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the factors that had derailed Willy affect him. Bob’s wasn’t an exciting life. He hadn’t done anything that would merit comment on a plaque or stimulate a rousing memorial speech. But he’d been stalwart and honest and faithful and responsible and had created a life Willy could only envy.
    Not that Willy would ever tell him even part of that.
    He did sit beside him on the bench, though, and lightly punched his shoulder as he said, “Some speech, Bobby.”
    Bob swung his head around to glance at him and give him a sour smile. “You are such an asshole.”
    Willy laughed. “Don’t I know it. How’s Mom?”
    Bob straightened and sat back, sighing deeply, his hands in his lap. “ ‘How’s Mom?’ he asks. You called her house to talk to me. You could have asked her yourself, you know? There’s another woman you abuse and who still thinks you’re the perfect son. I visit her every week, bring Junie and the kids by on a regular basis, have her up to the house for weekends during the summer. All she talks about is you. What the hell is it about you that makes people care so much?”
    Willy had been staring straight ahead, waiting for Bob to finish, until he noticed his brother was looking right at him, actually expecting an answer.
    “Give me a break, Bob,” he said.
    After a telling pause, Bob let out a small laugh of defeat. “Who am I kidding? You have no idea what I’m talking about. Even I love you, and you’re probably the most unpleasant person I know.”
    “Thanks,” Willy responded. “So, how’s Mom?”
    “She’s got emphysema, a bad ticker, and her hip hurts so bad she can hardly walk, but she won’t go for replacement surgery. Other than that, she’s great. She’s still as domineering, short-tempered, and impatient as ever, and still knows everything about everything, even when she’s dead wrong. You ought to drop by and see her. The two of you might kill each other and let the rest of us get on with our lives.”
    Willy smiled. “Gee, Bob, you’ve become quite the sentimentalist in your old age.”
    “Yeah.”
    They sat side by side for several minutes in silence, staring at the enormous bridge and its steady burden of anonymous humanity, surrounded by the muted sounds of the city enveloping them.
    Finally, Bob asked, “Why’d she do it? She talked like life was getting better.”
    Willy thought back to some of the things his brother had accused him of, and of how it had never occurred to him to deny them.
    “I don’t know, but I intend to find out. It may be too little, too late, but that much I can do.”

Chapter 6
    T he Re-Coop didn’t open until midafternoon, which, given most of its clientele, was still probably early. When Willy appeared across the street from its entrance, recognizing it not just from the sign but from the photograph he’d removed from Mary’s apartment, it looked empty.
    Of course, all the other buildings on the block looked empty, too. The Lower East Side was distinctive that way, one block being a bustling bazaar, merchandise spilling out onto crowded sidewalks already festooned with clothes and fabrics hanging from overhead signs, while the very next street was silent, closed up, and virtually lifeless.
    Unlike Willy’s old Washington Heights stomping grounds, though, the Lower East Side had been a catchment area for the poor and the dispossessed since its birth. And yet, perhaps for that very reason, it had also once thrived with life and creativity, with thousands of families jammed into single blocks, fomenting radical thinkers, social activists, and talents like the Gershwin and Marx brothers, Jimmy Durante, and Al Jolson.
    But not lately. Nowadays, minus the spark of sheer numbers, that contradictory clash of creativity and despair had melted into something more numbing. While the occasional bustling street still flourished, especially on weekends, the overall neighborhood seemed locked in a permanent funk of poverty, drug abuse, and