And Mike was right. About one thing. Not one car was in the parking lot when he pulled into his reserved spot.
“When the cat’s away, the mice will play,” he sang.
When he opened the heavy oak front door, a smell of sweet success greeted him like he’d never noticed before. It wasn’t an actual odor. It was what the upscale office furniture, the state-of-the-art electronics, the environmental lighting, all represented to him. And the employees, too. Don’t forget the employees. He’d hand-picked them over the years and had created a firm of exceptionally talented loyalists. He loved them and his company that day more than ever.
Mike strutted around the first floor like a peacock, scanning the work stations for that day’s output. He found a pad of yellow sticky notes on one of the desks and left his mark on several.
Great work. M. He wrote and stuck it to an Apple monitor.
Love what you’ve done here. Try it with a little more green. M. He suggested to a designer.
He stopped by the Xerox machine, took one piece of paper out of an opened pack, and turned on the light in Bill’s office.
Hey, Bill. Couldn’t stay away from the place. Just stopped by to pick up something. I was released today. Obviously. I’ll fill you in on the details later in the week. Let me know about that Gaines guy. Hope he can start immediately. If by some chance he’s considering other opportunities, make him an offer he can’t refuse. I need him. Take care, M.
Mike re-read the note, crossed off I and replaced it to read, We need him. The grandfather clock in the main office area struck six o’clock.
Can’t dillydally too long. He chastised himself and moseyed upstairs to his office.
Once there, he sprang into action, getting a file key out of the credenza. He unlocked a black file cabinet hidden inside a closet and slid open the bottom drawer. He pulled out two men’s shoeboxes and set them on the coffee table between the leather couches his mother-in-law had picked out for him.
In the second to the bottom drawer, he retrieved an unlabeled, green Pendaflex folder, and dropped it on the desk next to the shoeboxes.
Retrieving his keys from his pocket, he removed the lockbox from the credenza, the one that had housed the note from Karen. He put that on the coffee table, too.
He put five thousand dollars in the lockbox, keeping two hundred for himself since he hadn’t had a chance to go to the bank and who knew if he might need cash while he was “on vacation” the rest of the week.
It’s my money after all.
He latched the box and locked it inside the credenza. He slid the keys off his carabiner and hid them in a secret compartment within a large raven totem his sister had brought him back from a trip to Alaska.
“Take care of my destiny, you ugly bastard.”
Back on the couch, Mike flipped through the green file folder.
“Ah, there you are. Dr. Richard Peters. The dick doctor.”
He took the two shoeboxes and the letter downstairs to the production room.
“Let the shredding begin.”
Before leaving the office, he sat at his desk trying to figure out if he needed to bring any work home with him. The college photo caught his eye, seeing only Karen.
“I really loved you, ya know? Where would I be now if we had worked out?” He slid the photo into a drawer in the credenza in case Kassie showed up at the office unannounced. No need to aggravate her any more than she already was.
As he got up and turned to leave, he felt goosebumps crawl from his toes to his neck. He rubbed his left arm, trying to warm up. The picture of his mother-in-law stared back at him.
“You like quotes and proverbs so much? Here’s an Italian one for ya. E facile par paura al tore dalla finestra. It is easy to threaten a bull from a window.”
He contemplated turning her frame face down, but thought better.
“Don’t fuck with me, Patricia O’Callaghan. There’s nothing you can say to hurt me now.”
30
PattyCake, PattyCake, O’Callaghan
From the day she came into the world, Patricia O’Callaghan grasped the power of timing.
On a Tuesday in March 1940 during a pounding snowstorm in Boston that shut down all the major thoroughfares let alone the minor ones, Patricia Ryan arrived three weeks early, roaring into the world like the month she was born.
Growing up, she’d heard stories about her roots. Her parents, Louise and Dennis Ryan descended from hardcore and resilient Irish immigrants who had landed in America in the mid-1800s, dreaming of a better life, or at least having food on the table. To them, trudging through snow up to their whatchamacallits to flag down a brave truck driver who’d be willing to shepherd Louise in active labor to the hospital was no more than a minor inconvenience.
The onset of the war, however, was a different story. Dennis was drafted a month before Patricia’s first birthday. A year later, he arrived at an allied ammunitions depot in the outskirts of London the day before it was destroyed by German warplanes. There were no survivors.
One Friday morning soon after her husband died, Louise gussied up in a new Kelly-green, knee-length, cotton shirtwaist dress with white ruffles around the V-neck collar, donned her favorite hat and gloves, and marched herself into the Gillette plant in South Boston. She’d heard, with so many boys going to war, the company was hiring women, imagine that, for the assembly line that produced razors for both military and civilian use. She started work there the following Monday, the only day she’d show up for work dressed as if she was going to early morning mass. After that, she wore her faded house dresses and with her first paycheck invested in a pair of sturdy black-and-white saddle shoes to replace her Sunday best.
A few years after the war ended, with her role as a single mother fortified and a demonstrated employment record, Louise landed a new job at a General Electric plant north of Boston, so they could flee the congestion of an ever-expanding Hub to the safety and tranquility of the suburbs.
Despite Patricia’s protestations, her mother persisted. “Now, you listen to me, lassie, I will not let my only child frequent those sinful pinball parlors or loiter on Boston’s street corners with lads who have only one thing on their mind. Don’t you even think about it. It’s time to move on. It’ll be good, you’ll see.”
And it was a good move for her mother and for Patricia. They settled into a two-bedroom, third-floor walk-up convenient to schools, shopping, and the area’s growing mass transit system. They thrived and were happy, even though Louise came home late each evening exhausted having worked twelve-hour shifts, while earning half of what the men did who’d returned from the war.
That inequality did not go unnoticed by Patricia.
After spending one summer vacation day working on the GE assembly line when she was sixteen, Patricia made a life-changing announcement. “That was the worst day of my whole entire life! It was so hot, my armpits went on strike! Can’t believe you put up with that. Not me! I am going to college.”
“College? No one in our family been to college. Why should you be the first?”
“Because I have to do my own growing, no matter how tall my grandfather was.”
“Who are you quoting now? Your friend, Emily Dickinson?” Her mother laughed.
“Nope. Abraham Lincoln. Don’t change the subject, Mum. All I know is, you’ve done all you could for me. For that I’ll be eternally grateful. But I want more than the likes of an assembly line. It’s my time.”
Since few of the major universities in the Boston area had opened their doors to women by the late 1950s, Patricia applied and was accepted to Simmons College, the esteemed women’s school, earning a full ride. She studied one of the most popular majors of the times, Home Economics. Of course.
During the summer before her senior year at Simmons, she met the man of her dreams at Wonderland Ballroom in Revere. Matthew O’Callaghan, a young Boston cop, boogied his way into her heart and into her pants. Much to her mother’s chagrin, they eloped a week aft
er she graduated. Kassandra O’Callaghan arrived six months later.
To those looking in, the O’Callaghans lived a life in the clover. Matthew being the head of the household and sole provider and Patricia being the stereotypical stay-at-home mom. She never had to utilize the sheepskin she’d framed and hung in the hallway of the three-bedroom white cape with black shutters Matthew had bought as a gift for their first anniversary. They would have made Leave It to Beaver proud.
Ten years later he died.
Two years after Matthew passed, Patricia dusted off her dancing shoes and ventured back to the seductive drumbeat of Wonderland Ballroom, searching for the same magic she’d found with Matthew. This time a tall, handsome fellow with a cunning smile swept her off her feet and refused to take no for an answer when he got down on one knee just two months after they’d met. This time her mother would express no opinion of the marriage, because like Matthew, she was dead. Louise had lost her battle with pneumonia a year and a half before he’d died. And whereas Patricia and handsome dude number two got married hastily, this time it wasn’t a romantic elopement, rather it was no more than an unceremonious ceremony by the local justice of the peace.
It didn’t take long for the honeymoon to be over, because there wasn’t one. And the new guy made no effort to create a new, loving home for them. Instead, he shuttled his belongings, which fit in the trunk of his ’57 Chevy, into the love nest that once belonged to Matthew O’Callaghan.
Had Patricia given even a little bit more time for this relationship to bloom, she would’ve discovered what apparently his friends and family already knew. This guy was an unabashed alcoholic. A drunk. And not a happy drunk.
He was a drunk of the worst kind—nasty, mean, violently abusive. On more than one occasion, Patricia called the cops when he’d threaten bodily harm, only to be told there was nothing they could do until he actually harmed them in some way. And the times he did carry through on his threats, they carted him away in the paddy wagon. Patricia failed to file charges when he’d beg her forgiveness and vow to straighten himself out. Promises made, promises never kept.
When she couldn’t take supporting this worthless excuse for a husband any longer, Patricia pleaded with Matthew’s brother, Dan, to intervene on her and her daughter’s behalf. Always there to help PattyCake, his nickname for her, Dan attempted to appeal to the guy’s better angels and introduced him to AA. But as Dan expected, the good-for-nothing so-and-so attended one or two meetings and then chose instead to straddle a barstool day in and day out.
At about the time Dan was plotting the best way to throw him out on his keister, Patricia found the courage to file for divorce. She was devastated. Divorce meant she’d have the bizarre distinction of not only being the first member of her family to graduate from college, but also the first to get divorced. She was proud of the first accomplishment, ashamed of the second.
“I’m a complete failure.” She buried her head in Dan’s chest.
“Poppycock, PattyCake,” he said, trying to get a laugh out of her.
“Easy for you to say. I failed in my taste in men, and I failed to keep together what God joined together. I put it asunder,” she whimpered as her tears slowed.
“Now you’re getting plain silly.” He pushed her out to arm’s length, looked her straight in the eye and said, “He didn’t deserve you. He wasn’t half the man Matthew was.”
She agreed and didn’t hesitate when the judge asked during the divorce hearing what last name she wanted, after all by now she had three.
“O’Callaghan, your honor,” she said, thereby erasing any and all trace of her blundered second marriage.
From that time forward, Patricia focused on education and motherhood. She dedicated herself to teaching home economics at the junior high school, a position she took the September after Matthew’s death. And she recommitted herself to the challenge of raising Kassie, who’d grown into a feisty teenager during the few years Patricia had been sidetracked keeping her second marriage together. No more Lindy contests for Patricia or Saturday night romps looking for possible suitors at Wonderland. All those good times were behind her. Though she’d learned a lesson the hard way, she believed the internal strength she’d built would serve her well later in life when she’d need it most.
For some, a diagnosis of a terminal illness could be as devastating as the illness itself. Some would adopt what Patricia called the “Oh, woe is me” attitude. Others, like Patricia, considered death a fait accompli. Like paying taxes, dying is life’s only other certainty.
She was content to be alone in the pulmonologist’s office when she learned her fate. If Kassie had been around, Patricia knew she’d have insisted on going to the appointment with her. But as luck would have it, Kassie was out of the country in Italy and, like her mother, alone.
When Patricia returned home that fateful day, to the same house Matthew had bought her decades before, the phone was ringing off the wall as if there was a fire somewhere.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Why’s your cellphone turned off?”
Patricia clutched the base of her throat. “Oh my God, Mike, what’s happened? Is she all right?”
“Kassie? She’s fine. I guess. Wouldn’t know.”
“That’s a fine attitude. You’re talking about my daughter and your wife. Remember that. Have a little respect.”
“I do. But I’m not thinking about her right now. For heaven’s sake, she just left yesterday. She’s not been gone long enough to miss her.”
“Well, I do. I miss her every day. Even when she’s home. You should’ve gone with her, Mike. She wanted you to, you know. It would’ve been good for your marriage.”
“Listen, Patricia. I didn’t call to get a lecture. What’s got into you anyway? I’ve got a job for you, if you’re interested. Right up your alley. It’ll keep you busy while Kassie’s gallivanting through museums and churches. I promise, you won’t miss her a bit.”
And that’s how redecorating Mike’s office became an assignment Patricia wished she’d never accepted. He was right about one thing, though. It did distract her from worrying 24/7 about Kassie, but it also allowed her to focus on something other than her Stage Four lung cancer and the five-year prognosis she’d received from her doctor.
Mike was never her favorite person. She tolerated him, witnessing his true colors early as they planned the wedding. He was a selfish sonofabitch, first demanding a small wedding and then insisting they honeymoon in Italy rather than Ireland, which was one of Kassie’s dreams since she was a little girl. Patricia bit her tongue and swallowed her opinions to keep the peace and not be dubbed an interfering mother-in-law.
She nearly broke her own promise, though, the day she emptied the contents of Mike’s office credenza in anticipation of his new furniture being delivered. When she replaced the top of a shoebox that had toppled to the floor, she discovered it chock full of letters postmarked Elephant Butte, New Mexico. There must have been fifty letters in there, all unsealed.
Her ears grew so fiery that her eyes watered in an attempt to cool them down. She knew she’d jumped in her white Honda Civic, but she’d never remember the actual drive to Mike’s house. However, she would recall pulling into the driveway and having to stop to let a woman pass she didn’t recognize.
Patricia ignored the doorbell and pounded the front door.
“Did you forget something?” Mike greeted Patricia with a big smile that quickly turned upside down.
“Who was that?” she asked, tilting her head toward the direction of the dark-haired stranger.
“Cleaning lady. Why, what’s up?”
“You tell me.” Patricia shoved one of Karen’s letters at Mike’s chest, knocking him back a step, and pushed her way past him into the family room. “More secrets, Mike?”
“It’s none of your business,” Mike said, placing an issue of Fortune magazine over a DVD sleeve on the coffee table and then checking his fly. She d
idn’t think he noticed she’d noticed. But she did.
“Kassie is my business. First the vasectomy, now a secret lover in New Mexico. I won’t let you keep lying to her.”
“Why not? You’ve been lying to her about her father’s death forever.”
“How do you know about Matthew?”
“I have my ways.”
“You wouldn’t dare, Mike. Have you no moral compass?”
“Sit down, Patricia, let’s make a deal.”
An hour later she gave in to her better self and agreed to leave Mike alone with his lies. After all, she’d learned from her favorite poet, Emily Dickinson, “Saying nothing . . . sometimes says the Most.”
Her time would come.
31
Lie Detector
The orange sun setting to the west comforted Kassie as she pulled into her driveway after the embarrassing event at Stop & Shop. Mike’s SUV was missing in action. She unloaded her trunk. As usual, Mike wasn’t around to lend a hand. That day was no different.
Before putting the groceries away, she stripped, imagining the stench of vomit lingered on her clothes, brushed her teeth, and rinsed twice. It would take more than mouthwash to eradicate the bitter taste of the day. She tossed the toothbrush in the trash.
Mike showed up as she finished unpacking the groceries, leaving the stir-fry ingredients on the counter.
“Where d’you go?” Kassie asked.
“Just to the office. Dropped off those files you brought to the hospital. Bill needs them. You just get home? What took you so long?”
“Ran into Annie. We talked for a while. I brought her up to speed about you.”
“What she say?”
“An uncle of hers has the same thing. He’s on dialysis. Doing well,” Kassie lied.
“She just said that to make you feel better.”
“What are friends for?”
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