by Mj Fields
Fucking idiot, I curse myself. Total fucking idiot. I sigh as I head out of the city, without even checking out Bass’s father’s building.
I remember the day we came home from school, and her caseworker’s car was in the driveway as we walked up the hill.
I stopped immediately, and she asked, “What’s wrong, Ollie?”
“Let’s just run away, let’s just–”
Her smile stopped me and irritated me at the same time.
“I love you, Grace, I know you love me, we can just–”
“You love me?” Tears filled her eyes.
She hadn’t cried since that first night. “I didn’t mean–”
Her arms wrapped around my waist. “Ollie, I love you, too.”
“Then we have to go now, Grace. We have to–”
“She’s here to take me to the doctor.”
“You sick? Jesus, I didn’t even notice.” I put my hand on her forehead to feel if she was warm. I’d seen movie moms do it, never my own
“I’m gonna get protected. Get that shot thing.” She blushed.
She must have seen the confusion in my face.
Her blush moved from her cheeks to her neck, and grew darker.
“Birth control,” she whispered. “No more condoms, Ollie.”
We played Russian roulette, pulling out and hoping we didn’t do it too late more times than I could remember. Then a scare. She was late and all I could think was how the hell could I raise a kid? Then I started stealing them from the school nurse’s supply. Had been for months, hadn’t gotten caught yet. Hated taking something without asking, but I suppose that’s what they were there for. Still never felt right.
“I wanna stay here, and if we get caught–”
“You think they’ll send you away for me stealing rubbers?” I can’t help but smirk.
She shrugs, blush deepening. “If they sent you away, I’d be stuck here without you.”
“You’d miss me,” I grin, and she rolls her eyes.
“I’d have to do my chores, and yours. And you know I hate those dogs.”
I stop a grin and give her the look, the one I know she melts like butter for. “Mmm hmm, you’d miss me.”
Before she can come back with some sass, I pull her into the woods and kiss her hard.
A horn blows, and I’m suddenly aware I’m riding the line between two lanes.
In the past, I’d done that too many times. In my military career, jumping out of a plane into dangerous territory, sometimes in the middle of a battle zone. Death and destruction whichever way you looked. You had to ride the line between your safety and saving others.
Riding the line
In the one relationship I’ve had, it was hiding it from my parents, crossing my fingers they didn’t know they could use her against me, or me against her. As well as taking a chance that she may end up pregnant when we didn’t have protection.
Riding the line.
Every time I’ve done that, it’s ended terribly.
“Don’t look back,” Maisie’s voice sounds in my head. “Only forward.”
I’m so sorry, Grace, so fucking sorry.
Just like every other deployment in the past, before heading back to my new… normal, to Maisie’s, I head into Brooklyn to get some fresh ink, my souvenir.
Unlike those of the past, it won’t be a piece covering a pretense.
12
Oliver (December)
“Can’t believe you talked me into this shit,” I grumble as Bass pulls into the parking lot of an oceanside restaurant, Stone’s Throw, that he wants to look at as a possible investment, and wants me to manage.
He laughs in the carefree way he does. “It’s a cool place, close to Maisie, and will give you a chance to work on your people skills.”
“My people skills are fine,” I snarl at him.
It’s a lie, so are my skills in public. We took Maisie to dinner; the waiter dropped a tray and I nearly tackled her to the ground. Bass for the save, grabbed my arm and jacked me back, he’s lucky I didn’t kick his ass.
His eyebrow creeps up, as if it’s calling bullshit, and it is.
Deserving, but I won’t admit it.
“Nice place, though.” Bass kills the engine to his Audi, and leans toward the windshield for a better look.
From the paved parking lot, lightly dusted with sand, you can see ocean; just beyond the two-story dark gray shingled siding restaurant with lower and upper deck seating, I can just barely see it from here.
The entry has double, white French doors, with three steps leading to them, but I see no ramp. Immediately it pisses me off. How the fuck are disabled folks supposed to make it to the door? I spot a sign hidden between the bushes with an arrow pointing left that reads, Handicap Entrance.
I think of all the men and woman I served with who had lost limbs and mobility, men and woman who were heroes, having to enter through the side.
Bass’s voice brings me back from a place I travel to far too often when left with my thoughts.
“Maisie’s catching onto the fact that we’re hanging around way too much. She’s sick, man, hasn’t said shit about it to us, and we’ve given her more than ample opportunity to tell us. Short of asking her ourselves–”
I interrupt, “Which we aren’t going to.”
“I know. But Jesus, Oliver, she was going to boil potatoes on the stove in a plastic bowl.”
“She has, pretty much, around the clock help, and we fill in where there’s a break. We spend as much time with her as we can without her getting annoyed. She’ll tell us when she’s ready.”
“And you’ll take the job here so she stops fussing over you thinking you’re going to leave again.”
“I’ll consider taking the job here because it pays more than I made in the military. And unlike you, my face isn’t pretty enough to walk a runway and make a shit ton of money.” I don’t add, and I’ll make sure there’s a fucking ramp, in the front.
“You could rock the runway, big guy,” he winks.
“Go fuck yourself,” I grumble opening the door and getting out of his ride. “You need a fucking bike.”
“Got a few in the garage,” he says as he gets out.
“With motors, jackass,” I sigh. “Hate to see you peddling your ass off trying to keep up when I finally ask you to go riding one day.”
He throws his head back on a laugh.
The owner was ex-military, Navy, and he wasn’t hiring me to be a hostess, or to be a server. He was hiring me so he and his wife could travel, and he’d have someone to look after his place. It wouldn’t be busy for a while and I could take my time settling in. He thanked Bass for telling him about me this past summer while here with Maisie for lunch.
Said he’d be honored to have me and then he said, “Welcome home, soldier.”
Felt fucking good, too. So, I took the job I didn’t want.
March
I woke up to Bass looming over me.
First time I was in all the men I had to councils’ shoes. Fucked up to have someone standing over you, stranger or familiar face.
“Best way to get your ass killed is hanging over a sleeping soldier.”
“Jean died.”
“Fuck, man,” I curse as I sit up. Not knowing whether to say I apologize for your loss, or good riddance to a man who had everything in the world, including a kid, and didn’t give a damn about him. So, I hit him with real. “No idea what to say, Bass, but I’m here for whatever.”
“Need to get out of town for a few days,” he says looking through me.
“In a few days, that’s good. Next couple, hang with Maisie and I, she’ll worry if you leave now.”
His agitation is clear, and his words, deserving. “Nothing I do could make her worry as much as you have these past eight years so I’m fucking out.”
“I deserve that, but–”
“I need a smoke.” He walks out of the room.
After throwing on sweats and a tank top, I se
t out to find him.
Down the massive stairway, I walk into the great room.
“Ollie.”
I jump out of my skin at Maisie’s voice. What the fuck is she doing up?
I walk over to the wall of windows overlooking the ocean of her mansion where she’s sitting in a rocker. I bend down to kiss her head. “Morning.”
“He’s smoking.” She indicates to Bass pacing on the deck.
“Thought he quit,” I sigh, squatting to her level and putting my hand over hers in comfort, the way she has me the past few months.
“He did.”
After he lights the second cigarette off the first, she sighs.
“You need to do me a favor, Ollie.”
“Anything, Maisie.”
“Take a couple days off. Take him to the city, hit some clubs, and get the boy gettin’.” She pauses.
I wait for her to finish her sentence. When she doesn’t, I prompt her, “Get him what?”
“You know what. Don’t make me say it.”
Still confused, I look at her.
“You boys haven’t been out in months. I’m sure you could use a little gettin’ too.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling.
“I don’t want to discuss it again, just take Bass and get to gettin’.”
“Maisie–”
“Jean-Paul’s lawyer phoned, he’s going to be in New York tonight, he’d like to see Bass. I’d like you to go with him.
I nod, “Done.”
“He used some… harsh language with the man.”
“I bet he did,” I sigh.
“Not the man’s fault Jean-Paul was the way he was, Ollie, and I don’t blame Bass for his reaction, but he should at least hear him out.
We sit in a coffee shop across from a skyscraper with the de la Porte logo on it and all I can think is how the fuck did I miss it. Fourteen stories of gray and black brick and glass, with a logo known around the world on it.
I think of the girl, the Grace lookalike, who was crying as she ran in front of me. I know damn well she wasn’t Grace, it wasn’t possible. Knowing that, it pisses me off that this girl was clearly hurting, and no one fucking noticed. In cities like this all over America, everyone is too busy trying to get to work, to make a dollar, to become famous; too fucking concerned about their next break, to even see someone who needed someone, who was… breaking.
“What the fuck am I even doing here?” Bass whispers for the tenth time.
At first, I thought it was to himself, but the more he asks, the more I feel prompted to give him an answer.
“You’re here to get answers,” I whisper back.
His head snaps around and he scowls at me. “I know all I need to know about him. A man who had the means to make a difference in his own kid’s life, but decided to turn the other cheek.”
Should have shut the fuck up, I think to myself, and then it dawns on me. “Then just let the man talk. See what he has to offer.”
“I don’t want a fucking thing from him,” he hisses.
“I get that.” I run my hands over my head that finally has some hair back on it. “If it’s nothing, then you’re no worse off. If it’s something significant, use it to do good things, Bass. Things you think he should have done.”
He doesn’t reply, he simply stares across the busy New York City street looking up at a building that screams wealth. A far cry from Emporia, Virginia.
When the door to the coffee shop opens, a bald man, about five foot nine, in a suit that screams filthy rich, walks in and scans the shop. When his eyes land on Bass, he smiles genuinely, yet briefly.
He makes his way toward us and we both stand.
He puts out his hands, hands that clearly never saw a hard day’s work and Bass shakes it. “Alfred Berenger.”
“Bastien Josephs.” Bass puts emphasis on his last name.
Alfred looks at me and extends his hand. I shake it and tell him my name, “Oliver.”
We sit down and within seconds, the barista brings the barrister a large cup of what I assume is coffee. And yeah, I chuckle at the word play.
“I won’t hold you up.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Here’s some cash to tide you over until the will is–”
“I don’t want his fucking money.” Bass’s voice shakes as he tries to control his emotion.
I lean in. “Think, man. Think beyond yourself.” He glares at me now. I continue, “Maisie wants a pool for the kids this summer. I’m sure whatever is in there could help.”
“I can afford to do it myself,” he hisses.
“Yeah, and I can pitch in, but think of this as–”
Alfred cuts me off, “I really don’t care if you take it or leave it here for the barista. It’s yours to do with as you see fit. You’re his only heir. Furthermore, I don’t agree with the way Jean-Paul handled himself where you are concerned. I’ve worked for Jean-Paul for years, Bastien,” he pauses, “I’m only his legal representation, not his moral compass.”
“But you knew him.” Bastien’s statement includes a question that he clearly couldn’t bring himself to ask.
Why?
Alfred looks at Bass with compassion. “I knew him for many years. Every part of who he is, what he built, how he lived, was with honor. I have no idea why he looked the other way when it came to his only child. I only know if he left you billions, with the majority to be given to you, he did care.”
“Not enough.” Bass shakes his head.
I get where he’s coming from, but Alfred said billions. Fucking billions.
Alfred nods as he finishes his cup of coffee and then sets it down. “The will won’t be read anytime soon. Too many people and properties involved. I think it will be September before everything is straightened out.”
He stands. “Think about this, Bastien. I’ll be in touch. If you need anything, my card is inside the envelope.”
After Alfred leaves, Bass and I sit quietly. Then Bass stands and nods to the door. “I need something stronger than coffee.”
He walks away from the table and I grab the envelope.
June
Two weeks ago, Maisie had another one of her episodes, a horrible headache that brought her to her knees. Thankfully, Bass was there and took her to the emergency room. And even more fortunately, he called me to meet him when she was admitted. While she was signing admittance forms, Bass was chatting her up, making her laugh, and I slid in a form giving the doctors’ permission to discuss her care with us.
After the doctor spoke to us, devastated us, I informed him she wouldn’t remember signing the form, nor would she take it well if she thought we knew.
Maisie’s headaches are being caused by an inoperable brain tumor. Cancer. She’s aware, has been for a few years now. And as the doctor told us, there is nothing we can do, but keep her happy.
How the fuck do you accept that? How!
You don’t. For two weeks we look for every possible fucking treatment, but when we’d call the Doc, he’d inform us it was already looked into, by whom, and when.
His care for Maisie was obvious. The fact he was dealing with Bass and I, basically knowing we pulled some underhanded shit to get the information, makes it even more so. We trust him…So, we keep her happy and pretend we’re blissfully unaware of the fact she’s fucking dying.
Maisie’s happiness is brought on by ours, so we do all we can for her, and fake the hell out of it.
Sitting inside my office at Stone’s Throw, I sigh.
From March through May, I thought I’d lose my fucking mind. I work, I bullshit happiness, and I sit in a damn office. When I get really agitated, Bass reminds me that she needs us, and I should be happy I’m not dodging bullets. When faced with this shit, there are times I want to go back.
The chef and waitstaff had been employed here for a couple of years. They knew what they were doing and didn’t need much from me, except to approve purchase orders, specials, and menus. I’d occa
sionally work behind the bar if someone called out, but that occasion was rare. The other staff members would offer to fill in because they needed the money.
Living in the Hamptons, when you don’t have money, couldn’t be easy for the average working man or woman, those who don’t come from old money.
I’d overheard a few of the full-timers complain about not having enough to make ends meet. I didn’t step in, not my fucking place, but more than once I wanted to tell them to move. Six of them shared a three-bedroom cottage and paid out the ass for the place. But the more I overheard the amount of money they made in tips during the summer, it made up for it, if they planned well. The benefit was the ocean. I totally understood.
All I had to do was count money, do the banking, open the doors in the morning, lock them up at night, and occasionally throw a drunk who had too much to drink in a cab. When they became belligerent, treated the staff or patrons like shit, I toss them in a cab. Fucking highlight of my week.
Even on my days off, which I can take whenever I want, since there’s no one to answer to, only for, I’m here to open the doors and to lock up.
Now the busy season is starting, and I’m here more. Applications for seasonal employment are coming in by the droves and I find little, if any, excitement from the applicants.
At first, I interviewed them by myself, then, when I wasn’t hiring and ended up bussing tables, Chancy, the chef, asked what the problem was.
“Seniority, Chancy. Anyone who comes into a job interview asking for weekends off, or–-.’
His laugh stopped me. “Ask your full-time staff if they want weekends off. Guaranteed they’d prefer to work ‘em. They make more money.”
“Will do.”
“You need some help with the interviews?” He’d asked trying to hold back a smile.
Sarcastic fuck.
People skills, I remind myself. Fucking people skills.
“Yeah.”
13
Oliver (September)