by Luanne Rice
So, no high-priced rehabs for Richard. He’d just hold on tight, knowing he had to muscle through this on his own. He just hoped his heart held out; his body was going through hell this time. The hangover was nothing compared to the tremors. He’d puked his guts out all night—right now he was in the full light of day.
And craving a drink with everything he had, but determined not to stop at the package store. Top-ten worst moments—they were haunting him big-time. Getting drunk just couldn’t cut it anymore. Mickey’s messages on his cell phone were numbers two, three, and four. Jesus, she’d broken her wrist, panicked about the U-boat, and gotten a boyfriend. Endless messages about the bad and the good in her life, and Richard wasn’t there for any of it.
Shaking in the driver’s seat, he stared at the front door of her school. She’d walk out any minute. He’d let her know he was still alive, still loved her—and then he’d drop out of her life again. She was better off without him anyway.
Since he hadn’t been drinking, he was okay to drive. He’d offer her a ride home. He could explain a little of what had been going on. The message he’d recorded the other day—purposely left in the middle of school, when he’d known she wouldn’t answer—had laid the groundwork for his cover story.
“Mick,” he’d tell her, “I’ve really fallen into a gold mine out in Arizona. Selling houses left and right! I’ll start banking the money soon, but there’s…” Here he would insert an explanation, indecipherable to anyone but a realtor, about lenders, lawyers, and escrow—“a thirty-day holdup until the funds are released.”
“Then we’ll be—on easy street—in the pink—in the money—riding high.” Insert bullshit phrase here…
Staring at the high school, he wondered whether she’d buy it. Her mother never had. Neve had always been too smart for his crap. She’d seen right through the fear and the lies, wanted him to get help. She hadn’t even gotten mad at the end—by then she was past yelling, even past crying. She was just sad.
“Mickey loves you,” she’d said. “She needs a dad. And you love her so much, if you don’t give that to her, if you don’t stand up and act like a good father, you’ll hate yourself.”
“What about you?” he’d asked, trying to take her hand. “Don’t you love me?”
That’s when the sad look had kicked in. It had flooded her features—her wide, intelligent, sea blue eyes, her delicate mouth—it had made her look so regal, because she wasn’t breaking down, but also so tragic, because her face revealed every last bit of grief he’d put her through over the years.
“I did,” she said. “I loved you more than anything. But right now I don’t like you very much. I barely even know you.”
There it was—the fifth-worst memory. Neve Fallon Halloran, the love of his life, telling him she didn’t like him. He couldn’t blame her, either, because he couldn’t stand himself. Who was this jerk who couldn’t show up for his family, who came home reeking of booze, who slept with women and forgot their names, who fell behind on mortgage payments for his family’s house because he had to have sharp clothes and a fancy car? Oh—it was him.
Kids had started pouring out the front door of the high school. Some ran to the yellow buses parked at the curb, others to the large parking lot around back. Richard’s heart was beating so hard, he thought he might die. There was Jenna—Mickey’s best friend. If Jenna was here, Mick couldn’t be far behind.
Jenna holding hands with Tripp Livingston. Edmund P. Livingston III. They called him Tripp because he was third in line. Richard knew his father, Edmund Jr. They used to golf together at Newport Country Club, back when Richard could still afford the greens fees.
And the Landry kid—Jenna and Tripp were laughing, talking to the son of Cole Landry. Richard watched them—imagine, Cole Landry settling in this part of Rhode Island. This sleepy, quiet little area; it wasn’t Vegas, it wasn’t Miami, Landry’s usual type of stomping grounds. A few years back, when Richard was more of a player—or at least thought he was—he’d met Cole Landry at a real estate convention in New York. They’d held it at the Landry Tower, a thousand realtors from all over the country—top producers every one of them.
The Landry Tower had been controversial, as so many of Landry’s projects were. It stood on the West Side, rose seventy stories. Blocks of old neighborhood had been razed—old brownstones, coffee shops, grocery stores, vest-pocket parks, a church, and a synagogue. The taller it went, the more it blocked the light. Neighborhood residents used to a low skyline, to late-afternoon butterscotch light pouring over the streets, now lived in shadow.
But the Tower was spectacular. Yes, it blocked others’ views of the river. But it was majestic. Made of limestone, reminiscent of the robber barons’ palaces, it imposed itself on New York City. The lobby was all marble, crystal, and gilt, with a sailboat pond right in the middle. For fifty bucks a half hour, you could rent a miniature, remote-control twelve-meter yacht. The doormen dressed like members of the Royal Navy.
The convention had been held in the Commodore’s Ballroom. A lot of Rolex watches had been in that gathering, Richard remembered now. Cole Landry had stood up in front at the podium, challenged the attendees all to build their own towers. “Doesn’t matter whether you live in the dust bowl or your state capital,” he’d said. “Doesn’t matter whether there needs to be a tower—the point is, you want there to be one, right? You want to put your names on something. You can make your mark in this business, gentlemen.”
Richard had eaten it up. He’d had visions of big developments from Westerly to Pawtucket. He’d develop a tower in Providence—taller than the Fleet Building, and with twice the style. He’d adopt the Landry method of real estate—don’t take into account the needs of the community; don’t worry about replacing sunlight with shadows; just bulldoze everything, put up something big, and stick your name on it.
Watching Jenna and Tripp with the Landry kid, he wondered whether the new generation was following that same credo. He figured it probably was; he’d been in a Cranston bar; not out west, as he’d told Mickey, the day Cole Landry had made his big announcement about U-823. Slouched at a table in back, Richard had stared up at the television, seeing familiar faces on the screen.
So many of Mickey’s friends had been there, standing in a semi-circle around the dignitaries: Cole Landry, Senator James House, Senator Sam Sheridan. The sight of Sam had given Richard a little kick—back when Richard had still had some stuff, he’d helped Sam find a new house. It was a beautiful place, too—a brick Georgian right on Rumstick Point, the nicest spot in Barrington, with a gorgeous lawn sloping down to the water.
Was Sam really behind this crazy plan to move the U-boat? Richard hated to think he’d fallen for Landry’s deal. Landry had greased the wheels, spread money around—that was a given. But somehow Richard had always thought Sam Sheridan was above that. God knows, Richard’s connection with him hadn’t done any good when Richard had tried to push that condominium project through—over in Bristol, on the water, great views, mixed-use zoning—he’d envisioned a Starbucks in there, coffee for all the affluent condo buyers. But Sheridan had shot him down, said the town’s character could be compromised, even the state’s, that he wouldn’t sell out Rhode Island.
Now, sitting in his car, Richard stared at young Landry charming Mickey’s friends. He was so intent, he almost forgot that he was jonesing for Absolut, and he almost missed Mickey walking out of the school.
God, his baby. She was so pretty, small, smart, radiant. She had a cast on her wrist. Bright eyes, talking away, dressed like the tomboy she’d always been, in black pants and a jean jacket.
She was with a tall, rugged-looking kid—obvious to anyone who’d lived a lifetime in the Ocean State that he was a surfer. Shaggy sun-lightened brown hair, muscles from powering through the surf, a torn old blue windbreaker with a Rip Curl patch on it, looking as if it came out of some beach’s lost-and-found. Mickey had mentioned in her message that the boy she was seeing surfed at Refuge Be
ach.
Richard sat still, watching them together. He noticed the way the boy—Shane, he thought Mickey had said—gazed down at her. Touched her shoulder, almost as if he was afraid she’d dissolve. He seemed gentle, respectful. And Mickey looked up at him with stars in her eyes, green eyes, like Richard’s. He watched the smiles pass between them, and as Mickey backed away, he saw Shane lean forward, as if pulled to her.
Mickey must have told him to wait there, though; he stood still, watching Mickey walk over to where Jenna and Tripp were standing with Landry. Not even a glance back at Shane as she went to Landry, touched his elbow.
Landry looked at her—lit up. Richard watched the expression on his face—triumph mingled with something much more innocent, something like delight. Well, what high school boy wouldn’t be delighted to have Mickey talk to him? Richard looked at Shane, saw him just standing there. Go after her, Richard wanted to tell him.
Jesus, Richard thought—she’s inherited more than the color of her father’s eyes. Had Mickey also inherited his foolproof way of screwing up relationships? Shane had sounded like such a nice guy; most of all, Mickey had sounded so eager for Richard to meet him. That had to mean she really liked him, right? To want to introduce him to her dad?
Watching Mickey talk to Landry now, Richard wondered whether everything was his fault. The Landrys were fancy cars, fancy houses, fancy watches: lessons Mickey had learned from her father. He’d spent so much time and effort chasing crap that didn’t matter and didn’t last, he’d dropped the ball on everything that mattered.
Shane would have been his idea of a loser, no doubt about it. A young man who wasted time at the beach—when there was money to be made, connections to be solidified, clubs to be joined. Richard would have preferred the idea of someone like Tripp Livingston for his little girl. But right now, shaking in the front seat of his leased and about-to-be-repo’d Lexus, Richard knew he’d had a sea change; nothing sounded better to him than warm sand, a sea breeze, and the cradle of ocean waves holding him up.
Opening the car door took all his effort. He wobbled on legs that nearly gave out from under him. Kids passing by on their way to the bus gave him looks of alarm—he knew he reeked of old gin and two nights without a shower. He hadn’t shaved. And his eyes looked wild and haunted with all he’d lost and given away.
“Mickey,” he said.
She didn’t even turn around. So absorbed in young Landry—there she was, laughing and chucking him on the arm, seeming to hang on his every word as he told some big story, gesturing expansively, talking in a loud voice—Mickey didn’t even see her father standing there.
“Mick,” he said. “Hey…”
Shane saw him; their eyes met, and Richard knew instantly that Shane knew who he was. He’d been unlocking his bike, but he dropped the chain, walked over to Mickey, touched her shoulder. She wheeled around—the look in her eyes as she caught Shane’s gaze was happy first, then hesitant, as if she didn’t want him messing up whatever she had going on with Landry. But then Shane pointed, and Mickey looked.
“Dad.”
She must have whispered it; he had to read her lips.
He steadied himself against the car door, lifted his hand to wave at her. Would she run away? Go tearing off in the opposite direction, get away from him as far and fast as she could? He wouldn’t blame her if she did. Was she embarrassed by him? Did she hate him? The tremors were terrible, but he just held on, hand in the air in a stalled-out wave, letting her know he was here, wanting to get her away from Landry.
“Dad!”
This time he didn’t have to read her lips. She shouted it, came running over at top speed—just the way she used to run toward him when she was little and he’d come home from work, throwing herself into the run with all she had, all her heart—that little heart of hers so big and brave.
“Mickey,” he said, catching her.
She nearly knocked him down; sent him flying back against the car. If he thought he was shaking, he didn’t know anything—because Mickey’s chest was heaving, her body was quaking.
“Mickey,” he said. “Oh, honey.”
“I thought I’d never see you again,” she said, unable to lift her head from his shoulder because she was weeping.
“I’m here,” he said.
“I thought you were gone forever,” she cried.
He couldn’t quite answer that, because he’d thought he was, too. Stroking her head, looking over at her friends, he made eye contact with Shane. It was almost impossible to read his gaze—it seemed stern, exacting, yet somehow unsure. Jenna whispered something to Tripp, and they turned their backs. Landry just looked annoyed that Mickey had left the circle.
“You okay, Mickey?” Shane asked, taking a few steps closer.
She nodded, not even turning around.
“She’s fine,” Richard said. “I’m her father.”
“I know,” Shane said.
Richard heard mistrust there; he tried to glare at Shane, but couldn’t pull it off. His legs were about ready to give out. Gently easing Mickey away, he gestured for her to get into the car. Mickey was eager to do so, just about loped around the front, into the passenger’s seat.
Shane took another step forward. He reminded Richard of a cop about to issue a field sobriety test.
“Are you all right to drive?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Richard said.
“Because I don’t want anything to happen to her.”
“Look, I just told you, didn’t I?—I’m fine.” Then, relying on the fail-safe wit that had gotten him so far in life, Richard drew himself up, gave the kid his most imperious I’m-better-than-you look, and said, “Why don’t you go find a nice big wave now. All right?”
Shane gave Richard a long look of assessment. He didn’t flinch or act offended in any way. He just narrowed his eyes; Mickey was already in the car, so she couldn’t hear him when he said, “You’d better not hurt her.”
Richard didn’t respond; he just climbed into the car, eyes on Shane, trying to act tougher than he was, showing pride for his classy behavior. Why shouldn’t he feel proud of having one-upped his daughter’s high school boyfriend? Jesus Christ.
Richard started up the car and drove slowly away. Shane just stood on the sidewalk, watching them pull out of the parking lot. Richard tried to block out the boy’s look of alarm and derision, concentrate on the fact that Mickey was right here with him, grabbing for his hand with the fingers of her cast-encased hand, gazing at his drink-ravaged face and crying her eyes out.
22
As they drove slowly out of town, Mickey could hardly believe she was with her father. It was like all of her dreams coming true at the same time, all the stars coming out at once. The nights she’d worried about him, the messages she’d left, the calls unreturned, the sight of court documents on the dining room table: all disappeared in this wonderful moment.
“Dad,” she said, “I thought you were in Arizona.”
“I was, sweetheart,” he said. “But I had to come back for…” He paused, swallowing. She watched, waiting for him to finish his sentence. “For a closing here in Rhode Island.”
“On a real estate deal?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you…” she began, not even knowing how to ask this. “Did you know that the, well, the police, were looking for you?”
“Honey, that’s just a misunderstanding,” her father said. “There was a big mix-up at court, a glitch—you know? I had the dates wrong. That’s what happens when you’re trying to juggle too many deals.”
“Especially the one in Arizona, right?” Mickey asked, wanting to believe him.
“Mmm, yes,” he said. “Exactly.”
His teeth seemed to be chattering, but it wasn’t cold. She smelled an old familiar odor of cigarettes and drinks. She’d grown up with that smell; it made her nostalgic for something she didn’t even know how to define. It reminded her of him coming home late, of her parents figh
ting, of the hope she always had that they’d make up, that he would “get it” and stop going out at night. She glanced at him now—he looked so thin, hollows in his cheeks, the color of his skin too pale, sort of sallow.
“Are you okay, Dad?” she asked.
He chuckled, but the sound didn’t accompany a smile. “Your friend Shane asked me that.”
Her mouth dropped open. How did he know that was Shane? “I didn’t introduce you,” she said. “So how…”
“You left me that message,” he said. “Told me about the wonderful boy you liked. I figured that if he’s really wonderful, it had to mean he really liked you and respected you. And that boy I saw back at the high school did—Shane, right?”
“Right,” she said.
Her father took a right off the school road, onto Route 1; from there he headed down the beach road, heading toward Refuge Beach. Mickey felt a little surprised; this was more a place she would expect to come with her mother. Her father usually took her to the mall, or to a restaurant—places where, as he put it, “the action is.” Really places where he could get a drink.
“We’re going to the beach?” she asked, a little confused.
“Yes,” he said. “You like it here, right? Birds and nature and all? What was that you told me about a snowy owl?”
“We found one here!” she said, remembering the excitement of seeing it—first with Jenna, then her mother, then Shane.
“Can you show me?”
Her heart tumbled, sort of fell; she glanced over at him. Hadn’t he listened to her messages? “It’s hurt, Dad. We took it to a rehab up in Kingston.”
“Oh,” he said. But as if it didn’t really matter to him anyway; he just fished a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and kept driving. Mickey watched the way his hand shook. The cigarette trembled in his lips. He couldn’t hold the lighter steady enough to light it, so he just gave up trying.
They passed the ranger house; Mickey turned her head, saw Mr. O’Casey’s green truck parked there. She wondered what had happened between him and her mother; he hadn’t called the house in days. And her mother just seemed preoccupied. It seemed strange for Mickey to be riding with her father, wishing about her mother and Mr. O’Casey. It seemed disloyal.