As the screen flickered to life he glanced at the framed photograph beside it. They looked young in it. Their wedding day. Henrietta glowed. She’d fallen pregnant a month before, unbeknownst to him, to anybody else. They’d called their son Thomas. He’d lived for six hours.
He swallowed a lump of shame as he picked up the photograph and set it facedown on the desk.
The screen lit the room. With the blinds closed he squinted as his eyes adjusted. He opened the browser and navigated to the site.
Though certain he was home alone, he glanced at the office door repeatedly, his cursor hovering over the X.
He dabbed the sweat from his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief, licked his dry lips, and tried to stop his hands from shaking. It was always like this for the first few minutes, until he calmed, until he escaped.
He smiled as he stared at the image, feeling shards of excitement begin to take hold and the guilt that would later suffocate him begin to lighten. He felt the muscles in his neck unwind, his shoulders drop, and his heartbeat slow.
He unbuckled his belt.
And then he heard the doorbell chime.
He stood quickly, his trousers falling to the floor. He pulled them up, then sat again and tried to close the browser. It froze on a picture; a picture that only a moment ago he had thought quite beautiful, though now a picture that terrified him. He clicked the X repeatedly.
He looked for a power button on the screen but could see nothing.
The door chimed again.
He’d leave it. It was probably just a delivery—something for Hen, probably shoes. More shoes.
And then he heard the key in the door.
“Darling?” he heard her call.
He swallowed.
He leaned down to the computer and pressed the power button once. Nothing happened. He pressed it again, several times.
She was unlikely to venture into his office, but he couldn’t take the risk.
He picked up the screen, cradling it in his arms, and tried to pull it from the desk. It was heavy. He tried to wrench the wires out, but found they were screwed in. He tried to unscrew them, but his hands were slick with sweat.
“Darling?”
He set the monitor down and banged the side of the computer with his hand.
“Darling, what was that noise?”
“Nothing.” His voice shook.
“Darling, where are you? I’m carrying a heavy box and can’t bend to put it down.”
Of all the excuses available to him, his panicked mind sought out the most absurd.
“I’m up a ladder.”
“Why on earth are you up a ladder? You shouldn’t climb ladders alone. What if you slip and fall?” she called.
He breathed again as the screen finally faded to black, then sprinted through to the kitchen and retrieved the stepladder.
He clambered quickly to the top.
He heard her sigh, make a production of placing the box onto the kitchen counter, and then there she was, standing beneath him, peering up.
In his haste he had picked up his glass of wine. He stood up there, his apparent nonchalance betrayed by his shaking hands, and took a sip.
He stared at the wall and, to his utter relief, noticed a small crack in the plaster just above him. He ran his finger over it and shook his head.
“What is it? Is it bad?” she asked.
He rubbed his chin. Had he had the faintest clue about anything remotely connected to plasterwork, or building work, or anything resembling manual labor, he might have come up with a better reply.
“Could be termites.”
Luckily, Henrietta was even more ignorant of the work of the termite than him.
“Termites? I’ll call Richard.”
He swallowed, deflating at the mention of Richard’s name. Richard was a builder to whom they had paid more money than he could remember to remodel the house. Richard was tall, and handsome, and muscular. A real man. The kind of real man that Roger regarded with quiet deference.
“No, don’t call Richard. Leave it to me. I’ll deal with the little buggers myself,” he said, mustering the kind of conviction he hoped might see her drop the subject altogether.
“What do you know about termites, Roger?”
Having never been a proficient liar, he began to lose his grasp of the English language. “I know much . . . in actual terms. We had a place in the Cotswolds growing up; damn house was riddled with them. We had to fire them out in the end.”
He arched an eyebrow, his own lie taking him by surprise.
“And what does firing-out entail?”
He coughed. “A blowtorch . . . and a little chemical substance called Termex. I’ll call into the hardware store tomorrow and see if they have any.”
She started to walk away, then turned back. “Be careful, darling. I don’t like you drinking up ladders.”
He closed his eyes and exhaled heavily, then took a liberal sip of wine.
He had slayed the dragon.
He heard the doorbell chime as he was descending, and then Henrietta leading someone along the hallway and into the kitchen.
“Darling, it’s Richard. He’s left one of his drill things in the garage. Might as well get him to look at the termite problem while he’s here.”
Richard, real man Richard, entered the room and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Roger sighed. It had been a valiant effort, but it was over now.
Thalia frowned at her toy washing machine, banged the top with her small fist, then smiled as it began to spin again.
“Manny, I need you to wash the car. It’s starting to lose its shine. Jared said to keep the bodywork clean. It’ll hold its value better,” Elena yelled, trying to make herself heard above the noise.
She looked up as her son walked into the kitchen.
“Jesus Christ, Manny. What happened to your head?”
Manny gingerly rubbed the thick, red groove that striped its way across his forehead.
“The hat, Ma. The hat is too tight. Who the fuck is Jared?”
His mother shot him a look. With Thalia at an age where she repeated all that she heard, Elena was trying hard to censor her son.
“Watch your mouth. I’m already mad at you, so don’t make it worse.”
Manny raised his hands in surrender. “What have I done this time?”
“You dropped Thalia off at preschool this morning.”
“Yeah. We weren’t late or nothing, so what’s up?”
“And you remember that I said she has to take a piece of fruit in. All the kids do, and then they cut them up and share them out at snack time?”
He nodded, carefully, already eyeing the exit.
“So what did you give her?”
“An apple or something.”
“Wrong, Manny. Try again.”
He cast a furtive glance at the fruit bowl. “An orange?”
“You gave her a potato.”
He looked over at Thalia, trying not to meet his mother’s eye.
“Kids need carbs too,” he offered.
Elena glared at him.
“I’m serious. All that fruit will give them the shits. I did it for the kids, and I was in a rush to get to class. Technically, it’s your fault for leaving the potatoes out. Anyway, who’s Jared? And why does he care about the duck-egg?”
He watched his mother open the refrigerator and pull out a thick cut of steak, wrapped in a Berlinsky’s bag.
“Are you making the ziti? You know how I like it, with the Mortadella sausage . . . little pinch of pepper flakes . . . just enough to tease the palate.”
His mother looked at him, wearily. “I don’t even know what ziti is. I’m making huaraches. They’re your sister’s favorite. We’re Mexican, not Italian, Manny. Accept that.”
“I had ziti at Azzurro, remember? Last year, for my birthday. Who’s Jared?”
“Jared is the nice man that sold us the car. He’s taking me to dinner on Friday, so I�
��m going to need you to look after your sister.”
Manny stared at her, horrified. “Fucking squint-eyed muscle man? You can’t date him, Ma. He’s young enough to be your son.”
“Manny,” Elena hissed. “Curse one more time and your allowance is gone.”
She stared at him until he looked at the floor.
“Jared isn’t that much younger than me, and I will date whoever I like, and you will wash the car and stay home on Friday. Do you understand me?”
He looked up at her and nodded, reluctantly.
“Good.”
He watched her turn back to the refrigerator. She looked tired, she always did. The separation had been hard for her, for all of them. She worried, Manny knew that. She worried, but she tried to hide it from them.
“I’m sorry, Ma. I’m just looking out for you.”
“I know.”
“Jared looked like a dipshit player asshole type. Can’t you just wait for Dad to come back?”
She sighed. “We’ve talked about this, Manny. It’s been two years now. If your grandmother hadn’t written to me I wouldn’t even know where your father was living. And Jared is perfectly nice. It’s not like I’m going to marry him anyway. I just want someone to go out for dinner with, maybe catch a movie. And for the last time stop cursing. Thalia is right there, and for some reason she looks up to you, so no more language.”
Manny grabbed a bucket from under the basin and filled it with water.
As he was walking out of the door he heard his sister’s washing machine stop spinning, mid-cycle, and then her sweet voice as she turned to their mother.
“Fucking batteries have shit the bed.”
Manny dropped the bucket and ran out the door before his mother could catch him.
3
The Tiger
French John stepped back and gazed at the cake. He found it difficult to let go. He always did. He’d lost count of the number of hours that had gone into creating it. The icing was filigree. An intricate lace pattern covered every inch, very nearly invisible to the naked eye. The bride and groom figurines were hand-carved, the tier stands painted in gold leaf. It stood almost as tall as him. He circled it slowly, looking for imperfections, however minor.
It would have to be dismantled again, each tier specially packed for the short drive across town to the venue. He still had time, more than enough, to make any alterations the bride-to-be saw fit.
He glanced up at the board behind, at the sketches nearing a hundred in number. The kitchen was stainless steel, buffed and shined with a fervor that made those closest to him, of which there were few, question his sanity. He knew it was a necessary evil, perfectionism that bordered on obsessive-compulsive disorder: an affliction shared by many a master of their craft. He’d once dated a shoemaker in San Francisco who wept openly over each completed pair. It was a relationship that soured when the shoemaker had failed to summon as much passion for the other facets that made a life.
He turned when he heard the door open.
“Good morning, French,” Elena said.
“Morning, Elena. How’s life this morning? Manny still cursing? Thalia still cute as button?”
“Yes, and yes.”
He watched Elena circle the cake, look up at him, and smile widely.
She stepped in and hugged him tightly.
“Is it finished?”
“Quite possibly. Will you call Her Majesty and let her know she can view it?”
“Sure.”
“Her Majesty” was Louise McDermott, an insipid beauty with a head full of air and a father that many speculated had a worth somewhere in the low billions. The wedding would be suitably lavish, the guest list suitably large. And French John had been tasked with creating the star of the show.
“I need her to see it soon, ideally. I hate it standing here like this. Anything could happen to it,” he said, biting a nail.
Elena rolled her eyes, never one to indulge his neurosis.
She’d been his first, and only, hire: a rare find—someone with an eye for detail that very nearly rivaled his own, and a wit quick enough to keep him firmly in place. He guessed that she had honed her skills through years of back and forth with Manny.
“Are you still nervous about Friday?” he asked.
“Every time I think of it I get a pain in my stomach.”
“You’ve dated before though. I know it’s been a while, but it hasn’t changed too much you know, except now you’re expected to go Dutch, and the goodnight kiss has been replaced by a goodnight blowjob.”
“I’m starting to understand why you’re always so happy after a first date.”
He laughed, picked up his icing gun, and attached a fine, closed-star nozzle to the end.
He took a step toward the cake before Elena snatched the gun from him and placed it back on the counter.
“The chance would be a fine thing. It’s been a long time since someone took me out on a proper date.”
“Maybe your standards are too high.”
He shrugged. “All I want is someone kind and funny . . . with muscles and a tan, of course.”
“Of course.”
Elena took the cakes from the fridge and began to set them out beneath the polished, glass counter, stopping when she saw French John’s boots.
“Care to explain?” she said.
He followed her eye. “Hiking boots. I’m breaking them in. Fracap—handmade in Italy.”
“Only you could make hiking so stylish. Though if I’m honest, I thought it was another fad, like racquetball.”
“Racquetball was a touch intense. It’s hard to look good when you’re dripping with sweat.”
She laughed.
“I saw Manny pass by yesterday, still pretending to be a gangster,” he said.
“Yep, still pretending to be a gangster. It’s been something new every few months since Danny left.”
“I know. I remember the Rocky phase. How’s his nose by the way?”
“He was lucky. The doctor said it was a clean break so it straightened out fine. I know it’s funny for everyone else, but I worry about him. A boy needs his father, especially during the difficult teen years. Thalia is okay. She was just a baby when Danny left. She doesn’t even remember him. She saw a photograph from our wedding the other day—you know, the one where Danny has his hair all long at the back and short on the sides?”
“I remember.”
“Well, she looked at it and asked who the man was. Lucky Manny wasn’t around to hear that. The air is blue enough in our house.”
“So, he’s still angry?”
“Sometimes, and then other times he speaks of Danny like he was a saint, like he gave a shit about him when he was around.”
“He’s young. It must be hard to see his mother dating.”
“So you think I shouldn’t go?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. You deserve a break, Elena. You deserve to have some fun.”
She nodded, tried to smile. “So why do I feel so guilty, like I’m letting them down?”
“You’ve been out a couple of times since he left.”
“Yeah, and both times I told the guys I wasn’t ready to get into anything afterwards. I mean, you should have seen Manny’s face when I got home. He waited up for me, like I was the kid. And he looked so sad. It gets me just thinking about it.”
French John switched on the coffee machine: a chromed behemoth that spluttered and coughed until it churned out coffee that very nearly tasted as good as it smelled.
“It won’t always be like this. I think he just needs to get used to the idea that you’re a person, and not just his mother.”
“I didn’t think life would take this turn, you know, French?”
“I don’t think anybody ever does.”
“I didn’t think I’d end up alone, with a daughter that will never know her father and a son that thinks he’s a gangster. What a mess,” she said, sadly.
“But at least you’r
e not forty yet, and you’ve got a great ass.”
“That means a lot, especially coming from a known ass man like you.”
He laughed, pulling her in for a hug as he did.
Manny walked across the flower bed, carefully avoiding the roses, so that he wouldn’t have to walk around and onto the new neighbors’ driveway. No one had really talked to the new neighbors yet. There was a daughter about his age, a mother that never left the house, and a father that drove a Porsche. He hadn’t wanted to go and welcome them, but his mother had been on him again. Lately she hadn’t stopped, all the time ragging on him: do this, do that, stop cursing, find a summer job, stop wearing a suit and hat every day.
He looked sharp. He needed to. Gangsters didn’t wear shorts and a fucking T-shirt. Not only that, but he didn’t look good in a T-shirt. The last time he’d tried one on, he’d stepped in front of the mirror and nearly cried. He’d gained weight since he’d stopped boxing, and now he had a decent set of tits: tits that some of the girls in his class would have been jealous of. His mother said that was alright though: he was still growing, it was just puppy fat, though he had never seen a puppy with a set of tits like his. They even showed through his shirt, so he had to keep the vest on.
He swallowed when he saw the girl, the daughter. She was hot. Majorly hot. Long legs and slim waist, dark hair, and full lips. She’d look good on his arm. Him in his three-piece, and her in her faded jeans and Rolling Stones T-shirt. He’d have to charm her first, though he didn’t imagine that being too difficult—he was wearing a fedora after all.
“What’s up, doll?”
She smiled, looked up at his hat, and then down at his wingtips.
He straightened his tie.
“Hello,” she said.
“I’m M. That’s my place next door.”
“I’m Furat.”
He extended his hand and she shook it.
“Furat. Tough break. Anyone ever call you Rat?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s something at least.”
“Furat means sweet water. What’s M short for?”
“Manny. Don’t know what it means though. Probably something badass, like warrior or hero.”
Tall Oaks: A gripping missing child thriller with a devastating twist Page 2