Pretty Lethal. Joe Schreiber

      ‘Honey, I’m sorry, but these are the thoughts that run through a mother’s mind.’ And before I could ask her why they had to be the thoughts that ran out of her mouth, she was back on the laptop, clicking away, talking and typing at the same time. ‘You know, I was thinking, since this is going to be our first Thanksgiving in the new house, and Paula, I know that your family is out in California . . . would you like to come and have Thanksgiving with us?’

      I took a deep breath. ‘I might not be around for Thanksgiving.’

      The typing noise stopped. From here I could see that she’d been updating her Facebook page, and in the silence I could feel her status changing. ‘Oh?’

      ‘I was trying to tell you – ’

      ‘Tell us what?’ That was Dad, coming down the stairs and around the corner with his iPhone in his hand and the Times under his arm. Immediately reading a disturbance in the emotional weather of the room, he turned to my mother. ‘What’s wrong?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ Mom was frowning, and two red spots had appeared on her cheeks. ‘Your son hasn’t told me yet.’

      ‘Perry?’ My father put on his stern attorney voice. ‘What’s going on?’

      ‘Look,’ I started, and that was probably a good start, but at that moment, the rusty Econoline van came squealing up into our driveway and I saw Norrie and Caleb jump out and start lugging their guitar cases and drums up toward our garage with the unquestioning sense of purpose that comes from not being able to go anywhere without hauling five hundred pounds of equipment along. We’d been using my house for practice for the past couple weeks, and they must have assumed that my announcement of tonight’s meeting was business as usual.

      ‘I should go talk to those guys.’

      ‘Maybe you should wait,’ Paula said.

      ‘Why?’

      She pointed out the window, not that it was necessary. There was no mistaking the tubercular gargle of the vehicle as it charged down the street and pulled in behind the van and Paula’s car. Linus Feldman drove a burgundy 1996 Olds 88, its chassis rusted and flaking down the primer, its remaining paint the color of an old bruise. Linus’s car doubled as his office, meaning the passenger seat was usually overflowing with unanswered correspondence, disputed contracts and flyers for our shows, past and future. Stepping out, he emerged in a swirl of paperwork and Starbucks cups.

      ‘Stormaire?’ he bellowed, arriving at the front door without bothering to knock. ‘Is Paula in there? Send that duplicitous wench out here now.’

      Paula sighed.

      ‘Linus?’ Dad blinked. ‘What’s he doing here?’

      Having trumpeted his arrival in no uncertain terms, Linus stood on our porch, arms crossed, with the air of a man who could wait forever. He was floating in a corduroy suit jacket with suede elbow patches and khaki pants, and his fluffy white popcorn hair seemed to swell, doubling and tripling with the sheer ferocity of his indignation.

      I opened the door. ‘Hi, Linus.’

      ‘Did you sign a contract?’

      ‘No, I – ’

      ‘But you’ve seen it.’

      ‘A contract for what?’ Dad asked, alternating his attention between me and Linus. He knew that Linus was a lawyer like himself, a brotherhood with an overlap that might ideally permit them to use some kind of professional shorthand, although on the few occasions when they’d met, it seemed to work the opposite way, signals crossing, interfering with each other’s frequencies. ‘Perry, what’s going on?’

      ‘Take it easy, Linus,’ Paula said. ‘Let’s all just breathe.’

      ‘Don’t patronize me, Yoko.’ Linus held up a sheet of paper, thrusting it in our faces as if it were a warrant for someone’s arrest. ‘An e-mail from George Armitage’s assistant? This is how I find out that you’re taking Inchworm on a European tour?’

      ‘That was an oversight,’ Paula said. ‘George was supposed to let me tell you myself.’

      ‘This is completely unacceptable.’

      ‘Wait – ’

      ‘Europe?’ Mom said. ‘Perry? When were you planning on telling us about this?’

      Dad reached for the e-mail in Linus’s hand. ‘May I see this, please?’

      ‘These terms are absurd,’ Linus said, snatching the e-mail away before any of us could see it. ‘You can tell George Armitage that he can take his tour and shove it up his – ’

      ‘Perry’s never been out of the country before,’ Mom said.

      ‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘I went to Toronto for the Shakespeare festival my junior year. And we all went to Paradise Island for Christmas that year. My passport’s up to date.’

      ‘Okay.’ Paula took in a deep breath. ‘With all due respect, I think we’re focusing on the wrong things here.’

      ‘For once we’re in perfect agreement.’ Linus put his arm around my shoulder and led me aside, lowering his voice. ‘Perry, you know I respect you. You know I want what’s right for the band. I’ll go to the mat for you every single time.’ He held his head as if it were in danger of flying apart. ‘But these terms – ’

      ‘What about if we all went with you?’ Mom said. ‘We’d stay out of your way, let you play your shows . . .’

      ‘Wait.’ That was Annie, from all the way upstairs in her bedroom, where she’d apparently been monitoring the entire conversation through the ductwork. ‘We’re going to Europe?’

      At that moment the entire east wing of the house exploded with the heavy, chugging drum and guitar notes that meant Caleb and Norrie had plugged in and were warming up at top volume, waiting for me to come out and join them. Sasha, our lead singer, wasn’t here yet – he was always the last to arrive, and, ever since he’d bought a vintage Indian motorcycle that broke down every other week, it wasn’t uncommon for him to show up in his mom’s Volvo, or even on a bicycle.

      ‘Family summit.’ Annie moved past me in a cloud of conflicting perfumes and hair treatment smells. ‘Oh, hi, Linus.’ She looked at my dad. ‘Are we going to Europe?’

      ‘No,’ Dad said.

      ‘How come Perry gets to go?’

      ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ Linus said, glaring over her head at Paula. ‘Uncle Linus isn’t going to let the evil lady take anybody to Europe for this kind of chump change.’

      ‘Perry’s going on tour,’ Mom said, ‘with his band. Isn’t that exciting?’

      Annie rolled her eyes. ‘I’m all a-flutter.’ Irony was her new ketchup, and she was putting it on everything.

      ‘I think I’d better take a look at that contract,’ Dad said, reaching for his reading glasses, which weren’t in his breast pocket.

      ‘Don’t bother,’ Linus said, and his hands had gone from his head to his stomach. His initial wave of outrage had passed, leaving him with what looked like chronic dyspepsia. ‘Just let me kick you in the balls and you’ll get the idea.’

      ‘Linus,’ Paula said, ‘I know this is your preferred method of negotiation, but – ’

      ‘Negotiation?’ Linus wailed, flung back by the very apogee of disbelief. ‘What is there to negotiate? How am I supposed to negotiate with nothing?’

      ‘In case you didn’t notice,’ Paula said, putting her arm around me, ‘I’m on Perry’s side here. I’m kind of crazy about the guy.’

      ‘Oh,