by Britney King
I open my mouth to speak, but can’t find the words.
“Unless, of course, you have a plan.”
“A plan?”
“Yeah.” He looks at Alex. “Ain’t that why you called? You wanna show him who he’s messing with. Make him think twice.”
“And how do I do that?” I ask, realizing I probably don’t want the answer.
“You just do.”
“That’s not something you worry about,” Alex says.
“You leave that to me,” Benny says.
“Is it illegal?”
The two men exchange another look. “Depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking an attorney.”
“Not if it’s self-defense.”
“I see,” I say, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth. And then, “I need to talk to Greg.”
“Talk is cheap,” Benny says. “Alex tells me Mooney killed your dog.”
“Well, he’s still missing. But—”
Benny’s mouth twists. “He sent photos.”
“Yeah.”
“Dog’s dead, honey. Sorry.” He looks at Alex. Then his eyes narrow as they return to me. “But there’s no point in sugarcoating it. Takes a real sick son of a bitch to do something like that. Animals and children…they’re off limits. Any good criminal knows that. The rest of ’em ain’t good. And your guy—believe me, he’s in the latter category.”
The clock is ticking. I don’t want to be late to pick up the girls. My throat has gone dry. Something about Benny Dugan brings my emotions to the surface. It’s not a good feeling, thinking that at any moment I might show my cards. I stand and smooth my skirt. “I’d better get going.”
Alex looks disappointed. Ben Dugan is expressionless. He stands and extends his hand. “Your friend knows where to find me if you change your mind.”
“Her mind isn’t set one way or another,” Alex interjects.
“I just don’t want to do anything that might lead to trouble.”
“You’re a bit past that point,” Alex says.
“It’s only trouble if you get caught,” Benny chimes in. “And I never do.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
One minute I feel out of my league. The next I feel ecstatic. One minute I’m in control. The next, I feel completely out of control. My emotions fluctuate wildly, swinging one way and then the other, like a pendulum.
I watch the clock, impatiently waiting to call Greg. He’s in meetings all afternoon. Meetings I can’t interrupt. So I bite my nails and stare at the clock.
I need to discuss the situation with Benny Dugan with him. I can’t imagine that he’ll support taking such measures, but at least he can’t say I didn’t tell him this is what I had in mind. To think that the situation with Jack Mooney could soon be a thing of the past makes me feel equally giddy and on edge. It reminds me there are always options. Everything is possible. With this behind us, we’d be able to focus on more pressing matters. Matters like the impending holidays and the dissolution of my husband’s company.
If I can get Alex to close on the Germond house before the end of the month, or any home at a similar price point, I will hit gold status and then some. If that happens, I’ll have earned the vacation Greg and I so desperately need. I’m sure his parents would be glad to keep the girls while we are away. Just thinking about the R&R, and the time to reset and think about what is next, makes me feel lighter. The weight that’s been pressing down on my lungs is slowly letting up.
I’m in such a good mood that when I pick up the girls, I surprise them with a trip to the ice cream shop. It helps that it’s warm out. With highs in the upper seventies, it’s warm for winter, for sure. Even in Texas. The weather this year seems to be swinging as widely as my emotions.
It seems like it’s been forever since we’ve done anything fun, anything spontaneous. With only a few weeks until Christmas, things are going to get hectic, and this outing is exactly the kind of thing we need to do to offset the chaos that is to come.
We take our ice cream, cups for Blair and Naomi, and a cone for me, out to a table on the sidewalk where we chat about school, the holiday play, the girls’ upcoming dance recital, and everything in between. It’s such a far contrast, this scene and the one I just took part in. It hits me, pain in my chest, a reminder of what is at stake. Do I go forward with Benny’s plan? And if so, could I be implicated if Benny Dugan were to get caught doing whatever it is he’s planning to do? And what that thing is, I’m not exactly sure. I only know it isn’t good. Although, it’s possible my imagination is making it out to be worse than it is. But, after all, Jack Mooney has been terrorizing my family. He did kill our dog, and he did show up at my daughter’s school. He’s followed me and he’s hinted at doing far worse. To my mind, he deserves whatever’s coming to him. And yet, I still can’t help but wonder if it makes it right.
The thoughts are overwhelming, so I force them out of my mind. Blair is in the middle of telling me about music class when something across the street catches my attention. This is a busy shopping area, and it’s the holiday season, so there is heavy traffic and people everywhere. I am trying to be present with my daughters, but I am also keeping an eye out for Mooney. Naomi looks at me with wide eyes and then quickly looks away. Her face has suddenly fallen, going from pure excitement with the rush of sugar, and the thrill of talking about her class party, to something else. Something sad.
“What is it?” I ask.
She looks down at the table, but she doesn’t answer me.
“Look,” Blair says, pointing. Her voice is loud and shrill, like a little girl full of excitement should be. I follow her line of sight across the street. There’s a man pushing a cart full of items. It’s piled high with garbage, so high that I can’t imagine how it doesn’t topple over. I draw a heavy breath into my chest. I’d know the slope of those shoulders anywhere. “It’s Grandpa!”
I scoop up our belongings, take Naomi and Blair by the hand, and practically drag them away from the table. I’m winded and I have a cramp in my lower back by the time we reach the other side of the street. “Daddy?”
Familiar eyes land on me, eyes very much like my own, surprise registering in them. It’s been three hundred and thirty-two days since I’ve seen my father. I’ve looked for him on every street, on every corner, in every alley. I search for him always. When I’m showing clients around, any reason I can think of to venture into the city, I always have hope. “What happened to your phone?” I demand, referring to the pre-paid phone I’d given him two years ago so we could stay in touch. “Oh that,” he says. “Someone stole it.” He waves a hand in the air as though he’s swatting something away. “You know how it goes.”
I have no idea whether he’s telling the truth. It’s equally possible that he sold it, or traded it, or just plain lost it, but I want to believe him. I’d like to think that remaining in contact with his daughter is important to him.
It’s startling, seeing him here. It’s impossible to ignore how much he has aged, how frail he’s gotten, or the way his clothes hang off of him. They are clothes I don’t recognize, which shouldn’t be surprising given it has been almost a year, and he lives on the street. Still, I want to ask what happened to the clothes I purchased and delivered to him. If for no other reason than to prove he remembers, and that he’s taking care of himself, even as it’s obvious he isn’t. What hair he has left is matted and stuck to his head. The rest of him is filthy. He has scabs on his face and lips so cracked they bleed. “Are you hungry?” I hold my ice cream cone out, nudging it in his direction. With the flick of the wrist, he declines. “That’s poison, you know.”
Naomi looks up at me while Blair sets her cup on the curb, backing away as though it’s a snake ready to strike. “It’s okay, love. He’s just being sarcastic.”
“What’s sarcastic?” she asks, jumbling the syllables of the word.
“It means honest,” my father says. He kicks the cup away, and I notice shoes that are too big, shoes
so worn through with holes they barely stay on his feet. He flashes a toothless grin. “Smart girl. Better to let the ants have it.”
Blair crinkles her nose. Me too. That’s six dollars melting on the ground.
“Sarcastic means he’s joking.” Naomi rolls her eyes at her sister and then scoops a defiant spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. Blair’s face falls as she realizes that she’s just given up her treat for a hoax. “Here,” I say, shoving my cone at her before the tears start. “Have mine.”
Two young men approach. Although they are cleaner and younger than my father, if they aren’t also homeless it would surprise me. Instinctively, I step in front of the girls, shielding them. I ask Dad if he knows them, but he either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to. They skirt around him, picking at his clothing. As they verbally harass him, they shuffle through the items in his cart. The shorter of the two slaps my dad on the back of his head, causing spittle to fly from his crusty lips.
“What the fuck?” I hiss, stepping forward. Blair starts to cry. One of the men, who I can see now are merely boys, and I get into a verbal altercation. Eventually my father prattles around his cart, leans down, and hands one a piece of scrap metal. They survey it, holding it toward the sun as though they’ve just been handed treasure from the depths of the ocean. Perhaps pure gold. “You have one week, old man,” the taller one says as the short one slaps my dad once more.
I pick Blair up and rest her weight on one side of my hip. My back nearly seizes up. She presses her face into my shoulder. “One week for what?” I sigh. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”
“It’s nothing,” he coughs. “They’re just punk kids.”
“They don’t look like kids.”
“Fine…okay,” he mumbles. “Maybe I owe them a little money.”
“Money for what? How much money?” Not wanting to owe anyone anything is in part why my father says he stays on the streets. He has a distrust of pretty much everything. He wants to rely on himself. Everything else, and anyone else—which includes his own daughter—has been corrupted. The mark of the beast, he says.
“Are you hungry?” I ask again. “How am I supposed to get in touch with you if you don’t have a phone?”
“We’re in touch,” he says, waving his arms. “You see, we’re in touch.”
“If you won’t take food—how can I help you? Where are you staying?”
“How’s your mother?”
“I wouldn’t know. You know she doesn’t speak to me.”
“She loves you, your mother. Always has. You should have seen her on the day you were born—”
“I asked where you are staying,” I say, changing the subject.
“Oh, you know, here and there.”
I have so many questions. So many things I want to say. All I can manage is, “It’s almost Christmas.”
“Christmas,” he spits. “Let me tell you about Christmas—”
I know he’s about to fly into some rant about how it’s a made-up holiday intended to suck people into more debt, and how the material world is evil and how the way I live my life is a sin. Which, all things considered, isn’t entirely wrong. But the girls are too young to understand their grandfather’s mental illness, so I quickly change the subject. “Here,” I say, fishing for my wallet. “Let me give you some money. This way you can call me. Do you remember my number?”
“Phones are the mark of the beast,” he mumbles. “They’re tracking and tracing you, you know. Everywhere you go. Everything you do. They know about it. They’re listening, just so they can sell you more stuff you don’t need. And they cause cancer.”
“Right.” I glance down at Naomi. Her face is impassible. “Well, how about”—I shift Blair to my other hip and then force a ten-dollar bill in his direction—“just a little money so you can buy something to eat.”
His hand shakes as he takes the money from my hand.
“Maybe you could let me know where you’re going to be, and when, so I can get you some more. I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t carry much cash.”
He stuffs the bill in his pocket and lowers to the ground. “And who’s this?” he asks, peering up at me. “Who are these children?”
“That’s Naomi, Daddy. You remember. And this is Blair.”
“Okay.” He pushes himself up to a standing position. “But why are they with you?”
“They’re my daughters—your grandchildren.”
“Good for you,” he says. “I never had any children.”
He mumbles something inaudible before taking off with his cart in the opposite direction. A few feet in, he stops, turns back and shakes his head. “Thunder only happens when it’s raining.”
“What’s Grandpa talking about?” Blair sniffles. I set her on her feet, and she looks up at the sky. “Is it going to rain?”
“It’s a song, love. From the past. When I was a little girl.”
“Do you know it?”
“Not anymore.”
She slips her hand in mine. “I think it’s like a puzzle, Mama. He probably wants us to figure it out.”
“Yeah,” I say, dropping her hand in order to press the button for the crosswalk. “I think you’re right.” Tears fill my eyes. “But some things are just mysteries.”
As we cross the street and make our way over to where our car is parked, I glance back over my shoulder several times. It strikes me that I don’t know when and if I’ll ever see my father again. It’s suffocating to think this may be the last time. And yet, I know I’ll never stop searching every face on every corner. It’s a habit that’s hard to break. It’s hard to shut something off when it’s been a part of your life for so long.
I often lay awake at night wondering if my father would know to tell them to call me if he landed in the hospital. Now, after this encounter, I know there will be many more sleepless nights. I am less sure than I’ve ever been.
On the ride home, Naomi is quiet. She often does this, retreats inward. She is like her father; she goes deep inside to process. Blair, however, chatters incessantly, firing off more questions than I can keep up with. “Why does Grandpa stink?”
“He’s homeless.”
“Why is he homeless?”
I don’t know how to answer that question. “Because he likes it that way” doesn’t seem like the kind of answer she’s ready for. So I force a smile and glance in the rearview mirror. “Not everyone is as fortunate as we are.”
“Are those guys going to hurt Grandpa?”
“I don’t think so, honey. They were just playing a game.”
“That’s a mean game.”
“Yes,” I say, bile rising in my throat. I think about those lowlifes, taking what little my father has, and anger bubbles to the surface. At the first stoplight I come to, I let it topple over. Typing out a text to Alex, I write, Make it happen. I can pay.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The plan had begun to go wrong right from the start. The way he saw it, it was a terribly unfortunate situation. Everywhere you turned there was something interesting to look at. The lights. The sirens. The police. It was off-putting, and attention drawing, and he could not look away. The poor little girls.
They were seated on the curb, tired, with weary faces, and if one looked hard enough, they could see there had been tears. The mother looked panicked. Grief-stricken. And wide awake.
He didn’t know exactly what had happened, although he could guess. Something terrible and unexpected. It brought him slight relief as he counted them out. One father, one mother, and two little girls. All upset, but safe.
He had to get close to hear what the officers were saying. It took a lot of effort, and the process was painstaking. One step forward, two steps back. Staying in the shadows. Inside, but also, out.
It’s a very common thing, he hears the officer explaining to the man of the house. That statement had made him laugh, though he doesn’t know why. His laughter caught the attention of the old woman, and now he thinks he mi
ght have to kill her. But then, maybe not. Old people are supposed to be forgetful and wise, so if she knows what’s good for her, she’d better either forget or pretend.
The officer said break-ins are par for the course this time of the year. With the holidays and all. The officer asked what was taken, and the father told him nothing, but he said it in a way that seemed suspicious. Any cop worth his salt ought to be able to see that the man was lying.
The woman did better, even though she looked nervous. Her eyes were shifty, and she chewed at her bottom lip. He knows those are tells; you learn these kind of things if you watch a person long enough. And her tells were easy. He knows there’s something she isn’t saying. But he can’t decide what, because he doesn’t know who has broken into their house, only that this time it wasn’t him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
This is the worst thing that could have happened. It hits like a sucker punch. It’s not good. Not good at all. When the girls and I arrived home, I felt it. Hairs stood on the back of my neck. The familiar wave of nausea that I’ve grown more and more accustomed to over the past several weeks washed over me. And I just knew. I immediately dialed Greg, who thankfully was already on his way home. He seemed unconcerned, saying that the alarm company had not contacted him and surely they would have if someone had tripped it.
They hadn’t contacted me, either, but it didn’t matter. Something was off, and that something was keeping me from my own house. I said I’d wait for him in the driveway. Naomi and Blair and I hung out in the car, and eventually, when my mental list of games to play ran thin, I handed over my phone to keep them occupied.
It took nearly a half hour for Greg to arrive. In that time, I almost called the police a dozen times. I was sure the back gate hadn’t been open when I left this morning. Finally he arrived and went around to check it out.
He returned quickly, and with a grim expression, he relayed that someone had broken a square pane of glass out of our patio door. He could not understand why the alarm had not sounded. We have glass breaks. I had to stifle the impulse to laugh or cry, possibly both. Obviously an alarm would not stop Jack Mooney or any other criminal who possessed a little intention and even the slightest bit of determination. We should have invested in cameras when it was suggested. Then we’d have evidence. We could have potentially called the police while the situation was in progress. Then Mooney might be in jail, and I might sleep tonight.