by Joy Fielding
She laughed. “Not a chance. Where are you off to?”
He sighed. “Nowhere special. Probably just over to the Wild Zone for a drink.”
“That’s that bar where Kirsten works?”
“Kristin,” Will said.
“You’re not drinking too much, are you?” Ellie asked, ignoring his correction.
Will laughed, said nothing.
“Your mom called this morning,” Ellie said, abruptly shifting gears. “She’s worried about you, said she hadn’t heard from you in almost a week. You might want to give her a call, reassure her you’re still alive and, well, that Jeff hasn’t done something terrible to you.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And you’ll talk to him again?” she added. “Try to impress on him that there’s not a lot of time?”
“I’ll try,” Will said, understanding there was no point in saying anything else.
“You’re a good boy,” Ellie told him before hanging up.
“HELLO, MOM?” TOM asked, thinking, Moron, of course it’s your mother. Who else would it be?
“Alan,” she exclaimed happily. “How are you, darling? Everybody,” she called out, “it’s Alan.”
“It’s not Alan. It’s Tom.”
“Tom?”
“Your son, Tom. The black sheep in the middle,” he added bitterly.
“Tom,” his mother repeated, as if trying to comprehend a word in a foreign language. “It’s Tom,” she relayed to whomever else was in the room. Then, back to him, “Is there something wrong? Are you in trouble?”
“Do I have to be in trouble to call home?”
“Are you?” his mother asked again.
“No.”
His mother’s relief was audible, although she said nothing. Tom pictured her standing in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, her sad brown eyes appealing for help from those gathered around the dining room table, her mouth pinched into a worried pout, as if she were sucking on a piece of sour candy.
“Am I interrupting something?” Tom asked.
“We were just sitting down to dinner. Vic and Sara are here with the kids.”
Tom tried conjuring up an image of his brother, older by a year and a half, but since he’d seen him less than half a dozen times in twice as many years, it was difficult. When Tom and his brothers were younger, people used to have trouble telling them apart, so similar were they in appearance and stature. But as the years progressed, Tom grew taller, Alan wider, Vic handsomer. By the time they were in their late teens, no one had trouble distinguishing one from the other, especially since they were rarely together. “How is everyone?”
“Great. Lorne and Lisa are growing like weeds.”
“Carole, get off the phone,” Tom heard his father say. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”
“What kind of mess has he gotten himself into now?” Vic’s wife, Sara, muttered in the background, although her voice was loud enough for Tom to make out every word.
“Is there a reason you’re calling?” his mother asked warily.
“Do I need one?” Tom asked in return, lighting a fresh cigarette with the end of the one he was currently smoking, then flicking the butt out the car window to join the growing pile.
“You’re not sick, are you?”
“For God’s sake, Carole,” Tom’s father said. “He’s fine.”
“Let me talk to him,” Vic said.
“I don’t want to talk to Vic,” Tom protested.
“Tom, how are you doing, buddy?” his brother asked, coming on the line, his deep voice radiating confidence and success.
“I’m fine, Vic. You?”
“Fantastic. Sara’s terrific, the kids are doing great, I love my work—”
“How can you love crunching numbers all day?”
“—I’ve got my health,” Vic continued, as if Tom hadn’t spoken.
“What are you—eighty years old? You sound like an old man with this ‘I’ve got my health’ shit.”
“You don’t have anything if you don’t have your health. Trust me on that one.”
“Why should I trust you? You’re a fucking accountant, for shit’s sake. Who trusts an accountant?”
“Ever the smart-ass, I see.”
“You don’t see a goddamn thing.”
“Then you better spell it out,” Vic said. “What is it, Tom? You need money? Is that why you’re calling?”
“What are you doing?” Sara hissed. “We’re not giving your brother any more money. He didn’t repay us the last time.”
“You lent your brother money?” Tom’s father asked incredulously.
“It wasn’t much,” Vic said dismissively. “Just a few thousand . . .”
“Hey, if you’re offering,” Tom said.
“How much do you need?”
“Vic, for God’s sake,” Sara said, closer to the phone now than before.
“A few thousand sounds pretty good.”
“I can’t do that,” Vic said quietly.
“Damn right you can’t,” Sara said.
“You’re the one who offered.”
“I can maybe spare a couple hundred. That’s it.”
“What are you doing?” Sara demanded angrily. “You’re not giving your brother another dime.”
“Mommy, what’s wrong? Why are you yelling at Daddy?” a child asked in the background.
“What’s going on, Tom? Is there something you’re not telling us?”
“Lainey and I split up,” Tom admitted after a pause.
“You’re kidding! Lainey left him,” Vic shouted to the others.
“What?” His mother.
“Big surprise.” His father.
“What took her so long?” Sara.
“She’s threatening to take my kids away,” Tom said.
“Sounds like you need a lawyer.”
“I need money for a lawyer,” Tom barked. “And a few hundred bucks isn’t going to do it.”
“Sorry, Tom. I really am. I’d help you if I could.”
“You are not giving your brother any more money,” Sara said.
“Tell that stupid cunt to shut the fuck up,” Tom yelled.
“Hey,” Vic warned him, “watch it.”
“What’s the matter with you? Where are your balls, for Christ’s sake? You let that bitch boss you around like that?”
“That’s enough, Tom.”
“Enough? I’m just getting started where that twat is concerned.”
“No, Tom. Trust me. You’re finished.”
The line went dead in his hands.
“Shit!” Tom yelled, holding on to the word until he ran out of breath. His hands slammed down on the steering wheel, inadvertently triggering the horn. The noise blasted its way into the thick, warm air, like dynamite. “Shit, fuck, fucking shit!” He lowered his head, tears of frustration stinging his eyes. Damn that smug bastard of a brother of his, with his terrific wife and great kids and a job that he loved. Not to mention his fucking health. “Trust me, you don’t have anything if you don’t have your health!” Tom mimicked, his head snapping up, a loud cackle escaping his mouth to bounce off the car’s interior and echo down the street. “Trust me!” he shouted. “Like I’m gonna fucking trust you, you miserable piece of shit!”
Which was when he saw the cop car in his rearview mirror and a uniformed officer walking cautiously toward him, his hand hovering above the gun in his holster as he approached.
“Everything all right here?” the officer asked.
“Everything’s just fine,” Tom said, not looking at him.
“Could I see your license and registration?” A command in the shape of a question.
“What for? I’m not doing anything. I’m not even driving.”
“License and registration,” the officer repeated, signaling to another officer waiting in the police car, as if he expected trouble.
Tom fished into the side pocket of his jeans to retrieve his driver’s license, then reached
across the front seat into his glove compartment for his registration. The officer, a young Hispanic with a scar that ran the length of his upper lip, glanced at both before handing them to his older partner. “We’ve had a complaint of a car matching this description loitering in the area,” he explained.
Tom glanced toward his father-in-law’s bungalow. So the bastard had seen him and called the police. Fucking moron. “I haven’t been here all that long.”
“Long enough to smoke half a pack of cigarettes.” The officer glanced at the discarded butts beside his black leather boots.
“What—is it a crime now to smoke in this country?”
“Mind stepping out of the car?” the officer said.
“Yeah, I mind,” Tom told him. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Come on, Tom,” the officer said, having noted the name on his license. “Don’t make me haul your ass off to jail.”
“For what, jerk-off?” Tom snapped, seeing a flash of alarm light up the officer’s dark complexion.
The next thing he saw was the barrel of a gun pointing directly at his face.
SEVENTEEN
“HEY, GOOD-LOOKIN’,” JEFF SAID, taking a seat at the bar and smiling at Kristin. “Tom been in yet?”
“Haven’t seen him. You heard anything from Will?”
Jeff shook his head. “He’s probably too embarrassed to show his face.”
“Why would he be embarrassed?”
Jeff leaned in, lowered his voice to a whisper. “’Cause nothing happened between him and Suzy Pomegranate, that’s why.” He laughed. “Can you believe that? Strike two!”
“How do you know nothing happened?”
“Because Tom walked in on them.”
“He interrupted them?”
“Apparently there was nothing to interrupt. Can you believe that?” he said again, his eyes sweeping across the lightly populated room. “Not too busy tonight,” he commented.
“It’s Monday,” Kristin said. “Although it was pretty busy earlier.” She touched the business card in the side pocket of her tight black skirt, wondering if she should show it to Jeff. Dr. Dave Bigelow, Radiologist, Miami General Hospital. How would Jeff react? she wondered. Would he be indifferent, or would it shake him up a little bit? And was that what she wanted—to shake him up? And if so, how much?
He already knew that other guys found her attractive. He loved hearing her stories about the men who came on to her, the men she turned down on an almost nightly basis, whose hopeful business cards she quickly tossed into the trash.
Except she hadn’t tossed this one.
Why hadn’t she?
Was she actually considering calling him?
How would Jeff react to that?
“What are you drinking?” she asked.
“Gimme a Miller draft.” Jeff laughed. “I can’t believe he struck out again.”
He was still chuckling when Will walked through the door some ten minutes later. “Well, well. The unconquering hero finally resurfaces,” Jeff said, hoisting his glass into the air. “Give the man a drink, Krissie. He looks like he could use hydrating.”
“Miller draft,” Will told Kristin.
“Atta boy. Okay. So, out with it. Details, details.”
“You know what happened,” Will said testily. “I’m sure Tom couldn’t wait to tell you.”
“I know what didn’t happen. Again,” Jeff said. “What I don’t know is why.”
“We’re not all like you, Jeff,” Will told his brother. “Some of us like to take things slow.”
“Slow is one thing. Stupid is another.”
“You all right?” Kristin asked, handing Will his beer.
“I’m fine. Honestly. It was a lovely afternoon.”
“A lovely afternoon?” Jeff repeated incredulously. “What are you talking about? Who the hell says things like ‘It was a lovely afternoon’?”
“People like me,” Will said. “Call me crazy, but is there anything wrong with getting to know someone first?”
“You’re crazy,” said Jeff.
“I think it’s sweet,” Kristin offered.
“Suzy’s very vulnerable right now,” Will explained. “It wouldn’t be fair to take advantage—”
“Who cares about being fair?” Jeff demanded. “What’s the matter with you? Christ, no wonder Amy dumped you.”
Will raised his glass to his lips, drank half his beer in one gulp.
“Jeff,” Kristin cautioned. “Go easy.”
“It’s okay,” Will said. “It’s nothing I haven’t said to myself a million times.”
“You gotta seize the moment, little brother. How many chances do you think you get at the brass ring?”
“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Guess we will,” Jeff agreed, looking toward the front entrance. “You haven’t seen Tom around, have you?”
“Not since this afternoon.” Will thought that if he never saw Tom again, it would be too soon for him. “Did that lunatic tell you he pulled a gun on me?”
“He what?” Kristin gasped. “Jeff, you really have to do something about him.”
“And what is it you’d have me do exactly?” Jeff snapped.
Kristin shrugged, raised her palms into the air in defeat.
“Ellie called.” Will broached the subject cautiously. “She said she spoke to you about going home. . . .”
“Don’t start,” Jeff warned.
“I’m not. I just—”
“Don’t,” Jeff said again.
Will downed the rest of his beer, signaled to Kristin for another. “I’m sorry,” he said to Jeff. “I should mind my own business.”
“I shouldn’t have made that crack about Amy.”
Will nodded, although he was thinking that Jeff had been right about Amy. Maybe if he hadn’t been so sweet with her, so damn respectful, if he’d been more of a man, if he’d seized the moment, been more forceful, more like Jeff, she might not have left him for someone else.
“Hey. Go easy with that beer,” Kristin cautioned him.
A muffled “Star-Spangled Banner” began to play. Jeff reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out his cell, checked the caller ID. It was a number he didn’t recognize, so he returned it to his pocket unanswered. A few seconds later, it started up again.
“You better answer it,” Kristin said. “Or we’ll be jumping to attention all night.”
Jeff was chuckling as he flipped open his phone. “Hello? Tom, where the hell are you? I almost didn’t answer, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t recognize the number. What? You gotta be kidding me.”
“What’s going on?” Will asked, curious in spite of himself.
“All right. Hold on. We’ll be there as fast as we can.”
“Where are you going?” Kristin asked.
Jeff downed the rest of his beer. “Drink up, little brother. We’re going to jail.”
“WHAT THE FUCK took you so long to get here?” Tom jumped to his feet, almost knocking over the metal folding chair he’d been sitting on, as Jeff marched into the small, windowless room, Will close on his heels. Tom tossed the wildlife magazine he’d been leafing through onto the wooden table in front of him. “Shit, man. What’s he doing here?”
“More to the point, what are you doing here?” Jeff asked. He hated police stations. Even walking by one made him feel as if he was guilty of something.
“That cunt’s father called the cops, reported a suspicious-looking automobile lurking in the area. They hauled my ass down here.”
Jeff looked toward the door. “I told you to get the hell out of there, didn’t I?”
“What—I’m not allowed to park my car on a public street anymore? I wasn’t doing anything wrong. This country’s turning into a fucking fascist state, when a man can’t even sit in his goddamn car and smoke a few cigarettes. . . .”
“Maybe you should keep it down,” Will urged, raising his fingers to his lips.
“Maybe you sho
uld get it up,” Tom shot back.
“Okay, okay,” Jeff said, trying not to laugh. “Will’s right. You don’t want to end up spending the night in a holding cell.”
“What are they gonna hold me on? I didn’t do anything, for shit’s sake. They can’t arrest me.”
“They already have,” Will said.
“What the fuck do you know? I’m not under arrest, dickhead.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing here. I sure as hell didn’t ask you to come. What’d you bring him for anyway?” Tom asked Jeff.
“Be glad I did,” Jeff told him. “The cops are only releasing you on condition someone else drives you home. They think you’re too emotionally precarious—their words, not mine,” Jeff qualified, “to be behind the wheel right now. Frankly, I’m inclined to agree with them.”
“Emotionally pre . . . what ? What the fuck are they talking about? Fucking fascists,” Tom muttered.
“Listen,” Jeff said. “You’re lucky they’re letting you out of here with just a warning.”
A uniformed officer stuck his head in the door. “How are things going in here? He cooled off any?”
“You got no right to keep me here,” Tom shouted.
“Still hot,” the officer noted wryly.
“He’ll be okay,” Jeff said. “Give us another couple of minutes. What is it with you?” he asked Tom as soon as the policeman was out of sight. “Do you want them to arrest you?”
“For what?”
“For being an obnoxious prick,” Will said, not quite under his breath.
“What’d you say?”
“He said, for stalking,” Jeff improvised.
“Stalking? I wasn’t stalking anybody.”
“You followed Lainey all day; you confronted her at the hairdresser’s; you were parked in front of her parents’ house for more than an hour. . . .”
“I parked down the street.”
“It’s still considered stalking. Just how much ammunition do you want to give Lainey?”
“I’m not giving that bitch a damn thing.”
“Then you’ve got to calm down. Be smart. Be contrite. No more of this shit, Tom, or you’ll lose everything.”
“I’ve already lost everything,” Tom moaned, sinking back down into the metal folding chair and burying his head in his hands.