The Hike

by Landon Beach

  Completely refreshed, he turned off the shower and put on his light blue swim trunks that had been hanging on a hook inside the wooden enclosure. Time to relax. He latched the bamboo door shut behind him and walked across the warm concrete pool deck. In a metal lounge chair with bright green cushions rested Stansie’s five-foot-ten wiry frame. Her ebony-colored hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her smooth brown skin was covered only in a tiny black bikini. What a difference the past few months had made. Her hair was rich and full again—cut and maintained by the hairstylist that visited the house every two weeks—and she had put on a healthy ten pounds. The heroin tracks on her left forearm had been reduced to three tiny scars, mostly hidden by her dark tan.

  To think that he had almost left her after their first night on the street together when she passed him a naloxone kit right before shooting up and said, “If I overdose, load one of the syringes inside with a one-milliliter vial and inject it into a vein. I should respond in two to three minutes; if I don’t, repeat the process every couple of minutes until I come back. If you can’t get the needle into a vein, then go for muscle, but it will take longer, like five minutes. There’s also nasal spray in the kit, but word is that it doesn’t work as well. Give it a shot if nothing else works. Okay, here I go.” He did not have to use the kit, but her attention to detail gave him the impression that behind this stick-skinny woman with unkempt hair was an intelligent person. What was her story? What had led her to this moment? How had she been introduced to drugs? Was it the gateway path, or did she take a dare and try brown sugar, thinking one time was no big deal? So, instead of walking away, he postponed his snort and stayed with her all night. In the morning, they started to talk, and talk eventually led them back to her parent’s house a week later, both of them clean but needing help; Stansie was sick. Her mother had cried, seeing Stansie remorseful and coherent for the first time in months. She had attempted a polite thank you and then dismissal of Conrad, but Stansie was adamant that he was the only reason she was standing in front of her now. Her mother reversed course, and the road to freedom began. First, they were taken to separate rooms where they removed their smelly and torn clothes and took long showers. When they emerged from their respective bathrooms, there were terrycloth robes and slippers for them to put on. Stansie’s mother, shocked at Stansie’s weight loss, had her measured, and a house staff member was sent out to purchase clothes. Conrad also gave his sizes and, within a few hours, both closets were filled with new wardrobes. High-end toiletries of brand names that Conrad had never heard of before were stocked in his bathroom closet and drawers. Then, the family doctor and nurse were called to the house, and Stansie and Conrad were given thorough examinations. They were both suffering from malnutrition and sleep deprivation. Conrad had a staph infection, and Stansie had a cough that she couldn’t remember how long she had had. The doctor gave them each multiple injections and wrote prescriptions for the local pharmacy. A staff member was sent out to pick them up. After the examination, they each changed into a sweatsuit and came downstairs to a banquet. At the meal, Stansie mentioned that a few of her teeth were sensitive. The next day, they both had dentist appointments where multiple cavities were filled and caps ordered for teeth that were beyond repair. Her mother called her hairstylist, and they were each given a haircut at the house. Then, a barber was brought in to give Conrad a straight razor shave. In the late afternoon, Stansie and Conrad had their dirty, destroyed nails repaired during a manicure and pedicure that lasted almost three hours. Then, they were both sat down and told by Stansie’s mother that instead of pouring more money into rehab, she had hired a nutritionist, chef, physical trainer, and masseuse.

  Over the next month, three rooms on the mansion’s lower floor were converted into a gym and wellness center—mirrored walls, free weights, pull-up bars, treadmills, ellipticals, spinning bikes, a yoga corner, massage tables, a stainless-steel cold bath, an enormous whirlpool, a healthy snack bar, and his and her locker rooms with mahogany lockers and brass fittings. Systematically, a routine was built to keep them clean, healthy, and, hopefully, happy. A psychologist had been hired to meet with them twice a week; a support system was one thing, getting underneath the reasons for the addiction was another. Session after session, they cried, laughed, and suffered the trauma of working through repressed memories. His breakthroughs were like sitting in the middle of a dark empty room and having lamps turned on at different times, one by one illuminating separate corners of the room until he could see the entire space. It was then he had finally discovered what had set him on this path so long ago.

  Now, over a year from when they had shown up on the doorstep, the routine had become their lifestyle. On the pool deck by Stansie’s lounger were two glass bottles of Evian water lined up perfectly next to each other with the labels facing in the exact same direction. On the other side of the pool lounger next to hers were two bottles lined up for him. He exhaled in relief, and it gave him comfort. Their workout and water system was a key component of the routine that had saved them from the nightmare cycle of shooting up, snorting, passing out, and then starting all over again to avoid the dreaded withdrawal symptoms—mood changes, anxiety, sweaty skin, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, twitching muscles, goosebumps, and a constantly running nose. At all times, they needed to have two fresh Evian bottles with them. Conrad looked around. No doubt, Don Ilario Russo’s housekeeper, Carlotta, was lurking nearby ready to replace a finished bottle with an ice-cold new one.

  Astrud Gilberto’s Greatest Hits played from the pool speakers as he continued to pad across the pool deck toward his lounger. That was the other component of their routine: Bossa Nova music during the day while they lounged by the pool. The beat spoke of endless white-sand beaches, sunshine, aquamarine water, waves, palm trees, and bliss. Conrad sat down in his chair and felt the warm afternoon sun start to work on the drips of water spread across his skin from the shower.

  “Hello, my angel,” Stansie said.

  He reached over and gave her arm a slow rub, careful to avoid touching her scars. “Hello.”

  He opened one of his bottles of water and chugged until a third of it was gone. She heard him gulping and picked up one of her bottles and did the same. Together, they set their bottles down, lining them back up.

  “Papa has taken a turn for the worse,” she said. “It could be any day now.”

  “I know,” he replied. “Is there anything I can do?”

  She gave him a smile—one he knew the meaning of.

  Are you serious? We’re talking about your father dying. He knew that she was, and that was some twisted shit that he couldn’t quite comprehend. When she was stressed or needed to forget about the world around her, she turned into a certified nymphomaniac. How they hadn’t woken the rest of the house during their sessions this past year was beyond him. The psychologist had said that drugs had been their escape, and now they needed to replace that habit with another, more positive, one. He had chosen swimming extra laps; she had chosen marathon sessions of exploring every conceivable aspect of the Kama Sutra—Conrad sitting on a chair, while she faced away from him and slid up and down on his phallus; Conrad going down on her for an hour straight; Stansie kneeling and sucking him off while he stood naked and held on to the wrought iron bars of the bed’s canopy. Him initially feigning modesty and deference to the philosophy that they were in her parents’ house, “I really want to respect your family’s rules and not play around while we’re living under their roof.” And then she had pulled his pants down and grabbed his cock. “Please, Stansie.” Two minutes later: “Oh my God. No, no, no. Don’t stop.” Enough. He was becoming aroused. “I meant besides that,” he said, managing a half-smile.

  She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. “I just don’t want to think about it. When I do, I feel guilty for the time I was away. And now—” She released his hand. “Conrad, I’m pregnant.”

  They both reached for their water bottles. As he tipped his Evian back, the chugs w
ere like chain links being added one by one to a collar around his neck. He’d spent his entire life avoiding responsibility, letting others take care of him. Sometimes this had been to his advantage because family members and other people would underestimate him. He liked it when he was able to provide a surprise or two. However, his lack of self-reliance had also been to his disadvantage because no one could count on him, and because no one could count on him, he had decided that he couldn’t count on himself. He was absolutely certain that he had never uttered the phrase ‘I will figure it out,’ in respect to anything. He felt free because he was still alive after being on his own and avoiding responsibility for the majority of his life. He felt restricted because his comebacks were never self-initiated. They had always involved charity from someone. He thought of Brad. Jesus. What would his brother think of him right now, living in a mansion, surrounded by luxury that had been gained illegally, and living with a knockout who was now...pregnant with his child? Conrad Cranston, a father? Conrad Cranston, a husband? Conrad Cranston, a...success? There were at least a thousand things he was not ready for in life. Being a father seemed to be connected to every item on the list. The symbolic collar around his neck and the chain extending away toward Stansie now had him spooked. They were just mastering rehab. What kind of stress would raising a child entail? A puffy cloud, high in the sky, dissolved into three lines of cocaine. He looked away and stopped chugging—not because he wanted to, but because his bottle was empty. Placing the cap back on top, he began to set it on the ground when Carlotta appeared behind him and took the bottle out of his hands. She placed a fresh bottle on the concrete next to his other one and was gone before he could thank her.

  He turned to Stansie. For heaven’s sake, speak! “I—I can’t believe it,” he said. “Does anyone else know?”

  She began to sniffle, and soon tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I thought you would be happy. You’re not.”

  Get it together. Now. “No, no, no. I am so happy for us, baby. I just— “Go ahead and say it. Don’t lie. “I’m just...overwhelmed.” He reached over for her arm, but she pulled it out of reach like a toddler keeping a toy away from another greedy child. He brought his hand back and started to rub his chest hair. Okay. No Co-Co. Find a compromise. Wine. Yes, wine. Wine was healthy. Wine made him feel young. Maybe a glass or two, or even a bottle. Well, sharing two or three bottles of wine sounded good right about now. No. That’s where it all begins. One drink. Two drinks. A little weed. Then the white powder. One line. Two lines. And you’re right back where you were before.

  She reached her hand out and swept it down his arm from the shoulder to the elbow. “I am too,” she said. “I can’t go back.”

  His eyes started to well up. “Neither can I.”

  “Mamma knows, and she’s worried, of course. I am sure Carlotta knows. Mamma tells her everything.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “This morning.”

  “How far along are you?”

  “Six weeks.”

  He had no idea what that meant. He nodded as if he did. “What made you think to take a test?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I had a feeling.”

  He reached for his water bottle, but the opening of the back door to the main house broke his concentration. Ciro Russo exited and walked across the lawn toward the pool deck. “Do we say anything to him?” Conrad asked.

  She eased up onto her elbows and saw her brother approaching. “Not right now.”

  Ciro gave them both the same smile of greeting that he had given them since they showed up in rags. Even though they were oceans away from their former condition, Conrad was convinced that the smile continued to be a sign of patronizing pity, not one of genuine pleasure to be in another’s company. He also always directed the smile at Conrad first and then swiveled to Stansie, where he held it for an extended beat. The smile disappeared. “Father would like to see the two of you right now.”

  “Okay,” was all Stansie said back.

  Conrad gave a nod, but he was too late. Ciro had turned around and was headed back to the house.

  They rose and followed him.

  5

  Grosse Pointe Shores, Michigan

  1 Week Ago…

  As the door to Don Ilario Russo’s bedroom opened, Conrad Cranston felt a shiver of fear travel down his spine. The question: Why does he need to see me? had been nagging at him all the way across the back yard, across the patio, and down the long dark hallway to the Don’s master suite. Stansie squeezed his hand, which momentarily took him out of his paranoia. He was sweating, though, and the urge to bolt out of the house and never return came on strong. But he quickly dismissed it, remembering his love for Stansie, and, well, their unborn child too. The doorway was now clear, and Conrad and Stansie were led in by Ciro. The Don’s driver and bodyguard, Giuseppe “Big Joey” Manetti, entered after them.

  The Don’s immense bedroom had been transformed into a hospice suite. Where the king bed had once stood as the centerpiece of the twelve-foot-ceilinged room was a hospital bed. Where the matching nightstands once stood were stands with EKG readouts, coat hanger-like stands with bags of saline solution hanging, and a few other machines that beeped and chirped. The drapes had been closed for weeks now, and soft lighting from lamps in two of the room’s corners cast extended shadows across the wooden floor. There were no lights on near the bed, just the blue glow from the machines. The Don rested—the mattress adjusted, so he lay at a thirty-degree angle. His large, nearly elliptically-shaped head disappeared into a gigantic, soft pillow, and his favorite wool blanket covered his legs and torso and was neatly folded so that it stopped underneath his armpits.

  Three chairs were set near the foot of the Don’s bed.

  Ciro walked over and gave his father a kiss on the forehead while Stansie and Conrad sat down.

  Don Russo opened his eyes.

  “Stansie is here, papa,” Ciro said. He pushed a button, and the mechanism controlling the bed’s position hummed as Ciro raised the Don until he was virtually sitting straight up. The bed stopped, and the room was silent.

  “Thank you,” Don Russo said. His voice was weak but clear.

  Ciro took his seat next to Stansie.

  The Don’s eyes moved to Conrad first, which surprised him. He felt the cold stare and wondered if someone was about to sling a garrote over his head and tighten it around his neck. Unable to maintain discipline, he broke eye contact with the Don and looked behind him.

  There was no one there.

  Embarrassed, he turned his head slowly back around and met eyes with Don Russo again. He should have gone to the bathroom before entering the Don’s room because the water from the bottles of Evian was now pushing against his bladder like water against a dam. He crossed his legs.

  Stansie put a reassuring hand on his left leg, which was shaking.

  The Don’s stare became a polite smile, and Conrad exhaled.

  “I will forever be grateful to you for what you have done for my daughter,” the Don said. “Your work on my grounds and gardens has brought life back to this estate, and an old man such as myself appreciates these things. Soon, I will leave this earth, and I want you to know that you will continue to be given a living as long as you bring joy to my Stansie.”

  Conrad gave a nod of thanks and relief. When the Don had started to convey his thanks, Conrad had thought that he was about to be asked to leave the estate for good. He smiled at Stansie, who had tears of joy streaming down her cheeks.

  The Don started once again, and their attention returned to him. “And now, I must ask you to leave us for a few minutes so that I may address my remaining children alone.”

  The request did not bother him—just a dying father wanting to speak with his heir and heiress. It was the phrase remaining children that spooked him. Stansie had told him that when she was nine and Ciro was thirteen, their older brother, nineteen-year-old Giovanni Russo, had been shot and killed. When Conrad had ca
refully pressed for more information, Stansie had told him that she knew nothing else. “My mamma cried for days, and suddenly there were many men carrying guns stationed in and around our house. I never got to see Giovanni again; it was a closed casket at the funeral,” Stansie had said. “For many months, Ciro and I were homeschooled, while papa went away on business.” Conrad had never heard the Don talk about his oldest child; this was the closest he had ever come.

  Stansie’s pinch of his leg brought him out of his thoughts, and he became aware of his excruciating need to urinate. He rose and gave a slight bow. “Of course,” Conrad said to the Don before exiting the room.

  ✽✽✽

  After the Don watched his daughter’s boyfriend leave through the doorway, he motioned for Big Joey to leave too.

  When the large wooden door’s latch clicked in place, he knew they were now alone. The nurse had been instructed to come back in an hour, plenty of time to deliver his final directive. He had chosen today because everything that his father and grandfather before him had said about death was true. When you feel the angel of death sitting on your chest, smelling his foul breath as you struggle to breathe, you don’t have long to live. And for Don Ilario “The Smile” Russo, he wanted to beat the angel of death to the last smile and, perhaps, have the last laugh. He would die this week, but he needed to give his children strict instructions now because Ciro’s power was about to be challenged, and the survival of the Russo family depended on what he was about to say.