This Is How It Happened (not a love story)

by Jo Barrett

  “I thought they told you in AA classes to keep all this stuff out of sight and out of mind.”

  “I’d prefer to face my demons head-on,” Ronnie says. He stabs his cigarette into a tray and then holds up the butt. “This is the worst fucker of ’em all, but I can’t seem to kick this bad boy.” He looks down at me, resting in the recliner. “You know what today is, don’t you?” he asks, and his voice is suddenly soft. Almost child-like.

  My brother and I don’t talk about our parents. It’s a subject we just don’t bring up. We keep photographs hidden away and if we’re really in the mood to torture ourselves, sometimes we’ll sort through them on Christmas and cry and cry.

  But of course I know today is the day they died.

  I nod my head.

  “I’m gonna go to five o’clock mass tonight and light a candle for them,” Ronnie says.

  “That’s…good,” I say.

  We sit a few minutes and both stare out the window. It’s nice and quiet in my brother’s place. I can hear a few kids out at the pool. Splashing around and calling out, “Marco Polo.”

  My brother breaks out into a grin. He pivots around and stares at me with his flashy green eyes. “So you want to hire a hit man to take out Carlton,” he says, shaking his head. “And I thought I was the hot-blooded Italian.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I think it’s the only sane thing to do.”

  “Will this give you closure?”

  “How else am I going to get even with Mr. Perfect? What am I going to do, Ronnie? Hex him and hope he falls over on his bike and scrapes a knee?”

  “Why get even?”

  I pop up in the recliner. “He’s ruined my life! I just want to ruin a single day for him. One Single Day. Of his Perfect Life. Is that too much to ask?”

  My brother hesitates. Then reaches into his pocket and flashes a slip of paper in front of my eyes.

  “Memorize this number quickly,” he says.

  “Why?

  My brother pulls out his lighter and sets the paper on fire.

  “Before I change my mind about giving it to you.”

  “Thanks, little brother.”

  “For the record, Maddy, I have to tell you that I’m totally against you doing this. The only reason I’m giving you this guy’s name is because I owe you my life. But I’d prefer if you’d let it go. Haven’t you heard the saying, ‘Let go, Let God’?”

  “Yes, but I like the saying: Hire hit man, Laugh hard.”

  My brother kisses the gold cross on his neck. “Do you know the story of Jesus? How he turned the other cheek? It’s a powerful story. There’s power in forgiveness. Lead a good life, Maddy. Become a huge success. You should start your own marketing and P.R. firm and become more successful than Carlton ever imagined. That’s the best revenge. Why let this guy get to you?”

  “You don’t have all the facts,” I say, abruptly.

  “You’re my sister, Maddy. Trust me. I wanna kill the guy. I can only imagine what he did to you because I’ve never, ever, in my entire life, seen you look this miserable. It’s as if he’s stolen the light from your eyes, and the goodness from your heart.”

  I pause for a moment.

  “Wow, that’s deep,” I say. My brother tends to speak in the language of “rehab ministry.” He’s been to so many self-help and addiction classes, he could write a book on the subject.

  “C’mon, Maddy. Pray with me,” Ronnie says. He makes the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he says, kissing his fingers at the end.

  I stand there, watching him.

  “You’re being dramatic,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m not talking about cement boots, here. I’m talking about a more subtle type of revenge.”

  “Fine. I’ll pray for you,” he says.

  “Great. I can use all the help I can get.”

  I turn and walk toward Ronnie’s refrigerator. It’s covered in magnets that say things like, “Seal of Approval,” and “You can do it!” and “I love mornings!” My brother has covered his fridge in positive affirmations.

  “What do you have to eat in here?” I ask, swinging open the door.

  “Nothing, nada, zip.”

  My brother’s refrigerator contains a jar of peanut butter and a carton of milk. I close the door and look at him.

  “How about the International House of Pancakes?” I suggest. “My treat.”

  I don’t really care for pancakes but my brother is a pancake freak. Plus, he loves all the different flavors of syrup.

  “You know I can’t pass up that syrup,” Ronnie says, rubbing his belly. “Their boysenberry kicks ass,” he informs me.

  See what I mean?

  My brother grabs his house keys and wallet and stuffs them in the pocket of his jeans. He follows me out of the apartment and down the steps.

  “Oh, and Maddy,” Ronnie says.

  I swing around.

  “Be careful with that number I gave you. You know hiring a hit man is a federal offense punishable by a long, long time in the pokey.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I say, as if I’m a stud.

  Ronnie opens the car door for me, and gracefully pushes me into the passenger seat. “No matter what happens, Maddy,” he says, “I know you’ll do the right thing.”

  Chapter 30

  In the midst of what Carlton and I call our “Crazy Season,” Carlton decides to have a Boys’ Night Out. It’s a Saturday night, and I don’t mind. But as each Saturday rolls around and Carlton does it over and over, I begin to get frustrated.

  “We’re spending every waking moment together, Maddy,” he complains.

  “It’s not quality time,” I reply.

  I swivel around in my office chair. Carlton is standing at the door, hands on his waist like a drill sergeant. “C’mon, sweetie. You’re cooler than that,” he says. And I really want to be cool, so I drop it.

  Carlton, sometimes, really knows how to pull my strings.

  So, despite our hectic workweek and the fact that I stay late at the office on Saturday nights alone, Carlton decides he needs time with the boys. Saturday Night Out with the Guys becomes an institution to which Carlton remains strictly faithful. Even if something important comes up, he reschedules around Boys’ Night Out.

  Our relationship is fine, for two people who work so much, but we’re definitely not the same moony-eyed Romeo and Juliet lovers we used to be. It’s all ebb and flow. So I decide not to stress. Better to just roll with it.

  One night, when Carlton isn’t home by 3:00 a.m., I call his cell phone, but hang up when I get the answering recorder. I feel silly for doing it. As if I’ve become the jealous type. The type of woman I’ve never respected. These women always seemed weak, in my opinion. If a woman had to keep her man on a tight leash, she lacked self-esteem, I figured. I always thought the man should be concerned about me, not the other way around. But I was beginning to get concerned.

  Even when I felt I knew Carlton down to his inner core—that there were no secrets this man held…he was still removed. A sly detachment that wasn’t betrayed in his smile or in the way he whispered, “I love you, Maddy,” before he rolled over and went to sleep each night.

  No, the detachment was in a subtle, but dangerous flicker in his eye. I’d noticed it just a few times in our entire relationship. And most recently, when I told him I didn’t like the way he stayed out so late with the guys.

  I wait up in bed, one Saturday night, reading through customer e-mails. The front door slams and I hear Carlton whistling softly in the hall. He must see the bedroom light on because he stops whistling.

  “Knock, knock,” he says, walking zigzag into the bedroom. He flops down onto the edge of the bed and kicks his shoes off. He reeks of smoke and alcohol, and even pot.

  “I thought you and David were coming home after the concert,” I say. I rub my eyes and check the alarm clock.

  “It’s 4:00 a.m. Carlton!”

  H
e shrugs his shoulders. “We ended up at the after-party.”

  “Why didn’t you call? I waited up,” I say, and my voice sounds weak. Pleading.

  Carlton spins around on the bed and stares at me. “You shouldn’t have,” he snaps. And that’s when I spot the flicker. He stands and heads over to the closet, shooting me a wary, cautious look—the kind of look a wild animal gives to someone trying to capture it. As if I’d just leapt on the floor, grabbed his ankles, and tried to restrain him by locking him up in a ball and chain.

  “Look, babe. I’m not meaning to bust your balls or anything, but a relationship is about give and take,” I say, quietly, under my breath.

  I watch as Carlton undresses. And he knows I’m watching him. He turns around slowly and I see the muscles rippling down his stomach. He lifts weights in his office when no one’s looking, so he’s still got a killer physique.

  Carlton strolls over to the bed, completely naked. He loops his arms around me and pulls me against his chest. “Oh, I’m about to give you something all right,” he says, and poof! Like that, the flicker is gone and we’re back.

  I smell sour gin on his breath, and it stinks, but even in his intoxicated state, he takes me hard that night. In the way that only the most experienced of lovers can take a woman. And I, Madeline Jane Piatro, love every moment of it.

  We start on the bed first and then Carlton drags me into the living room. It’s cold without a fire, but he takes me on the bear rug. Like in the movies. Hard and fast. The fur scratches my butt. Leaving small welts.

  Afterward, he says, “I love you, Maddy,” and stares at me with those rakish eyes that make my knees weak.

  I don’t reply.

  I love you more, I think.

  Chapter 31

  I unfold the crinkled napkin from the International House of Pancakes. Flatten out the edges. I stare at it. Debating.

  When my brother wasn’t watching, I wrote down the number. So I wouldn’t forget it.

  The phone number he showed me in one split second before he set it on fire.

  There is no name. Just the number. I don’t recognize the area code. I bet it’s difficult to trace.

  I pick up the phone. Dial the number. It’s a beeper. Damn.

  I hang up.

  Ronnie told me I wouldn’t be able to use a pay phone and now I see why. So I’m calling the meathead-for-hire on my cell.

  I redial the number, punch in my digits followed by the pound sign for the beeper, and wait.

  A minute ticks by, or maybe an eternity, I can’t tell. But my phone rings, suddenly.

  I stare at my phone. It rings and rings until I snatch it off my coffee table.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “You just paged me,” a voice replies. It’s a man’s voice, of course. A deep, sexy man’s voice.

  My goodness.

  “Uh…I was interested in discussing your ser vices,” I stutter.

  Am I really doing this? I wonder. I hear that voice in my head again, this time saying, What are you doing, Maddy? But I press on.

  “How did you get this number?” the voice asks.

  “Friend of a friend.”

  “Not good enough, lady. Try again.”

  “A friend of Snoop Santino’s.”

  “Snoop’s got a lot of friends.”

  I pause and consider hanging up the phone. I certainly don’t want to bring my brother into this.

  “A former business associate of Snoop Santino’s gave me your number,” I say.

  A moment passes. And I wait.

  “I don’t discuss anything over the phone,” the voice says. “But we can arrange a meeting.”

  “Uh…okey dokey,” I say. And then I cringe because I can’t believe I just said “okey dokey!”

  “You pick the time and place, lady,” the voice says.

  I have a sudden urge to hang up. I stare at the cell phone in my hand. And I’m about to click it shut when I hear the voice go, “Hullo? You still there?”

  “Uh, how about the Starbucks on 3rd Street. You know where that is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. Let’s say four o’clock?” I’m apparently scheduling teatime with my very own hit man. Perhaps we’ll enjoy a plate of scones.

  “I’ll be wearing a leather coat,” the voice says.

  “I’ll be wearing—” my voice falters and drops off. What on earth am I going to wear? For my big meeting? A disguise would probably be best. But a disguise seems so cloak and dagger. Plus, I’ve always looked ridiculous in a wig.

  “I’ll be wearing an Organics 4 Kids T-shirt,” I say quickly. And I don’t know why I say this. But it seems appropriate.

  “Those are good-looking shirts,” the voice says. I hear a click and a dial tone as he hangs up the phone.

  I put the phone down and I can’t help myself. I smile like a cat.

  Chapter 32

  Carlton goes to a bachelor party on Saturday night. And while he’s hooting it up at some titty bar, our Chief Financial officer decides to quit.

  I’m in my office working late when Steven Schultz taps on my door.

  “Hey Steve,” I chirp, and I immediately know something’s wrong. His face is ash-gray.

  Steve holds up a spreadsheet. “I’ve got something to tell you, Maddy. And it’s not easy to say,” he begins.

  Usually, I’d try to multitask. Like sending out e-mails or something, but Steve’s eyes look dead-serious. He’s even sweating.

  I turn and face him, my hands folded on my lap. “Shoot,” I say.

  Steve takes his glasses off and wipes the lenses on his shirt. “Carlton is dicking around with the numbers,” he says. “It’s bordering on fraud. Actually, it’s not bordering on it—it is fraud.”

  “What?”

  He shoves the spreadsheets in my lap. “Look for yourself. I’ve highlighted all the relevant portions.”

  I glance down and see Steve has prepared two sets of balance sheets. I recognize one set, but the numbers on the other set are unfamiliar.

  “Look, Maddy. He didn’t tell me he was doing this. So I’m signing off on this stuff and he’s turning around and changing it behind my back. I’m not interested in having the federal prosecutor up my ass,” he says.

  “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation—”

  Steve shakes his head vigorously back and forth. “No, Madeline!” he nearly shouts.

  I pause and sit back in my chair, with the paperwork in my lap.

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. Being his girlfriend and all…” Steve mutters.

  “Carlton hasn’t said a word to me about this,” I say. “And let me assure you, we tell each other everything when it comes to this company.”

  “The CFO always goes to jail, Madeline! Look at Enron!” Steve shouts. “Now, I’m not going to sit here and justify why these numbers don’t add up while you turn a blind eye!”

  Steve bursts out of his chair and storms out the door.

  He returns a minute later and apologizes. “Sorry, I lost my head,” he says. “I just feel taken advantage of. Working all these weekend hours.”

  I sift through the papers on my lap.

  “What do you want to do, Steve?” I ask, because I already know what he wants.

  “I’ve already taken a new job, Maddy. Sorry for the late notice but I know Carlton won’t cut me a severance check.”

  “You’ll get three months’ salary,” I say, quietly. “And I wish you the best of luck. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. You’re an earnest guy, and a good employee, but I need time to crunch these numbers—so I’ll know what’s really going on.”

  Steve looks at me and says, “Carlton is a real schmuck.”

  I say, “You’re fired, Steve.”

  He breaks out into a nervous smile. And we both laugh.

  Later that night, I ask Carlton about the spreadsheets.

  “Steve is too conservative,” Carlton shrugs. “He’s not a good
fit for the company. We need someone more aggressive. More willing to take risks.”

  “Steve went to Wharton and is a CPA!” I counter. “He treats expenses as expenses, not as assets.”

  “That’s exactly his problem, Maddy. He has no understanding of our business.”

  I frown and press my hand against my hips. “You’re just trying to impress your dad with inflated numbers,” I say.

  Carlton raises his hand. “That’s unfair, Maddy. Steve has always felt underpaid and overworked. I’m glad he quit because he just wants a piece of the company. Plain and simple. But I’m not willing to give him any of my shares. Are you?”

  “I don’t have any shares!” I say. And it’s official. I’m suddenly yelling.

  “Please, Maddy. Not that subject again. You’ll have half my shares as soon as we get married,” Carlton says. “And let me tell you, my dad isn’t going to be happy about that. He’s had plenty of women taking half of everything.”

  “Jesus, Carlton. What does he expect? He never picks a woman of intelligence. A woman of substance. Someone who’s going to stand on her own two feet. He’s the king of cocktail waitresses.”

  Carlton raises his hand. “Hey! You’re out of line,” he says sharply. “My father is the guy who made this company happen. He didn’t need to invest millions of dollars in our little pipe dream.”

  I stare into Carlton’s eyes. And his pupils look mean and piercing. Like small black needles. For a moment, he reminds me exactly of Forest Connors.

  I catch my breath. Take two steps backward in the kitchen.

  “Unlike your stepmother, HOLLY, I’m working for my shares in Organics 4 Kids,” I say, my voice rising. “And I’m working my TAIL off.”

  Carlton takes a deep breath. “I know, sweetie. We both are,” he says, and his voice is suddenly soft. He steps toward me and encircles me in his arms. He’s back. My good ol’ Carlton.