing. "Don't do that to yourself. He loved you."

"He might have loved me, Darren, but you're the one who he told. We never said anything like that to each other." I was starting to feel tears well up, but we would both know it wasn't from the onions this time, so I looked down at the glass and concentrated on the swirling red in front of me.

Darren leaned on the counter across from me and his hair fell onto his face. He brushed it back with the smooth motion of his hand, unaware he had even done it. "We're going to get through this, Ryan. Together."

I took a long swig of my wine and stared at Darren. Together. No one in New York did anything together. Sure, there were jam-packed subway rides and crowded sidewalks that felt more like escape rooms than morning commutes, but even when you were surrounded by people, you were alone. No one knew where you kept the knives in your kitchen or the librarian's name or came over to cook soup. Maybe there was more to Windber than homophobic teenage brothers and trolley graveyards.

"I think I will take that shower now," I said.

"The soup should be ready in twenty minutes."

I put the glass down and left the kitchen. Were we in this together, I wondered. Maybe Darren should be the one to take care of Noah and the house. He could cook and knew where everything was and how my brother felt and the history behind everything, even something as insignificant as a child's dollhouse.

I hopped in the shower and cried for the millionth time that day. I never went back downstairs for soup.

Author's Note: Thanks, again, for reading! I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments. 

What else do you think Darren is good at? ;)