He’d found out at his mother’s funeral, from the neighbors, what a good son Philly was. They didn’t have to tell him what a degenerate son he was. He could see it in their faces.
He knew in his heart, in his mind, in his gut, that he could never make that right. Maybe that was another reason the rehab had worked.
So much shame.
So much guilt.
So many regrets.
Ricky reached for the last folder. Taped to the manila folder were two keys and two pieces of paper. He pulled the tape loose so he could finger the keys. One looked like the key to his mother’s house, and the other looked like a key to a safe-deposit box. One sheet of paper was a copy of the form a person filled out to rent a safe-deposit box. Underneath his mother’s signature was his own scrawl. He looked at the date. He’d been nineteen when he signed the form at the bank. The second paper was the actual deed to his mother’s house. He’d been seventeen when his name was added to the deed, the year his father had died from Parkinson’s disease. He wondered why Philly hadn’t found a way to open the safe-deposit box. Why hadn’t it been part of the probate process? Maybe no one had known about it. But Philly had known. Maybe he’d been afraid to take a chance to try and pass himself off as Ricky Lam. He’d already been famous at nineteen, when he’d signed the form.
He looked down at the deed. A deed meant a person owned the property. Hadn’t Philly sold their mother’s house? Ricky thought he had. Then again, maybe Philly hadn’t been able to sell it. Philly must have paid the taxes on it all these years.
Ricky looked down at his watch: 9:30. He was on his feet a second later, with the keys from the file cabinet in his pocket. He barreled down the steps and out to his car.
He was going home.
An hour later he cut the engine of his car and looked around. It was a quiet street, with streetlights and large shade trees lining the sidewalks. Sidewalks where he used to ride his bike with Jimmy Stevens. They hadn’t been allowed to ride in the street back then. He’d played stickball and kick the can in the street after supper, when there was no traffic, but the moment the streetlights came on, he had to be either in his own yard or Jimmy’s yard. Jimmy had lived three doors away. He wondered where Jimmy was these days. He made a mental note to find out.
He didn’t think it was possible for a neighborhood to look the same some twenty-five years later, but this one did. Neighborhoods usually recycled themselves at different points in time. Older people retired and moved away, making way for new people with kids to move in. The baby boomers and the yuppies got transferred or moved east for whatever their reasons were. The area as well as the street reminded Ricky of Lee Ann Oliver’s house.
Ricky didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he slid the key into the lock. It turned effortlessly, and that’s when he let loose and howled his grief. For one brief second, he felt disoriented. What in God’s name am I doing here? His hand shook as he pressed down on the latch. It gave easily.
And then he was inside his old home. The light switch was on the left. He leaned back against the closed door. He squeezed his eyes shut. If he didn’t turn on the light, if he didn’t open his eyes, if he didn’t look at anything, he could simply turn around, go out the door, and lock it. He could pretend he didn’t know about Philly’s keeping the house. And just what good would that do him?
His breathing suddenly ragged, vision rose behind his closed eyelids. A memory of another time such as this when he was eight years old. His parents had gone to the church bingo with some neighbors and Philly was baby-sitting him. Philly had been generous that day, allowing him to play outside past the time the streetlights came on. He’d been playing stickball with Jimmy and some of his other friends, when the rock he was kicking around bounced up and ricocheted crazily right into the Donners’ front window. The boys scattered like mice with a cat on their tail. Their house had been dark because Philly was upstairs in his room. He’d leaned against the door then, just the way he was leaning against it now, with his eyes closed. When he felt Philly’s hand on his shoulder, he’d almost jumped out of his skin. Then he’d started to cry and blubber. Philly’s hand had been comforting and gentle, that much he remembered.
Philly hadn’t turned on the light but told him to go upstairs and take his bath. That’s when the knock sounded on the door. He was at the top of the steps when Philly finally turned on the light and opened the door. He could see Mr. Donner, who was as mad as a man could be. He couldn’t believe his ears when he heard his brother say, “Ricky and I were upstairs doing our homework. He’s taking his bath right now.”
Philly never came into the bathroom, never said a word, and he hadn’t told their parents either. It seemed as if Philly thought the accident had never happened. But it had. For days he’d anguished over what he had done, but he had never owned up to it. Not because he was afraid of punishment but because he was afraid if he told the truth, Philly would hate him forever. To the best of his recollection, he’d repaid about seventy-nine cents of the cost of the broken window. Creeping out of his bed after everyone was asleep, he’d run across the street and put his five or ten cents in the Donners’ mailbox. He’d never told anyone about that either.
Memories like this were not for the faint of heart.
Ricky fumbled for the switch. The small foyer and the living room were flooded with light. His jaw dropped, and his eyeballs stood at attention when he looked around.
He didn’t walk, he ran through the rooms, one after the other when the realization hit him. Son of a bitch! This was where Philly lived. This was where Philly spent his time. This was where he hid out. He whipped around the corner in the upstairs hallway to Philly’s old room. He gaped in disbelief. The closet bulged with clothes, casual clothes, dress clothes, a tuxedo. The dresser drawers were full of underwear, socks, tee shirts, pajamas, and shorts.
The most interesting thing of all was the built-in desk with a state-of-the-art computer, printer, fax, copy machine, and a telephone with enough buttons to light up a room. The bunk beds were the same, too. No, no, they weren’t. The mate to Philly’s bed that had been his was now here in Philly’s room next to the other bed.
Ricky ran back down the hall to his old room. He turned on the light switch. His room was empty. There wasn’t a single thing in the room to indicate a small boy named Ricky Lam had ever inhabited the room. There wasn’t even a carpet on the floor. He was standing on squares of plywood. He could see the thin strips of nail-studded lath for the original carpet.
The shutters that used to cover the windows were gone, replaced with pull-down shades.
Trying to absorb what he was seeing, Ricky walked from room to room. Everything looked the same except for the thick layer of dust everywhere. Obviously no one had been in the house since Philly’s death. Who paid the bills on the house—the light bill, the water? Six months was a long time for anyone to carry a bill. Eventually, the house would have been sold for nonpayment of taxes. Then he remembered one of Philly’s habits. He paid everything ahead, sometimes by years. He never actually received a bill that said pay by such and such a date. Everything carried a credit balance.
Ricky sat down at his mother’s kitchen table. He needed to think about all of this. Philly had thought he had a year to live. During that year, would he have gotten rid of this house, his files, all his records? Probably. He thought he still had time to take care of matters. He hadn’t expected to die so suddenly or so tragically.
A moment later he was off the chair. He opened the refrigerator. Yes, Philly had lived here. Petrified food in containers. A milk jug with residue on the bottom. Soda pop, beer, wine, canned juice. The vegetable bins were full of blue-green mold that was nothing more than thick powder.
The freezer was loaded with meat, all with freezer burn. The cabinets were loaded with staples, the same things Ricky had in the cabinets at his house. Philly must have cooked for himself. The thought surprised him. Everything about Philly surprised him. Everything.
Ricky walked into the laundry room. He almost cried when he opened the door to the dryer and saw Philly’s clothes. He slammed it shut. The appliances looked new.
The living room was the same. There was his father’s recliner. Philly’s reading glasses were on the table, along with a James Michener novel. A pair of worn, scuffed slippers were under the table. A dish of hard candies, individually wrapped, was on the coffee table, along with a pile of newspapers and six month-old issues of Newsweek and Time magazines.
The mantel over the decorative fireplace was full of pictures. Of Philly, of his mother, two of his father. He walked closer to see if there was one of him. He knew there wouldn’t be. He wasn’t disappointed.
He went back upstairs, down the hall to his mother’s room. He turned on the light. It was exactly the way he remembered it except for the thick layer of dust.
The bathroom was next. It, too, was the same, with the exception of the thick, designer towels with matching bath mats. They were all white and monogrammed, even the mats. The toiletries were pricey name brands.
The medicine cabinet held aspirin, seven prescription bottles, cologne, aftershave, and shaving cream, along with a razor. Two new toothbrushes still in their wrappers were on the bottom shelf, with a new tube of Colgate toothpaste. Philly had planned on coming back here.
He turned off the light. He marched down the hall to Philly’s room, where he walked over to the window to look across at what used to be the Windhams’ house. He wondered if they still lived there. If they did, what did they think about Philly’s not coming home for six months? Who mowed and tended the lawn? The Windhams had to be old by now. Even good neighbors like the Windhams wouldn’t continue to take care of a neighbor’s property. Would they? Maybe he should go over and knock on their door. No, the house was dark. Another time. Or, he could simply call them and ask.
Ricky sat down and turned on the computer. Philly had AOL and Quicken. Without a password he wasn’t going to get anywhere. He longed for a cigarette. Well, hell, Philly was a three-pack-a-day man. He rummaged in the desk drawers and found an unopened pack of Marlboros. He wondered what would happen if he smoked a six-month-old cigarette, and found that he didn’t give a damn. He lit up. He stared at the screen in front of him while he puffed on the cigarette.
He was far from computer literate. What little he knew he’d learned from Roxy. It was a way to keep in daily contact with his two sons without acting like a father.
Roxy said all the records concerning the resorts, including the one they were building on Camellia Island, were computerized. Backed up, and then backed up again for safety reasons. Aside from emails, he checked the front pages of the L.A. Times and USA Today and the weather. That was the extent of his computer use.
He needed to call Roxy. He dialed her number, even though it was one o’clock in the morning in South Carolina. Her voice sounded sleepy but alert. “Hello.”
“Roxy, it’s me. Listen, I’m sorry to wake you. I found the place where Philly lived. Hid out, whatever. It’s our old home. I’m here now. Don’t fall asleep on me, Roxy. I need your input here. You with me, Roxy?”
“Yes. I’m making coffee. I went to bed at nine-thirty, so I’ve had some sleep. Talk to me.”
He did. “Six months, Roxy! All the bills must have been paid in advance.”
“Philip loved direct deposit and having bills paid directly from the bank. It was less for him to oversee. There’s no reason to think he wouldn’t have carried that over to his own personal checking account. If my memory serves me right, he used to keep fifty thousand dollars in his personal checking account. I don’t know how I know this, Ricky. I’m assuming I either overheard it or he told me himself. Think about it. Basic utilities, lawn maintenance with a firm that had direct billing. It makes sense. You could ask his lawyer. Then again, maybe this was one of those things he kept secret. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“Think, Roxy, do you have any idea what his computer password would be?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“This whole thing is making me crazy. It’s beyond bizarre.”
“I told you several times that Philip wasn’t the person you thought he was. My personal feeling is he wanted to be you. Without your faults. You can run with that or not.”
“You can hold the fort, can’t you? I’m going to need a few more days here.”
“It’s not a problem. They’re installing the bathroom fixtures tomorrow. Oh, by the way, I got a confirmation today that John Edward, the famous psychic, will attend our opening. If you can’t figure out what’s going on, maybe you can consult him on a professional level. I have his phone number if you need it. How do you feel being in your old home?”
“It’s spooking me, Roxy. I feel like Philly is here watching me, hating it that I’m here. He went to such great lengths to keep all this a secret, and here I am, seeing everything. I’m going to pack up the computer and take it home with me. Tomorrow I’m going to check out my mother’s safe-deposit box, since it has my name on it. I wish you were here, Roxy, I really do.”
A low, throaty chuckle came over the wire. “I take it you miss me.”
“I do. Something’s happening to me where you’re concerned. I don’t ever remember feeling quite like this before.” He smiled when he heard the chuckle again.
“And to think we used to hate each other’s guts. Ricky, if you want me to come to California, I can call one of the boys to come here and oversee things.”
“No, it’s okay. I should be able to clear things up in a few days. If not, I’ll just turn it over to Gracie. Two days, that’s it, and then I’m heading back to the Crown Jewel. What are you going to do now that I woke you up?”
This time the voice purred a response. “I’m going to sit here and pretend you’re sitting across from me. I’m going to tell you all my secret desires, all my innermost secrets, and you’re going to tell me yours.”
Suddenly he found it difficult to breathe. “And then…”
“Then I’m going to…”
“Yes? What? Can you make smoke come out of my ears?”
“Oh, honey, I can light a whole bonfire in those ears of yours. Smoke is just smoke. Flames now, that’s something else entirely. ’Night, Ricky.”
Ricky looked at the pinging phone in his hand after Roxy hung up. He burst out laughing. Damn, she’s good.
He turned off the computer and disconnected it. Just to be on the safe side, he took the monitor and the printer as well, not knowing if they would be compatible with what he had at his own house.
Outside in the quiet night, he looked around. Will I ever come back here? He simply didn’t know. The street was deserted, most of the houses dark. A lone lamp glowed at the end of someone’s driveway farther down the street. It was cool, and it felt damp.
Ricky backed his car down the driveway, his headlights arcing on the Windhams’ mailbox. Only the name wasn’t Windham now, it was Nebitz. Well, that took care of calling the Windhams.
God, Philly, what demons were inside your head? Hot tears burned behind his eyelids as he shifted gears and drove off. A high keening sound escaped his lips. In the whole of his life, he’d never felt such sadness.
It was midnight by the time Ricky disconnected his own computer and moved it to one of the guest rooms down the hall. He had Philly’s computer hooked up within minutes. He clicked on AOL. For the next hour, he played with every imaginable password he could think of. He went through the calendar, dates, years, names of everyone they both knew. Nothing. His own password was simple, RLMS. Ricky Lam, Movie Star. Just for the hell of it, he typed in RLMSB. Ricky Lam, Movie Star’s Brother. He almost fell off his chair when the screen came to life. Son of a bitch! Had he ever told Philly his password? He must have. Then again, maybe Philly was one of those hacking wonders he was always reading about in the papers and hearing about on the news.
For some reason he expected to find hundreds of emails. What he was seeing was prob
ably no more than twenty or so. That made sense. Who would try to contact Philly after his death? He counted them, his finger tracing the emails on the screen. There were twenty-four altogether. Twenty-three of them dated the week of his death. The last email on the list had come through four months after his death.
Ricky read the emails slowly, trying to absorb what he was seeing. They appeared to be responses to queries that Philly had sent out. Queries concerning his biological parents. All twenty-three were regretful. The writers were unable to help simply because it was either too long ago or they were the wrong people.
The last email was different. It was from someone named Martin Mangarella. He said he was Martina Mangarella’s son. Ricky read it eight times.
Dear Mr. Lam,
I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but my mother Martina Mangarella passed away last year. When my mother retired from the Oakhurst Orphanage, where she worked all her adult life, she copied and brought home files, which she stored in the basement. She knew it was wrong, but she did it anyway. I asked her once why she did that, and her response was, there might be a fire, and all the records would be destroyed, and then the poor souls would never be able to find their children or their parents. I, personally, do not approve of sealed adoptions. The reason being, I’m adopted. My mother always felt the same way but was powerless to help the people who tried to find loved ones while she was in the orphanage’s employ. On her retirement, she said she would never seek out people, but if they managed to find her, she would help them any way she could. You can either call me or send me an email and we can arrange to meet and to discuss payment for the information. Of course if you don’t find what you’re looking for, there will be no charge.
Sincerely yours,
Martin Mangarella.
Ricky not only memorized the email, he memorized the phone number at the bottom. “I’ll be damned!”
If Philly had lived the year his doctor said he had, he would have been able to read this particular email. Sometimes life just wasn’t fair.
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