Joe tapped on his glass, looked out the restaurant’s front window, and waited for Tony. Joe was the family’s dumb jock and his younger brother, Tony, was the intellectual software engineer. Joe had played basketball in college and stayed on in the school as an assistant coach when he graduated. Tony, on the other hand, went on to graduate school in Boston and received a Ph.D. in computer science. In the past, Joe was defensive about his work, but that was before his successes. He now felt his achievements vindicated his choices.

       Joe had called with the excuse that he was visiting Boston on business, but he suspected that Tony knew he was lying; brothers can tell. Tony let the matter go, at least in their telephone conversation. He’d invited Joe to have dinner at his house with the family, but Joe insisted they have a one on one lunch.

     Through the window, Joe saw Tony approaching. He was smaller than Joe and never liked sports that much, not even with Uncle Mike’s encouragement. He looked more like a college student than a software engineer with ten years’ experience in the field.

      Tony spotted Joe when he entered and smiled as he walked over. Joe rose. The two shook hands and sat down. “So,” Tony started sardonically, “to what do I owe this great pleasure—lunch with a basketball legend?”

      Joe chuckled. “Cut the crap. How you doin’?”

      Tony nodded. “Okay, and you? What’s going on?”

      “I’m starting a new job in a couple of months,” said Joe.

      Tony picked up a menu. “I heard, I heard. They said on TV you were gonna go to a powerhouse, like the big ten. So what happened?”

     “It wasn’t for me,” Joe answered. “I’m staying in Pennsylvania.”

     “How’s Karen?” asked Tony.

     “Fine; how’s Judy and the kids?”

      Tony stared at the menu and nodded. “Fine . . . fine. Austin needs braces—there goes the bonus money,” he quipped. Tony’s eyes stayed on the menu but his voice became serious. “So really, Joe. What’s up?”

      Joe took a sip of his diet soda. “Not much more than that. I have some time off, so I’m checking out the high school players in the area.”

      “In June?” asked Tony.

      Joe shrugged. “Sure, kids play in summer programs, you know.” Joe’s reason for coming to Boston was weak and he knew it.

      The two sat in awkward silence until the waitress came. Tony ordered carefully while Joe just picked the first thing he saw when his eyes hit the menu.

      “Talk to Mom lately?” asked Joe.

      Tony glanced at Joe as he reached for his drink. “I do call her, you know.”

      “I didn’t mean it like that,” said Joe. Their mother lived less than an hour away from Joe, while Tony saw her only sporadically.

      “And I did show up for my father’s funeral,” Tony added.

      That hurt, but Joe let it pass. He knew that Tony resented his indifference to their father when he was still alive. Joe had showed up for Uncle Mike’s funeral, but missed their father’s burial. “I don’t want to argue, Tony. But I do want to talk to you about Dad.”

      Tony stared at Joe. “Well, this is new. Why the sudden interest?”

      “I don’t know,” said Joe. “It’s been on my mind lately.”

      “Well, what is it you want to know?” asked Tony.

      “You ever wonder what made him drink so much?”

      “He had a tough life,” answered Tony.

      “A lot of people have tough lives. They don’t drink whiskey until they’re comatose.”

      “I don’t know why you’re so rough on Dad,” said Tony. “He wasn’t that bad.”

      “He wasn’t there for us and he should have been,” said Joe.

      “Listen, if you think I’m gonna sit here and try to justify his behavior to you—”

      “That’s not what I meant,” Joe quickly added. “I’ve just been thinking about it. I mean, a lot of people have it rough.”

      “If you’re asking me why he drank and others don’t, then I don’t know. But given what he lived through, it’s not really surprising.” The waitress returned with a diet soda for Tony. He took a sip of his soda before continuing. “I mean, he was in the war, he lost family members. That’s gotta do something to you. And there was Siberia.”

      “Where was he, anyway, when the war broke out?” asked Joe.

      Tony rolled his eyes. “He was in his home in Poland. Where else would he be?”

      “So how did he end up fighting in Italy?”

      Tony ran his hand through his curly brown hair, then leaned forward. “We’ve had this conversation before, you know. He was taken from his home in Poland to Siberia. From there, he joined an army and they fought the Germans.”

      Joe looked out the window. He didn’t like his brother’s attitude. He would never be a good team player. Tony’s attitude reminded him of a player: Paul . . . something. Randolph—Paul Randolph. The guy was nothing but trouble. Joe had to cut him, even though he had excellent natural talent.

      “You can’t complain just because there was war,” Joe heard himself mutter. He wondered what ever happened to Paul Randolph. He heard the guy ended up playing point guard somewhere in Florida, but he wasn’t sure. It’s better not to have someone like Paul Randolph on your team, he thought. Staring out the window, Joe tried to remember how many games they won the year Paul Randolph was on the team. Absently, he added, “He wasn’t in Siberia.”

      Tony shook his head, now upset. “Okay, fine—he wasn’t in Siberia. The Russians came to his house with balloons and said, ‘Andrzej Bartkowski, you are our grand prize winner and here is your first class plane ticket to Rome.’ So he went on vacation to Italy and that’s how he met Mom—okay?”

      Joe returned his gaze to the window and tried to remember the name of the ballplayer who ended up playing point guard in Florida; it was Paul, Paul—something. Joe suddenly found it difficult to breathe. He was unable to think. All he knew was that the restaurant was dangerous—it was a dangerous place to be and he had to get out fast. He pushed his chair back and quickly rose. He strode to the entrance, swung the heavy glass door open, and left the restaurant. Still short of breath, he walked down the street, unsure of where he was going. His legs started to burn. He stopped and leaned against a doorway. People stared at him as they passed. He put his hands on his knees, and the breathing seemed a little easier.

      Tony ran up. “You okay, Joe?”

      Joe held his head down and nodded.

      “I didn’t mean to piss you off,” said Tony.

      “I’m okay,” Joe said.

      “What happened? Why did you run out like that?”

      “I don’t know,” Joe said, still breathing hard.

      Tony stared at him. “You want to go to the hospital?”

      “No, I’m okay,” Joe repeated.

      “Why don’t you come to my house and rest? I gotta go back to work soon, but I can take you home.”

      “No, I’ll go back to my hotel.”

      “You sure you don’t want to go back in and eat?’

      That was the last thing Joe wanted. “No, I’ll just go to my room.”

      Tony looked toward the restaurant and then back at Joe. “Let me go pay. I’ll be right back.”

      The burning in Joe’s legs nearly overwhelmed him as the muscles contracted tight. Both the front and the back muscle groups were taut as drums. Joe raised his head and tried to relax. Pills, he realized. I have the pills. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew them. He popped one in his mouth and tried to remember where he was. His eyes searched for a street sign, saw Boylston Street. He looked down the street and saw a tower. The Prudential Center, his mind told him. Boston, I’m in Boston.

***

      “That’s known as a panic attack,” Dr. Matthews told Joe. “What were you and your brother talking about when this happened?”

      “My new job.”

      “Does your new job worry you?”

      “Only because of this . . . this problem.”

      “Did you talk about anything else?”

      “Siberia,” Joe replied. He turned his head and looked out the window as if to distance himself from his own words.

      “Why Siberia?”

      “Because my father was in Siberia.”

      Dr. Matthews leaned forward. “What was he doing in Siberia?”

      “He was taken there during World War Two.”

      “Did he tell you about his experiences in Siberia?”

      “No.”

      “Did anyone else tell you?”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “How do you feel when you think about your father?”

      “Angry,” Joe answered without thinking.

      “Why?”

      “He wasn’t there for me.”

      “Do you have any good memories of your father?”

      “Sure, we had good times. But it just all fell apart.”

      “Did your father ever abuse you? Mentally or physically?”

       “No.”

      “What did your father do?”

      “He was an engineer, but he had to retire early.”

      “How long ago did he die?”

       “About ten years ago.”

       Dr. Matthews thought for a minute and said, “I think you’ve taken a big step, Joe. You’ve broken down a wall.” He crossed his legs and continued. “You know, there’s no sense in avoiding this anymore in your head. What I’m saying is, don’t be afraid to take a look. It may be painful, but I think you’ve been in more pain by trying to block it.”

      Joe sat back. What could he say? There was nothing to say. The two sat in silence until Joe broke it with, “Do you know what my brother said my father did when the doctor told him that his lung cancer had spread all through his body? He shrugged. Who the hell shrugs when he finds out he has metastatic cancer?”

      Dr. Matthews did not immediately reply. He seemed to be studying the carpet.  Then he raised his head. “Why do you think he did that? Do you think he gave up on life?”

      Joe snickered cynically. “Of course.”

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