Bill Warrington's Last Chance

by James King

  It was a long time before he answered.

  “You’re not a kid anymore. You probably noticed that your mom and her brothers don’t keep in touch much. I always thought it was their own damn fault. But then I started thinking that maybe it was me. A misunderstanding. About what they think I did to their mother.”

  “What did you do? Did you beat her?”

  He looked at her.

  “Did I beat her?”

  April thought for sure she had made him angry enough for him to hit her. But he didn’t move. He just got very loud.

  “I wouldn’t touch a hair on her head! I could never do anything to cause her pain. ’Course, that only ended up causing her more pain, because I didn’t have the guts to do what she asked me to do. But I couldn’t bear it. Either way, I couldn’t bear it.”

  April didn’t know what he was talking about but figured she’d better keep quiet. People might start poking their noses into their business.

  “Oh, some thought they knew what happened. Some even had the . . . the . . . balls to accuse me. To my face! It was beyond belief. Beyond even answering! How anyone, especially . . . could think I was capable . . . would even think of . . .”

  She’d never seen him so angry. It took a while for him to breathe normally. When he spoke, his voice was low. He sounded exhausted.

  “I just wanted to remind them of the fun we used to have. The vacations we took. Kind of remind them of things. That I wasn’t someone who could do what they thought I did.”

  “What do they think you did, Grandpa?”

  His eyes welled. “I just wanted one chance to tell them, all three of them together . . . face-to-face. Before I . . . couldn’t.”

  “What did happen, Grandpa? What are you talking about?”

  It was another long time before he answered.

  “That’ll be for them to tell you.”

  They sat. April glanced at the clock. 9:30. The train for San Francisco—freakin’ Emeryville—was supposed to leave at 11:54.

  The next time she looked at the clock, it was 10:15.

  Her grandfather started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Her grandfather pointed at something outside the window.

  “Those banana trees over there.”

  April looked at where he was pointing. Just a couple of telephone poles and a streetlamp.

  “Grandpa, those aren’t—”

  “Why don’t you climb up and get me one. I could go for a banana right now.”

  He went on about bananas for a while. April felt as though the room was gradually being sucked dry of oxygen. She wanted to run over to the woman, snuggle next to the maniacs.

  Her grandfather gradually quieted. He closed his eyes.

  April stood and moved as far away from him as possible without leaving the station and without losing sight of him.

  She didn’t question her decision.

  She took out her cell phone and dialed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Nick Warrington sat in the near dark, the television screen flashing before him. To fend off thoughts of the different kinds of people who had sat in this particular chair, in various states of dress, engaged in various solo and tandem activities, he thought about mistakes.

  Like flashing plastic to Marcy and telling her that he was on a company expense account.

  Like pretending the Peggy Gallagher fiasco hadn’t hurt as much as it had, that she hadn’t played him for the fool he was, that he wasn’t much more than a needy puppy to just about any woman he met.

  Like pretending that he truly believed the three of them—especially with Mike involved—could handle this situation with their father and April.

  He’d have to tell Marcy when she got back: It was time to go. It was time to let the cops handle this. It was time to go home and wait.

  It wasn’t a matter of getting back to his office; his office, after all, was his dining room table. There was no staff floundering without his direction; no one even reported to him at this job. Ohio wasn’t New York. Woodlake was not New York City. Even when he’d had an office, it didn’t look out over Fifth Avenue or the streets of SoHo or Greenwich Village. It looked out over a bus stop.

  Peggy wasn’t Marilyn.

  No woman was Marilyn. There were no Marilyns out there anymore.

  Even their hotshot older brother—the super salesman, the man who could sell smoothies to Eskimos and lighter fluid to the devil—was nothing more than a sham. The 4,000-square-foot home, the beautiful wife, the straight-A kids: all gone.

  And more: The brother had turned into the father.

  Nick stood, as if doing so would ward off the smug satisfaction he felt at Mike’s misfortune, which was playing itself out, real time, in the bathroom. He turned up the television to drown out the sounds of the dry heaves. The combination of TV talk and gagging made him want to pace. His eyes fell on Mike’s suitcase propped up on the hotel portable luggage rack as if he were going to check out. Positive thinker, Mike.

  After a few moments, Nick heard the sound of the shower. He walked over to Mike’s suitcase. It was closed but not locked or latched. Opening it would be easy. Nothing major. Just a quick peek. Just to see.

  He turned toward the bathroom door. Water still running. He lifted the top half of the suitcase. What you might expect: dress shirts folded and bagged from the cleaners; rolled-up T-shirts and socks. Might be something interesting under the shirts. Nick reached in.

  He didn’t hear the sudden increase in volume of the shower or see the light from the bathroom hit the wall he was facing until it was too late. He turned. Mike was standing in the light, towel around his waist. He looked like he’d been keeping himself in pretty good shape. And he didn’t appear at all distressed by the audible testimony of his vulnerability just a few moments before. “Wallet’s on the dresser,” he said. “Help yourself.”

  “What?” Nick replied. “I just . . .”

  Mike didn’t throw him a rope.

  Hell with it. “You look better. How do you feel?”

  “Fit as a fiddle,” Mike said. Nick recognized but didn’t acknowledge this corny line of their father’s. “Where’s Marcy?” he asked.

  “Went to grab some groceries.”

  Mike looked around the room. “Where did you two sleep?”

  “Marcy slept on the couch. I slept there.” He nodded at the chair.

  “Guess I wasn’t a good host last night.” An apology, Nick supposed.

  Mike took off the towel and started drying himself, putting his right foot on the bed so that he could dry his leg, but also to . . . what? Display his genitals in some sort of alpha dog routine? Demonstrate complete disdain? Nick reddened.

  “I take it you two geniuses haven’t figured out how to get April back,” Mike said.

  Their eyes locked for the first time in years.

  “And you have?” Nick asked.

  Mike snapped the towel as he moved it to the other leg. He rubbed furiously, which Nick knew was meant to show him that, for real men, the world was their locker room. “As a famous man once said, I ain’t got a dog in this fight.”

  “We’re not talking dogs here, Mike. Why don’t you cover yourself and tell me what you mean? We’re talking about our niece. We’re talking about Dad.”

  Mike laughed and shook his head as he rewrapped the towel around his waist.

  “No, we’re not, Nicky,” he said. “We’re talking about how you two brought this on yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Or is it yourselves? You tell me. You’re the writer.”

  “Cut the crap and tell me what you’re talking about!”

  Mike put his hands on his hips. “All right. Fine. You two let him off the hook.”

  “Let who off the hook?” Nick asked, pissed that he’d taken the bait. Now he’d have to listen to this . . . this drunk. This drunk brother of his who—as Bobby Gallagher might put it, and put it accurately—blew it
. He’d had the perfect family and he blew it. Did he realize how many people wanted what he had . . . and lost? Did he have any idea how badly Marilyn had wanted to have kids? And yet, there he stood, Caesar in a towel toga, about to share his omnipotent wisdom.

  Mike took a step toward him. Nick clenched his fist. Mike saw it. “Whoa, big boy, just want to grab some clothes. That okay with you?”

  It would have been so easy, Nick thought as Mike reached into his suitcase, the back of his head within striking distance, to grab the empty whiskey bottle.

  Mike stepped back. “I’m going to have to drop the towel now, Nick. You might want to avert your sensitive eyes.”

  More bait. Nick didn’t hesitate. “Let who off the hook?”

  “Dad, of course,” Mike said, in a tone as calm and measured as Nick’s had been frantic.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You two seemed content to give him a pass, let him off the hook. So you formed your own little team. Nick and Marcy. Poor Nick and Marcy. Saints Nick and Marcy, martyrs. Suffering and silent.”

  Nick shook his head. “I still don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about.”

  “I’m the only one who stood up to him. Wouldn’t let him just ignore what he had done—and still won’t.” Mike pulled his slacks up and started running a belt through the loops. He stopped and looked at Nick. “Tell me you don’t remember that night. I knew what he was up to. What he was doing with Mom’s pills. And where were you and Marcy when I confronted him?”

  Nick knew exactly what Mike was talking about, but pretended he didn’t. “You tell me. You seem to have the photographic memory here,” he said.

  “Nowhere to be found, that’s where.”

  “I thought you were kidding,” Nick said, trying unsuccessfully to keep calm. “I thought you were crazy, thinking Dad could do something like that.”

  “And now? You still think I was crazy?”

  “We’re not talking about now,” Nick said. “Now you’re just a loser. Back then . . . Marcy didn’t know what you were thinking. Still doesn’t, as far as I know. And we were just kids, for god’s sake.”

  “So was I!” Mike yelled.

  Someone pounded on the wall. A muffled voice shouted, “Keep it down in there, willya?”

  Mike turned and walked toward the wall as if he might punch it. “Hey! I have to listen to you jerking off to the porn channel every night so shut the fuck up!”

  Nick and Mike waited for the reply. When none came, Mike turned back to Nick and smiled. “I hope he’s not a member of the clergy,” he said.

  “I hope he’s not a member of the NRA,” Nick replied.

  This was enough of a tension-breaker for Nick to think they might be able to continue at a more civilized level.

  Mike chuckled and resumed dressing. “Marcy? Okay. She was young, and she was a girl,” he said, his voice calm again, controlled. “But you?” He snapped at the shirt as he pulled his arms through the sleeves. “I’m only two years older than you, Nick. I may have been a pain in the ass, but I always looked out for you. Stuck up for you.” He buttoned his shirt slowly, deliberately. “You always took the old man’s side. Never wanted to make waves. Even after he killed your mother.”

  “Jesus Christ, Mike. You still believe that?”

  Mike stared at Nick, then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You made your decision. Marcy made hers. Even tolerating the guy was wrong, as far as I was concerned. When you guys got older and could leave, you didn’t. You seemed to forget what he’d done. Marcy even let her daughter get to know that asshole.” He tucked in his shirt. “So . . . you brought this whole thing on yourselves as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Marcy told me you invited him to Chicago,” Nick said, knowing how weak that sounded, how obvious an attempt to distract. “So don’t pretend you’ve haven’t—”

  “He thought he was calling someone else,” Mike said. “I wasn’t inviting him anywhere. I was calling his bluff. Just as I did the night I told Dad I knew what he did, while you hid in a closet, pissing your pants.”

  Nick felt dizzy. Had he actually hidden in a closet? Or was Mike being metaphoric? Was Mike even capable of being metaphoric? The possibility that he had hidden in a closet bothered him more than the accusation Mike was making about their father.

  “And during all this time, while you guys have decided to ignore me and my family, I’ve tried to help out,” Mike said. “I was at the airport, ready to fly to Des Moines. But then when you guys—some BS about missing your flight—”

  “We didn’t miss it. It was canceled because—”

  “—I figured it was just more bullshit. But none of it matters anymore. Because this morning I’ve come to realize that, as you can see”—he spread his arms out to encompass the room—“I’ve got problems of my own I should be working on.”

  Nick had trouble thinking. Where to start? None of this was making sense. Mike had been the one who pulled away, not him. Not Marcy. He would never turn his back on his brother. Mike was the one who left. For girls. For school. Forever. Nick heard a buzzing in his head. Literally, a buzzing.

  “That yours?” Mike asked. He pointed at the desk. A cell phone jumped about, vibrating.

  “Marcy’s,” Nick said tightly.

  Mike nodded. “Impressive. Her daughter is AWOL and Marcy leaves her cell phone behind. Smart.” Then, with a sigh, he walked to the desk, inches from Nick. He picked up the phone and looked at the screen.

  “This ought to be interesting,” he said, flipping open the phone. “April?”

  April? Perfect, Nick thought. Timing is everything. Mike paced as he talked.

  “Hank?” He raised his eyebrows at Nick. “No, this is your uncle Mike. How are you? . . . Not at the moment. Just me and your other uncle . . . Uncle Nick, yes, unless you have an uncle we don’t know about . . . Yes, we’re all here together . . . Yeah, your mom, too, although she’s at the store at the . . . Naperville . . . Chicago, yes . . .”

  There was pounding on the door. Mike put his finger in his other ear so he could continue his conversation with April.

  “Did you get lost?” Nick asked when he saw that Marcy wasn’t carrying any groceries.

  Marcy moved past him and into the room. Mike was standing near the TV.

  “Is that my phone?” she asked Nick.

  Before he could respond, Marcy was already walking over to Mike, who ignored her when she extended her hand. When she tapped him on the shoulder, Mike walked into the bedroom portion of the suite and closed the door.

  “He’s talking to April, isn’t he?”

  Nick nodded.

  “So she called me!” Marcy said. She went to open the bedroom door, but Mike had locked it.

  “Let me talk with her!” Marcy yelled.

  “Hold on, Marcy,” Nick said. “Let’s see what happens.”

  “Screw that.”

  For a moment, Nick thought she might wait. But it turned out she was just being quiet so she could listen. Even from where he stood, Nick could hear Mike reciting a series of numbers.

  “He’s giving her his credit card number,” Marcy said. “Son of a bitch is helping her!”

  Now she stared pounding.

  “Open this goddamned door! Let me talk to her.” Marcy felt her voice grow weak even as she tried to get louder. “Let me talk to my daughter!”

  She was crying now as she called out for her little girl. Nick was trying to pull her away from the door, to try to calm her, when Mike opened it.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Marcy screamed. “I’m trying to get my daughter back and you’re buying them—what? Airline tickets to Cancun?”

  Mike pushed his hand through his hair. Nick thought he looked tired, hungover, and for the first time ever, old.

  “What have you done now?” Marcy asked. “Where is she?”

  “Can’t tell you,” he said. “I promised.”

  “What?” Marcy picked out a spot on his chest. She clen
ched her fist.

  “Listen to me, Marcy. I made a deal—”

  “You made a deal?” Marcy laughed, her voice cracking. “You’re one for making deals, aren’t you? Who are you to be making deals with my daughter? How about the deal you made with your own goddamned kids? Maybe you should worry about those deals!”

  Mike was looking at the floor. He kept looking at the floor as he spoke. “Think what you want,” he said. “But if you want to see April in about forty-eight hours, you won’t ask me any more questions.” Then he looked up at Marcy. His eyes, Nick thought, were surprisingly clear. Focused. “And you won’t say another word about my kids.”

  He took a step back, into the bedroom, and closed the door.

  Marcy turned and looked at Nick.

  Nick tried not to feel useless.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  April almost wished they were back on the train, with its stale stink and busted air-conditioning, because at least there was shade. Out here, the sun beat down on them as if truly pissed at them for venturing onto the beach fully clothed, including shoes. Her grandfather was sweating like a horse and April started to worry that he’d keel over from heat exhaustion or a heart attack. She pulled her sticky shirt away from her body and tried to ventilate: bad luck to think things like that. She was glad she’d taken her uncle Mike’s suggestion to “stow”—his word—their luggage in one of the lockers at the train station, even though it had taken her nearly an hour to score the eight quarters. New list idea: Things I Will Do When I Am An Adult That Adults Usually Don’t Do. Like give money to beggars. Not all of them are drunks or drug addicts or just plain lazy. Some of them, like all of us, are just trying to get someplace.

  “Where are we going?” her grandfather asked, stopping to pull a gross snot rag out of his pocket and mop it across his forehead. “You said you just wanted to see the water. There it is, for god’s sake.”

  There it was, indeed. She was so glad she remembered the beach, the ocean-lake, and that Naperville was one of the stops on the California Zephyr. When her uncle Mike answered her mother’s phone and said they were all there together in Naperville, April’s plan fell into place as if it had been there all along.