Windfall

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Windfall Page 2

by Byron TD Smith


  “Sorry, buddy. But if I leave the windows open the rain gets in.” The apartment still smelled of the unfamiliar Ikea furniture, which he’d purchased only five months earlier in a single frantic shopping trip. Practical furniture, cutlery, sheets, and rugs bearing faux-funky patterns occupied every room. Still, the bookshelf in the living room was empty.

  Henry picked up the mail from behind the door. He flipped through the envelopes and tossed most of them, unopened, into the recycling as he followed Shima into the kitchen.

  A note greeted him on the table. The cursive writing was the earnest script of his thirteen-year-old niece, Frieda. It explained that she had fed and groomed the cat while he was away. She had signed off on her report with a small TM next to her name.

  Clearly protecting her brand from second-tier imposters.

  He liked to believe that if he had children of his own, they would be just as interesting. Although, it was months now since they had spoken or seen each other in person. Still, Henry liked to throw a little responsibility and money Frieda’s way, and Shima required little looking after.

  He didn’t have the energy to come up with an alternative cat-sitter now, even though she had never gotten the hang of the job. An ant trail from somewhere behind the fridge crossed the counter and ended in a tiny feast at the pile of dirty tins and plates in the sink.

  The cat’s food, on the other hand, was safe in its bowl on the floor, surrounded by an ingenious dinner plate moat of water. Maybe it was time to expand the job description beyond just keeping the cat alive.

  He pulled the newspaper apart and chose the Sports section to roll up and begin batting at the column of ants.

  When he had worked full time for the bank, a weekly newspaper was his favorite delineation between the office’s long days and the short evenings and weekends of personal time. Now, there was an excess of the personal time, which a daily delivery of news helped to fill.

  Recycling the speckled pages, he sorted through the remaining sections for the crossword.

  Creases deepened on his forehead as he sifted through the paper, page by page, looking in vain for what should be there.

  An explanation popped into his head.

  Tomas.

  Tomas Duran was Frieda’s father. (Are we still brothers-in-law if I’m separated from his wife’s sister?) Henry could picture the scene. Tomas drove Frieda over and, ignoring that it didn’t belong to him, he took the crossword for himself.

  Henry returned to his phone and hammered out a text with his thumbs.

  Hi, F. Home safe. Thanks for looking after the boy. I’m glad your dad could help. H. Xo

  Perfect. Just passive-aggressive enough.

  The reply came with speed accessible only by generations born after the dawn of the internet.

  Hi Hen. Poppa didn’t come. I biked on my own. You forgot to leave money. FTM

  Apparently, not only was he a poor detective but a neglectful employer of child labor, too.

  “Not Tomas,” he informed the cat. It couldn’t be that there was never a crossword; the entire Arts section was missing. The alternative explanation was too awful to voice; evocative of Sarah’s gas-lighting games in the last days of their marriage.

  Henry’s hands were unsteady as he sipped at his tea and mumbled to himself. Shima listened and offered no insight, choosing instead to begin washing. A thick downy layer of hidden white fur flashed beneath the black coat as he groomed.

  Shima, now eighteen, had been Henry’s before the marriage. In the urgency of leaving, Henry had walked away from nearly everything. The marriage had lasted fifteen years, throughout thirteen of which Henry believed they were happy. There was a lot that could have been divided. Choosing expediency and sanity over negotiation, Henry had taken little more than the cat he’d started with.

  If it weren’t for the little cat, this entire scene of missing newsprint and generic, practical Swedish furnishings would be someone else’s life.

  Henry texted Alex, one of his few remaining contacts from his past life. A rare friend, and his lawyer.

  Can you talk? Important!

  Agonizing minutes passed.

  On a date. Cool down. Lunch tomorrow.

  Tomorrow seemed far away. Worse, lunch meant proper socializing, ordering, pleasantries, chit-chat. People.

  2 minutes? Henry typed.

  The answer came back.

  Tomorrow noon. The usual.

  Henry paced. “The usual” hadn’t been “usual” for months. That long-gone pattern was a reminder of his days working at the bank’s head office. He and Alex would meet every Monday for the buffet lunch at the Tandoori House. This would be doubly awkward since Natali’s restaurant was one of the businesses that Henry was fired over.

  His phone buzzed, and he tapped it against his forehead rather than looking at the screen.

  Alex was acting as Henry’s lawyer in his divorce, as well as helping with the fallout from Henry’s termination from the bank. There would be no way to get through the meal without having to face the lingering agony of his past. When did it all go wrong?

  His phone buzzed again.

  I’ll pick you up.

  Alex was also one of the few people who knew where Henry was working now. And, he was persistent.

  Buzz.

  Tomorrow works? Hello?

  Henry frowned at the message. It lacked Alex’s usual confidence. Henry replied,

  Yes. Looking forward to it!!!

  If it took a lunch to speak with Alex, then so be it. But Henry wouldn’t go down without a solid three sarcastic exclamation marks.

  Henry ranted quietly to himself as he undressed and turned out the lights around the apartment. He’d have to pretend to be cheerful with people tomorrow. “Great. No complaints,” he’d say when they ask how he’s doing. “Things are looking up.”

  His words became bubbly, messy mumblings while he brushed his teeth at twice-normal speed.

  He didn’t see the final text arrive, with three exclamation marks of its own. If he had, Henry would have realized that he had sent his enthusiastic response to an entirely different thread.

  Yay!!! FTM

  Chapter Three

  Henry’s feet hit the floor, and his neck screamed with pain.

  If I’m going to keep sleeping on the couch, I need a better pillow.

  He drank his coffee at the kitchen table. Here were the tallest and widest windows in the apartment. They faced the road and, across the way, a street-level café on the corner of a set of brick apartments. The southern exposure received sunshine throughout the day. For this, the kitchen was warm and bright.

  In the early evenings, when Henry returned home from work, the dining table always needed sweeping of fur. Shima’s table-sleeping was a new habit and not one that Henry would have tolerated at home, but now, “We are all making sacrifices,” he’d say.

  He paused halfway through the carafe of coffee for a quick shower. He put on a dark suit, pressed white shirt, and a tie with diagonal stripes. Through careful wardrobe shopping, no conscious matching was required. Everything paired with everything, although it made for a lot of blue and dark gray in the closet.

  Henry noticed the time on the stove; he was going to have to hurry to get to work on time, and the next rent payment was due in several days. He chewed his dry toast. The lease term of six months was ending. It would be month-to-month from now on. But how many months?

  With one hand petting Shima, he opened a drawer and withdrew a thin cheque book. A piece of dry toast waggled from his mouth. “Until there’s a plan, my friend, we’re stuck here a little longer.”

  A small group of young girls walked past and waved. Henry knew this was for Shima. Still, he waved back.

  Joggers hustled by as Henry worked through the last of the coffee and signed cheques. Four was more than enough. That would carry him through to the end of February.

  More students walked past, headphones separating the world they saw from that which they ch
ose to hear. And all manner of people dressed in business suits and conservative skirts strolled by, each with determined intention in their stride.

  Everyone going somewhere they wanted to go, while Henry’s life was merely spinning wheels on the spot.

  On his way out, Henry fed the envelope of cheques through the mail slot in the rental company’s door, across the hall from his own. There was a darker patch of blue on this door, where there had once been a metal number two. It was a better-than-convenient arrangement; one more person he didn’t need to speak to. Except for the old woman upstairs, Henry had thus far managed to avoid the other tenants.

  He looked at his watch and stepped up the pace.

  He took his bicycle from its place in the hallway and hustled it to the road. Even though Mr. Munroe didn’t really need Henry to be present in order to open the bookstore, when there is only one person left in the city willing to offer you work, you don’t show up late.

  Chapter Four

  At ten minutes to twelve, Henry’s stomach started to growl. He took another pile of books from next to the front desk and carried them to the narrow stacks of shelves. He and Mr. Munroe were settled into a routine.

  Mr. Munroe, of indeterminate age but clearly still working in defiance of retirement, held court behind the desk, pricing and buying books as they were brought in. He sat a little more upright and held in his stomach, even straightening his salt-and-pepper beard, as he joked with and teased customers young and old.

  Over his shoulder, Henry said, “This is the last stack. Unless something comes in over lunch, I don’t think you’ll need me this afternoon.”

  With a stiff wave of his arm, the bookstore owner said, “We’ll find something to keep you busy.”

  It was obvious that business was slow. Nevertheless, Munroe had given Henry part-time work as an act of kindness, mercy even, when the stories in the newspaper had made him otherwise unemployable.

  Sandwiched between Penguin Classics and Harlequin Romance, Henry heard the bell of the front door.

  “Good morning, Sir. Do you carry any books on classical Mediterranean baseball?”

  The familiar tapping of a wooden pencil on the edge of the desk indicated Mr. Munroe was contemplating the request.

  “Homer!” Munroe said with a bellowing laugh. “Well done, Alex. Still haven’t stumped me, but that was your best yet.”

  Henry slipped the last book into its place on the shelf and joined the pair at the counter.

  Alex was dressed, as ever, in a fine, pressed suit. He wore his hair short and immaculate, as though it had been cut the day before. The lavender lines of his necktie matched the accents on the arms of his glasses.

  Henry thought of the now-unnecessary wardrobe in his closet and tucked his shirt in where it had slipped out a little.

  “Right on time,” Alex said. “Oh! You reminded me of a joke. Ask me why I’m not good at comedy.”

  Henry asked, “Why are you not—”

  “Timing!”

  Alex and Munroe howled. Even Henry cracked a smile.

  “May I take your venerable employee for lunch?” Alex said to Munroe.

  “Only if you fill him with drink. The boy’s so serious.”

  “I’m right here,” Henry said.

  “Well, don’t rush back. Enjoy yourself.”

  Still laughing, Alex pushed open the door, and Henry followed onto Granville Street. They walked without thinking, their conversation uninterrupted by a need to discuss where they were going.

  Henry explained about the missing crossword. “Is there any chance that you gave my address to Sarah’s lawyer?”

  “Zero,” Alex said. He held his hands up in front of his shoulders. “I’ve been addressing all documents in care of my office. Honestly, I don’t even know where you live. You haven’t had me over.” He feigned hurt. “Haven’t you got enough on your plate? You want to pick more fights with your ex, too? You think she, or Stewart, took your newspaper just to troll you?”

  Henry shrugged. “Crossword. You know Stewart as well as I do. You don’t think he’d do something like that just to dig in the knife? For kicks?”

  “Honestly, Hen? I don’t. It’s only a paper.”

  He rested his hand on Henry’s shoulder as they walked. “You’ve got to let some stuff go. It’s going to take time. But you are going to get your life back.”

  Henry gave Alex a skeptical sneer.

  “Sure. Easy for me to say. I don’t have a bank coming after me. But, speaking as your lawyer now, I have to tell you that you should get someone else, someone who specializes in this sort of thing, to settle this for you.”

  “No, I trust you.”

  “But I don’t do this, Hen. I’m a trusts and estates guy. The bank has an army of lawyers with better suits than mine.”

  “You’re the only one I trust. And you’re just fishing for a compliment on that suit.”

  Alex shook his head and punched Henry in the arm. “You mean I’m the only one who will cut you a deal on fees.”

  Henry’s walking pace slowed in contrast to the speed of the words that followed. “Once I find real work, I’ll pay you in full. I can’t take any more hours from Mr. Munroe. As it is, it’s so slow in there that I’m beginning to dust the polish off the shelves. It’s obviously a pity thing.”

  “It’s okay, man. You’ve got to let people in. You saved his tail.”

  “All I did was let him know he should make a payment on his loan.”

  “Sure. But if it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t even have his bookstore. It would probably be another Starbucks.”

  Henry was well aware of what he had accomplished, and its cost. At the bank, he had held the dangerous-sounding role of Senior Risk Manager. He tested internal controls, to ensure they would detect or prevent things like theft, fraud, or failing to comply with government regulations. It wasn’t the loftiest accounting role, but Henry relished the puzzle-solving part of it, and was renowned for his creativity.

  When the economy had showed signs of slowing six months ago, the bank hustled to identify delinquent business loans and flag them for immediate collection. The official explanation was that it was good corporate hygiene to be in the front of a line of creditors if the businesses go under, rather than at the back, sweeping up scraps and dregs.

  Quite unintentionally, Henry stumbled across communications elucidating the true intentions of the strategy. Beneath the guise of responsibility, clearing out many of these small loans would conveniently improve loan-to-deposit metrics that would, in turn, grant massive bonuses to management, and heap congratulations on the board of directors for being so proactive. It was even magnanimously suggested that some businesses would be eligible for replacement loans—at higher interest rates, of course.

  This time, Henry’s employer did not appreciate his creativity and initiative as he called each of the businesses a day before their turn on the chopping block. If they made a payment, he told them, any payment at all, the bank couldn’t close on the loan. In the bank’s own fine-print, only defaulted loans, with absolute failures to pay, could be foreclosed on.

  In their statement of claim, the bank cited twenty-three businesses Henry had saved from foreclosure. Publicly, they were labeling him as a fraudster, citing breaches of private data. Either way, he knew they were ignorantly well short of the real number.

  “They all paid, Alex. Every last one of them.”

  “Of course. And how much did Munroe pay again?” Alex asked.

  “Fifteen dollars.”

  “Yeah, if I was the bank, I might be ticked, too.”

  The pair laughed as Henry pulled open the door to Natali’s restaurant.

  Once inside, they weaved through the line of people waiting and took their places at a table marked Reserved. Alex, facing the back of the restaurant, waved at Natali in the kitchen. Henry turned in his seat and did the same. The elderly Indian woman with the white kerchief on her head beamed back and shouted, “Two minutes!”
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  Alex picked the conversation back up. “So, the trip to Toronto? What did they say?”

  Henry’s eyes dropped into his lap. “I don’t even know why they took the time to meet with me.” He fussed with his napkin. “I’m nation-wide news. Since they can’t get their hands on the truth, the real story, it’s all this speculation about fraud and theft, hacking even. Until this is settled, I’m tainted. At best, I’m a curiosity.”

  Alex leaned forward, his tie curling on the tabletop. “Forget them. I never liked the idea of you moving to Toronto anyhow. It’s not going to be quick, my friend. The bank is pissed, and their opening position is that you defrauded them out of millions.”

  The number was no longer shocking. Henry had read the bank’s statement of claim so many times that it was just one more thing.

  “Bull. I didn’t take a cent. Everyone made legitimate payments. It’s all within corporate policy. At best, I deferred their recovery of some debt.”

  “However you put it, they’re mad.”

  “That is abundantly clear. I can’t even get my own money out to switch banks. My accounts are frozen.” He looked up with wide eyes. “Maybe they have someone watching me.”

  “Don’t go getting paranoid on me now.”

  “Is it unrealistic? Think about it. I get Stewart that job in IT, and what happens? He hops into the sack with my wife. Maybe he turned Judas at work too.”

  “You don’t know it.” Alex specified quickly. “About work.”

  “It’s the only explanation. Anyhow, he’s dead to me.”

  “And me.” Alex held up his copper glass of water for a toast. “To bachelorhood.”

  Henry raised his own glass and took a long sip to suppress the angry rant building on the tip of his tongue. The awkward segue only reminded him further of Stewart’s double betrayal.

 

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