by Scott Carter
“It’s all laid out in the brochure for your mother to be aware of, but you don’t need to think about it.”
“But it’s going to happen to me.”
“Chances are nothing will happen.”
“It’s just precautionary,” his mother intervenes. “In case people need to know.”
“Like what?” he says again.
Burns scribbles something in a folder. “Do you often feel like this when you don’t get what you want?”
“I just want to know what the side effects are.”
“I have prescribed this medication to hundreds of people, and I assure you that the benefits to your life far outweigh the potential hiccups.”
“Can I die from taking these pills?”
“Of course not.” His mother can’t hide her concern or her need to touch him, so she rubs the top of his hand.
Burns nods at Richard’s mother and gestures to the pamphlet, which prompts her to open it to the side effects page and hand it to the boy. The list fills the page, and he doesn’t recognize most of the words, and the ones that he does don’t offer any comfort. Diarrhea, dry mouth, headache, joint pain, skin rash, stomach pain. His throat tightens and he restrains a gag. This is what passes for help? He may be sitting in evil Phelps’ class next week with a red rash on each arm and shit in his pants, but as long as he does it quietly everyone will be happy. He imagines the happy face on the journal sticking out his tongue and wishes he could rip the paper into a thousand pieces.
Thirteen
Barrett can’t say he values money. He understands the power and he enjoys its luxury, but he has never been precious about a dollar. Whether it was the first royalty cheque he received for two hundred thousand dollars or the day his bank account hit five million, he has always spent what he has. And as long as there is more coming in, he never worries about waste or saving for the future. But with the first extortion demand leaving two million dollars and a million-dollar yacht gone in a day, each one of those dollars takes on new importance. Two million dollars equals selling eight hundred thousand copies. That’s years of branding, that’s hundreds of thousands in marketing, that’s one for every person in San Francisco.
During the past decade, his spending account has never been this low, and he feels an urgency to get back to his comfort zone. He considers his properties. There’s no way he is selling the condo in Vegas. He’s had so many amazing nights there that he would be buried in the place if he could. He thinks of the backyard in the south of France, the outdoor pool table at the farm in Italy, and the view of the ocean from the beach house in the Canary Islands. He loves all of these places, he’ll feel incomplete without any of them, and while he’ll be able to buy more in the future if he plays along with the extortionist, the properties are his and the thought of selling any of them makes him sick. He picks up a dart, storms over to where the extortion letter is taped above his computer, and stabs the centre of the demand.
He hits speakerphone and punches in Gerry’s number. Gerry has been his accountant since the beginning of his writing career, and his spending philosophy is Barrett’s antithesis. Gerry’s been an accountant for thirty-one years, he’s seen markets boom and bust twice over, and he swears by investments over purchases.
“How are you doing, kid?” Gerry’s voice is cigarette-roasted and he punctuates the question with a cough.
“I’ve been better.”
“I’ve known you ten years and I haven’t heard this tone in your voice once. Don’t tell me you started gambling. Because your personality and gambling ...”
“I’m not gambling.”
“Thank god.” Gerry coughs and makes a noise that emphasizes it’s a painful one.
“I want you to put the farm in Italy up for sale.”
“Swear to me you’re not gambling.”
“I’m not gambling.”
“You love Italy.”
“I do. And it kills me to make this call, but it is what it is at the moment, and if I can ask you not to ask any questions right now, that would help.”
There is a beat of silence before Gerry begins to cough again but quickly stifles the eruption. “Anything you want, kid. You know me.”
“Thank you, Gerry.”
“Just let me know if I can do anything else.”
Barrett should try to use these feelings to write, but all he can think about is going out anywhere that might get his mind off the extortion.
The playground of choice is his favourite strip club, and nothing about this is generic. This is for millionaires only. Booths are a grand an hour and completely over the top. He leans his back into the booth’s leather and can feel his blood pressure settling with every passing minute.
The eighties music pumping out from the speakers, the soothing overhead lighting, and welcome burn of his Scotch all contribute to distract him. This is what he knows as comfortable, this is his perpetual daydream.
This glassed-in booth is the most private one in the place. He could have an orgy in the room if he wanted to, but this visit isn’t about sex, it’s about forgetting. To his right is a blonde with legs that would make Hugh Hefner jealous. She runs her neatly manicured fingers over his forearm before examining his eyes.
“Rough day, baby?”
The daydream now eclipses his yacht and the place in Italy.
“It’s getting better.”
The woman laughs and lights a cigarette. Then another woman enters the booth. Her red hair is brushed into a tight fountain ponytail, and her dress shirt and pants define her as working at the coat check. She passes Barrett a manila envelope, which is heavier than it looks.
“Some kid just dropped this off for you.”
“What kid?”
“Some Spanish kid, too young to be a courier. Maybe like twelve.”
“Did he mention my name?”
“No, he just handed me the package with your name on it and asked if you were here. He was real polite.”
Barrett nods a thank-you before looking at the envelope. No address, no stamps, no other markings of any kind. Just a fat bulge in the middle. He turns to the blonde.
“Can we pick this up in a few minutes?”
“Of course, baby.” She rubs his leg playfully, but he doesn’t feel anything. He’s too busy imagining what is in the package. She points to the stage. “They’re playing my song anyway.”
Barrett doesn’t give her the goodbye she wants, so she exits the booth and heads for another booth packed with suits at the far end of the room.
Now that he’s alone, he takes a deep breath and opens the envelope by tearing the top corner and slitting the rest with an index finger. He removes a letter first. The paper is heavy stock with twelve-point font and a quote in the centre. A quick scan of the second sentence places it from his third book. A shiver runs up his forearms, but he reads anyway: OPPORTUNITY #2: NOTHING IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN FAMILY. “After all his family gave him that summer, Mil was able to give something back, and nothing he had accomplished felt as satisfying.”
He steps outside the booth to see if anyone is watching, but all eyes are on a statuesque black woman moving as if she was trained at Juilliard. Just reading the word “family” makes him uncomfortable. He senses the rest of the letter is about his own family and considers crumpling it up, but fear of what the extortionist has planned stops him. He steps back into the booth and turns his back on the door. This way, if someone is watching, at least they won’t get the satisfaction of seeing the look on his face. He lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag before reading.
You have a sister raising a child on her own and you do nothing to help her. This is a pathetic reality for someone that makes millions writing allegories about family values. You have one day to spend some time with her kid, record some of your activities, and download the proof or the world will see just what a con artist their precious Russell Niles is and your career will be over.
He thinks of Susanna, a Polish cleaning lady he fired a month after havin
g sex with her. No reason, no warning, just two grand and a note telling her not to come back.
She has reason to send him a letter like this. Reason, access to his personal life, and motivation to snoop long enough to uncover his secret. She has all the fuel in the world, but he knows it’s not Susanna. With her limited English, she couldn’t write a letter like this if a billion dollars were at stake. And what bothers him most is that he knows Susanna would never do something like this because she’s too good a person, and right now that makes him feel even worse than the letter does.
He folds the paper and exits the booth just as the manager approaches. Heavy bags under his eyes fit his high-strung tone.
“Would you like me to freshen up the entertainment, Mr. Fuller?”
For a moment it makes sense that this is the extortionist. But that is what eats at Barrett — anyone could be sending these letters, and in the right light and at the right moment, everyone seems suspicious. He offers the manager what he can form of a smile.
“I’m afraid I have to get going.”
“I hope it’s not anything we’ve done.”
“Not at all. Something uh, something just came up.”
“Say no more, I’ll put today on your account.”
Barrett nods a thank-you. He’s not used to having people look at him like this. He takes pride in projecting a good time, and the manager’s concern only adds to his stress. The urge to go home has never been stronger. To draw the drapes and take a moment to think about everything that’s happened.
His sister. Dragging family into this makes him angry. Before the mention of her, he was nervous, scared that the money train would stop, but now he’s livid. His relationship with his sister is precious to him. It’s theirs, and having someone pass judgment on it makes him wish for five minutes alone with the extortionist to beat the audacity out of the threats.
As soon as he gets home, he sits with his legs crossed on the pool table and stares at the letter. His perch highlights both the size of the room and how empty it feels with just him in it. Barrett’s mansion is more of a compound than a home. In the fifties it belonged to an ambassador, and the irony was enough for him to make an offer two minutes after seeing the property. The first thing Barrett did with the mansion was convert it to a Smarthome. Having all the electronics in his home programmed to his preferences appeals to his desire to have environments precisely how he likes them without having to devote any headspace to the process. The temperature in the bathrooms increase three degrees when he is in them, and his bedroom drops five degrees for a crisp, fresh sleep as soon as the sensors detect him in the bed. If the temperature outside is fourteen degrees or higher at night, the bedroom windows rise three inches to allow fresh air. Every light in the house also works in conjunction with his rhythms. The lights over the toilets brighten when he’s on them so he can read, but the lights above showers turn a soft red every time he enters a stall. The house also does all domestic thinking for him. The Smarthome turns off the stove if he leaves it on, flushes a toilet if he doesn’t, waters his outdoor flowers, and mists his indoor plants. But the feature he enjoys the most is the panels on his bedroom windows. As soon as the sun rises they tint and angle as it moves throughout the day to ensure that none of the rays interfere with his sleep.
The thought of losing his home because of the extortionist makes his chest feel tight. A cigarette hangs from his lips, and with his free hand he strikes a lighter.
He holds the lighter for a moment like he might bring it to the letter before raising it to the cigarette. He picks up a phone and heads up a flight of stairs to the back balcony. If he’s going to do this, he needs fresh air.
The last time he spoke with his sister was at Christmas, and that was to tell her he couldn’t make it for dinner. A part of him knows this is pathetic, but another part of him focuses on the cheque he sent her Christmas morning for a year’s worth of rent. She thinks he runs a lucrative marketing company and he uses that façade as the reason for always being busy and out of the city. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see his sister. He’s always enjoyed their time together, but lately the months have just passed, and while he’s meant to call her, there is always another drink, pill, line of blow, flight, or woman that makes tomorrow seem like a better time. He punches in Carol’s number and tightens his stomach muscles in an effort to control the fluttering, but after five rings, no one has answered.
He imagines her washing dishes. Pale, gaunt, and tired like the last few times he has seen her. Guilt washes through him for not doing more to prevent that look as she finally picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hey Carol, it’s Barrett. How’s my little sister?”
“Are you drunk?”
Her tone prompts Barrett to pace the balcony while he responds. “No. No, I’m not. I just finished up a big project so I’ve got some time on my hands.”
“So you’re bored?”
“Not bored, interested. I’ve been thinking of you, I have some free time, and I was wondering if you’d like me to have Richard over at my place for a night?”
“Overnight?”
Barrett looks down at the extortion letter for inspiration. “Yeah, I figure that way you can do something different. Maybe see some friends or a movie.”
“So you are drunk.”
She hangs up and Barrett pauses for a moment before the dial tone makes itself clear. He lights a cigarette and immediately redials her number. Ten rings in, she hasn’t answered, but that’s okay, it’s a moment more to think about how to persuade her, time for one more drag. Finally, on the twelfth ring, she picks up.
“Don’t hang up. I want to explain this to you.”
Her sigh fills his ears with her disappointment. “It’s been a long time since you’ve seen Richard, Barrett.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I’ve got some free time and I want to use it properly.”
Even he has to cringe at the fluff flowing from his mouth, but this about self-preservation, and that means doing anything he has to for her to agree.
“In the last six months I’ve heard from you on my birthday and at Christmas, and both were voicemails.”
“I’ve been really busy.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows it’s a pitiful response, but it’s all he can manage.
“And I’ve been raising a son that’s devastated because he doesn’t have a father.”
She hangs up again, and this time he knows better than to call back. He lays the latest extortion demand in front of him. You have a sister raising a child on her own and you do nothing to help her. You have twenty-four hours to spend some time with the kid.
He looks at the clock to see he has twenty-two hours to meet the demand, lies back on his bed, and imagines what his sister wants for her son. This isn’t the way most people imagine, with neat images from their point of view — this is the gift of a creator, the ability to feel what she might. He sits up and lights a cigarette with a grin he hasn’t formed since the first extortion letter arrived.
By dinner, he stands in front of Carol’s apartment building. He scans the directory for her name and presses the buzzer.
“Hello?” The surprise in her tone suggests she doesn’t get many visitors.
“Hey Carol, it’s Barrett.”
“What are you doing here?” There’s the tone he’s accustomed too.
“Just come out, I have a surprise.”
He walks over to a delivery truck and pulls open the side doors to reveal a Steinway grand piano with a maple inner rim. Pleased with himself, he positions himself for maximum effect and waits for Carol to come down.
Dressed in a white zip-up and khaki pants, she freezes as soon as she steps outside.
“I hope Richard’s still taking lessons.”
She points at the piano. “That’s half the size of my living room.”
“It can double as a coffee table.”
“You’re bribing me?”
“Proving my
commitment. One night. I just want to hang out with the kid.”
Richard stands behind his mother now. “Tonight?”
“Hey buddy,” Barrett says, seizing the momentum. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
Richard looks up at his mother. “Can I go?”
She absorbs her son’s enthusiasm and gestures inside. “Both of you, inside.”
Inside it’s smaller than Barrett remembers, about one-twentieth of the size of his ground floor. This observation leaves him disappointed both in himself and his sister, but he quickly focuses on the fact that he still needs to close the deal.
“I want to talk to you before you guys go,” she says.
Barrett nods. Her tone makes him happy. This is his sister and he admires her spunk, but he holds back a smile knowing she’ll interpret it as condescending. He moves a folded quilt and sits on the couch. Carol stands in front of him and Richard sits off to the side doing his best not to make eye contact. His jeans and white T-shirt are both well worn. Barrett quickly categorizes him as at the stage of life when appearance means little, but he notes that it’s clear it won’t be long before people consider him handsome.
“You should know that I have a lot of rules for Richard,” Carol says.
A hug would be better, but Barrett understands. He knows this is time to play along.
“Okay.”
“Now, I know how you feel about rules, so I want you to repeat each one so I know you understand how serious I am about these.”
“Shoot.”
“Not more than an hour of TV at night.”
Barrett looks at Richard staring at the floor and thinks that TV is probably more educational than the carpet, but he nods again. “One hour of TV”
“No violent movies.”
“No Scarface.”
“No violent video games.”
“I only have pinball.”
“No refined sugar, and I mean none.”
“Easy enough.”
The no sugar comment grabs Richard’s attention, and Barrett throws him a wink, which provokes a smile. The type of smile people get when they’re happy to be in on something.