by Dan Lawton
“Isn’t that the definition of a midlife crisis?”
“Trust me, I’m fine. I appreciate your concern.” It came out sharper than he intended.
“It’s just...the divorce, and now a new woman—who, might I add, is half your age—”
“You mentioned that.”
“And now your job. You love your job. And your hair. And you showing up unannounced and expecting everything would be okay.”
“What about my hair?”
“It looks ridiculous.”
“Sheila thinks it looks nice.”
“Of course she does! She’s my age. Why would she want to be with someone your age? No offense.”
“It’s not like that. You know nothing about our relationship. And you know nothing about her.”
“You’re right, I don’t. But I suspect neither do you.”
Randolph was getting angry. “Watch yourself. You’re overstepping.”
“How long has it been? How long have you two known each other?”
A week. Almost.
“What does it matter?”
“How long?”
“Long enough.”
Bruce scoffed. “You’re too embarrassed to say it out loud, aren’t you?”
“Stop it.”
“Come on, Dad! Open your eyes. Don’t you see what’s happening here?”
“Bruce, I’m warning you.”
“She’s using you! You have to see it. Why else would someone like her even think about getting involved with someone like you?”
“Enough.”
“How stupid can you be to—”
“I said that’s enough!”
Bruce stopped then, let it sink in. Max squirmed in his arms.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Randolph said. “So I would appreciate it if you stopped pretending like you did.”
“Dad, I’m—”
“I’m going in the house. You should put a jacket on that baby before he catches a cold.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The filthy hick with the toothpick stared at them, unblinking. Benji’s stomach crawled just looking at the man. He smelled like feet, even from the distance between them.
“Just fill up the tank, man,” Benji said. He covered his nose with his shirt and coughed.
Toothpick nodded and disappeared.
“Don’t be a dick,” Cheyenne said.
He coughed again. “Roll up the window, will you? Guy’s nasty.”
She did, though it did not take a genius to figure out she disapproved. Nevertheless, it was true; the hick was repulsive. After a couple of minutes, the gas pump clicked and shook the car. Then as if he had not moved at all, the toothpick man reappeared again at the window. Cheyenne lowered it.
“Twenty-nine fifty,” the guy said.
Cheyenne looked at Benji and motioned toward the back. He unbuckled and leaned over the seat, reached for the black duffel Cheyenne had been carrying around. Inside were stacks of green, each bundled and wound tightly. He slid a finger under one of the straps and yanked until it snapped. He discarded the strap inside the bag and fingered out a couple of twenties. He zipped the bag and spun back, handed the cash to Cheyenne.
Toothpick’s eyes were locked on the bag in the back. Benji got a bad feeling; he did not like the look in toothpick’s eyes. He wished Cheyenne would hurry up and give the man the money so they could move on and get out of there before toothpick started trouble. For all they knew, there was a relentless gang of toothpicks ready to attack at any moment’s notice. People motivated by greed did things they were not proud of—Benji knew—and he could only imagine what this disgusting man might be willing to do. Toothpick pocketed the cash, though his eyes did not shift.
Until they did, back to them, as if he were released from a trance. “Where ya’ll comin’ from?”
“Iowa,” Cheyenne said.
The man smirked. His mouth opened when he did, which exposed the teeth that were charred so black Benji did not think it was possible. He thought he was going to be sick.
“Why do you ask?” she said.
“Oh, jus’ wonderin’. Is there a festival or somethin’ I don’t know about?”
“Just passing through. Why?”
“Oh, ya know. It’s not every day we get out-of-towners in these parts. Though lately, this makes two.”
“Two what? Out-of-towners?”
“Iowinians.”
Cheyenne shot Benji a look. He caught on to it too.
Shay.
“There was another person from Iowa here? When?” Cheyenne said.
“Oh, I can’t say I quite remember.” His eyes darted back to the bag in the back.
Cheyenne did that thing with her eyes again and Benji sighed. He retrieved a hundred from the stack in the back and passed it over.
“Come to think of it,” toothpick said, “I do remember something. Not just one person. Two of ‘em. Guy and gal, just like you.”
Benji felt his eyes bulge. He was right. Shay was in trouble. “The girl,” he blurted. “Did she appear in any trouble?”
“Oh, you see, I don’t really remember much else—”
“For fuck’s sake,” Benji said. He reached behind him and grabbed an entire stack, shoved it toward the gross man. “Tell me everything you know.”
The man’s eyes were huge. He pushed the stack toward his nose and inhaled, then laughed like a hyena that had just made a fresh kill.
“Dude?” Benji said. But there was no response. “Hey, dirtbag!”
The laughing stopped. “Huh?”
“Stop fucking with me. What else do you know?”
“No trouble. Both of ‘em sitting there just like ya’ll. Got a room there.”—he pointed toward the Comfort Inn across the street—”And that’s all I know.”
“When was this?” Cheyenne asked.
“Day before yesterday, I’d say.”
“Thank you.”
The man smiled. Huge. “Come back anytime!”
The window rolled up as the man shouted in celebration. Cheyenne locked onto Benji.
“Has to be her, right?” she said.
“Can’t be a coincidence.”
But then Benji thought of something. He quickly unbuckled and yanked on the door handle and stood up, looked for toothpick. “Hey, one more thing.”
Toothpick turned, still smiling.
“How do you know they were from Iowa?”
“The license plate, brother.”
. . . . .
Night fell. They were locked up in a second floor end unit, stumped on what to do next, where to go. The front desk would not share any information about any of their previous guests—hotel policy. They would neither confirm nor deny anyone matching the person in the photo Benji shared was currently or had ever been a guest. The woman got angry when Benji offered her a cash bribe.
Fuck.
The phone records stopped there. Benji checked in with his source at the call center again, but no additional calls or texts had been made from Shay’s phone. And yes, he was sure. The trail had gone cold. Like ice.
Shay had vanished.
Was the dirty toothpick man fucking with him? How would he even know if Shay was in danger? What could he possibly determine from seeing two people fuel up anyway? Benji felt cheated somehow, as if the man had been holding back. But why? On the contrary, it was difficult to imagine a motive for withholding
information. All he knew was he wanted Shay to be okay. He would do whatever it took.
He paced a rectangle in the room because he did not know what else to do. His contact would alert him right away if activity showed up on Shay’s phone—for a price, certainly—but there were limitations to that. In secrecy, for one, and during normal business hours. The contact was not willing to risk getting caught doing something he was not permitted to do. Understandable. But not comforting. For all Benji knew, Shay had reappeared on the map already but there was no channel to communicate the information to him.
He screamed in frustration.
Cheyenne, who was resting on the bed, sprung to attention. “What? What’s wrong?”
He screamed again.
Fingers went into her ears. “For the love of God, will you stop screaming?”
He stopped, but not because she asked him to.
“You’re drawing attention to us,” she said. “Just stop. Cool it.”
“How are you so calm about this? We have nothing!”
“And you think losing your shit is going to help? Calm yourself, take the edge off.”
“But she’s out there! She’s been here. We’re so close I can taste it.”
“Just relax. Sleep it off, see if anything updates overnight.”
He stopped pacing and shook his head. “You don’t understand. There will be no updates overnight. We’re going to be stuck here holding our dicks in our hands, waiting for something to happen.”
She scoffed. “Speak for yourself.”
“We can’t do nothing.”
“Then do something.”
He wanted to pull his hair out. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There’s nothing we can do.”
“I thought you were some big-time hacker? Can’t you...hack into something and figure it out?”
He stared at her. “That’s not how it works.”
“Well, how the hell should I know? That’s your job, not mine.”
He did not know what to say. He began to pace again. She was right, ultimately, but their situation had changed; it was not supposed to go down like this. Their roles should be adjusted accordingly to reflect this new situation, which meant Cheyenne would have to do more. To make matters worse, they were being watched now too. Airport guy. It felt like everything was hanging by a thread and threatening to crash down at any moment. Things would end badly for all of them—very, very badly.
A phone rang, but it was not his. He kept pacing.
“Shut up,” Cheyenne said. “I’m serious. This is important. Be invisible.”
He nodded but kept pacing. And he listened.
“Hi, honey,” she said into the phone. Then she waited, then responded. Waited, responded. Said nothing that indicated who it was on the other end. “Yes, of course. As soon as I can.” Waited. “No, you did the right thing. See you soon.”
Then she hung up.
A devilish grin crept onto her face.
“Who was that?”
“So little faith in the universe, you have.”
He grunted.
“Our luck just changed.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
“Airport a lot.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Randolph isolated himself in the back bedroom—or what used to be a bedroom; now, it was partially a playroom for Max, partially a storage locker for an absurd quantity of non-essentials. A functioning hoarder was a trait Bruce sadly inherited from his mother.
He tried to calm himself. His skin was warm and his brow was wet with perspiration, his heart rate elevated. His hands trembled with anger. What, exactly, was he angry about? He repeatedly asked himself that question. Was it really as he said it before—that Bruce had overstepped—or was the reality that Bruce said what he did not want to hear, that the truth hurt?
Was he losing it?
Or worse, had he already lost it?
Deep breaths. Inhale, exhale. Relax. Be logical.
Logic—that was the key. As an engineer for twenty-five years, the bulk of his adult life was built around the mindset. An economical home, an affordable vehicle—okay, the truck was a bit of a splurge, but a man could treat himself once in a while, no?—and a hefty safety net for unforeseeable future events life threw his way. A slow build of wealth to ensure a happy and fulfilled and sustainable retirement. Everything had been so scripted, so perfect. Where did it go wrong?
He thought about what Bruce said—that Sheila was using him. Well, for what? She did not know about his fortune until recently—though the word fortune felt like an exaggeration; it was more of a heavily padded net—long after they met and formed feelings for one another. He ran through the timeline in his head—the supermarket, the hospital, the night at the bar, and the kiss that ensued. Then the nights in the no-tells and the countless hours stuck together in a box on the open road. And O’Reilly.
O’Reilly.
It did not make sense. Money had not been a topic of conversation, not until after Patricia’s call. The more he thought about it, he realized he still did not know about Sheila’s financial situation. She was employed at the supermarket—or at least used to be, before it exploded—but whether that was out of necessity or to avoid boredom, he could not say. Whether she had a hundred dollars or a million or ten times that amount did not matter. The money did not matter—not to him, and not to her. Bruce was dead wrong about that.
What else could she have been using him for? He thought hard about that but drew a blank. Nothing. He was who he was. She loved him for him. And the hair? That was simply to help protect him, as her own was for her, in case O’Reilly came back. She was looking out for him. Because she loved him. That was how those things worked.
So what was the problem? Bruce misunderstood the dynamic for what it was—which was not difficult to imagine if Randolph flipped the roles and envisioned himself in his son’s position. That was all. He could not understand what Randolph was going through. Maybe one day, though hopefully not. It was unfair of him to judge his father for decisions he was unable to fully comprehend the motivations behind.
“Hey,” a voice said. A woman’s.
He had not heard anyone knock or enter, and he was startled back to focus. Sheila’s head poked through the doorway, the door cracked just enough.
“Hey,” he said.
“You okay?”
He nodded.
“Didn’t go well?” She meant the conversation with Bruce.
“Quite the contrary.”
She walked toward him, placed a hand on his forearm, and massaged it. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded once but did not speak.
“He’ll come around eventually. It’ll just take time. It’s all still new, you know?”
She was right. Right? Bruce just learned his parents were splitting up, and he had to come to grips with that in his own way. While he was a grown man, it still changed things for him too—holidays and birthdays and conversations that either should or should not be confidential; he was going to have to figure it all out. The guilt saddened Randolph and reminded him of why he had tried to push off the inevitability for so long.
This. This was why.
The impact was far greater than on just him and Patricia. Their son and his family would be affected too, and other less important relatives and many joint friends. Who would take whose side? Did they have to choose sides? Randolph did not know the protocol for these types of things; he had not gone through it himself. Life was so much easier when every
one held up their end of the bargain and fulfilled their part of a commitment.
That was before.
Now was after.
He felt saddened. Run-down. Unhappy and depressed. It was still something he was trying to get used to, too. “I’m okay,” he said. “Thanks for checking on me. I’ll be out in a minute.”
She smiled, though it was sad. She walked away and out of the room and closed the door behind her.
. . . . .
It was more than a minute; it was many minutes. The rain had picked up outside. Droplets pelted against the glass like bullets, paralyzing Randolph’s focus and withdrawing him from the moment. He thought of nothing as his vision blurred. The longer he stared at the glass, the wetter it got. The rain soothed him, washed away the negativity that enveloped his psyche. Everything would be all right.
There was a rap on the door. He turned to investigate, but before he could answer, the door opened. In walked Bruce, who closed the door behind him.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked.
“Just needed a breather is all.”
“Have you caught your breath yet? Your guest is dying out there.”
Sheila.
“Is she all right?”
“She’s fine, but she’s alone.”
“I thought you didn’t care about her?”
“That’s actually not what I said. Not at all. I specifically said it’s not about her.”
“I know it’s—”
“Listen, Dad. I’m sorry. For earlier. Everything has been a little shocking. You know? I should have handled it better.”
Randolph did know. More than Bruce knew. “I get it. I’m sorry too.”
Bruce nodded. So did Randolph. Everything was good.
“So, what do you say?” Bruce said. “Join us for a game of Rummy? For old time’s sake.”
Randolph smiled at the memory. He and Bruce used to play often—that, and chess and checkers when he was a boy. It was how they bonded, talked about men stuff. They chatted about puberty over a game of chess, and the birds and the bees. Bruce told him about the first girl he loved during a game of Rummy during his senior year of high school. He later married that girl, but not before he told his father about his cold feet beforehand. It was normal, Randolph told him at the time, though it was not something he experienced himself, but he thought it was what he was supposed to say. Whatever he said that day worked out because Janet was still around. And they were happy. And she was having another baby.