Inez nods.
“Cool. Me too. Great theological, um, approach,” Lane continues. “Dude here and me, we’ve been talking about going together soon too. Right?”
The clerk doesn’t say anything.
“Right, man?”
“Yes. Oh, yeah. Of course,” the kid obliges.
“OK then . . . I gotta get back to work,” Inez says. She covers a few cold cuts in plastic wrap and stuffs them in her pocket. She gives the clerk a quick hug with her forearms, maintaining a foot of distance between their torsos, and sends him out through the door.
She thanks Lane and goes to leave too, but he follows after her.
“Like I said.” Lane nudges her in the shoulder.
“What?” She tilts her head in a way that Lane almost feels like she might be flirting with him.
“Wrapped . . .”
“The cold cuts?”
“No. Around your finger.”
“It’s not like that.” She keeps moving.
“Your husband know it’s not like that?”
She shakes her head. “You don’t know what it’s like, dude. When’s the last time you got hit on at work? How about every day, from every direction by a bunch of old weird losers with dandruff and face scabs and long hairs sticking outta their moles like a fucking catfish.”
“You mean that butcher with that gnarly thing on his neck? He totally looks like a catfish. That’s so good.”
They both take a moment to savor the agreement.
“Would I be hitting on you if I asked you out for a drink then?” Lane asks.
“Yes.”
“Is that a ‘yes’ to the drink or ‘yes’ that I’m hitting on you?”
“You and Tom have some kind of bet or something? He asked me the same thing like an hour ago.”
“And what’d you tell him?”
“That I’m married.”
“OK, well, I’m making progress then.”
“I dunno. Last thing I need is to be talking to another Fred Meyer—”
“Old weird loser?”
“Well, you’re not that old . . .”
“Hey now. Easy. I told you, I’m here for the holiday.” He pulls his New York State ID from his wallet and waves it in front of her. “We can go to church. Not go to church. Whatever makes you happy.”
She shrugs, smiles and keeps going.
TWELVE
“TOTAL BULLSHIT.” NINA’S VOICE CRACKLES through the deli landline. “Absolute, total bullshit. She’s using that Christmas shtick to hustle lonely fools out of their cash. Probably to buy more meth.”
Lane leans against the wall tiles in the back while talking on the landline. “No chance?”
“Are you kidding me? She can’t care for Jordan for an afternoon, let alone the biggest holiday of the year. Last time he was with her for two hours. Two short hours and he came back covered with red bumps. I asked what in God’s name was going on and that stupid bitch says—like it’s nothing—‘Oh, must be fleas.’ And I’m like, ‘From where?’ and she’s goes, ‘Our pit.’ A fucking pit bull that she forgot to mention. ‘But he’s a mix,’ she says. And even worse, the caseworkers who were supposed to be doing supervised visits before didn’t have a clue about it. Just missed the canine death machine in the corner there. This whole process, which will determine, oh lemme see, whether we can keep our son or not, is being conducted by inept, semieducated morons and mouth-breathers.”
“I’m working on it.” Lane tries for a tone of renewed conviction. “I’m building up to it.”
“C’mon, use your brain. Use her retardo Christmas scam to your advantage. It sounds like hard work to hustle all that money. To dodge all those debts. You need to solve all her problems—all in one fell swoop.”
LANE UNDERSTANDS DESPERATION. HIS FRIENDS J.C. and Robbie used to make jokes that Mia was his “one fell swoop.” Or “Willy Wonka Ticket,” as they called her the last time they all hung out before Lane told them to go fuck themselves, got out of Robbie’s car at the stoplight and kept walking. Sure, the trust fund, the three-bedroom apartment, the connections . . . none of that hurts. Money and access are very real things.
But Lane knows he has dignity. Grace. Desperate or not, he is sure that he loves Mia for Mia. She’s beautiful. Not too beautiful . . . People who’ve been too attractive their whole lives never build any other capacities, like a developing nation that’s happened across massive oil reserves. Mia is worldly, whip smart and has a level of compassion he hasn’t before seen in a woman who shaves her legs. Case in point: It was her idea to pay for Lane’s degree. OK, that’s also something she’s doing for him, but, again, he never asked for it.
Mia knew about his drug conviction. She knew that it disqualified him from federal loans. She knew how hard he’d worked. Knew about the socioeconomic factors that had conspired against him. He’d overcome a subpar education. A lack of role models. A rickety family situation. He got good grades but still didn’t have the overall academic standing to receive funding from Columbia itself. He may not have been accepted at all if not for a well-timed call from Mia’s godmother to the dean of admissions, with whom the godmother shared a driveway easement in Bridgehampton.
Mia was inspired by Lane. He had the struggle and gumption that she believed made people whole. The ingredient that she felt missing every morning when she drifted between dreams and wakefulness, reflecting on her purpose or lack thereof.
And their relationship worked both ways. She wasn’t close with anyone else, kept people at a distance, didn’t like to talk about her past. She needed Lane. Consumed him. He was hers, on her terms. He was a quick study and learned to steer clear of off-limits topics of conversations: mainly stuff about the inner workings of her family or her immovable positions on social politics. He knew how not to offend her, how not to hurt her feelings. Beyond everything else, Mia believed that Lane could be somebody, and she was going to be the one to make it happen.
Lane knows that you don’t stumble into that kind of situation. You forge the relationship through hard work. You earn it.
THE DELI PHONE RINGS AGAIN. Lane guesses it’s Nina calling back before he picks it up. He cups his hand over the receiver, as Cheese and Rice is now sitting a few feet away in front of the walk-in, taking his fifteen-minute break and reading Left Behind #4: Soul Harvest in paperback.
Lane’s supposed to be out front to cover the counter. It took Tom a matter of hours to renege on his promise, but Lane is still refusing and told the coworker that he has to keep any eye on the counter even while on break.
“The caseworker reassured me that the Christmas thing isn’t happening,” Nina spits through the phone. “But Inez, she is slated to start to get overnights. Fucking overnights. Then it’ll be weekends. And I know what’s next. I can read between the lines. You know what it is? Reinstatement. They’re not saying it yet, but I’m sure of it. That’s why you’ve gotta nip this thing in the bud. I’ve been thinking hard on this, and I need this done by Christmas.”
“Christmas Christmas?”
“Is there another one I don’t know about?”
“That’s not, um, that’s not possible.”
“Tracey refused to get out of bed today. I need to be able to tell her some good news. To give her this as a Christmas present.”
“Tracey? You’re gonna tell her? About this?”
“Of course not. She can never know. Not the details. Only the end result.”
“There’re still a few steps.” He notices Cheese and Rice looking at him. “It’s gonna—”
“We got up at night with Jordan when he was little. Every two hours. Soothed him. Did the Five S’s. Changed his diapers. While what? She smoked rocks. Snorted OxyContin. I worked my ass off to build up my real estate practice. While what? She sold meth out of the same trailer where Jordan lived? Do you know what it feels like to even think about losing your baby? And to people like that? People who will ruin his life. The most important things for a child are stab
ility and consistent love. He’s ours. Our child. That we’ve raised. Tracey always says: being a parent is about bonding, not blood.”
“I’m gonna, you know, get her number on my next break,” Lane whispers. “I’m making progress.”
“You don’t have her number yet?”
“It’s . . . she’s kind of a tough chick.”
“Well, I’m a tougher chick. I’m fucking nails. She can’t even fathom what I can do to—” Nina cycles through a series of deep breaths and dials back her volume. “You know what he does when he goes to her house? Watches TV and eats Hot Pockets. Have you ever read the ingredients list on that shit? It’s like a goddamn book. Takes up the whole side of the box in like, I dunno, four-point type. That kind of lax parenting—or let’s call it what it is: lack of parenting—is OK for some kids, but Jordan’s in a fragile place. We are giving him the life he deserves, not the bare minimum requirements so he won’t die.”
The bell rings at the counter.
Lane motions with his head to the clerk: time to go up front. He points to the phone and mouths, “Important call.”
“We are doing the right thing here. You are doing the right thing here,” Nina continues. “I’m counting on you: Christmas Day, Lane.”
As Cheese and Rice steps toward the counter, a man with parted hair and an off-brand blue Gore-Tex jacket over a dress shirt looks at a photo and then at his face.
“Lane? Lane Boosh?” He leans against the outside of the glass case and hoists a manila envelope over the top. “These are official legal documents. Read them thoroughly, as you must respond to the court.”
“No, I’m not . . . that’s not me.”
The guy returns to the photograph in his hand. “Sorry kid, we found you through employee records. Like I said: read them thoroughly as—”
“No, seriously. My boss Tom, even he says we look alike, but Lane’s—”
The clerk turns to the back room in time to see a glimpse of the loading dock as the exterior door slams shut.
THIRTEEN
THE FIRST HALF IS MORE or less a competent fence climb. He straddles the top fringe of the eight feet of chain link. An inch of air and a thin layer of cotton between the galvanized steel-wire points and his scrotum.
He throws his other leg over—or he tries to—and that’s when he starts to go down, ripping his Dickies from the knees to the ankle, plowing a red trough the length of his calf and then coming to a halt as the point snags the front laces on his right Rod Laver.
He hangs head-down from the top of the fence, writhing and twisting long enough to see Toby running his way in a crouch, as if approaching a landing helicopter. The shoelace snaps, and Lane drops face-first into the long grass swept across the mud.
Toby helps Lane to his feet. He evaluates the distance to the house and then to the side door to the garage. He throws Lane’s arm over his shoulder, and they make a break for the garage.
They slam the door and catch their breath in the dark, afraid to turn on the single bare light bulb. “Some cheesecock came ’round looking for you,” Toby says.
“Why do you think . . . I ran . . . ran all the way . . . from Fred Meyer?” Lane pants. He then clears the empty Coke bottles, cobwebs and an old toilet plunger out of the garage window so he can spot up along the side of the house to the purple Saturn parked on the street. “That him?”
“I think so. Yeah.” Toby pulls a Rainier from the cooler, taps the lid, cracks it open and passes it to Lane. He grabs one for himself. They both take long drinks in silence. The can feels comforting in Lane’s hand. The aluminum gives just enough as he drinks down the sixteen ounces.
He moves to the bench seat from his dad’s old Ford Galaxy that still lives in the corner of the garage. He wipes mud and grass off his face and then rolls up his pant leg to examine the blood streaming from his calf. “What’d you say to him when he came to the door?”
“I told him I ain’t seen you. You don’t live here.” Toby finds a rag atop the lawnmower and applies it to Lane’s cut. “I thought he was a cop. Till I saw his pussyboy car.”
“Holy fuck, that hurts.” Lane yanks back his leg. “That rag clean?”
Toby sniffs the rag. “Yeah, it’s got like a little gas on it.”
“Motherfu—” Lane jumps to his feet. “You’re gonna give me lead poisoning.”
“We used diesel on cuts all the time up in Bristol Bay.” Toby pulls down the waist of his jeans and boxers to show an inch-wide swath of scar tissue curving across the top of his ass cheek. “Was all I had for three days before we got back to port and could get real stitches.” He hikes his pants back up and clears his throat. “What’s dude then? One of them divorce-papers guys?”
“I told you like ten times—like a thousand times—all’s good between me and my wife.” He pretends to be collecting his emotions while he digs for an explanation. “That guy out there. He’s IRS. No, SEC. You know the SEC?”
Toby shakes his head.
“Well, he’s not interested in me. But what I know. He wants Mia’s dad. Her family, I’m telling you, Toby, they’re involved in big business. Like they don’t really work. All of their income comes from assets and investments. Like they buy up smaller businesses for fun. They’ve got summer houses with helicopter pads and libraries and safe rooms. Stuff you can’t imagine. Paints a huge target on your back.”
IT WAS A MATTER OF days between Lane and Mia getting engaged and getting married at City Hall in downtown Seattle. They’d already been seeing each other for months and both knew it was right. That, and it was time for them to make some decisions. Mia’s friend’s project in Beijing was killed by Bezos and they were going to need to find a new place to live. As Lane’s sights were on Manhattan, marriage was an obvious precursor to the move. Mia wasn’t keen on New York but was battling her own mounting and unfounded anxieties that Lane would leave or cheat on her.
They got married in street clothes. Mia sprung for the two plain fair trade silver bands. No precious stones. Diamonds were as evil as cigarettes. Gold wasn’t much better.
The ceremony was over in ten minutes. There were no parquet dance floors. Nothing bespoke, handcrafted or artisanal. No “Come On Eileen” or “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” It was like getting a driver’s license, except they kissed and then cried. Lane was creating a family, one that he could count on.
Lane’s mom was the witness. He made sure that Mia would never see his house, and he signed off on his mom’s outfit before she ventured out. She brought Mia a bouquet of yellow roses from Fred Meyer. And they all went out to Canlis on Mia’s credit card. Lane ordered the safe choice of pan-seared chicken for his mom and gave her a lecture ahead of time about table manners. She was so intimidated that she barely spoke during dinner. She did enjoy the Willamette Valley pinot noir and nodded along when Mia was impressed with the hints of pine and green tea.
Lane and Mia plotted the coming months and talked of a long honeymoon in Central America: surf camp in Nicaragua, treehouse ecolodges in Costa Rica and open-water dive certification in Roatán (for Lane; Mia got her PADI Divemaster the summer after graduating high school).
But Lane insisted that they get established in New York first. He loved that Mia knew about literary quarterlies and private dining clubs and underground art galleries. He was sure that New York was full of other people like her. For Lane, New York would be as much of a homecoming as it was for Mia.
But he didn’t want to move there and become part of the idle rich. He didn’t want anyone to ever think he was a charity case or a gold digger or not Mia’s peer. He was going to be taken seriously. He was going to fulfill his destiny and earn a PhD from an Ivy League school.
Lane’s teachers and guidance counselors had long ago made sure he understood that education was the surest form of upward social mobility. For a kid who’d forced himself to become a competitive student while his closest childhood friends were all smoking bowls and cutting class, a PhD from an Ivy League university
was the equivalent of making the NBA—a version of the NBA where you had to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to set foot on a court with no spectators.
More specifically, he had long dreamed of Columbia, even before there was any realistic chance of him attending the school. Columbia was where men of stature were mass-replicated. Diplomats, professors, presidents, Supreme Court justices. Boutros Boutros-Ghali. Hans Blix. Not to mention Franklin and Teddy Roosevelt. And there were the writers: Kerouac, Salinger, Upton Sinclair and even Hunter S. Thompson. It was the perfect balance of Ivy League exclusivity and urban sophistication.
Lane was perplexed by Mia’s hesitance about moving back to New York. Wondered why she refused to return her father’s calls. She suggested they rent an apartment in Seattle or Portland, someplace lower-pressure.
They got in their first real fight when she brought up an interest in Bellingham. Lane came close to losing his temper. It was as if they hadn’t just had a thousand circular conversations about how Seattle was too provincial, how Portland was too monocultural, and now she wanted a one-horse town full of hippies and hikers a few feet from the Canadian border? Her response was to completely shut down. On the best of days, coaxing out her true feelings was like trying to pull trout from a stream with your bare hands. Lane was patient and picked his battles but would not yield on this one. She, in turn, warned him he was being a steamroller.
As Lane pushed, Mia’s father opened the door for a grand return. Her dad offered the keys to her mother’s apartment. The one in Gramercy where Mia’s mom lived after they separated. The apartment that had sat empty since her death. Some other discussions happened between Mia and her father about money. Lane never learned the specifics, but a decision was made.
Lane looked forward to Mia’s father taking him on as a son. He could be the father Lane never had. A father with whom he could share his ideas and ambitions.
But Mia’s dad hadn’t even heard of Lane at that point. In fact, he wanted Mia to come home because he feared that she’d make an impulsive decision, shack up with some lowlife like Lane and squander her inheritance.
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