Windfall

by Jennifer E. Smith

  Charlie’s head is bowed, and his tie is crooked, and he suddenly looks much older. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

  Teddy’s face softens, just slightly. “I know.”

  “I swear it’ll be different next time.”

  “Sure,” Teddy says, nodding without much conviction.

  “But maybe…,” Charlie begins, wincing even as he does, “maybe you could still give me at least some of the money. Just enough to cover this bet, you know?”

  For a second Teddy doesn’t move. Then he pulls out his wallet. “This is all I have,” he says, handing over a stack of twenties.

  “Come on,” Charlie says, his eyes pleading. “There’s got to be more somewhere. I know you’re holding out on me.”

  Teddy only shakes his head, his shoulders sagging as Charlie’s face twists again.

  “When did you get to be so heartless?” he mutters as he heads for the door, stepping out into the hallway and slamming it behind him.

  For a while none of us say anything. But the words continue to ring out in the quiet apartment, and when I glance over at Teddy it’s to see him standing with a hand over his chest, right where his heart is, as if checking to make sure it’s still there.

  On Friday morning, I’m waiting at the window when a limo pulls up in front of the house. It’s not quite light out yet, the sky still dark at the edges, and I close the door softly behind me so I don’t wake anyone. We already said our goodbyes last night, when Uncle Jake pressed some extra money into my hand, and Aunt Sofia made me promise to text at least three times a day, and Leo ruffled my hair and told me to be good.

  Now the house is quiet and I feel an odd pang of loss as I walk away from it, like I’m doing more than just leaving for a weekend, like I’m somehow saying goodbye.

  Which of course isn’t true.

  It’s only a weekend away. I’ll be back on Sunday night.

  Still, when I glance back at the narrow brownstone, my chest feels tight with unexpected emotion and I hurry the rest of the way down the path to the limo, suddenly eager to get under way. The driver steps out to take my bag, then opens the door for me, revealing Teddy, who is sprawled out on the backseat with a small crystal bowl of candy in one hand and a bottle of sparkling water in the other.

  “Welcome,” he says grandly as I crawl inside, falling into the seat opposite him. He holds out the candy dish. “Mint?”

  “I’m good,” I say, glancing around at the sleek leather interior.

  “Then sit back and relax. When you travel with Teddy ‘Moneybags’ McAvoy, you travel in style.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Stop looking so tense,” Teddy says, straightening up in his seat. “I know you’re sitting there thinking about how much this costs and how many poor starving kids that money would feed, but I swear I’m going to feed some starving kids with all this money too. And in the meantime I want to make this weekend great. Plus, this is my first-ever limo ride. So let’s just enjoy it, okay?”

  “It’s my first limo ride too,” I admit, and Teddy looks overjoyed.

  “Well, see?” he says, putting on his sunglasses, though it’s definitely still too dark to need them. “This is gonna be fun. I promise.”

  On the plane I’m more surprised than I should be to find that we’re seated in first class, which is another first for me. “You get free ice cream,” Teddy whispers once we get settled in. “And hot towels. And real silverware with the meal.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Spring break,” he says, clearly pleased to be the seasoned pro. Without warning he lunges across me, reaching for the control panel on the arm of my seat, his shoulder brushing against mine, his face suddenly very close. “Watch this.”

  He presses a button and my seat slides back, a footrest popping up out of nowhere. “Very cool,” I say as I move the seat upright again. “So…any word from your dad?”

  There was no response from Charlie after he stormed out that night, and there’s been no response in the days since.

  Teddy sighs, more impatient than anything else. “Nope.”

  “I’m sure he’s okay,” I say, and he grunts, because that’s not the point. Charlie is always okay. He’ll turn up eventually in Salt Lake City, or maybe Vegas, and eventually, when he’s ready, he’ll resume his usual pattern of spotty communication.

  But this is the first time in six years he’s actually shown up in person. And because it ended so badly—because it was such an epic failure of a visit—there are no guarantees Teddy will ever get another chance to repair whatever might still be repairable between them.

  When he doesn’t say anything else, I try again. “Has your mom—”

  “She left him a bunch of messages.”

  “And she hasn’t heard—”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, what if—”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” he says abruptly. “How’s Leo doing?”

  I stare at him in frustration. “I’m not sure. But they talked again last night.”

  “Was it better this time?” he asks, his face brightening. “Or just more fighting?”

  “More fighting, I think. He won’t really talk about it. He just keeps changing the subject.” I give him a pointed look. “Kind of like how you keep changing the subject whenever I ask about your dad.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Kind of like how you’ve spent nine years changing the subject whenever I ask about your parents?”

  “Kind of like that,” I agree, smiling ruefully.

  “Look,” Teddy says. “This week was the worst. But now we’re on vacation, so I think we should forget about all that stuff, at least for the next few hours. There are like sixty movies on this plane, and if we don’t get cracking we’ll never get through them all.”

  I laugh. “How long do you think this flight is?”

  “Long enough,” he says, punching the screen in front of him.

  For a while we flip from one movie to the next, counting to three before pressing play so that they’ll start at the exact same time. But when Teddy falls asleep, I turn to look out the window, gazing out over the endless sweep of clouds below us.

  Later, as the plane starts to descend and San Francisco Bay comes into view beneath all the fog, I glance over to see that he’s awake now, watching me.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He smiles. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I say again, then we both start to laugh. But for some time after that—until the flight attendant comes by and asks us to make sure our seats are upright—he keeps looking at me and I keep looking at him.

  A black car collects us at the airport and we head straight to the hotel, which is definitely the nicest place I’ve ever stayed and possibly the nicest place I’ve ever been. The lobby has antique mirrors and ornate couches and so many flowers it looks like a garden, and when we step up to the desk to check in, the woman raises her eyebrows at the sight of us: two teenagers with backpacks in jeans and flip-flops, both of us trying to play it cool in spite of being slightly wide-eyed at our surroundings.

  As she searches for our reservation, I keep waiting for her to call us out, or ask to speak with our parents, or tell us there’s been some kind of mistake. I think a part of me has been waiting for this the whole time. Because in what parallel universe do we take limos and fly first class and stay in luxury suites?

  But she hands over our keycards without incident, and we head upstairs to drop the bags in our rooms, which are next door to each other. When I walk into mine, I let out a surprised laugh. It’s enormous, as big as an entire floor of our brownstone back home.

  “This is like a ballroom,” I say when Teddy comes to get me. “You could throw an actual ball in here.”

  “Well, you’ll have to save me a dance,” he says. “I’m too hungry to think about anything but lunch right now.”

  “What else is new?” I say, and he makes a face at me.

  �
�So where do you want to go?”

  “I have an idea,” I tell him as we walk back out the door.

  When I was little my parents used to take me to the farmers market at the Ferry Building on weekends, where we’d wander the tents and stalls, buying bread and cheese and fruit, then make a picnic of it on one of the benches overlooking the bay.

  Until now, I wasn’t sure I’d want to go back there. Or to any of the places I remember from my old life. It’s one thing to dream about coming home to San Francisco and another to actually do it. I didn’t know if I could stand to visit all our favorite spots, retrace our steps, see our old house again—the place where we lived for so many years as a happy family—without further damaging my already-shattered heart.

  But then, on the ride from the airport, I could hear the sounds of the foghorns and smell the saltiness of the water, and to my surprise I felt a sudden longing to stand on the pier and look out over the Bay Bridge the way we so often used to do.

  So that’s where we go.

  First I take Teddy through the Ferry Building so I can show him the huge vaulted ceilings and rows of shops. It’s crowded with people buying coffee and flowers and jars of honey, browsing the bookshop and carrying bottles of wine. Teddy can’t resist stopping for ice cream, even though we just had some on the plane.

  “Vacation,” he says, flashing me a smile as his cone drips onto his shoe.

  Outside, the fog has mostly burned off and the air is sharp and cool. I pause for a moment to breathe it all in, and Teddy comes to a stop beside me.

  “You okay?” he asks, looking worried.

  “Yes,” I say, and for once I mean it. It feels good to be back after so long, like time has slowed and stretched, like all these years in between never even happened.

  We walk over to the farmers market, where vendors in endless rows of tents sell berries and wine, cookies and bread. “Something smells really good,” I say as we weave through the stalls, and Teddy points at a tent with rotisserie chicken.

  “Lunch?” he says, and I nod as we fall in at the end of a very long line.

  He finishes his ice cream as we wait, and I hum, “If you’re going to San Francisco,” like some kind of dopey tourist, but I can’t help myself. I feel sort of giddy being back, and I’m in such a good mood by the time we step up to the booth that it takes me a few seconds to register that the woman behind the counter is trying not to cry.

  “Hi there,” she mumbles, her eyes full of tears. “What can I get you?”

  Teddy and I exchange a look. “Are you okay?” I ask, and she lifts her chin, pulling in a jagged breath.

  “I’m fine,” she says. “Thanks.”

  “Are you sure,” Teddy says, “because—”

  “Fine,” she says again. She sets her notepad down and wipes her trembling hands on her blue apron. She’s young—probably in her midtwenties—and her dark hair forms a curtain over her face as she tries to collect herself. Over her shoulder, rows of golden-brown chickens are rotating slowly above a flame, and behind us a long line snakes out past the next booth, where they’re selling bunches of lavender.

  “I just got some bad news, that’s all,” she says, blinking at us. “Sorry to be…here, I should really just take your—”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “If you need a minute, we can wait.”

  Teddy jabs a thumb at me. “Me and her,” he says with a sympathetic smile, “we’re pretty well acquainted with bad news.”

  The woman’s face crumples at this, and she grabs a napkin from the stack beside the cashbox. The man behind us cranes his neck impatiently and I shoot him a look.

  “Thanks…it’s just, I found out my mom has to go into hospice care, which we knew was coming, but on top of everything it’s so expensive, and I’m already working two jobs, and…” She trails off, looking suddenly horrified. “And I can’t believe I’m telling you all of this. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I say, shaking my head. “Really. I’m so sorry about your mom.”

  “Me too,” Teddy says. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that he’s already pulling out his wallet, and I hit him with my elbow, because the least he can do is let her finish before we carry on with the business at hand. But she clearly notices too, because she uses the end of her apron to dab at her eyes, then sniffs once and straightens.

  “Sorry,” she says again. “What can I get you?”

  “Just an herb-roasted chicken,” I say, feeling terrible, and she grabs one of the brown paper bags the chef has lined up on the counter beside her.

  “That’ll be fourteen fifty.”

  Teddy passes her a twenty, waving her off when she tries to give him change.

  “Good luck with everything,” I say, grabbing the bag and turning to walk away. Just before I do, I see Teddy slip something into the tip jar, a red plastic cup filled with coins and a few wrinkled dollar bills. When we’re far enough away I glance over at him.

  “What’s your problem?” I say, failing to hide my annoyance.

  “What?”

  “You took out your wallet in the middle of her story, which is pretty much the universal sign for hurry up.” I shake my head. “I hope you at least left her a big tip.”

  “I did.”

  Something about the way he says this makes me stop. “You did?”

  He nods, unable to keep from grinning.

  “How much?”

  “A thousand dollars.”

  I stare at him. “You did?”

  “I did,” he says again.

  “So when you took out your wallet…”

  “I was just seeing how much cash I had to give her.”

  I open my mouth, then close it again. Suddenly I’m so proud I want to hug him. Instead I let out a laugh, shaking my head in wonder. “You’re a really good guy, Teddy McAvoy. You know that?”

  “Thanks,” he says, putting an arm around my shoulders as we walk over to one of the benches. “But you don’t always have to sound so surprised about it.”

  There’s a knock on my door in the middle of the night.

  It starts out quietly, a soft thumping that works its way into my dream. But then it gets louder and my eyes snap open. The clock on the bedside table says it’s 3:24 a.m., and I squint into the darkness for a minute before remembering where I am.

  “I’m coming,” I murmur, swinging my legs out of the bed. At home the nights are punctuated by streetlamps and stars, which sneak in through the slats of my blinds. But here in the hotel the heavy curtains blot out everything, so I switch on the desk lamp as I make my way across the massive room, blinking fast at the sudden brightness.

  At the door I stand on my tiptoes and look through the peephole, where I’m surprised to see a fun-house mirror version of Teddy: his nose too big and his forehead too small. He hops from one foot to the other, knocking every so often.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask as I fling open the door. For some reason he looks just as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

  “Oh,” he says, as if this were an odd question. “Nothing.”

  I widen my eyes at him. “Then why are you knocking on my door?”

  He pushes past me and into the room without answering. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants and a Chicago Bears hoodie, and there are still creases from the pillow on one side of his face. When he spins around I can see just how jittery he is—he’s tapping his fist against his open palm as he paces—and it occurs to me that there aren’t all that many reasons to show up in someone’s hotel room at three-thirty in the morning.

  The idea that it could be the obvious one is both thrilling and terrifying, and my heart flops around, fishlike, as I turn to him, thinking maybe, thinking hopefully, thinking finally.

  But then he stops moving long enough to meet my eye, and I can see in his face that it isn’t that—of course it isn’t. There’s nothing romantic in his gaze, only a kind of frantic wakefulness, a jangly excitement that I’ve only ever seen in him one other time: the mor
ning we found out about the lottery.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, sinking down on the bed, trying not to feel so deflated.

  He nods. “I know it’s really late, but I’ve been going over this again and again in my head, and I just couldn’t wait till morning.”

  “What is it?”

  “I have,” he says, walking over to sit beside me, the bed dipping beneath us, “the best idea in the entire world.”

  “Wow,” I say, distracted by his knee brushing against mine. “Okay.”

  He looks disappointed. “I was kind of hoping for a bigger response.”

  “Well, maybe if you tell me what it is…”

  “Right,” he says, clapping so loudly that I flinch. He hops off the bed and resumes his pacing. “So remember the chicken lady today?”

  I stare at him. “What?”

  “The chicken lady,” he says impatiently. “The woman who sold us—”

  “I know who you’re talking about. I just don’t know if she’d love being called a chicken lady.”

  “Not the point,” he says, crouching in front of me as if he’s about to give me a pep talk, which he sort of does. “Stay with me, Al, okay? This is important.”

  I rearrange my face into a more serious expression. “Okay.”

  “So,” he says, shooting up again. His bare feet make shallow indents in the plush carpet as he walks back and forth in front of me. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that all day. Or obviously all night.”

  “It was really good chicken.”

  “I’m not talking about the chicken, you ding-dong. I’m talking about the tip. It felt really good to be able do that for her, you know?”