As I came in, I realized that Maggio’s was one of those bland, new-era Italian places. The kind that have red booths and tan walls plastered with some faux-inspirational company motto. Not a proper Italian joint, where pictures of the countryside adorn every inch. No, this place was the current style: a place devoid of personality in order to allow the customers to imprint their own. 

Dad sat in a booth. He was tall and a bit overweight, but not to the point it made him unseemly. He had a haggard and tired face, worn from years of use in the Florida sun. But it was not an ugly face; even now, at 64 years of age, it still radiated a certain warmness. He nodded toward me, and I made my way toward him.   
	
“Hey, Steve,” he said in his gruff voice.
	
“Hi, Dad,” I returned.   

“Ordered their Premiere pizza,” Dad piped. “Want to see if they’re as good as that other place. What was it again? Flappers? Flakers?” 

“Flippers.”    

“Ah, that’s it. Damn fine pizza they make there.” 

We sat for a few moments, absorbing the surroundings. Some jazz song played around us, mixing with the Virginia Tech and Pitt game that was playing on the TV behind me. A couple sat near the back, giggling at some private joke. The scents of mozzarella and flour filled the air.

“Steve, your mother and I are revising our will,” Dad suddenly said.  

I was surprised, but hid it with a shrug. “Alright. Revising it for what?”

“We want to set up a trust fund. One that’ll disperse our remaining finances after our deaths.”

“For me?” 

“No. We trust you enough for you to get it right out.” He paused for a moment, looking back down at the table. “It’s for Jack.”

A hundred fractured memories flowed back to me, Jack the center of all of them. 

The one where he tried to slam the door on my foot. 

The one where he yelled at me for playing the piano too long. 

The one where he punched my dog in the face when she barked too loud. 

“Now, I know you and he haven’t been friendly, but… you’re a responsible adult and his brother, so we want to make you the manager of his trust.” 

I could only stare at him. 

“Look, Steve, I know it wasn’t easy living with him. But you know he’s got a mental condition, and it’s the kind that just gets worse.” 

I nodded only to affirm that I’d heard him. The rest of me was listing the people with 'conditions' who didn't make their families' lives a living hell. 

“It won’t be that big of a responsibility. Hell, you won’t even have to see him.”

Virginia Tech scored a touchdown in the background, winning the game. 

“I know I could’ve just talked with you over the phone, but this is just something that I felt had to be done face-to-face.” 

I understood that; I too would’ve talked to my son one-on-one when asking him to take care of his bastard brother. Oh, he wasn’t actually a bastard, but he was a bastard at the same time.

“So will you do it?” he said. 

I wanted to say no. No, and let him go to Hell. Let him burn in whatever circle it is bastards are supposed to burn in.

But I didn’t say that. How could I, to the enabler that sat across from me? Yes, enabler, but my father nevertheless. Just like how the bastard was my brother nevertheless.  

I was suddenly very and inescapably sad. I wished I wasn’t at this meeting. I wished I was back at home, or back at Grandfather Mountain. Anywhere where I wouldn’t have to deal with people disappointing me, and me disappointing people. 

After what seemed an eternity, I said:  

“Alright. I’ll do it.” 

A great weight was lifted off his shoulders, and he leaned back in his seat.

“Thank you, Steve.”  

I gave a false nod. I didn’t want him to thank me. I wanted him to know that I was only doing it because whatever semblance of Methodism that was left in me had compelled me to go through with it. I wanted to warn him that this wouldn’t make me love Jack again. 

But I loved him too much to tell him.  

The pizza came soon after, and we dug in. It was not as good as the one at Flippers.