They found him rolled up in an old carpet, the apparent victim of a heroin overdose. I guess the needle was still sticking his arm when the cops finally got there. Joe had been an addict for years. They almost always die before their kids, or they end up in prison, where they have someone smuggle the crap in for them. My uncle never went to prison, but he left the wife and kids when they were all still young. No one knew where he took off to until he came back to town on a Greyhound one day. His girl had married a dentist and moved to Ohio by then. Joe once said that he would rather be dead than without the stuff. Now he is, and he even died with the heroin still in his blood. I bet that made him smile a big one before he went.

     My father isn’t taking it as well as I am. The rosary is this evening. We’ll bury him—my uncle, second son, first and only sibling of my father—tomorrow. Dad’s been drinking, stooped over the kitchen table with a can of beer perpetually in hand like some kind of living advertisement for the virtues of guzzling booze, since the day we found out. Well, the truth is he’s been drinking since the day Diane left us, but it’s been every day and all night since they found Joe in the crack house on Poplar, the street where all the dopeheads spread disease and share their smack. Diane’s my mother, the chick Pops never got over. Personally, I got over her just as soon as I knew who she was, when I found out on my tenth birthday that she left us as soon as my second tooth sprouted. She would “dry up like a severed flower” (her words) if she didn’t pursue her career as an artist. Dad says she had the talent if not the passion.

     “I just feel like I let him down somehow,” he says, staring into his can of Schlitz as if he’ll find God sitting cross-legged at the bottom with a word of wisdom or two. “I was s’posed to take care of him.”

     My father and uncle grew up without a mother. She died when they were still young. Dad was eight and Joe was only two. My grandfather, a flannel-shirt, bloody-steak kind of man, never had a lot of ambition, but he worked his ass off at a garage to keep them all fed. Dad cooked for the three of them, and I guess he made sure Joe wore the right shoe on the right foot and all that.

     Grand-dad says that Joe used to be a good kid. I remember Joe back when. He taught me how to smack the living crap out of a baseball when Dad stuck me in little league so he wouldn’t have to worry about me being alone all the time. Joe loved the sport. He played shortstop for his high school. Dad says he was an all star, could’ve played college ball if he wanted. But that’s how they all start out—drug addicts. Full of promise and the overwhelming knowledge of themselves, and then the world, like a big boot, crushes them. Dad dreamed of becoming a doctor before he knocked up Diane. He’s a smart guy, too, and he likes to take care of people. But he drinks booze and fixes toilets instead. Not that fixing toilets is bad. Someone’s gotta do it, clear all the shit from the pipes so more shit can pass through. It’s kind of noble when you consider it. I wonder if Joe saw it that way—like he was flushing the heroin through his veins to make room for more heroin.

     Dad is crumpling one more can when he asks if I’ll take Joe’s kids out after the rosary, maybe take them to see the Christmas lights at the rich houses, tell them about their father. I say sure, even though I’m not. They didn’t know him too well. They were tiny when Joe disappeared. What can I tell them that their mother hasn’t already? That he played good ball? I never saw much of him once he got back from the coast. Turned out he hitchhiked to California one day and stayed for years. Grand-dad and father didn’t know where he was, but they thought he might be surfing on a beach somewhere. He always liked the pacific coast.

     “Why’d he take off to California that time?” I ask.

     “Who can say? Maybe it’s in the blood to wander,” he answers, scratching his chin, stubbly from days of not shaving, speckled with black and premature silver, silver for the years of worrying.

     I want to say, “Like alcoholism,” but the timing is wrong. I touch my own face, and wonder if my hair will ever grow in thick and coarse like his. In my seventeen years of life, I’ve never had a problem with alcohol. Hell, the only problem I have is that I can’t keep a girlfriend long enough to get laid like all the other guys on the team. Then again, maybe it’s better that way. I’m not stuck up or anything. But I’m proud of myself for staying in school and staying clean. I’m not bad-looking either (girls are always commenting on my blue eyes and dark hair) and I can play ball. Coach says I could easily get a baseball scholarship, and then my grades are pretty decent, too. I won’t be a mechanic like grand-dad or a plumber. Or a man who dies in an abandoned house on a dirty street.

     Joe had just cashed a check from the government—he collected disability from a construction accident—the day he died. We knew this because he bought groceries for my grand-dad that day: a nice steak to throw on the old grill, red potatoes, and his favorite whiskey, Wild Turkey. He did things like that for grand-dad every time he got a check. One of Joe’s buddies called yesterday to give his condolences and said that a guy in the shooting gallery had taken the money from Joe’s pocket when they figured he was out. My dad asked why no one had called for an ambulance. The guy told him that they were all too high. No one wanted to leave, but they’d have to if somebody called 911 because the cops would come, too. My father’s voice inflected in incredulity as he shouted into the phone, “You mean you all just sat there and watched him die?” They rolled him up in that filthy scrap of carpet and nodded off, and then they ripped him off, ditching the place as soon as they came to.

     Father and I speculate about the house where Joe died as he rolls a joint and smokes it like a cigarette. The vessels in his eyes fill with blood; he is high. The December sun is making less of an appearance in the window as the day wanes, and there are shadows in the kitchen where none resided before when Dad days, “Drive me over there, son. I wanna see it.”

     “But the rosary,” I say, worried that the house will depress him further, and then he’ll drink more, and I don’t want him to embarrass himself at the service, Joe’s kids being there and all. What if he can’t stand up at the church? I guess I’ll hold him up if I have to. That’s what sons are supposed to do for their fathers when they lose their strength and fumble on their drunken legs. Not that I’ve ever had to do it before. I’ve had a lot of practice hugging the corners, staying out of the way when he’s wasted, disappearing while someone else picks up the mess. But there is one thing I always do for my father: drive. He taught me how just as soon as I was old enough to be afraid of his drunken joyrides. I’ve been driving longer than most my age. My father continues to insist that we go to the house. I drive.

     The streets grow older and sadder, like a man with regrets who fears death, until we get to Poplar, the saddest of them all. The house is yellow like father’s skin after a heavy binge. Boards cover all the broken out windows. Graffiti all over the inside: warnings against this whore or that written in red paint that drips down the walls.

     “He did it in front of me once,” I tell my father. It seems like a good time for honesty. “He asked if I wanted to see what it looks like.”

     My father is buzzed, so I don’t get to see the expression I’m looking for, the shock in his watery blue eyes. He simply nods and says, “Yeah? Was it as bad as you thought it’d be?”

     Come to think of it, I kind of liked seeing the blood mix with the liquid in the needle. Like red smoke dissipating into the air around it or mud swirling into clean bath water after a hard practice. “It was interesting,” I say. “Did you ever see it?”

     “I took him to buy clean needles. God knows he had enough problems without getting AIDS from a dirty needle.” Dad was always picking Joe up off the street, taking him to dinner or buying him a pair of shoes.

     “But he had Hepatitis, right?”

     My father kicks over some empty beer bottles and stares at the floor of the room where Joe died. Then he lights a Doral, sighing as he exhales. “He had a poor liver.”

     I feel sorry for them, Joe and my father. They grew up without a mother and without much cash. Joe never begged for money though. And he never ripped off other people to support his habit like some addicts. We found out that he sold his body on the streets of Los Angeles when he disappeared that time. We don’t talk about it. But the way I see things, it’s better to punish yourself than to punish the innocent, better to sell pieces of yourself than to steal pieces of someone else’s life, pieces of jewelry or household appliances that someone cherishes or finds useful for one reason or another. There are two types of addicts: those who steal from their family and those who do not. I once dated a chick whose aunt ripped off her fundraiser money from girl-scout cookies when she was just a kid. The mother had to work extra shifts at the local dive to replace it. At least Joe had morals. And even though Dad spends so much cash on his own habits—beer, pot, and cigarettes—he always buys the cheap stuff, and I’ve never worn anything but the best shoes and the latest styles. Still, I wish he could be sober. “You never said if you saw him do it,” I say. Maybe I’m being selfish, but I want to know.

     “He hid it from me. Thought I’d look down on him if I saw him like that. Funny thing is, I could tell when he was doped up and it didn’t make much difference. He’d nod off, sure, but he was always the same person, sober or lit.” Dad gulps down the rest of his beer and tosses the empty can, looking around as if he’ll find another somewhere amongst the rubble of the beat-up house.

     “You wanna leave this place, Pops?”

     “Yeah. There’s nothing here.” And there isn’t, really. Not even the carpet that cradled my uncle as he nodded off into his best trip ever. Someone mercifully disposed of it. The chill in the air and the beauty of the sky startles us as we leave the house, and we stand at the top of the steps to watch for a minute. The sun is bleeding into the horizon, tainting the hazy winter clouds beyond and coloring them with shades of pink and salmon. The frigid air seems to glow and reflect the red of the sunset, which only happens during the twilight hours. After being inside that house, the coldness of the air against my face feels good, like the coldest shower washing the sweat and filth of a summer ballgame from my body. We pick up another twelve-pack and a carton of cigarettes on the way home.

     The rosary starts in an hour, and my father is still sitting at the kitchen table, his back turned, me not quite looking over his shoulder. He’s staring at pictures of Joe and himself when they were kids. The one in his hands shows the two of them in a swimming pool, one dunking the other, but I can’t tell who is who because the action in the photo has blurred the image. “I used to let him dunk me,” my father says to the room or to me or maybe to his beer. The trash is loaded with empty cans. I walk closer to dump the ashtray that is overflowing with the remains of my father’s cigarettes, each butt smoked down to the filter. I notice a huge thumbprint smeared across the corner of the picture, probably my grand-dad’s. Father’s hands are enflamed from scratching. He and Joe inherited eczema from my grand-dad. He scratches when he’s agitated, ripping off the scabs from the scratching of the day before. I want to get a cold washcloth and wipe the blood that wells up from the hateful red sores. But I am not a tender man. I am not yet a man.

     I walk over to switch on another light in the trailer because it’s too dark with just the kitchen light on. “The rosary,” I say. “It’s almost time. You wanna change your clothes, right? Clean up a little?” I can’t picture him standing in front of all the mourners in his torn-up jeans and greasy T-shirt.

     “Wanna smoke a joint with me, son?” He looks up from his photographs. I think about saying yes for the first time, about how it would be to share a stoned moment with my father. Would we float on a cloud together? I tell him no thanks. It’s enough that I drank a few beers with him today. He goes back to his pictures and his scratching. I take out the trash and wait for my cousins to arrive, worrying about what I’ll tell them and how they’ll act, how we all will. I’d be scratching right now if I had eczema.

     “He had good taste,” I say.

     My dad joins the conversation briefly. “He once said he wanted me to play ‘Beast of Burden’ at his service.”

     “You mean he knew he was going to die?” my little cousin asks. Through the rearview, she is tiny next to my father, a little cub next to big Poppa Bear. He never answers but stares out the window at the flesh-colored clouds, which have taken over the whole sky by now. It’s one of those evenings when the pink glow of the night foreshadows a good snow. We drive the rest of the way in silence.

     The church is softly glowing with the flames of candles. The overhead lamps have been turned down and emit only a minimal amount of light. We walk to the front of the church, where the amber glow of several candles illuminates the casket. It is surrounded by flower arrangements—red carnations and white roses. The podium is off to the side. I let my father and cousins walk ahead of me. The three of them stand over my uncle, my father in the middle with his arms around the kids. Grandfather sits in the front pew, and even in the dim light, I can see that his face is shiny with tears. He wears a black suit like my father; this is the first time I have seen either of them in a suit. There aren’t many others here: our family is small. Some of Joe’s friends sit in the back. I assume they are his friends because their clothes are not like ours, their hair is greasy, the eyes are empty. I wonder if the one who stole his money is here.

     I do not want to see Joe, but it is my turn and I’ll look like a jerk in front of his kids if I don’t. As I approach, I think about how bodies never smell like rotting flesh when they are prepared for the viewing and wonder why this is so. And then I am hovering above the casket; my feet, numb, as if asleep, do not feel the ground. His hair is all wrong because it’s combed. His clothes, which do not fit and hang from his emaciated frame, are clean and brand new. No one took the time to iron out the wrinkles they hold from being folded up in the store too long. His face is plastic, the lips turned up in a slight smile. They always say how the dead look peaceful, but this is not peace on his face. Contentment, maybe? Satisfaction? The sleeves of a white dress shirt that he would’ve never worn cover his arms, which are probably marked up with red welts from the needle. His hands, clasping a crucifix, rest on his chest. Joe was an atheist. This is why I hate coming to these things. They turn you into something you are not. But who was he? Before I turn to take my seat in the second pew, I stare a moment longer—like a man contemplating life one last time as he turns away from the edge of a precipice he is too afraid to jump from—and notice the eczema scars on Joe’s hands, the same as my father’s.

     Dad is the first to speak and I am amazed by his composure. He does not seem drunk or stoned, only tired. My grandfather’s shoulders are heaving gently as my father speaks of my uncle’s kindness. Bewilderment stains the countenance of my youngest cousin, like a tiny child who is lost at a carnival, unable to distinguish a friendly face from all the swimming colors. The eldest is staring blankly at my father, whose words I have ceased to hear at some point. I am lost in recollections of my uncle. And then I am startled from these memories by a loud crash. A collective gasp escapes from the mourners. My father has fallen to the floor, knocking over the podium in the process.

     Without thinking, I rush to my father and scoop him up by the shoulders. I lead him out to the foyer, where we collapse onto a bench. My father is wailing like that child who is lost in the carnival. I hold him against me, letting his tears soak the front of my shirt. What feels like a flask or small bottle of liquor presses against my stomach. My father’s mouth mumbles words into my chest. In the background, the eulogy resumes with the cracking of my grandfather’s broken voice. Order has been temporarily restored.

     My father continues to sob, pausing only to cough, to hack up his grief. Soon his head lifts from my chest, and he squints into my face with his tired eyes, red as blood. “Why, son?” he asks, the medicinal odor of alcohol on his breath overwhelming my nose. But I don’t pull away. “Why him? He was good and kind-hearted and he never hurt a soul.”

     I want to say, “Only himself,” but the words do not form in my mouth.

     “I should’ve done more for him,” he sputters and flecks of his spittle rain on my face. He is gurgling like a baby, the sobs sticking in his throat.

     I want to tell him that you cannot help those who do not wish to be helped. I know. But the timing is wrong. I let him cry.

     I stare at my father’s hands and remember my uncle the last time I saw him alive. I was driving down Main Street when the light turned red. My window was down because the air conditioner never works and the day was hot. I tried not to stare because I hate to see bums—they make me feel sorry—but I turned and saw him walking down the road. I didn’t know where he was going, but he looked tired shuffling along the busy street, as if the effort of remembering his destination was more than he could bear. His pants were too big and he seemed to be lost or unsure where to go. His feet were naked and it looked like the pavement hurt to walk on. He never saw me. When the light blinked green, I sped away, turning my head as I passed him by.

     Father has stopped crying. My face is wet, and at first I think they are my father’s tears, but those tears only fell on my shirt, which is now cold against my skin. I am surprised to feel warmth on my cheeks because I have never been one to cry.

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