by J D Spero
The dishwasher clicked into another cycle, bringing Bernie back to the present. He opened a cupboard and marveled at the tower of dishes inside. Ma had enough to set a king’s table. Packing it all up seemed impossible. He might need Marcella’s help for that.
Spare bedroom was probably the next-safest spot. Ma kept her important papers in the file cabinet there. Manila folders organized in an orderly left-middle-right tabbed pattern, labeled by her small, curlicue cursive. A surge of affection rose up. Maybe look at these later? He closed the drawer. The canvas bin atop the file cabinet looked much less intimidating.
What he found inside the bin surprised him. Made him smile. Keepsakes: personal letters and cards Ma had saved, Hen’s crayon drawings. The Mother’s Day card he’d given her last spring caught his eye, with its butterfly design in rose-colored glitter. But there were two of them. Did he send her two of the exact same card?
Opening one, he recognized Marcella’s handwriting.
In my heart, you will always be my mother. In my heart, you always have been. Thank you for loving my Hen.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The card went hot in his fingers as if it were electrified. He knew Marcella loved his Ma. Reading her words, written by her hand, he nearly choked with emotion. Dropping the card back in the bin, he sank onto the bed. His face fell into his hands. He felt smothered by grief.
Here he was in Ma’s house, surrounded by her belongings, and his heart was full with love for Marcella. Her voice, her orange-blossom smell, her image affixed in his mind like a recurring dream, making everything in his Ma’s house look strange.
He loved Marcella. Had loved her for years.
What he felt now was new.
Fear. Somehow, fear played over everything. Ma had been the glue that kept them together. Despite what she’d requested in her will—that they become a couple, officially—he wouldn’t want Marcella that way. To be forced. Coerced. He’d want it to be her choice. And now, Tripp was here. Would she take him back? The idea made him nauseous. The fear that he might lose her was painful beyond words.
He searched the room for something to distract him from that fear.
In-Box
A mesh bin atop the dresser held the businesslike label. Business, he could do. To bury that nagging worry in his gut, he dug into it. Envelopes. Bills. Stuff that needed immediate attention.
Shoot.
With a heavy sigh, he shuffled through the unmailed letters and bills and to-do lists, trying to prioritize. When he saw the sealed envelope addressed to Leon’s Diner, he paused, his anxiety turning into curiosity.
Why would Ma be sending a letter to Leon?
Later that night, when Bernie knew Hen would be in bed, he ventured to Marcella’s. She hadn’t asked him to babysit Hen, so he assumed she was home. Unless she left him with Tripp? A sudden protective feeling for Hen surprised him. If he dug deep, he’d realize he had always been protective of that child. Since before he was born, even.
Hen’s father left when Marcella was still pregnant. It still miffed him how two men could be so daft that they’d walk out on the most extraordinary, beautiful woman in the world. And yet, they did. Tyler’s and Hen’s fathers, both. Bernie had missed Tyler’s early years, but not a single day went by that he wasn’t there for Marcella once Hen was born. It struck him now how attached he’d grown to the little guy. What if he lost both Marcella and Hen? He couldn’t fathom it.
He knocked lightly on her door.
To his relief, Marcella’s voice called, “It’s open.”
Tripp’s blanket and stuff were still in the front room, his makeshift bed on the couch, the freshly rumpled sheet and bed pillow. More relief. How would he feel if Tripp and Marcella shared a bed? He shuddered as he worked his way to the kitchen, where he found her.
She raised her beer bottle with a half smile. “Help yourself.”
With his beer, he sat at Hen’s place—his usual seat occupied by her bare feet.
“Been a while, Bernie.”
“Seen more of Hen than of you lately.” No hint of complaint in his voice.
She shifted and tucked her toes at the edge of Hen’s seat near his thigh. They were like tiny ice cubes, her toes. It was an automatic thing, on her part, finding warmth for her toes. It meant nothing beyond that. He could tell by the absent way she studied her beer label. His thigh could’ve been a couch cushion. Still, a jolt went through him. Never had he been in contact with her like this. He forced himself to stay seated while his heart raced.
Why not me?
He thought about collecting her feet in his hands. Massaging them. The idea of touching her bare feet—skin on skin contact—paralyzed him. He didn’t budge. The chill of her toes went straight through his jeans.
“Is he here?” He nodded to the couch where Tripp slept.
Marcella shook her head. “What’s up?”
“I, uh, found something at Ma’s. Can’t really make sense of it. Wanted to talk to you about it.”
“Oh?” She put her lips to her bottle but did not take a sip.
He got the letter from his shirt pocket. As she reached for the envelope, her feet dropped to the floor. His jeans held a chill from where her toes had been.
“It’s addressed to Leon’s Diner.” She furrowed her brow. “The return address—Hubb Corp. I don’t understand.”
“Ma meant to send it.” He pressed a callous on his hand. “I opened it.”
Marcella’s wide eyes reminded him of Hen’s. Bernie felt a pang of guilt, bringing this to her, as if she were a helpless child in his care. But they were in this together. Ma had made sure of that. He watched her read the letter he almost knew by heart, her lovely, tired eyes roving the words.
She was quiet so long, he thought it best to clarify. “It’s an invoice for nine hundred dollars, plus late fees.”
“Owed to Hubb Corp? Is that—”
“Hubbard Corporation.”
“You?”
“Not me. Ma.”
“What’s this money for? Why would your Ma be charging Leon almost a thousand dollars?”
“This wasn’t the only one. It was a monthly thing. Ma kept records.”
“Rent.”
“Right. For the diner.”
Marcella’s jaw dropped. “For the diner? Sally owned Leon’s Diner?”
“It seems she owned the building, not the business.”
She shook her head. “Did you know any of this?”
“No,” he whispered, betrayal settling like a dark cloud. He’d grown up ignorant of the family business. His father had made sure of that. Only after he graduated high school, his father let him in, offering him a job as property manager for his multi-family complex in Lake George. “One of my endeavors. One that will keep you respectably busy,” he’d said. Bernie had known not to ask questions, and conveyed proper gratitude. For his entire adult life, he’d been property manager there. His father had been right. It kept him busy. When his father passed away, he assumed any other assets were liquefied and given to Ma. He had no idea about Leon’s Diner. Why would Ma keep this from him? How much had Ma been involved in his father’s business?
Marcella seemed as puzzled as he. “Sally was the landlord? Leon Hogg was her tenant?”
“Not was. Leon Hogg is a tenant, who owes a boatload of rent to Hubb Corp.”
Marcella pinched the paper, visibly processing what Bernie just told her.
He cleared his throat. “That’s not all I found.”
He slowly reached into his shirt pocket as he recalled what Hen had told him. Long ago, Miss Sally using her ‘consequences’ voice with Leon and Derek Hogg. And whatever she’d said had angered them.
Turns out, Leon Hogg did have a reason to be angry with her. Good reason. Good reason for a long, hard grudge in fact. On the table, he put the other envelope addressed to Leon and waited for Marcella to read for herself.
Her voice was breathy with shock. “An eviction notice.”
“H
ey, Dad, you okay?” Ty’s voice scratched the air.
Tripp seemed different this visit. He’d come in every day since his arrival to Severance. Every time wearing the same hat, the same denim shirt. His scruff had grown into an uneven beard. His fingernails bitten to the quick and he couldn’t seem to keep still.
His eyes darted around the room. “Listen, you and me. We’re gonna start our own band, right? What’s that catchy name you got goin’?”
“The Ex-Convicts.” Ty was less confident now.
Tripp barked a laugh. “Yah, yah. That’s great. And your friend, your buddy there, Derek? He’s gonna do drums. I got it now. Sure.” He drummed the table with his pointers, hummed an unrecognizable tune. “You know that song?”
“No.” Tyler felt an inexplicable dread.
“You don’t know that song? Man! That’s a damn shame. What the hell do you listen to, then? How the hell are we going to get a band together if we don’t even listen to the same music? I bet you and Derek listen to that bullshit rap. Am I right?” Tripp leaned in close. It smelled like he hadn’t showered in days. “You listen to that garbage, don’t you? LL Cool J?”
Ty wished there was room to back away. “Some Public Enemy.”
“Yah. Losers. All of ‘em.” Tripp’s eyes flitted across Ty’s, and his face softened as if a vacuum had cleared his thoughts.
Ty glanced at the UFO camera. The red eye had blinked out. Stayed off a few seconds. Panic shot through him. So focused on the UFO camera, waiting for its red eye, he jumped when his father clutched his hand. Red eye blinked on. Dad had triggered it. Ty’s lungs shook, waiting for the next signal.
It came from his dad. “It’s okay. They can’t hear if we talk quiet.”
Ty’s ears went hot. The earth came to a standstill.
“What did you say?” he whispered. Did Dad work with them? Had they sent him here?
“Hey, listen.” Tripp grinned crookedly at his hands.
Ty couldn’t stop staring at the UFO camera. A thick paste filled his chest.
“Ty, hey buddy. I’m talking to you. Forget about them.”
“Okay.” Ty forced himself to look at his father, who maybe wasn’t really his father. They may have sent someone who looked like his father to get information. Or, more likely, they had gotten to him. Hired him as a spy.
Tripp went on. “I was hoping. You know your friend Derek? I need his help.”
Ty snapped, alert. “Derek? You need Derek’s help?”
“Sh-shut up.” Tripp checked the UFO camera, then the opaque window. “Sorry. Shush, okay? Okay. Yes, I need your help. I want you to talk to Derek—”
Ty’s laugh was all nerves. The red eye blinked. He saw it from the corner of his eye. They were listening. He stared at the camera, enunciating his words, as if reciting them from a teleprompter. “Dad, I can’t talk to Derek—”
Tripp slapped the table. Then he did something truly shocking. He pointed a finger directly at the UFO camera.
“Stop it!” he shouted at the red light. “Stop with that inane cryptic bullshit. I need to talk to my son.”
Ty froze. His insides swirled while his outsides went still.
Tripp shook his head, annoyed. “Damn codes. Think I can decipher them? What? Am I supposed to be some kinda engineer? Why did they pick me, huh?”
Ty couldn’t blink. He couldn’t believe what he heard. Dad did work for them. He was being forced to. Coerced. Blackmailed, maybe. They sent messages through him. To get to Ty. Panic fluttered in his chest, but he worked hard at keeping still. Poker face. Don’t let them see you squirm. Don’t let them know they’ve gotten to you.
Tripp’s face turned beet red. He ranted, spittle foaming in the corners of his mouth. “I need Derek’s help. Leon has shut me out, the bastard. Freaking guy doesn’t have any respect for history. Damnit. I’m his friend. Have been for years! I’m back. You’d think he’d—”
“Dad.” Ty used his on-stage voice. They were listening. He had to be careful. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tripp’s glare chilled Ty. “Don’t play dumb with me. You’re old enough. You didn’t get in here by being a freaking goody-goody.”
Ty swallowed that thing in his throat and leaned back in his chair. For the first time, he wished Clapp would interrupt and tell his father he had to go. He didn’t dare look at the UFO camera anymore. Too dangerous. Tripp must’ve felt it too.
“Forget them!”
On his feet, Tripp came between Ty and the camera, blocking their view. Ty’s heart seized. He bit down, clenching every muscle in his body. They would punish him later. And his father? This was a serious violation. Tripp couldn’t hide from them. Didn’t he know that? He would be severely punished. There’s no telling to what extreme—
“Let’s work together, now, kid.” Tripp leaned into Ty’s face. He kept his voice low, but was it low enough? “You know what I need. I need what you need.”
What? Ty asked with his eyes, a little afraid of the answer.
Spit flew from his mouth with a word Ty never thought he’d hear his father say.
“Blow.”
Marcella’s door flew open. A rifling through the duffle bag in the front room, and she knew it was Tripp. Chewing a thumbnail, she threw a cautionary look at Bernie.
“This is bullshit,” Tripp mumbled. “This whole town is still bullshit. No wonder I left.”
The air thickened with tension. Bernie hid the documents in his shirt pocket just before Tripp stormed into the kitchen. He looked wild and unhinged, his hair static frizz without his cowboy hat.
He raged. “Nothing has changed. All a bunch of pansies!”
“Be quiet!” Marcella smoothed the air with her hands. “Hen’s sleeping.”
“I don’t know who he thinks he is, but this is absolute crap!”
“Who?” Her defenses kicked in. “I hope you’re not talking about Tyler.”
Tripp pulled at his thinning hair. “No, I’m not talking about Ty. Although he didn’t help none either.”
“What do you mean? Who’s wronged you now?”
“Damn you, Hogg.” As Tripp dove into the fridge for a beer, Bernie got to his feet.
“How ‘bout I go?” he whispered to Marcella. “I’ll be right next door.”
Two men’s footsteps sounded in sync—one to the front door, the other to the kitchen table. As Tripp sat, Bernie shut the door behind him. The sound made Tripp start. “What the hell? Oh, that guy was here?”
“Bernie. His name is Bernie.”
Tripp scratched his chest. “Didn’t even know he was here.”
“He’s a good man, Tripp.”
“Yeah, but is he sleepwalking?” He chuckled and sucked on his beer. His eyes floated to the ceiling. The anger had faded. His lips moved, as if he were talking to a ghost. It was eerily familiar. Tyler had the same habit. Talking to the sky.
She put away the memory.
Curiosity got the best of her. What had Leon done to offend him so much? “Tripp, what happened with Leon?”
He glared. “I can’t believe all those years you workin’ there. You had no idea.”
“No idea about what?” She was a terrible liar. Her pulse raced. Why did Bernie have to show her those documents?
He coughed, mucous caught. He rolled the white marble on his tongue. “What went on in the back room.”
In the back room. Her stomach dropped. Tripp certainly wasn’t referring to the dozen times Marcella had been groped back there. Leon would trail her when she’d go for a fresh roll of tape or napkins or whatever, and he’d lock them in the small room alone. Pawed at her with his grubby hands. She’d shove him away, hiss at him to stop. He’d laugh, like it was all a harmless game. Sexual harassment, it was. She knew now. Illegal, for heaven’s sake. And she was too weedy to do anything about it. What would Tripp have done if he knew? Or would he have even cared?
“What about the back room?” She tried to sound bored.
He swallo
wed more beer, taking the white marble like a pill. He scanned her from head to toe, objectively, without a hint of lust. It was so unlike him, she felt uncomfortable.
“Maybe you can help me,” he finally said.
“Help you? With what?”
He looked away. “Get me some blow.”
She croaked. Time to educate him about sexual harassment. “News flash! You and me? Off limits. Nothing’s going to happen. Never. I made myself crystal clear well before you got here, Tripp. When we spoke by phone—”
Tripp laughed, threw his head back.
Oh, the gall. “What? What the hell are you laughing at?”
“I’m not askin’ you to blow me, unless you wanna.” He leaned toward her. “I’m talkin’ about cocaine.”
She stared back at him, perplexed. He could’ve easily mentioned the Kuiper belt. “Cocaine?”
“Mount Marcy, my Marcy.” The back of his hand caressed her cheek. Her skin went hot under his touch. And those eyes, they pierced her. She filled with that fizzy, carbonated feeling—yet tinged sour—like skunk dressing. She smacked his hand away.
“How sweet you are.” He sat back. “And so naïve.”
Naïve? “You have some nerve—”
“Pretty and dumb.” He laughed. “The way God made ‘em for us.”
“Shut up, Tripp.” She seethed.
“All those years workin’ there, you really didn’t know?”
Anger simmered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
His laser blues shocked open. “News flash!” he mocked her. “That diner is just a front, babe. A cover. Leon’s business is illicit, under the table. Little packets of white stuff. That’s what happens in the back room.”
Something swirled, obscuring her retinas, blocking her ears, attacking her senses. “What?” she managed, shock and disbelief making the word inaudible.
Explanation over, he was back to his mission. “Use your girly wiles. It’ll be easy. Give Hogg a little romp-n-roll if you need to, I don’t care. Just figure it out for me, will ya?”