Good Man, Dalton

by Karen McQuestion

  “Greta? Greta Hansen?” The voice came from behind her.

  She swiveled around to see a young guy with deep-set eyes and dark, slicked-back hair. She recognized him as the man who had held the car door open in dozens of photos of Cece coming and going from all her events.

  “Yes, are you Michael?” Greta held out her hand, but he didn’t take it, just frowned.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you.”

  He nodded and went to work, pulling out the handle of her suitcase and gesturing for her to hand over her carry-on, which he piggybacked on top. “Follow me,” he said with a tilt of his head. “I’m sorry, but there was construction, so I had to park far away.”

  Greta followed, chatting nervously as they went. She told him she didn’t mind walking to the car—she was just grateful he’d come. “My first time in New York!” she said. “I love it already. I think this is going to be a great summer.”

  Once she was safely inside the back of the car, Michael turned on some music, and she felt comfortable relaxing and taking it all in. Greta watched in wide-eyed wonder when they cut through Central Park, thinking of all the movies and TV shows that had scenes set there. For most of her life, Manhattan had been just a place on a screen, somewhere that other people traveled to for business or to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade or whatever. Little had she known that one day she’d be spending the summer with one of the most famous families in New York City.

  Coming out of the park, Greta took her phone out and began taking pictures every time the car paused or slowed. As she went along, she texted them to Travis and her best friend, Jacey. As usual, her brother didn’t answer just yet. Jacey, though, texted back right away, as excited for her as anyone could be. She wanted to know everything about Cece’s life and her friends, Vance and Katrina. Greta promised to keep her updated every step of the way.

  When the car pulled up to the curb, she recognized the outside of Cece’s building. After her phone conversation with Deborah Vanderhaven, she’d done a search and found an article on a decorating site with lots of details about their home. The Vanderhavens lived on Central Park West, occupying the top three floors of one of the most exclusive buildings in Manhattan. Their 14,000-square-foot apartment included eight bedrooms, five bathrooms, two kitchens (a regular one and an eat-in chef’s kitchen), a media room, and a rooftop exercise pool. The family had started out living on one floor and wound up buying the two floors below to make one big residence. The article quoted Mrs. Vanderhaven as saying, “It’s not as big as it sounds. Sometimes I feel like we could use even more space.”

  Michael left the engine idling while he got out and came around to her side. Within seconds, he had helped her out and united Greta with her luggage. “And you have reached your destination,” he said, gesturing to the door. “I’m going to be leaving to park the car for the night.”

  She glanced at the entrance, gold double doors stamped in a diamond pattern, guarded by a doorman in a snappy blue uniform. “I just go in?” Somehow it seemed like there should be more to it.

  His head bobbed a yes. “Don’t worry, you’re expected.” A look passed between Michael and the doorman, who beckoned for Greta to come closer.

  The doorman held the door and asked, “Do you need some assistance with your luggage, miss?”

  Oh, so nice of him! “No, thanks,” she said, smiling. “I’ve got it.”

  “Very good.” As if she’d done something admirable.

  Inside, she found herself in an opulent entryway resembling the lobby of an upscale hotel. On the right, two women sat behind a glossy counter, and on the far wall was another set of doors identical to the exterior doors. The left wall was adorned with three paintings, all landscapes, each one topped with its own spotlight. Two short columns in between were topped with ferns.

  After the two women consulted a list, checked Greta’s ID, and got phone confirmation, she was cleared. The younger of the two accompanied her to the elevator and punched in the code that would take her to the Vanderhaven residence. As the elevator rose to the top of the building, it hit Greta that this was it. After so many years of admiring Cece from afar, she was finally going to meet her in person. They were so different. Greta was newly graduated from college and hadn’t made her mark yet, while Cece was so successful, someone who made things happen. Cece could teach her so much about how to deal with people in the business world, but more importantly, Greta hoped they’d become friends. It was a lot to hope for, but didn’t all dreams start out that way?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was a short walk from the bus to Times Square, but suddenly, Dalton wasn’t in a hurry. The next two weeks, he’d be adrift, and although it was by choice, a small part of him was beginning to doubt his plan. In theory, spending two weeks as a homeless person had sounded like a fine idea, but on some level, he must have known it was crazy, because he hadn’t told anyone but Will, who readily had agreed to be his emergency contact. “Can’t say I understand it,” he’d said, “but I’m there for you.”

  So now Dalton found himself dragging his feet. As it turned out, he was low on just about everything else but had an endless supply of time.

  When he originally conceived this idea, he intended to live on the streets for the first week and spend the second week trying out different shelters. He knew the weather might be a challenge. He’d heard it was better to be homeless in the summer than the winter for obvious reasons, but the extreme heat brought its own problems.

  The air was especially hot and heavy, radiating off the city streets. Even the breeze felt like it came from an open oven door. For June, it was a bit much, and as the days went on, he suspected it would be even more miserable.

  Dalton meandered patiently through the crowd, stepping aside for couples holding hands and slowing to let one elderly woman shuffle ahead of him.

  He was usually polite anyway, and it was easy to be gracious when he had no schedule to keep and nowhere to be.

  Times Square was just the way he’d always imagined. Even though his home in Connecticut was less than fifty miles away, he’d never walked around Times Square in person, knowing it only from television and movies. He’d been fascinated by the place since he was a little guy. He’d watch the ball drop at the stroke of midnight each New Year’s Eve and note the antics of the crowd.

  The only times he’d gotten close in real life had been when his family took trips into the city to see shows and catch dinner. No one else was interested in a side trip to Times Square. It was, his father once declared, “the biggest tourist trap in the world.” He’d said this from the back seat of the car as their driver navigated around the perimeter. Dalton had been left pressing his nose against the glass, trying to see as much as he could as they drove by.

  Now he was there, right in the thick of it. He walked around Times Square for an hour or so, trying to stay close to the buildings so he’d be in the shade. Every now and then, he went into one of the little gift shops to cool off. They all had pretty much the same stuff. T-shirts proclaiming the wearer loved New York, a giant red heart where the word love should be. There were snow globes and kitchen magnets and all sorts of other things that would provide proof for tourists to show they’d been to New York.

  Times Square, Dalton discovered, was more triangle-shaped than square, and had a set of bleachers on one end, the better to people watch and take pictures.

  At one point he stopped to watch a guy play the saxophone, his instrument case open for donations. The musician was good, better than good, playing and moving with a soulful passion. Out of habit, Dalton reached into his pocket for a contribution and then, remembering his circumstances, dropped a few coins instead of giving dollar bills. The saxophone player nodded in appreciation, not missing a note.

  He avoided the middle area of the triangle, where people dressed as cartoon characters and action figures corralled tourists into getting their photos taken with them for cash. The Naked Cowboy was th
ere in his white briefs, boots, and cowboy hat, his guitar giving him just a little more coverage. Dalton didn’t see any Naked Cowgirls, but there were some topless women with stars painted strategically on their chests. No one seemed to be objecting to the nudity, so he guessed it was allowed.

  By dinnertime, after it had cooled off some and the crowds had thinned, he went in search of a member of the very demographic he was trying to impersonate: guys who were homeless. The street musicians with open cases could well be homeless, but the ones he’d seen were casually but neatly attired, so he decided they were probably music students who had to practice anyway and opted to pick up a few dollars at the same time.

  He finally spotted a guy sitting cross-legged around the corner, his back resting against a brick storefront. A piece of cardboard propped up at his feet said, HOMELESS VET. ANY AMOUNT OF MONEY WILL HELP. Next to the sign was a round plastic container. It held a few coins but nothing major. He didn’t look old. Dalton guessed that he was maybe forty or so. He had a rolling cart parked next to him, the kind old ladies use when they walk to the grocery store. A baseball cap covered his head, the rim wet with sweat. His shaggy hair covered his ears, and his beard needed trimming. As Dalton approached, he heard the man quietly saying, “Please? Please?” in kind of a sad voice to those passing by, but everyone kept going. No one even looked his way.

  “Mind if I join you?” Dalton asked. He saw the man hesitate and added, “Just for a little bit. I’ve been walking for ages, and I want to take a load off.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s a free country.”

  Dalton shook off his backpack and settled down next to him, leaving some space. “Tough crowd, huh?” He watched as people walked past without even a glance. They might as well have been invisible.

  “Just the usual,” he said with a sigh.

  Now Dalton saw him more clearly. He didn’t look to be forty after all. Closer to thirty, give or take. It was his weary look—the circles under his eyes, the beaten-down expression, the sad mouth—that made him look older. His features were noble. He had angular cheekbones and the kind of nose one would see on a Greek statue, but there was nothing noble about sitting on a hot sidewalk hoping strangers would give you money.

  Dalton could almost hear his dad’s voice in his head. He knew what advice he’d give this guy: Get a job. Get off your lazy butt and work for a living, like the rest of us. No one gets a free pass in life.

  His dad had inherited the family business and a small fortune along with it, which he’d managed to turn into a large business empire and a massive fortune, something of which he was very proud. Rightly so, but he thought that made him an expert on turning nothing into something, when really he’d turned something into more something. Even with Dalton’s privileged upbringing, he knew it was a lot harder to start with zero and build from there.

  “So you’re a homeless vet, right?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Dalton regretted saying them. The man looked wounded, as if he thought Dalton was making fun of him. “I’m sorry.” He spoke quickly, backpedaling. “I’m new to this, and I said the wrong thing.” He stuck out his hand. “Dalton.”

  He looked at Dalton’s hand for a second; then his face relaxed, and he reached over and shook. “Matt. Matt Gower.”

  “Hi, Matt. Glad to meet you.” They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching as a woman pushing a stroller paused to drop some quarters into Matt’s container. The toddler in the stroller was sleeping, slumped to one side, his miniature mouth slightly open.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Much appreciated,” Matt said. She nodded and kept going. After another minute, he turned and asked, “You said you’re new to this. New to what?”

  “Being homeless.”

  He barked out a short laugh. “You’re not homeless.”

  “Yes, I am.” Dalton patted his backpack. “Everything I have in the world is right in here.”

  Matt gave him a suspicious sideways glance. “How long you been homeless?”

  “Just a few hours,” he admitted. “But I’m out here, without much to my name, and there’s no place else for me to go, so it’s official. I’m homeless.”

  “Let me guess. Your girlfriend kicked you out.”

  “No.”

  “Huh.” Matt looked thoughtful now. “Okay, I’ve got it figured out. You flunked out of college and have no backup plan.”

  “No, that’s not it.” Just the opposite, Dalton reflected. He had a master’s degree in social psychology and had graduated with honors.

  “I’ll get this. Don’t tell me. You won’t get a job, and your folks are sick of you sponging off them?”

  “No.” Dalton shook his head.

  Matt mulled over the remaining possibilities for a minute and finally said, “Then it has to be drugs or drinking.”

  “No. I don’t do drugs, and I’m not a big drinker.”

  “Okay, I give up. Why are you homeless?”

  “It’s a long story, but basically, my father and I had a difference of opinion, and I’ve got something to prove to him.”

  “Never heard that one before. Care to elaborate?”

  “I’d rather not get into it,” Dalton said. “Just trust me on this. We don’t get along. It’s like we’re from different planets.”

  “You’re mad now, but after a few days in the heat, no comfortable bed to sleep in, you’ll be thinking differently. Then you’ll go back and patch things up with your dad.” Matt spoke with certainty, like he’d seen this kind of thing before.

  “Believe me, that’s not going to happen,” Dalton said.

  Matt nodded, accepting, and changed the subject. “Got anything to eat in that bag?”

  Even though Dalton knew he hadn’t packed any food, he made a show of unzipping the backpack and looking inside. “Nope, I . . .” He stopped, seeing something new at the bottom, then reached in and pulled out two packages of beef jerky. One of them had a yellow sticky note attached. The scrawled words were all Will: Try Not To Starve To Death. Dalton thought back. The only opportunity Will had to put the jerky into the backpack would have been when Dalton was in the bathroom at the bus station. Sneaky. “Just some beef jerky. You want some?”

  Matt’s face brightened as he took one of the bags. “Really? I can have the whole thing?”

  “Sure. I’ve got two.” Dalton opened his bag, and they both began to eat. Matt had a full bottle of water on the pavement next to him. He opened it and offered Dalton the first swig, which Dalton gratefully accepted. Jerky made a guy thirsty.

  “So where did you serve?” Dalton asked.

  “Afghanistan.”

  “That must have been tough.”

  “It’s still tough,” Matt said.

  “What was it like over there?”

  Matt glared. “It’s not something I want to talk about.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  They sat in silence for a good fifteen minutes. Matt said, “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just don’t talk about it.”

  “I get it. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s okay. Everyone asks. It’s just, you know, too painful to talk about, and it makes things worse to dwell on it.”

  Dalton nodded.

  Another few minutes went by, the two men sitting quietly side by side, the passing pedestrians oblivious to the tension. Matt said, “It was bad enough the first time, but I keep reliving it. It’s like it followed me home.”

  “Flashbacks?” Dalton kept his gaze ahead toward the street.

  “Yeah,” Matt said, and slowly the words came out. He didn’t talk about what happened in Afghanistan but revealed bits and pieces about his life after he’d returned to the States. He’d had panic attacks and long nights without sleep. The nights when he did sleep were filled with nightmares. During the day, he’d had episodes where he experienced the horrors of war all over again, not just remembering it but living it, the smells and sounds and adrenaline rushes. The certainty that he was about to die. Da
lton had read about all these things, but reading about it and hearing it from someone who lived it were entirely different things. “No one understands,” Matt said sadly. “No one.”

  “I can’t say I understand because I wasn’t there,” Dalton said. “But I’m sorry you went through it.” What he wanted to say was that he cared. He really cared and wished he could help in some way. He almost said that very thing but stopped himself, thinking it was too personal too soon.

  “I’ll never be the same person I was, and that pisses me off,” Matt said. “And it affects everything. Right after I came home, I thought I was doing okay, but then I’d do some random thing, and it would remind me I wasn’t quite right. I’d go to the grocery store, and it was so bright and colorful, and there were so many choices. Everywhere you looked. So. Many. Choices. There weren’t just apples—there were all these different kinds of apples, stacked up all over the place. How can a person even choose? It was overwhelming, you know?”

  Dalton nodded, even though he didn’t quite know. He’d learned from his volunteer work that recognizing other people’s pain was important.

  “And then I went to my nephew’s birthday party. It was a backyard thing, piñata, cake, tons of presents, the usual, but it all seemed like too much. So many presents, so much food, so many people talking and laughing. I kept thinking about the kids back in Afghanistan and what their lives are like. There’s so much pain and death out in the world. It’s everywhere, and the people here have no clue.”

  “But you do,” Dalton said, his voice soft.

  “Yeah, but I wish I didn’t. I’m a wreck. And really, what does any of this matter?” He gestured to the people walking past: a group of Asian teenagers in big sunglasses, an elderly couple laughing, a businesswoman dressed in office attire except for her athletic shoes. “It’s all a struggle. I can’t even go into the middle of Times Square because the crowds are too unpredictable, and being out in the open scares the hell out of me. I feel calmer around the corner, with my back against a wall.” He patted the brick wall behind them.