Unreliable

by Lee Irby

  “Yeah, or a shakedown.”

  So our little errand to Longstreet Storage has bathed Mead in a new light, or perhaps revealed cracks in the foundation that my mother has tried to wallpaper over, namely, that he is a regular deadbeat. I’m not buying his conspiratorial explanation of why his lock got replaced; the most likely reason is that he is behind on his payments, meaning now I have indisputable proof that he needs my mother’s money, that he doesn’t have a pot to piss in, that he’s a lout, that she’s being taken advantage of…none of which matters because love is blind, mute, dumb, stupid, and ultimately self-defeating.

  “I’ll be right back,” he tells me stoutly. “One way or another, they’re going to open this door.”

  Which begs the question: what’s behind the door? Why is he keeping this trove in storage while he filled my mother’s basement with dangerous weapons? But that’s Mead in a nutshell. Each revelation only adds to the confusion, whereas facts tend to clarify and define. Not with him. The knowns create unknowns, variables multiply on their own, and all that’s solid melts away under the steady glare of rationality.

  I sit and rest against a wall. A storage facility is where secrets go on vacation to unwind. Each locked door stands guard against intrusion, allowing the contents behind the luxury of complete stillness. Like people, most of the units are innocent and harmless. But a few aren’t, and it’s behind those doors we want most to look…and enter…and become.

  My phone rings. Ithaca, New York, area code. There is no reason on earth I should take this call. But there is a chance, however remote, that it’s from Lola. Maybe Dahlia came with her on this excursion and now Lola is using Dahlia’s phone…the prank will be revealed, the two girls will howl in ribald laughter, and I’ll be left to wonder where it is from here I go.

  “Hello?” I answer crisply. My head, though, bobs a little, and my breathing begins to quicken.

  “Is this Edwin Stith?” A man’s voice, one I’d recognize anywhere, as it belongs to the sonorous Carter LaSalle, Lola’s father, theater professor and serial philanderer.

  “Yes, it is. May I ask who’s calling?” So polite! Manners so refined! Two grandees of academia exchanging pleasantries…

  “This is Carter LaSalle. I believe you know my daughter, Lola.” His usually pleasant tone has grown angry and seethes with resentment. Maybe this was the voice he used when he told Lola she was lazy and unmotivated, average even, which in the LaSalle family is a capital offense. This is how he sounded when he told her that she lacked passion and drive, that her grades were horrible, that she was destined for nothing.

  “I do know her and let me stop you right there. I know why you’re calling. I haven’t seen Lola and I don’t know where she is. I told the police that last night, and I wish I knew more. The last time I saw her was in Ithaca.”

  “At your apartment?”

  “No, Lola’s never been to my apartment. What are you implying?”

  But he leaps right past my fake outrage. “Where was it then, Professor Stith, if you don’t mind me asking? You see, we’re quite worried about her. No one has seen or heard from her in several days, and we know that she’s made calls and sent texts while in Richmond, but only to one number. Your number. She won’t return our calls and respond to our texts.”

  He created her but blames me for her self-destructive tendencies. A daughter needs a father’s approval, and he never gave Lola one warm embrace, one reassuring hug, because nothing she did was ever good enough for him. So if she’s shunning him, he has only himself to blame.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t seen her. I never invited her to join me down here, and she apparently came on her own volition.”

  “Why would she do that, Professor? Drive down to Richmond to see you?”

  “You’ll have to ask her that. I can’t speak for her.”

  Then he explodes like Lear on the heath, ravening and wild-eyed. “Don’t you play that sanctimonious game with me, Stith! You’d better clean up your act and pray that no one has laid a finger on her. I’ve spoken with the dean, and apparently this isn’t the first complaint someone’s made against you, which I find disturbing.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Excuse me for not taking your word for it.” Then he stops shouting at me and I hear noises in the background, perhaps his wife’s voice urging him to show restraint, ever the gentle soul, even when confronting her daughter’s defiler.

  Or is it the other way around? I haven’t been promiscuous, I haven’t been snapping photos of my lover’s genitalia, and I haven’t been cavalier about destroying someone’s life and livelihood. I’ve been nothing but honest and sincere, not to mention supportive and congenial, in all my dealings with Lola.

  Carter LaSalle gets back on the line. “Stith, listen to me. I know Lola can be impulsive, but this has gone too far. I’m not accusing you of misconduct per se, but appearances count and this doesn’t look good.”

  “It sounds to me like you are accusing me of the worst kind of violation.” And rightly so! How unpersuasive my denials must sound, and as a trained actor, Carter LaSalle can recognize a winning performance.

  “I don’t know what’s happening between you two. All I know is that she’s never done something like this before and we’re worried sick. Please, I’m begging you, if you know something, anything at all, tell us! Just tell us! That’s all we’re asking for, simple decency.” His strong voice cracks, again reminding me of Lear, as the old man leans over Cordelia’s corpse, holding that tragic mirror to her gaping, dead mouth, hoping to find life within her. But failing.

  “I’ve told you everything I know,” I stammer, moved by his raw entreaty. “I’m worried, too. She’s a special person I’ve gotten close to and worked with on a number of issues…this is the last thing I ever intended. If she in some way misinterpreted my efforts to reach out to her, I do apologize for that. In the future I’ll need to establish firm boundaries.”

  “Yes, Lola’s roommate told us that you two were very close.”

  I swallow back bitterness and breathe through my nostrils so that I can try to control my own swirling emotions. So Dahlia spilled the beans, just as I feared she would. I hate to be the one who says I told you so, but…“I need to go,” I curtly explain. “My mother is getting married today, and so we’re quite busy getting ready.”

  A silence descends as I await Carter LaSalle’s response. I don’t know if he’s holding his breath or covering the microphone with his hand, but seconds tick past before he speaks again. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon, Professor.”

  “Again, I hope this all works out for the best.”

  That kindly sentiment probably fell on deaf ears, as Carter LaSalle hung up before I could deliver it. Well, that was productive! I’ve become Notting College’s Public Enemy No. 1 just as I’d predicted. I’m filled with shame, in case you’re wondering whether I’ve debased myself to the point that I no longer experience basic human feelings. Not true. I’m ashamed of myself. Carter LaSalle’s denunciations still ring in my ears. It’s going to get worse, though. This is just the beginning…

  Mead returns with a gnarled little man whose face is dotted with brown blotches and who walks with a peg-leg limp. I can tell by Mead’s taciturn expression that he’s highly distressed. His mouth quivers and his cheeks are pale, and he avoids making eye contact with me, the witness to his unmasking. I can barely hear what the little man is saying…

  “I tried calling the number we had on file but it was disconnected and the e-mail you gave us didn’t work, either. You’re lucky I didn’t haul this stuff to an auction house.”

  I stand up but keep my distance, as this really isn’t my affair and Mead doesn’t seem to want me nearby. The little man unlocks the door and stands back as Mead rushes inside. I can’t see what’s in there from my vantage, and so I creep forward a little…and see boxes, which Mead is pawing through.

  “You’ll need to settle up with me today
, Mr. George, or I’ll remove all of it by the close of business.” Then the little man limps off, leaving behind a foul odor of mold and cigar. I wait a minute or so before calling out to Mead. I stick my head inside and see him sitting on a box, staring down at his feet.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he says softly. “I had it all worked out and then the next thing I know, it all fell apart. But that’s life, huh?” He forces a smile and pats his knees but then doesn’t move.

  “What are in these boxes?” I ask, trying to sound clinical and not nosy. Mead probably will give me a misleading nonanswer, but instead surprises me with moving candor.

  “I guess you could call them personal effects. Stuff I really should let go of but can’t quite bring myself to. My wife, Graves and Gibson’s mother, didn’t want any of the kids’ baby stuff and when we split up, I hated to throw it out. I mean, how do you throw out a birthday card your daughter wrote for you? Or your son’s baseball trophies or collection of Hot Wheels? I know it’s stupid and sentimental, but as someone who enjoys holding on to the past, who finds treasure in trash, you know, I couldn’t—I can’t—I have to keep it.”

  I want to believe him, I really do, but I also can’t help feeling as if he’s feeding me a heaping pile of crap. I’d love to look inside these boxes, but so far he doesn’t seem inclined to show me an example of his children’s handiwork. And there are a plethora of boxes in here, enough to contain the toys and drawings of a dozen kids. With room to spare—almost like the boxes in the basement had once sat in here before he moved them into my mother’s basement. No, nothing he’s saying adds up. Or some of it is true, some of it not.

  “It really looks like you kept every scrap of paper they ever scribbled on,” I say in a leading way, just to let him know I’m not a complete rube.

  “I did. It’s my vice—I hoard. But I’m also ready to make a clean break and start over with a blank slate, so to speak. I’ve been talking to your mother about downsizing, eliminating the unnecessary, and living spare and purposeful lives. Huh? Why not?”

  Some of the boxes are labeled, however. Marla’s Room. Kitchen Stuff. Wedding Shower. Has he kept the contents of his marriage in here? I can understand not wanting to toss out your daughter’s stick-figure drawings of you and her circumscribed by a heart, but why keep your ex-wife’s cheese grater? Why keep a box of her things at all? Not just a box, but boxes and boxes…and of course I can sympathize, as a spurned husband myself, with the addled thought process that goes into starting over.

  “Who’s Marla?” I ask, emboldened by these clues that taunt and tantalize.

  “My mother, who saved all of my baby stuff. It’s sad, really, this save-everything disease.”

  Oops. Now I need to backpedal. “So it runs in the family.”

  “Without skipping generations. I guess we should get a move on here. There’s still a lot on my plate today.”

  Slightly chagrined, with a dollop of egg on my face, I turn and head out, nearly running into a very large person who has been hovering outside the door, who is about the heft of a fat walrus—somehow Jeb Wardell has found his way inside the locked storage facility and now has effectively deployed his own blockade, as his bulk takes up the space we must pass through to get out. I stagger back, arms up in surrender. Mead stands but says nothing.

  “What’re you doing here?” Jeb asks, annoyed but verging on angry.

  “I could ask you the same question” is my stout reply. Even though Jeb is glaring at me with malicious intent, I’m not afraid, because in a flash of recognition, the pieces start falling together. Now it makes sense. Leigh Rose told me last night that the three stooges were engaging in all kinds of misbegotten get-rich-quick schemes, including the mass purchase of “ammunition.” Of course Jeb Wardell would do business with someone like my stepdaddy, whose collection of ammunition compares favorably with an armored division.

  “What do you want?” Mead responds, not as firmly as I would have hoped. So this might spiral out of control. Perfect! Just what I wanted to have happen to me today. But such is Fate. Perhaps I’ll be a murder victim at last and will perish next to the man out to soak my mother’s inheritance…unless he’s the one who pulls the trigger.

  “We need to talk, alone.” Jeb snorts through his nostrils like a bull about to charge.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” Mead says, more manfully.

  “I really want to deal with you without him here.” He means me, of course. The expendable one. The man after Leigh Rose’s money. But I’m not going down without one last spike of the football in the end zone.

  “How’s Leigh Rose?” I ask with a toothy grin.

  Jeb Wardell points a finger in my face. “Don’t ever talk about her again, do you hear me?”

  “It’s an honest question!”

  “What is it you want, Jeb?” Mead steps in between us to act as a buffer. Not that he could prevent Jeb Wardell from tearing me to shreds. “I’m getting married in a few hours and don’t have time for this.”

  Jeb does back down, at least a little. “We need the merchandise,” he says firmly. “I don’t know what happened yesterday but I’m just telling you, this is no way to handle the situation.”

  “Someone is feeding you bogus information,” Mead sputters, convincing no one. Hey ho! Have I stumbled upon the “other source” from which the Bastard Sons got an RPG launcher? Is this “other source” glaring at me now with saliva dotting his mustache? Because how did he find us? Sheer luck? He randomly picked a storage facility off Hull Street and managed to locate the one person he was looking for? No, he’s been here before, perhaps multiple times. Mead knew plenty about the Wardells and offered me protection from them.

  “We shouldn’t discuss this in front of him,” Jeb groans, pointing at the door in a gesture for me to leave.

  “Ah, come on, Jeb!” I laugh in mock bravado. “I know what’s up. I loaded the boxes onto the U-Haul. I’ve met the Russian. Don’t pretend like this is some big secret here.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Stith. Not anymore.”

  Ominous words that echo down the quiet corridors of building twelve. Given all that’s happened, I hate to say it but Jeb is right. This has transcended personal vendetta and become something much more dangerous. Mead had better tread very lightly. He’s gotten involved with the popular kids at school and right now it seems like they’re stealing his lunch money. If he’s not careful, he’ll take the fall. This is how this group operates.

  “No one said it was a joke,” Mead interjects. “But I need my money. All of it.”

  “The Russian said he paid in full.”

  “The hell he did! I’m not covering the shipping costs.”

  “We need to make the boxes in that U-Haul go away as soon as possible. I don’t care what you have to do, that’s the goal. Don’t be stupid.”

  “I’m not being stupid, Jeb,” Mead retorts. “I can’t vouch for what you and the Russian are up to, but I’m a collector of war memorabilia and I’ve got nothing to hide. Do you? What are you talking about anyway? Why the rush? Why are you trying to push me around?”

  Does Mead really not know the depths to which Jeb Wardell would descend in order to make a buck? He honestly has no idea, given the terrible events that have rocked the city since last night? Or is he trying to convince me of his innocence, me of all people, from whom guilt hangs like drooping Spanish moss?

  “The sooner we wrap it up, the better” is all Jeb will admit to. Gone are the bluster and bravado, and now fear is in control. Maybe he doesn’t know himself what he’s done, who might’ve come into possession of an RPG launcher…or what remains in the hands of people he can no longer find.

  “Jeb, stop talking in riddles,” Mead chides. “If you want this stuff shipped out, pay for the shipping and I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “What’s so funny?” Jeb growls at me.

  “Nothing! Leave me out of it, Jeb!” I cry, making sure I don’t smile, which I ofte
n do when nervous. “It’s not my fault your paranoid empire is crumbling at your feet.”

  “We told you to stay away from Leigh Rose but you couldn’t do it, and now she’s…” But he doesn’t finish his sentence and her fate remains undefined. Emboldened, I take a step toward him as Mead grabs me by the shoulders.

  “Now she’s what?” I demand.

  “She’s spewing nonsense!” he shouts. “You messed with her head, dude! She’s saying crazy shit and it’s all your fault.”

  Ah, now it becomes clear to me…Leigh Rose has a conscience and Leigh Rose won’t keep her mouth shut…and the mess must get cleaned up at once. The FBI, ATF, every law enforcement acronym in the country has come to Richmond, and Jeb is in a panic because Leigh Rose not only refuses to drink the Kool-Aid, she’s spitting it back in their faces.

  “That’s enough,” Mead barks stoutly, coming between Jeb and me. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but I don’t like it. Until I get paid for shipping, the merchandise stays in storage. Jeb, if you’re mixed up in anything nefarious or illegal, you can bet your bottom dollar I’ll tell the authorities everything I know.”

  His words comfort me. Mead could be lying, but Jeb’s ashen face tells a different story. Only later do I think that Jeb came to the storage facility to kill my stepfather, but ceased when he encountered me. Why that would’ve deterred him doesn’t add up…unless he knew his sister truly loved me and he didn’t want that blood on his hands. Wishful thinking?

  Is there any other kind? And anyway, my heart will always belong to Lola.

  —

  According to my cell phone, someone e-mailed me at 9:01 a.m. The subject line is deceptively clever: “The Cops Are Looking for You!!!!” I don’t open the message right away because there’s something suspicious about the e-mail account of the sender, iamhighashell@yahoo.com. This borders on crass and Lola never would stoop to something as juvenile as an oblique marijuana reference, all of which makes me think this account was set up by Dahlia or someone else Lola might have told about us, such as Thor…and what would have stopped her from amusing that vain miscreant who mostly kept his head on his desk while I lectured (brilliantly), as if the sound of my voice caused him utter misery? Nothing, obviously, since she delighted in exposing my frailties to the world.