I hear some kids running around in the backyard, and soon I see their faces appearing now and then, rising and falling from a trampoline.
"Little bastards," Tony sniggers. He has the same humor as his brother.
For a few minutes we watch a very interesting special on tug-of-war on some kind of Wide World of Sports show, but when a commercial comes onto his big-screen TV, Tony turns his attention back toward me.
"So tell me something, Ed--I guess you're wondering why my brother and I have a rift between us."
I can't hide it. "Well, yes."
"You feel like hearing what happened?"
I look at him.
Honestly.
And I shake my head. "No, that's none of my business."
Tony breathes out heavily and takes a sip of his drink. I hear him crush the ice even more inside his mouth. I don't realize it, but I've given him the right answer.
One of the kids comes in the room, crying.
"Dad, Ryan keeps--"
"Ah, stop whingein' and piss off!" Tony shouts.
The kid contemplates crying a bit harder but straightens up almost immediately. He pulls himself together. "Is that cordia
l, Dad?"
"Yes."
For a moment, I think the kid's asking if his dad's being friendly and approachable. Then I remember the drink.
"Can I have some?"
"What's the magic word?"
"Please?"
"Right. In a sentence."
"Can I have some cordial, please?"
"Yes. That's better, George. Now piss off to the kitchen and make some, will you?"
The kid beams. "Thanks, Dad!"
"Bloody kids," Tony laughs. "No manners these days...."
"I know," I say, and we laugh.
We laugh and Tony says, "You know, Ed, if you look hard enough, you just might see me there tomorrow."
Inside, I rejoice, but I don't show it.
This is good.
"Thanks, Tony."