Sunset Park

about goddamned bloody existentialism . By fifteen, Bobby had turned into a serious pothead, one of those glassy-eyed high school stoners who puke their stomachs out at weekend parties and make small drug deals to keep themselves in extra cash. Stick-in-the-mud Heller, bad-boy Nordstrom, and never the twain could meet. Verbal attacks were occasionally delivered from each side, but the physical fighting had stopped—largely due to the mysteries of genetics. When they found themselves on that road in the Berkshires twelve years ago, the sixteen-year-old Heller stood a couple of centimeters below six feet and weighed one hundred and seventy pounds. Nordstrom, derived from scrawnier stock, was five-eight and weighed one forty-five. The mismatch had canceled all potential bouts. For some time now, they had belonged in different divisions.
    What were they arguing about that day? What word or sentence, what series of words or sentences had so enraged him that he lost control of himself and pushed Bobby to the ground? He can’t remember clearly. So many things were said during that argument, so many accusations flew back and forth between them, so many buried animosities came roiling to the surface in so many gusts of vehemence and vindictiveness that he has trouble pinpointing the one particular phrase that set him off. At first, it was all quite childish. Irritation on his part over Bobby’s negligence, yet one more botch in a long line of botches, how could hebe so stupid and careless, look at the mess you’ve gotten us into now. On Bobby’s part, irritation over his brother’s tight-assed response to a minor inconvenience, his sanctimonious rectitude, the know-it-all superiority he’d been busting his balls with for years. Boys’ stuff, hotheaded adolescent boys’ stuff, nothing terribly alarming. But then, as they continued going at each other and Bobby warmed up to the battle, the dispute reached a deeper, more resonant level of bitterness, the nether lode of bad blood. It became the family then and not just the two of them. It was about how Bobby resented being the outcast of the holy four, how he couldn’t stand his mother’s attachment to Miles, how he’d had it up to here with the punishments and groundings that had been meted out to him by heartless, vengeful adults, how he couldn’t bear to listen to another word about academic conferences and publishing deals and why this book was better than that book—he was sick of it all, sick of Miles, sick of his mother and stepfather, sick of everyone in that stinking household, and he couldn’t wait to be gone from there and off at college next month, and even if he flunked out of college, he was through with them and wouldn’t be coming back. Adios, assholes. Fuck Morris Heller and his goddamned son. Fuck the whole fucking world.
    He can’t remember which word or words pushed him over the edge. Perhaps it isn’t important to know that, perhaps it will never be possible to remember which insult from that rancorous spew of invective was responsible forthe shove, but what is important, what counts above all else, is to know if he heard the car coming toward them or not, the car that was suddenly visible after rounding a sharp curve at fifty miles an hour, visible only when it was already too late to prevent his brother from being hit. What is certain is that Bobby was shouting at him and he was shouting back, telling him to stop, telling him to shut up, and all through that insane shouting match they were continuing to walk down the road, oblivious to everything around them, the woods to their left, the meadow to their right, the hazy sky above them, the birds singing in every pocket of the air, finches, thrushes, warblers, all those things had disappeared by then, and the only thing left was the fury of their voices. It seems certain that Bobby didn’t hear the approaching car—or else he wasn’t concerned by it, since he was walking on the shoulder of the road and didn’t feel he was in danger. But what about you? Miles asks himself. Did you know or didn’t you know?
    It was a hard, decisive shove. It knocked Bobby off balance and sent him staggering onto the road, where he fell down and cracked his head against the asphalt. He sat up almost immediately, rubbing his head and cursing, and before he could climb to his feet, the car was mowing him down, crushing the life out of him, changing all their lives forever.
    That is the first thing he