Windfall

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Windfall Page 3

by Byron TD Smith


  “You’re aware they’ve fired Stewart now, too?” Alex said.

  “What?”

  “They think that he had something to do with it. They think that he helped you try to cover it up somehow.”

  “That’s garbage. Stewart’s tech-smart, but he’s a moral simpleton. His altruism caps out at paying five bucks a month at the office to wear jeans on Fridays. Those bastards have it backwards. He’s exactly the kind of guy who would stay there forever and now he’s so much collateral damage?”

  “A second ago he was dead to you.”

  “That’s different. This is just wrong. They’re trying to make it all seem bigger than it was so the directors don’t look so foolish.” Henry pressed the side of a clenched fist into the table.

  Alex leaned back in his chair and crossed his right leg over his left. Henry had seen him do this in client meetings. He was settling in for a lecture.

  “Seriously,” Alex said, tapping the table with his index finger. “I need you to rethink your response to these guys.”

  Henry shook his head, anticipating where Alex was going.

  “If you went public with the names of all the business owners you helped, the papers might get the real story. They’d have to stop calling you a fraud, and the bank wouldn’t be able to keep claiming that you were lining your own pockets anywhere. Easy peasy.”

  “Except where they go back on all those businesses, Alex. Maybe they’ll call the loans anyhow or drop some other financing the business needs. What’s the point in cutting someone a break if you’re just going to toss them under the bus? No, if the bank needs that info, they’re going to have to get there themselves.”

  “Those people will want to help.”

  “Then maybe someone will come forward on their own. But I’m not going to ask.”

  “I will. I think you’ll find you have more allies in this than you think. Just give me the list.” Alex held out his hand as though Henry carried such a thing on his person.

  “And I’m not making you complicit.”

  “Stop being this guy, Hen.”

  “What guy?”

  “The suffering martyr. It’s all fine to take one for the team once in a while, but look at what it’s cost you.”

  “If you’re talking about Sarah, I think she and Stewart were out the door before things blew up with the bank.”

  “Well, my friend. You tell me, then. What’s your plan?”

  Henry pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses until it hurt. “I don’t know. I’m desperate. My only advantage is that, personally, I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

  Alex picked up on the change of subject.

  “I’m sure it feels like that. That’s why I’ll never get married. I’ve seen too much. It’s like trying to find an ambulance driver who rides a motorcycle. It won’t happen because they’ve seen too many ruined lives. In your case, at least, the divorce is coming along nicely. The primary concern is that you kept things so simple that I’m not going to get much out of you in the way of fees.”

  Henry laughed despite himself. He appreciated Alex making light of the situation, in addition to all the time that Henry was sure Alex wasn’t charging him for. Alex didn’t specialize in divorces either, but Alex insisted that Henry use him anyhow. There wasn’t going to be much to it. Henry realized that his marriage was more of an administrative exercise to unwind, rather than a contentious, drawn-out battle.

  In fact, Henry was more than a little sad that he hadn’t been able to complicate the marriage in those fifteen years. He was jealous of another Henry, in a parallel universe, burdened with red tape, enormous legal fees, discussions of children.

  “I’m glad that, for you, it’s easy. It’s fine, though. I’ve got great nieces and nephews. It’s like being a parent, but you get to give them back when the real work starts.” Henry’s canned response rolled off his tongue, and he knew that Alex had heard it more than a few times already.

  “How are they?”

  “Who?”

  “The nieces and nephews.”

  In his hibernation, Henry hadn’t seen anyone in months.

  Alex crossed his legs again. This time, Natali saved Henry by bringing out their food; her only excursion from the kitchen during the lunch service. She set the stainless steel plates on the table. “There is no Mr. Stewart today?” she asked.

  Henry just looked at the food, as Alex answered. “Stewart will not be joining us for the foreseeable future.”

  Regardless, Natali said, “Lunch is from me today. No pay. Enjoy.”

  Henry looked up, his mouth opening to protest, when Alex’s hand touched his arm.

  “Thank you, Natali,” Alex said.

  The old Indian woman smiled and pressed her palms together in front of her chest.

  The two men returned the gesture.

  When she’d gone, Alex said, “You have to take the good, too. Some people can appreciate what you did.”

  “Maybe. But it’s going to take a lot of curry to get back to square one.”

  The fragrances rising from the sauces in the small copper bowls were divine. Earthy cumin and sweet anise beckoned for their attention. Alex and Henry helped themselves to generous portions of rice and curry.

  Henry seized the opportunity to change the subject. “So how was your date last night?”

  “Good,” Alex said through a mouthful of naan. “Quiet.”

  “Quiet? From all the texts, I figured you were into your third bottle of wine or something.”

  Alex stopped chewing, confused.

  “Quiet, as in someone made me dinner, and that was the extent of it. What do you mean by ‘all the texts?’ You’re the one who doesn’t respond.”

  They exchanged light accusations back and forth and took out their phones to prove each other wrong.

  Alex held his screen out towards Henry at arm’s length, but Henry didn’t look up. He just stared at the string of texts with Frieda on his own phone.

  The parental units are going away for the week. Can I stay with you and Shima? Mum can drop me off tomorrow after dinner & I won’t get in the way.

  Tomorrow works? Hello?

  Yes. Looking forward to it!!!

  Yay!!! FTM

  Alex took Henry’s phone and guffawed with the schadenfreude of a time-tested friendship.

  “Looks like you’ve got a house guest,” he said, wiping a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand.

  “Get real. She can’t stay with me.”

  “Why not? I’ll bet you’re still sleeping on the couch anyhow.”

  “I should never have told you that.” He took back his phone and re-read the texts. “I can’t take care of her.”

  “You looked after her when she was younger. I thought kids got easier as they got older.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I’m not ready for this.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “I don’t know. She’s Sarah’s niece.”

  “And she’s been your niece forever, too, right? You were just saying how much you like being an uncle, and I don’t think that stops just because you divorce her aunt.”

  “I guess. I think. Yeah. She still cat-sits. I haven’t got a plan, though. I’m just busy.”

  “Busy doing what? Shelving books for Mr. Munroe? Solving the mystery of the missing crossword?” Alex leaned back and slid one leg over the other. “Maybe this is what you need. A break from the drama. A bit of, and I’m saying this because I love you, a bit of lightening up.”

  “I’m light,” Henry said, frowning.

  Alex stuffed more naan into his mouth, laughing.

  Chapter Five

  Henry brushed the sheets and blankets flat on the folding Ikea bed that, minutes ago, had been his couch. He looked at the banker’s box, sitting against the wall in solitary protest. One more thing to deal with; the archaeology of his professional life.

  He lifted the lid and peered inside. A mug, a framed photo of him and Sarah in T
ofino from several years ago, his company cell phone, a framed CPA certificate. Everything had gone down so fast that the company simply locked him out remotely rather than ask for his phone back. All detritus of his professional past. All trash now, or recycling.

  Henry looked at his watch, figuring he had enough time to make a dent in today’s crossword; a preferred distraction. He replaced the lid of the box. The past could wait.

  He placed a kettle on the blue flame of the gas stove and chose a tea bag.

  Unfolding the Monday newspaper with a pen in one hand, Henry skimmed each article in the first section, in turn. It could have been the same as yesterday, for all the headlines: housing prices, disaster, economy . . . He gave the business section only a fraction more attention, relieved not to see his own name in print.

  There was something meditative about alternating one’s attention between the various articles and the kettle, slowly building to its crescendo. Henry didn’t even mind when the paper tab of the tea bag slipped over the side of the cup and into the tea.

  Generally, the Arts section was filled with colorful covers of books that he summoned the mental intention to read, but whose names he would never recall. The Arts section should contain all of this and the crossword…

  Again?

  Henry pulled out the Local section. Sports, Life, Travel, Fashion. And he started again. Business, Local, Sports, Life, Travel, Fashion.

  He flipped through each section page by page, more and more quickly. The later sections were printed with increasingly poor quality, and Henry’s index fingers and thumbs became darkened with ink, a barometer for his rising frustration.

  He ran his hands through his hair, leaving it standing on end. A gray smudge on his forehead disappeared into the thinning hairline. He separated and unfolded each section of the newspaper. As he inspected each page and confirmed the absence of the sought-after puzzle, he dismissed it into the air with a toss of his hand.

  He stood, relaxing his hand in defeat, and dropped the black felt-tip pen that he secretly reserved for the sole purpose of crosswords.

  A doorbell rang somewhere. When the thin, echoey gong came again, Henry realized that someone was at his door.

  “Are you kidding me?” he said to Shima, who looked thrilled with this turn of events; there were so many sheets of paper to lie on.

  I didn’t know I had a doorbell.

  Henry raced around the room, scooping up the large sheets of newsprint, crumpling them into a single, furious ball, which he stuffed with unnecessary force into the blue, plastic recycling bin.

  He glanced around and checked off his mental list aloud.

  “Groceries, couch, sheets, bathroom, towels, Shima.”

  The cat, already seated next to the door, cooed upon hearing his name.

  “Here we go, little man.”

  He took a deep breath and opened the door.

  “Hi!” Rachel and Frieda stepped into the apartment. Frieda bent down to pet Shima, who appeared quite pleased, as though Henry had arranged the visit for him. Rachel and Henry greeted each other with a hug. Rachel’s embrace lasted longer than Henry’s, and she patted him on the back in a motherly sort of way.

  “We’ve missed you,” she said, before letting go. “Say hello, Frieda.”

  “Hi, Hen.”

  “Hello, Fred.”

  Frieda was wearing what appeared to be a hood and cape, which extended all the way down to the floor. It was olive drab wool and pilled as though it were old. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair had blue streaks scattered throughout, which weren’t there the last time he saw her. In addition to the backpack that Rachel was holding, Frieda had brought a small leather satchel, strapped across her shoulder and chest. Her T-shirt read, I WANT TO BELIEVE.

  Henry stuck his head out the door. Sure enough, there was a doorbell next to the jamb, painted the same ochre as the wall.

  “Is everything okay?” Rachel asked.

  “Yeah, great. I’m still figuring this place out,” he said, closing the door.

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “It has. I’m finding new routines, though. Once things settle down, I’m sure we’ll see more of each other.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he thought of Toronto.

  “I hope so. I’m sorry, but Tomas is in the car. I can’t stay long.”

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “It’s fine. We’re off to a sort of couples’ retreat. We’re all getting older, you understand.”

  Henry kind of understood. Maybe. “Oh, sure.”

  Rachel looked around. She pointed at the banker’s box on the floor. “Still unpacking?”

  Henry sidled his body in between Rachel and the box. “Just office stuff.”

  She nodded, happy to leave the subject.

  “This is a pretty small place. Are you sure you’ve got room for Frieda? We were going to put it off until the end of the week because Sarah’s away, but since you were available, we thought . . .”

  Henry followed her gaze to a pair of newspaper sheets on the kitchen floor. He strode over and picked them up, folding them neatly. The recycling was overflowing, so he placed them on the table as though they belonged there.

  “No. We’ll be fine. I have space. The couch folds out.”

  “Sure, but if you need a hand, Sarah said they might be back early on Wednesday.”

  Not on your life.

  “Thanks, but I can take care of things. We’ll be fine.”

  Rachel appeared less confident but willing to move on. “Well, get a hold of her if you need to. And it’s nice that you’re still roughly in the same neighborhood. How many units are in the building?”

  “Four. No, five. The one across the hall sort of doesn’t count. There is an elderly gentleman below me. Upstairs there are two suites. The one right above me is a young woman I’ve never met. I was told she works from home.”

  “Her name’s Tess,” Frieda said from the floor. Shima had climbed onto her back, so she lay flat for him to settle down. Covered in her olive green, Henry thought she looked like dense ground cover. “We met her on the way in. She seems super-nice and she has really short hair.”

  “Is that so?” Henry continued. “The other suite is Bernadette. She’s in her sixties, a bit of an old hippie, and seems to help out with the running of the house like the garden in the back.”

  “So, who owns the building?” Rachel asked.

  Henry wondered where this was going. Was he going to need a background check?

  “It’s some numbered company that has the suite across the hall as its office, but I’ve never seen anyone coming or going. I just slip rent cheques through the mail slot. Bernadette’s the one who showed me the place. It’s a bit strange, but it’s pretty common to incorporate a company in order to get financing for—”

  “Bo-ring!”

  “Frieda, don’t interrupt,” Rachel said.

  “No, it’s fine,” Henry said. “I promise that I won’t bore you with accounting and business stuff while you’re here. Alright?”

  “Thank you,” Frieda said, wincing as Shima sniffed deep into her ear.

  He watched her try to sit as still as possible so as not to scare the old cat away, even though he knew it was a horrible feeling to have a cold, wet nose poking around in there. Shima had a curious interest in ears, and he often startled Henry awake this way.

  Henry’s face softened.

  Rachel broke the silence. “We should get on the road. Frieda has eaten. She’ll show you her study schedule. Do you have everything you need?”

  “Yes,” Frieda said, still unmoving.

  After saying their goodbyes, Henry and Frieda watched from the kitchen window as Rachel’s car pulled away.

  Henry spoke first. “Want to play a game?”

  Frieda shrugged as only a thirteen-year-old can. “If you want to.”

  “With or without?”

  “With or without what?”

  “Ice cream.”

&
nbsp; Frieda looked down her nose at him and put on a posh New England accent. “Skipping ice cream is for chumps.”

  Henry fixed the ice cream while Frieda set up the backgammon. She couldn’t be trusted to scoop a reasonable serving.

  In the past, at family Christmases, Easters, and even camping trips, Henry and Frieda played games continuously. Other adults would congregate in the kitchen to talk, the living room to watch television, or the dining room to drink. But without fail, somewhere in the house, Henry and Frieda would be set up with chess, checkers, mancala, or crib. They finally settled on backgammon as their game of choice. It provided just the right balance of chance, strategy, and opportunities to stick it to your opponent.

  Rolling the dice, Henry asked, “So, what’s with the cape? Are you a superhero?”

  “It’s a thief’s cloak,” she said with the same tone she would use to imply he’d never heard of blue jeans. “I’ve been playing Dungeons and Dragons with a couple of other kids from my home-school group.” She fingered the circular brass brooch that pinned the cloak together over her right shoulder. “I got this from my friend for my birthday. She wrote the message in Elvish herself because I’m an elf-thief. It’s awesome, but my dad says it looks like the Pepsi logo.”

  Henry congratulated himself for not having asked about the Pepsi logo.

  “Mum says you got fired for stealing from the bank.”

  “Does she?” Henry was only surprised at how unsurprised he was by the question. “If I stole something, shouldn’t I be in prison?”

  “I guess,” she said, a spoon dangling from her mouth as she rolled the dice.

  “Maybe I escaped.”

  Frieda’s hand paused for a moment, before continuing to bounce her checker along the points of the board.

  “I didn’t steal anything. I bent some rules to help some people.”

  “But you got in trouble.”

  “Yes. It’s fair to say that the bank and I disagree on the spirit of the rules.”

  Frieda hurried to swallow her mouthful of ice cream. “There are nine alignments in Dungeons and Dragons that dictate how you go about in the world. I play chaotic good with my elf-thief because it’s about being a good person just because you want to be, not because someone told you to or because you are following the law.”

 

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