“Don’t get old,” he told me angrily as he climbed back in and slammed the door so hard the whole car shook. He’s always been so much larger than life. I think it infuriates him to feel helpless, to feel anyone’s pity—maybe especially his sons’.
“Want to come take a look at the eighth wonder of the world?” I asked Kurt when we pulled into our driveway. “Daniel’s crew put on the finishing touches yesterday.”
“Sure,” Kurt said. “Tessa was asking me about it.”
“She should come down and see it for herself,” I said, leading him around to the back by way of the side lawn. “I don’t think I’ve seen Tessa since Jen’s party. Everything okay?”
“I could ask you the same thing. Did you know Jenny told Tessa to start calling before she comes by now? After how many years of the two of them being like sisters? I think it really hurt Tessa’s feelings.”
“Yeah, well, tell her I know how that feels,” I said. I stopped when we reached the first terraced level. The new gardens cascaded down our hillside like some kind of floral waterfall. The raised beds, supported by the newly constructed stone walls, flowed one after the other down the lush green incline. I still can’t get over how thoroughly Daniel has transformed our backyard. Every time I walk outside now, I feel a little like Dorothy stepping into that dazzling Oz Technicolor for the first time.
“Wow,” Kurt said. “You weren’t kidding—this really is pretty amazing. It must have cost a fortune. I sure hope you got that bastard to cut you a deal.”
I’ve known for a while now that Kurt doesn’t much like Daniel. When we started working with him on the Ravitch project, Kurt complained that Daniel’s “air was a little too rarefied” for him to breathe. It was one of the first times in my life that I thought my brother was totally off base about someone. Every once in a while I do see what Edmund means about Kurt’s “insular small-town rules.” Kurt just prefers staying in his own particular comfort zone, I think, while I’m beginning to understand the value of embracing new experiences, new people—like Daniel with his nonjudgmental way of looking at the world.
“Yeah, well, he was great to work with,” I said. I was feeling too good about how the new gardens turned out to let Kurt dampen my spirits. But in fact, the whole thing had come to over a thousand dollars more than I’d anticipated. Cost overruns, as Daniel explained, all well within the budgeted allowances. Well, I had plenty of money put aside. It had piled up during our boom-boom years, and I thought of it as our rainy-day reserve. After Betsy was born, I started earmarking it in my mind for her college fund. I guess that’s one reason I don’t particularly care that this project will take such a big bite out of the thing.
I also think that a part of me is already anticipating the Gannon money. Edmund told me that, depending on whether we go to trial or work out a settlement, Stephens, Stokes’s cut could be as much as thirty-three to forty percent of the payout. But even with that, worst-case scenario means more money than I ever dreamed possible could be coming my way. I try not to dwell on it—consciously, anyway. But it does have a way of breaking into my thoughts from time to time like a ray of sunshine. No, more like a pot of gold, glittering in the back of my mind. Still, it’s really not so much about the money. I think it’s more the awareness that I’ve finally decided to take up this fight—to make a stand—that’s changed my attitude lately. I feel like things are finally turning around for me again. That I’m back in the game.
“Was that Kurt?” Jenny asked when I came back up to the house through the kitchen. She was sitting at the counter, Betsy’s collection of stuffed animals arrayed in front of her.
“You know it was,” I said, reaching into the refrigerator for a beer. “You should have come down and said hello. What’re you doing?”
“Trying to make some decisions,” she said. “The church rummage sale is Saturday. My father said he thought it was a good opportunity for me to go through Betsy’s clothes and toys and donate a lot of stuff. What do you think?”
“That it’s a really great idea,” I said, leaning against the counter as I took a swig of beer. I was surprised, honestly, that Jenny had even gotten this far. Surprised and pleased. “Let’s keep one or two of those guys, though. Let’s keep her favorites, okay?”
“They were all her favorites.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “So keep the ones you like, then. I’ve got to get going. I’m supposed to meet Daniel at six.”
Jenny had actually apologized to me a few days ago for being “such a nutcase” about Daniel and the garden. It wasn’t like her to be overly enthusiastic about anything right now, but I think she has to be pleased with the way the job turned out.
“What for?”
“I asked him out for a drink—to thank him for his work and to give him the final payment.”
“You asked him?”
“Sure,” I said. “Is something wrong with that?”
She turned around and looked at me. At the bottle in my hand. The way I was standing. Then she just shook her head.
“No, I want you to tell me,” I said. “You think there’s something wrong with that?”
“Just that maybe he should be asking you,” she said, turning back around to the stuffed animals. She picked up a panda with big black glassy eyes and asked it in a babyish singsong, “Don’t you think so, Pandy Bear? Otherwise, don’t you think it kind of looks as though great big Daddy here has a little tiny crush on this guy?”
“He insisted on buying the last time,” I said evenly, though I was really pissed off. I thought we were getting somewhere, but obviously I was wrong. Where the hell was all this weird nastiness coming from? “It’s my turn.”
We met at Ernie’s again. I think it’s become something of a hangout for Daniel. When I walked in, two waitresses were leaning in talking to him at the bar as they waited for their drink orders to be filled. As I approached them, I thought I heard one of them say:
“. . . for all the action you’re going to see in this town.”
They started to go back to work as I pulled a stool up next to Daniel, though the prettier of the two gave me a once-over and a smile as she walked away. It’s not that I still don’t get checked out from time to time, but I had the feeling that I was just reaping the benefits of being in Daniel’s electromagnetic field.
“Hey, man,” I said, ordering a draft. I slid the envelope with my check in it down the counter toward him. “Great job. The gardens look fantastic.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” Daniel said, slipping the envelope into his sports jacket. As usual, he was dressed a little too well for Northridge. I think that he must enjoy standing out, being noticed. He definitely gives off a certain aura of—what exactly? Celebrity? Glamour? It’s hard to define, but I could feel people glancing over at us from time to time. Kurt complained about the air around Daniel being too rarefied. But, honestly? I enjoy breathing it in.
“Jenny seems pleased, too,” I told him.
“Good,” Daniel said. “Because that’s what this was all about, right? Trying to make her happy.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking down into my half-empty glass.
“Did she tell you I took her out for lunch the day the gardens went in? That we had a long talk?”
“I don’t think so—,” I said, trying to remember. I’m so focused on the future now—on the Gannon thing, honestly—that for a moment or two I really couldn’t recall exactly which day that had been. Then I remembered Jenny complaining about how the trucks had torn up the side lawn. How we’d have to reseed that whole area. And we’d argued about her being so negative all the time. I mean, for chrissakes! There was this beautiful new wonderland right in front of her eyes—and all she could see was a couple of tire tracks? If she’d said anything about lunch with Daniel, it had been forgotten in the heat of another fight.
“Well, I enjoyed it, anyway,” Daniel said, looking over at me. I’d finished the draft and was fingering the coaster, still trying to cast my mi
nd back. In fact, since Betsy’s death, my memory’s been a little clouded. Maybe it’s the result of the concussion—or just the stress of trying to deal with everything. Maybe it’s all these days and weeks without real work beginning to blend together into one long, aimless stream of wasted time.
“Looks like you could use a refill,” Daniel said, nodding to the bartender. He was nursing a scotch straight up and put his hand over the glass when the bartender made a move to top it off.
“You’re right,” I said. “Long, bad day. We’re in the running for a big job right now, but one of the guys we’re up against wouldn’t think twice about undercutting his own mother. And the bottom line is all anybody seems to care about these days.”
“Yes, I know,” Daniel said. “The first six months I was up here it didn’t seem to matter what I charged—people kept throwing commissions at me. Now? I’ve clients who are getting cross-bids from local nurseries. I can’t beat that kind of wholesale pricing. That’s not what I’m about.”
“So what are you going to do?” I asked. I was pleased that he was talking to me in this way. Confiding things.
“Put my feet up—for a while, anyway. I’ve been at it pretty much nonstop since I relocated. But I can’t complain. It’s been a good run.”
“That’s how I feel, too,” I said, which was still mostly true. The business would start turning around again, I told myself. These things always tend to go in cycles. And there’s that Gannon jackpot waiting for me somewhere in the future. Just the idea of it, the possibility, makes me feel lucky now, expansive. I made Edmund promise not to talk about Gannon with anyone, but then I remembered that I’d already told Daniel about it—and that he’d encouraged me to pursue the lawsuit.
“You ever hear of a law firm called Stephens, Stokes, Kline?” I asked him.
“I don’t think so. Should I know them?”
“They’re probably the top product-liability law firm in the state,” I said. “It looks as though they’re going to take our case.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. We had a meeting with them a few weeks ago, and Lester Stephens—he’s one of the partners, okay?—was really encouraging. They’re running some forensic tests on the car seat for us.”
“When you say ‘we,’ you mean you and Jenny?”
“No,” I answered. “My brother Edmund is riding shotgun with me on this. Jenny doesn’t know we’re doing it. And there’s really no point in trying to talk to her about it: she’s against the whole thing. She’s being totally irrational. I figured I’ll put her in the picture when I’m told that it’s a definite go. I know she’ll get behind it when she understands how important it really is. That it’s not just about Betsy or us. It’s about stopping a corporation like Gannon from getting away with murder—again.”
“I see,” Daniel said. “That does sound pretty serious. But—”
When he didn’t go on after a second or two, I glanced over at him and realized that he’d been studying me in the mirror that hung over the bar.
“What?” I asked his reflection. “Tell me.”
“This isn’t any of my business.”
“That’s not true—I made it your business by telling you something in confidence. And if you have any reservations, I’d really appreciate you letting me know.”
“No, listen,” he said, turning on his bar stool to face me, “no matter what you say, I really don’t think it is my business. Go with your gut. We’ve talked about this before. I’m a big believer in following your instincts. Just, at some point before it goes too far, I assume you’ll have to let Jenny know. You’ll need her cooperation, right? I imagine this law firm has already told you that.”
“Sure,” I told him. “And I’m not worried about it in the long run. But the thing is—Jenny and I are at really different stages with Betsy’s death. Jenny’s still pretty bogged down in what happened. She’s afraid to let go. I think she sees it as a way of holding on to Betsy.” Somehow, I’d finished off my second draft. I looked into the bottom of the glass and thought about the truth of what I’d just said. Of course, a part of me already knew Jenny felt that way, but for some reason explaining the situation to Daniel helped me see things more clearly. I found myself telling him something I hadn’t even yet fully admitted to myself.
“But the thing is: I am ready to let go,” I said. “To move on. After we nail those Gannon bastards to the wall, that’s it for me. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life on this—do you know what I mean? Does that sound heartless?”
“Of course not,” Daniel said. “Things go by so fast.”
I had another beer. The pretty waitress came back and began to flirt with Daniel—and with me, too, I think. Her smile seemed to include both of us, anyway. She was dark haired, big breasted, with long, shapely legs. Jenny doesn’t have much use for makeup, but this woman’s face was slick with the stuff: heavily defined eyebrows, thickly coated lashes, lips so shiny you could almost see your reflection in them. She was good-looking enough that I had to ask myself why she thought she needed to slather herself up like that. What would it be like, I wondered, to kiss someone with all that gloss on her lips? I must have been trying to get a better look at her when my elbow slipped off the counter.
“Whoa there, baby,” she said, putting out an arm to steady me. Then she turned to Daniel and whispered something to him before she started to move off with a loaded tray again.
“Why not?” I heard him say. “Just give me a call when you’re ready. You’ve got my cell.”
“I gotta get going, too,” I said. I felt a little foolish losing my balance like that. I slid off my stool and fumbled in my pocket for cash. “Here,” I said, slapping a couple of twenties on the counter. “That oughta take care of things.”
“You okay to drive?” Daniel asked.
“Oh, sure,” I told him. “I’m nowhere near my limit.”
It was nearly nine o’clock by the dashboard clock. So I’d had a total of four beers across almost five hours. Not such a big deal, I told myself, considering I’d been metabolizing the alcohol right along. I don’t know when exactly I began to think about my drinking in these terms. When it was that I started consciously pacing myself. Since Betsy’s death, I know I’ve become much more circumspect about how much I put away, at least in public, more aware of how others might view me. In private, I’ve taken to regularly monitoring myself. As I started the drive home, I decided I was really feeling pretty steady. Maybe I had a little bit of a buzz on, but I was definitely in control. Still, that whoa there, baby from the waitress bothered me. It rankled, honestly, because I didn’t think I deserved it. My elbow had slipped.
The house was dark when I pulled into the driveway. It’s not unusual for Jenny to go up to bed this early. I know she has trouble sleeping and feels exhausted a lot of the time. But it bothered me she hadn’t thought to leave even one light on for me. I try to keep reminding myself that she’s hurting, but sometimes all this nonsense just seems like pure selfishness to me. I have feelings, too. I have needs. I’m the one who keeps this roof over our heads. I’m the one who’s given her the freedom to sit home every day and feel sorry for herself.
I went through to the kitchen. She hadn’t left anything out for me for dinner. I could feel my anger building. I thought about that waitress at Ernie’s. How Daniel would no doubt be screwing her later on tonight. Why not? That was all he needed to say. It’s been almost five months for me and Jenny. Maybe that’s our problem. No, I decided as I turned out the kitchen light and headed upstairs, that’s definitely our problem.
Jenny’s taken to sleeping in Betsy’s old room on a blow-up mattress. She told me it’s because she’s so restless at night. Up and down. Lights on and off. She claims that she doesn’t want to disturb me. As I walked down the hallway to Betsy’s room, I realized that I’d reached the point where—for both our sakes—I just had to say “bullshit” to all these excuses.
The door was half-closed. I pushed it open
. Moonlight washed over the familiar room: the crib with the musical mobile hanging above it . . . the old wooden chest Jenny had painted pink and stenciled with little brown teddy bears . . . the miniature quilt depicting a barn and farm animals that my mother had hand-sewn and that Jenny had hung on the wall. The blow-up mattress was wedged between the crib and the closet. Jenny was curled up on her side, her legs drawn to her chest, hair fanned out over the pillow. She was wearing an old T-shirt of mine. She’d kicked the sheets off. My anger began to ebb—and something else took over.
I unbuttoned my shirt. I stepped out of my chinos. I lowered myself onto the mattress, but the damned thing started to bounce like a trampoline.
“Cal—?”
“Shhhh—,” I said, crawling toward her. She slid toward me as the mattress buckled under my weight.
“What are you doing?”
“I just—” I worked to keep my balance as Jenny rolled into me. But my right arm slipped out from under me, and my elbow landed in her hair—jerking her head back.
“Damn—that hurts! What the hell are you doing?”
“I just wanted to see you,” I said, trying to sit up. I felt a little sick to my stomach as the mattress rolled beneath me. Each time I moved, the whole room seemed to shift precariously. My hand closed around something soft and giving. For a brief moment, I thought it was my wife’s breast. Then I realized that I’d grabbed onto one of Betsy’s stuffed animals.
“Are you drunk?” she asked. “You stink of beer.”
“No—,” I began. But what was the point? Whatever I tried to say, I knew I would be in the wrong as far as Jenny was concerned. Which is right where she wanted me to be. Which is where she’s made sure I’ve stayed for the last five months. I sat up and started to ease my way off the air mattress. I kept bumping into furry little creatures, and I realized that Jenny had brought all of Betsy’s stuffed animals up to bed with her. She’d surrounded herself with them, but my weight had scattered them across the mattress, and a few had slipped onto the floor. When I stood up, I stepped on something that squeaked. I kicked it across the room.
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