“The what?”
“The manual dealing with suspicious activity reports?”
“What do you want with that?”
“Just tell me.”
“It’s on the back shelf.”
I grab the binder and throw it open on my desk.
“You know something about a surprise test?” Eric asks.
I give Eric my death stare. “Maybe I just feel the need to understand the regulations. Aren’t we paid to do that?”
“You don’t have to bite my head off.”
“And you don’t have to tell me what to do.”
“Bitch,” he mutters.
“Jerk,” I mutter back.
Dipak sighs and buries his head deep in a file.
Kathi
June 28, 2016
It’s late. Long past midnight. The fog has swallowed the moon. I’m standing on the railroad tracks holding a baby in my arms. A strobe light pulses, and a train whistle blows. The shrieks grow louder and louder. An axe cleaves my head. Move! Move! MOVE! But something feels terribly wrong. My feet are glued to the tracks.
“Help me!” I scream.
“Over here!” Rich yells from the shadows.
“Save me, Rich. I’m stuck. Save the baby!”
“The baby’s too heavy,” he calls. “Get rid of it, now!”
“Help me, please!”
“Toss it or you’ll die.”
“No!” My knees hit the tracks, and I startle awake. My heart’s pounding. I’m sweating. My breathing comes fast.
I try to talk myself down. Your feet aren’t glued to the railroad tracks. You’re sleeping on the living room couch. It was only a dream. A nightmare. Nothing more. Nothing less. But I still feel the weight of that baby and hear the shrieking of the train. Only the shriek’s not coming from a train whistle but from a smoke alarm inside my house.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I get up and stagger onto the terrace. No wildfire is bearing down. Then I try stuffing my head under a couch pillow, but the shrieking refuses to stop. Something’s wrong. This isn’t normal. The alarm system has gone wacko. We had a malfunction a few years ago, but I have no idea how it got fixed. I get up again and stumble through the rooms until I pinpoint the throbbing source. The blaring alarm clings to the ceiling above the kitchen sink. Sweet Jesus. What am I supposed to do? I try flicking light switches on and off. Nothing. Why, Rich? Why’d you leave me? It’s hell living on my own.
I climb onto a chair and fiddle with the thing but can’t pull off the plastic cover. Beep. Beep. Beep. It’s a nail piercing my brain. Think. Think! And then it comes to me. Batteries. That’s it. That’s what I need. Do I have any? I don’t know.
I get down and rummage through the drawers like a junkie looking for drugs. Beep. Beep. Beep. Soon enough, I give up on the batteries and search through Rich’s toolbox. Grabbing a hammer, I step up on the chair and almost tumble off. I right myself and swing the hammer at the loathsome plastic disk. It barely cracks. I swing again, harder this time. It cracks a little more. The third time I wallop the alarm, the disk flies onto the floor. It skids across the ground and hits a wall. The wailing continues.
Stepping off the chair, I lose my balance and topple onto the kitchen floor. A sharp pain shoots through my elbow, but I don’t give a damn.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
I make a run for the linen closet and grab a blanket and wrap it around the wailing beast. Then I carry the alarm into the garage and stuff it deep in the trunk of my car.
Back on the couch, I can still hear the faint pulse of a wail. I need to sleep, but the nightmare continues. I can’t tuck the visual away, so I head back to the kitchen and grab an open wine box. Then I settle on the couch and fill my goblet to the brim. Drink one down and pour another. I don’t recall much after that.
“Mom. Mother?”
“Stop it,” I groan. “It’s too early to get up. Go downstairs and watch cartoons.”
“Mother?”
I force my eyes open, a headache wedged between my ears. A blurry face swims above me.
“Jack?”
“Are you all right?”
“Jack!” I push myself up, my hands grappling with the couch. “You’re home. I knew you would come back to me.” I wrap my arms around him, but his body stiffens, and he pushes me away.
“What the hell is this?” he asks, his blue eyes flashing. “What’s happened to the house? What’s happened to you? Why are you sleeping on the ground?”
“I was just resting for a moment.” I use my foot to push the wine box behind the couch. It knocks the goblet over, and wine sloshes across the rug.
“It’s ten in the morning. Are you drunk?”
There’s no denying he’s an actor, with his expressive face and so over-the-top-dramatic personality. He’s been that way since he was a child. Rich used to call him a drama queen, which was mean but not entirely wrong.
“I’m not drunk,” I say. “I had a glass of wine last night and forgot to clean up.”
“You mean a mug.”
“Well, yes. A mug.”
“Out of a box?”
“I have to watch my pennies.” I don’t like his man bun. It makes him look like a girl.
He places his hands on his thin hips and swivels like a top. “This place is a dump. Where are the maids?”
“The housekeepers? They’ve been gone for weeks.” I try to keep my voice cheerful. I don’t want to scare him away. “Same with the gardeners. We can’t afford them. We can’t afford anything. We’re penniless, Jack. Penniless.” I like the way the word penniless rolls off my tongue. It sounds like it comes from a Dickens novel. I should use it in my book.
“Well, it stinks like garbage in here.”
“Does it?” I sniff, but of course, nothing.
“Hell yes. Is that dried blood on your arm?”
I pull down my sleeve. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Let me make you some coffee. Or breakfast. Yes, let me make you breakfast. I have a few eggs left. You’re not eating enough. You’re way too thin.”
“I’m a vegan, Mom. Remember? And I don’t drink coffee.”
“How about tea?”
“No, thanks.”
Jack’s face is crunched into an unbecoming scowl. I hope he doesn’t do that too often, or it’ll ruin his movie star looks. He was such a moody boy. Quite needy. When he was little, he’d cling to my legs when I took him to the beach or the zoo. Cried nonstop the first couple of months of kindergarten. Would get his feelings hurt right and left. So when he finally found swimming, I thought he had found himself. It changed him from a shy boy into one brimming with confidence. But he never shared much of what was inside his head, and truth is I never wanted to know. That’s the kind of family we were. We each had our secrets, and we kept them to ourselves.
He eyes me like I’m crazy. “Have you had some sort of psychotic break?”
“Of course not.” I scan the room and see what he’s seeing. Piles of empty wine boxes teeter next to the trash. Dishes overflow in the sink. Stains cover the rug. Clothes lie strewn here and there. The pocket doors are so dirty I can barely see out. And layers of unopened mail cover the kitchen table.
Jack picks up a bill from the towering pile.
“Have you been keeping up with these?”
“When I can.”
He makes a noise and grabs the wine box and shakes it at me. “I can’t believe you’re drinking this crap. What’s wrong with you?”
His words remind me of Rich’s belittling tone, and anger stirs inside. “Ever since your father’s accident, I’ve been having a terrible time. And you haven’t lifted a finger to help me. If you’d only call me now and then . . .”
Jack stomps his foot like a little boy. “Can we have some honesty here? Huh, Mom? Can we do that for once in our lives?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I straighten my shirt.
“Dad killed himself, Mom.”
My insides wilt. “You don’t know that.”
“Dad killed himself. He stepped in front of a train.”
“There’s no proof of that.”
“He stepped in front of a train because of the crap he pulled at the bank.”
“His death is under investigation. There are witnesses, you know.”
“Witnesses. Ha. Some homeless drunks.”
“You don’t know that either.”
“For once in your life, face reality. Think about it. Why else would Dad have been in that sleazy place at that time of night?”
“I don’t know.”
“I suppose the other option is he was meeting some woman—”
“Jack!” I turn away. “I’ve had enough of this. Did you come home just to hurt me? If so, I don’t need it. I promise I’ve been hurt more than enough.”
Jack grabs my arm and spins me around. “I came home because I need to know the truth.”
I jerk my arm away. “What truth?”
“Stop it, Mom.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The fuck you don’t. I want to know about my sister.”
I take a deep breath. “There is no sister.”
“A half sister is a sister.”
“Who said you had one, Jack?”
“It doesn’t matter who told me, does it? The fact is you can’t deny she exists.”
“She doesn’t exist to me.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what I said.”
“I have every right to know my sister.”
“It’s not what you think. Don’t go there, Jack. I’m begging you. Please.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Stop using that word.”
“I’ll stop when you give me what I want.”
“Oh, Jack.” I sink onto the couch. “Your father and I doted on you. You had the best of everything growing up. Private schools, vacations, clothes, cars. What more could you possibly want?”
“How about a dose of honesty. And a name. Or an address. Some sort of contact information. I’ll take it from there.”
I drop my head in my hands. “I think you’d better go.”
Jack slams his fist against the wall. “Look at me, damn it.” His face has gotten all twisted and red. “I can totally understand why you don’t give a damn about my sister. But she’s important to me.” He shoves his finger at his chest. “To me, Mom. Can you understand that? She’s important to me. I want my family.”
“You have your family.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You have me.”
“You’re not enough!”
“Please lower your voice. The neighbors will hear you.”
“I don’t give a damn if they do.”
“Think of our reputation.”
Jack throws his head back and laughs like a crazy man. “Reputation? Are you kidding me? When will you stop pretending we live in Beaver Cleaver land? I didn’t have a happy childhood. Our family was a mess. Dad was a bully. A control freak. He was a narcissistic prick. He treated me like shit and treated you even worse. And then I find out he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.”
“None of what you’re saying is true. Your father was not an adulterer.”
“Oh, come on, Mom. He cheated on you. He fucked some woman and got her pregnant. What do you call that?”
My cheeks grow warm with shame. Can I let Jack leave here thinking such awful things about his father? I don’t know. I’m totally confused. “He didn’t cheat on me,” I try. “He loved me. There are things about the situation you just don’t understand.”
“Bullshit.”
I get to my feet and point at the door. “I think you should leave. We can talk later, once you calm down.”
“I don’t want to talk later.” Jack’s knees seem to buckle. He looks like he’s going to cry. “You’re acting like a battered woman, Mom. You’re taking on the blame when it’s all Dad’s fault.”
“I am not a battered woman. Your father never laid a hand on me.”
“You don’t have to be beaten to be battered.” He wipes his eyes and drops his voice. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’m sorry. You’re as much a victim as I am. Maybe you thought you were protecting me by holding back on the truth. But Dad’s gone now, and I want—I need—to meet my sister.”
I turn to the mirror and shudder at the sight of the disheveled woman staring back. “You’re wrong about your father,” I say, not looking at Jack. “He was a wonderful man. The ideal husband. He was one hundred percent true to me.”
“Then how do you explain his love child?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him. But then I don’t. “You see, after you were born, I went through a depression. Something very dark. I got an infection and couldn’t have any more babies. I was incredibly sad.” I sigh deeply and spread my arms wide. “It was me, Jack. I pushed your father into the arms of another woman. But he never loved her. He loved me. He loved us.”
“You ‘pushed’ him?” Jack says slowly.
“Yes.”
“You understand that’s bullshit, right? A man can’t be ‘pushed.’”
I straighten my shoulders, taking strength in my lie. “Well, it’s the truth. He got another woman pregnant, but he didn’t love her, and we never heard from her again.”
“So you just walked away from my sister?”
“She’s not your sister, Jack.”
“Then what is she?”
I shrug. “All I know is she’s not your sister. She’s something . . . something else.”
Jack stands quiet for a moment, his face drained of color. “I’m done,” he says in a quiet voice.
“What does that mean?”
“You figure it out.” Without another word he spins on his heel and storms out the front door. I wait until his car drives off. Then I sprint for the bathroom and vomit until there’s nothing left of me.
February 7, 1988
It’s so hard to believe baby Jack is already one week old. He’s so delicate. So beautiful. So perfect in every way. I can’t stop staring at his exquisite face, his perfect hands, and his tiny feet. I love him so much it hurts. And the best part is that Rich has returned to his former sweet self. All the coldness has disappeared. Aunt Genny said he cried the night Jack was born. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry before. I’m just so happy I came to Reno. So happy I finally have my very own family. That I have Rich and Jack in my life.
Crystal
October 7, 2015
And so it begins . . .
“We have to file anonymous complaints on Rich,” I say.
“What do you mean ‘we’?”
Dipak and I sit on a bench at Alice Keck Park munching on chopped Italian salads and sipping mango ice teas. I suggested it this morning as a nice place to spend our lunch, and he looked at me like I was crazy. We aren’t the healthy picnicking types. But the day was nice, and I was pushy, so I finally got him to agree. We ordered lunch from our favorite deli and sat in a shady spot overlooking the pond.
The park’s pretty and not too crowded. It’s a square block of specimen trees and plants bounding a koi-stocked pond. I like to spend time here on the weekends, wandering around or reading in the shade. But today we are here because I need the privacy. Only Dipak can hear what I’ve got to say.
I take a few bites of my salad, savoring the balsamic-infused mix. Then I set down my fork and begin. “There’s fraud at the bank.”
“That’s a little strong, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t. It’s all around us. Eric has admitted to fudging numbers. I’ve seen Kevin do the same. And Rich’s loan should never have been approved.”
“Eric’s an idiot,” Dipak says, chewing away, “but it’s no business of ours.”
“He may be an idiot, but that doesn’t mean we can look the other way.”
“Sure we can. Peo
ple do it all the time.”
“Have you heard of guilt by association?”
“I’m not associating with anything bad.”
“It’s not just Rich’s loan. You’ve seen some of the other files. Tyler was a flat-out liar.”
“And Tyler’s gone.” Salad bits spray from Dipak’s mouth. The clothing allowance may have improved his appearance, but his manners remain stuck in the gutter. I signal he should dust off his shirt.
“Tyler didn’t work in a vacuum,” I continue. “Someone was telling him to bend the rules.”
“Do you know that for sure?”
“I do. Rich has been pushing to get loans approved for his friends. He needs money to fund his expensive life. He may be taking bribes.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It’s an educated guess.”
“You should write thrillers. You’re making stuff up in your head.”
“Am I? You should see the Arthur Van Meter loan. It’s a disaster, but it got approved.”
“So take it up with George.” Dipak scrapes the last remnants of the salad from the plastic container and sets it aside. “Can you pass the potato chips?”
I open the chips, take a few, and hand the bag over. “George may be in on this too.”
“Impossible,” Dipak says. “He’s an honest guy. He just can’t afford to lose his job.”
“You know something I don’t?”
“I know something I shouldn’t tell.”
“We’re friends. Remember?”
Dipak clears his throat. “I underwrote a home equity loan for him last year.”
“Don’t tell me he didn’t qualify.”
“He qualified.”
“So? That shouldn’t keep him from leaving or outing his boss. He must’ve made a lot of money over the years. I would think he could retire tomorrow.”
Dipak shakes his head. “You’re wrong about that.”
“Then what? He a gambler? A drug addict?”
“See what I mean? Your brain is wacko.”
“Then tell me what’s really up.”
“It’s no cloak-and-dagger story. He takes care of his mom. That’s all.”
“And that’s expensive?”
“She has Alzheimer’s.”
“So?”
“Do you know anything about anything?”
What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1) Page 12