The Girl From Home

by Adam Mitzner

  “I hope we didn’t miss too much, Cher,” Rick says. “I couldn’t get this one out of the bathroom,” he adds, pointing to Jackie with his thumb.

  “My man!” Tony calls out from behind the bar. “Belly up here, Ricky, have a brew, or three. You’re way behind, my man.”

  Rick makes his way to Tony. Their palms make a loud cracking sound as they slap together in a high five.

  “Boys,” Cher says cheerfully. “Am I right?”

  Jackie thinks that idiots is more accurate.

  She looks around the basement, thinking that a little alcohol might go a long way tonight. She knows Rick is going to be too drunk to drive home, but she concludes that she’s not going to get through the evening without at least some wine.

  After pouring herself a glass of chardonnay, Jackie makes her way over to Lori Abbey, who was two years behind Jackie and Rick at East Carlisle High. Her husband, George, was their year, and shares the football connection with Rick and Tony.

  “Happy New Year, Jackie,” Lori says as they kiss each other’s cheeks. “You look beautiful as always. I love that dress.”

  “Thank you,” Jackie says. “You look lovely as well. How have you been?”

  “So busy. The boys are playing ice hockey now, and so we’re up at the crack of dawn every day to get them to the rink, and then Sophie’s violin concert was last night, and that was a big event, with my parents and George’s parents all there.” She looks at her wineglass. “So Momma is very happy to be here tonight getting her drink on.”

  Jackie shares the plastic smile she’s perfected over the years for such interactions. “Did you have fun at the reunion?” she asks.

  “Oh God, yeah, so much fun,” Lori says. “You know, with Facebook, reunions aren’t such a big deal anymore. I already know what everybody looks like, and how many kids they have and what ages. But it was still so great to talk to everyone in person.”

  Lori scans the room, and then conspiratorially leans in to Jackie. “And I saw you hanging around with Johnny Caine. I didn’t think you two were even friends in high school.”

  Jackie feels a sense of panic take hold. Does Lori know more than just that she and Jonathan were talking at the reunion? How about jumping into bed with him every chance she got since then?

  She tells herself she’s being paranoid. If Lori knew about her and Jonathan, it would be a nanosecond before she’d tell George and less than that before he’d alert Rick. And if Rick knew, he’d be sure to let Jackie know. No doubt with the back of his hand. Or worse.

  “It’s funny,” Jackie says with what she hopes is a convincing expression, “because that’s what he said, too. I went outside to call home and check on the kids and he came out for a second to make a phone call, and so we said hello, and he said something like, ‘You know, we went to high school together for four years and never said a word to each other, and now here we are talking twenty-five years later.’ Anyway, he seemed nice. Told me that he’s married and works on Wall Street.”

  Jackie reflexively turns toward Rick, who is on the other side of the room, still anchored to the same bar stool. Sometimes she fears he can read her mind. But if Rick knew what Lori was suggesting, he’d be beating the crap out of her right now, and not yukking it up with Tony Gallucci.

  “Well, here’s to a New Year,” Lori says, raising her wine above her head in a toast.

  Jackie clinks her glass, but the sentiment sounds more like a prison sentence than the promise of good tidings ahead. She can’t stay married to Rick another year. She just can’t.

  * * *

  William Caine’s recovery differed from the worst case by only about ten minutes every few hours. In the past ten days, Jonathan had seen his father awake only twice, and both times he was groggy to the point of being even more incoherent than usual.

  As if he realizes that this will be the last time he ushers in a New Year, William Caine stirs at ten minutes to midnight. His eyes pop open, and rather than seeming drugged, he looks as if he’s awoken to a brand-new day.

  “Johnny,” he says.

  His speech is labored, much weaker than before he was moved to the ICU, but at least now his father’s voice bears a passing resemblance to its prior tenor. Jonathan takes his father’s hand, something that he never does, but tonight he feels like he needs the extra connection.

  “Hey, Dad. I’m glad you’re awake,” Jonathan says.

  “Me, too,” his father says, and then smiles as if he gets the joke he’s just made.

  “It’s almost a New Year.”

  “That’s nice,” his father says.

  “Do you have any New Year’s resolutions?”

  “What?”

  “New Year’s resolutions. Things you want to do in the upcoming year. Changes you want to make about your life. That sort of thing.”

  “No. My life is good,” he says.

  Jonathan considers the answer. His father, likely only months away from death, doesn’t want to change anything, and Jonathan desires that everything be different. Jonathan knows that there’s only one way the next year will be better, though, and that’s if he’s with Jackie. He can hardly believe how hard he’s fallen for her. Him, a man who never believed in love, truly believes that even with all the troubles swirling around him, even if he never makes another dime, if he’s with Jackie, he’ll be happy.

  Of course, there remains a major impediment to that plan. Jackie’s made it quite clear that so long as Rick’s alive, he’ll never let her ride off into the sunset with Jonathan.

  Jonathan had told Jackie that he’d find a way. And indeed he has. Rick Williams needs to die in the New Year.

  That is his New Year’s resolution. Not to lose weight or read more, but to figure out a way to murder Rick Williams, so he and Jackie can live happily ever after.

  I want what I want.

  * * *

  Jackie hasn’t spoken to Rick since they arrived, and Rick hasn’t moved off the stool at the corner of the bar in all that time. A minute before midnight he shouts “Jackie!” across the room, the way you might summon a dog.

  Ryan Seacrest is on the big-screen television, going on about how the countdown is about to begin. The camera switches to a close-up of the crystal ball that drops from the tower in Times Square.

  Jackie does as commanded, taking the bar stool beside her husband, but Rick ignores her until the countdown to the New Year officially begins on TV, at which time he pulls her stool closer. She knows that she’s only there for him to have someone to kiss at midnight, after which time he’ll go back to drinking with his buddies.

  Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

  “Happy New Year!” the room shouts.

  All except Jackie, who takes a long sip of wine instead.

  Rick pulls her into him, nearly knocking her off her own stool. Without warning, he jams his tongue into her mouth. He tastes like foul beer, and then he drunkenly puts his hand on her ass, without any consideration that they’re in a room full of people they know.

  Next year, as God is her witness, she’ll be kissing Jonathan at midnight.

  * * *

  Jonathan hears the countdown to New Year’s begun by the nurses outside, and he joins in. His father looks confused, as if something is going to happen that might be frightening, so Jonathan halts his count at six.

  “People count backward from ten to indicate the end of the old year and the beginning of the new one,” he explains.

  “Happy New Year!” is heard from the nurses’ station.

  “Oh,” his father says, despite the fact that he’s most likely experienced more New Years than anyone else on the floor.

  Jonathan leans over and kisses his father on the forehead.

  “Why did you do that?” William Caine asks.

  “Because it’s a New Year’s tradition to kiss whomever you’re with at the stroke of midnight.”

  “Did anyone kiss your mother?”

  “She’s in heaven,
Dad. I don’t know if they have New Year’s there.”

  “Oh.”

  Jonathan offers a sad smile. “Do you think there’s a New Year’s in heaven?” he asks, solely so there’s something to talk about.

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure I’m going to find out soon, and then I’ll tell you.”

  * * *

  As expected, Rick passes out during the ten-minute car ride home, snoring loudly. Jackie was determined to let him sleep it off in the car, but the moment they pulled into the garage, he came to.

  “Heyyyyy, I’m going to start this New Year right,” he growls at her when he climbs into bed.

  His breath actually smells like vomit, even though Jackie is reasonably sure he hasn’t been sick tonight. Perhaps it’s a foreshadowing of things to come.

  “I’m not feeling that well, Rick,” Jackie pleads.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll do all the work. You just gotta lay there. You know, like you usually do.”

  Jackie shuts her eyes tight and lets Rick start his New Year right. Trying her best to hold back tears for fear they will just set him off.

  It only ends with Rick dead. That’s the mantra that replays in her head, punctuating his every grunt.

  It only ends with Rick dead.

  Part Two

  January

  19

  Jonathan awakes to the realization that the New Year is starting no different than the one just ended. He remains unemployed, penniless, and homeless. His father still lies dying. The only comforting thought Jonathan can conjure is that things cannot possibly get worse.

  And then, of course, they do.

  It begins with an incessant ringing of the doorbell. The chimes are followed by two loud knocks.

  Jonathan can’t imagine who the hell would call on him at ten o’clock on New Year’s Day. His first thought is the worst one. Maybe Lakeview sends a representative to pay a personal visit when a patient dies. He pushes that from his mind in favor of a happier image. Perhaps it’s Jackie, come to tell him how much she missed him last night.

  From the master bedroom window, all Jonathan can ascertain is that whoever it is arrived in a late-model, four-door black sedan. Not Jackie’s car, which is a minivan.

  Jonathan throws on his father’s bathrobe and walks downstairs. On the ground floor, he peeks through the side-panel glass. His callers are two male strangers almost identically dressed—dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. They even look somewhat alike—big men, with the physique of high school linebackers who have let themselves go over the past decade, but they are otherwise sharply groomed with closely cropped hair and smooth shaves.

  “Good morning and Happy New Year,” Jonathan says after opening the door.

  “Good morning to you, sir,” one of the men says back.

  “Are you Jonathan Caine?” the second man asks.

  The question sets off alarm bells. Only a limited number of people know that Jonathan’s living in his parents’ house. His sister, maybe some of the nurses at the hospital, his father (assuming he remembers on any given day), and Jackie. Even Natasha doesn’t know, as they haven’t spoken since he left.

  All of a sudden, Jonathan realizes that these men may have been sent by Rick Williams—to teach a lesson to the man fucking his wife. He takes his hands out of the pockets of his robe, just in case he has to block a punch.

  “What’s this about?” Jonathan asks, fully realizing that it’s nonresponsive to their request for him to confirm his identity.

  The first man says, “I’m Special Agent Aaron Pratt, and this is Special Agent Luis Montoya. We’re both with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Pratt thrusts the envelope he’s been clutching at Jonathan, and by instinct Jonathan takes it. “You have been served, sir.”

  The FBI? How’d they know where to find him? Then Jonathan remembers he told Haresh he was staying at his father’s place. Harper Sawyer must have been tapping the phones. That, or Haresh is cooperating with the FBI.

  “Served with what?” Jonathan says, looking down at the envelope, the outside of which provides no clue.

  “It’s self-explanatory,” Montoya says.

  Jonathan is annoyed at the way they speak in tandem. Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

  “Is there anything I need to do?” Jonathan asks. “I mean, right away? It’s New Year’s and my dad’s very sick . . .”

  Jonathan has no idea why he’s said this, especially the part about his father. He knows that these FBI agents don’t give a good goddamn about his troubles.

  “It’s self-explanatory,” Pratt repeats, seeing as it’s his turn to speak.

  “There’s also a number to call if you have any questions,” Montoya adds.

  “Happy New Year,” Pratt says, without any hint as to whether he’s being sarcastic. Montoya nods, apparently denoting that he, too, wishes Jonathan the same.

  * * *

  Jonathan tears open the envelope, just as he hears the FBI agents’ car pulling out of his father’s driveway. It’s two pages, and very official looking.

  UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT

  for the

  Southern District of New York

  SUBPOENA TO TESTIFY BEFORE A GRAND JURY

  To: Jonathan Caine

  YOU ARE COMMANDED to appear in this United States district court at the time, date, and place shown below to testify before the court’s grand jury. When you arrive, you must remain at the court until the judge or a court officer allows you to leave.

  Place:

  Date and Time:

  United States Attorney’s Office

  One Saint Andrew’s Plaza

  January 29; at 10:00 AM

  New York, New York 10005

  You must also bring with you the following documents, electronically stored information, or objects (blank if not applicable):

  All documents referring to any trading activity in the Harper Sawyer Derivative Currency Fund. The time period for this request shall be January 1, 2015 to the present.

  The subpoena is robo-signed by someone claiming to be the clerk of the court, but underneath his signature is a phone number. It’s for the assistant United States attorney in charge of the investigation: Elliot Felig.

  Even though it’s a national holiday and he’s quite sure Elliot Felig is not waiting by his office phone for Jonathan to call, Jonathan is tempted to call the number on the bottom of the subpoena and demand to know what all this is about. But he knows what it’s about. The federal government has officially opened a criminal investigation into Jonathan’s trading at Harper Sawyer. Just as the attorney James Jefferson predicted, after Jonathan shut out Harper Sawyer, the firm’s lawyers went straight to the FBI.

  As with his father’s mortality, Jonathan had known that this day was coming. And as with that, too, he thought he had more time.

  * * *

  During his lifetime, William Caine played the role of father without distinction, but also without any fatal defect. Like a midlevel employee working for a paycheck, lacking any real passion for the job.

  Jonathan always treated that reality with an it could be worse shrug, but now he feels like he needs some good old-fashioned fatherly advice. The irony isn’t lost on him that he doubts his father would have had much to offer when he was at his best, and now he is asking an addled mind to provide sage counsel.

  Jonathan finds his father fast asleep in a wheelchair that has been rolled out into the reception area.

  “Hey, Dad,” Jonathan says in a voice loud enough to wake him.

  His father’s eyes open slowly. First one, then the other.

  “Johnny,” he says, and then his lips form an asymmetrical smile.

  “How you doing today, Dad?”

  “Still alive.”

  “I see that. C’mon, you want to get some fresh air. It’s cold out, but with the blankets, you should be okay.”

  His father nods somewhat noncommittally, but it’s enough for Jonathan to start wheeling him away. When the automatic doors
open in the front of the building, a blast of cold air hits them, and Jonathan’s father actually says, “Brrrr.”

  Jonathan wheels them over to a place in the sun. The light shines on William Caine’s face, as does the grin he wears at receiving its warmth. Jonathan rearranges the blankets, tucking them under his father’s legs, and then pulls his own overcoat more tightly shut, raising the collar so the shearling comes above his ears.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something. I’m not sure how much of it you’re going to understand, but I just felt like I needed to talk to my dad about it, you know?”

  Beyond a squint brought about by the sunlight, William Caine doesn’t react to Jonathan’s preface. Jonathan has the sinking feeling that this is going to be a waste of time for both of them.

  “I feel like . . . I don’t know, like my whole life has fallen apart, and I just want to go back and start over again. But make better decisions this time.”

  “Can you do that?” his father asks, as if time travel were a realistic possibility.

  Jonathan laughs. “No. I can’t.”

  “Then that’s not an option, is it?” his father says, with every indication he means it seriously.

  Jonathan can’t imagine what he was thinking. His father can’t usually recall whether his own wife is alive. How on earth did he think his father would be able to help him sort out the mess he’d made of his life?

  But then William Caine says, “Johnny, you need to stay positive. Believe in yourself.”

  “What if I don’t? Believe in myself, I mean. What if I’m worried that I’m never going to be happy? That as bad as things are now, they’re only going to get worse?”

  More silence. Jonathan assumes that somewhere along the line of his pouring out his deepest fears to his father, the old man lost interest. It’s just as well. It’s not like his father has any frame of reference for what he’s facing right now.

  But then his father shifts in his chair, and his brow furrows, as if he’s deep in thought. “That’s the wrong way to think about it,” his father finally says. “You can always make things better. You can do things to make yourself a better man.”