Page 18

18

MACK

“Fuck you!” I scream until my voice is hoarse and my throat aches. “Mother fucker !” I punch as hard as I can over and over again at the heavy bag suspended from the garage rafters. It hangs like a dead body swaying, and I don’t even use the old boxing gloves on the dusty shelf—I just punch until my knuckles are cracking and chafed and then I kick it until I’m breathless and the sobbing stops.

It’s close to midnight and the night is perfectly still and silent. I can see each puff of desperate breath in the ice-cold air, but I don’t really feel the pain. Too much adrenaline is coursing through me—too much white-hot anger at Leo and his games and his demand that I stop looking for him.

“Fuck you!” I scream one last time, throwing my whole body at the stupid thing, then I hear tires crunching over snow and see headlights flash in my eyes. I freeze. Who would be at my house at midnight? I begin to move to the wall to close the garage door, my heart racing, my body trembling. Before I can think through whether it’s the police with news, or Shelby, or something about the search for Bernie, or a rapist, I see who it actually is, and I exhale. It’s Billy. Billy, who I can’t fathom having a reason to be creeping up my drive right now.

He parks and turns the engine off, stepping down from the truck in a jacket too light for the cold, and all I can see is a white cloud of breath when he speaks.

“Hey. Sorry if I scared you.”

“You did” is all I manage to say, and he must read the look on my face correctly or just notice the dried tears and ruddy cheeks and not know what’s wrong with me, so he quickly continues.

“I just—we’re all taking turns driving around looking for Bernie. Like a round the clock effort, so I said I’d take a turn after Peggy took over for me at the bar…”

“Uhhh. He’s not here?” I say, and Billy sort of snort-laughs at this.

“No, I know. It’s just. I was trying to get a hold of you. Earlier…to see if you wanted to join, and when you didn’t answer, I mean with everything going on, I wanted to make sure you were okay. That’s all.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, you can come in for a minute if you want so we don’t freeze to death,” I say. I see him hesitate and I don’t know if it’s because it’s an awkward request at this hour or because he doesn’t want to impose by showing up like this, but I’m too cold to worry about it, so I simply turn and head to the front door and I hear him follow behind.

Inside, I walk through to the kitchen and he stays politely with his boots still within the parameters of the front mat. Linus and Nugget are barking at him and jumping wildly at his legs.

“Can I pour you a drink? You can take those off, if you don’t mind,” I say nodding to his boots.

“Uh, sure,” he says. I shake a bag of treats and the boys come running back down the hall to me. I offer for him to sit in the living room and then I bring over two glasses of red wine.

“It’s all I have around, sorry. If I remember, you’re a bourbon guy,” I say, handing him one.

“This is great,” he says. I light the fireplace and sit in front of it on the rug with the boys, who curl up next to me. I look across the coffee table at Billy, and he’s probably wondering how the hell he went from a welfare check to having a drink on my sofa, and I’m thinking the same thing myself. It’s strange to have anyone other than Leo sitting there. And it might be the last time anyone is sitting on that sofa in this room, since I have less than thirty days to be out of my own home of twenty-three years.

“Thanks for checking on me. No word about Bernie yet, huh? Nothing?”

“Nothing. I mean, besides what’s on the news—his car’s missing, so some people think he just…” He stops talking and takes a sip of his drink. I can’t imagine he wants to say the words. “Some people think he just left on his own—doesn’t want to be found.”

“Right, I did hear about the car,” I say. I pet the top of Nugget’s head and take a big swallow of wine. I don’t know if it’s the chronic loneliness that comes with being abandoned or the arm’s-length friends in town that I can’t really open up to, which doesn’t include Shelby, of course, but considering what she’s going through, I can’t burden her with all of this… Or maybe the three glasses of wine I had before I decided to punch the shit out of the bag in the garage, or the idea of telling Rowan I’ve lost everything, or just his kind smile and me having nothing left to lose, but I just blurt it out. I just want to tell someone everything.

“I’m losing the house. I have to be out.”

“What?” he says, pausing with his glass halfway to his lips and then putting it down and furrowing his brow.

“I found out there’s a second mortgage foreclosure,” I say. No need to go into how I found out or the truck stop or Leo’s work bag, and God, it’s all too much, so I just stick with the basics. Maybe I’m looking for advice or maybe just a shoulder. I don’t even know, myself.

“And unpaid taxes…so they can seize the home and sell it, as it turns out.”

“I don’t understand. You…how could that happen?”

“Leo hid it, made statements digital only, in his name only. He must have forged a few documents to make that happen, but does that surprise you at this point?”

“How much is owed? You’ve lived here forever—God, can it be that much?” he says, leaning his elbows on his knees like he’s in emergency problem solving mode.

“Almost a hundred thousand,” I say and he blinks at me.

“Okay,” he says, and I know what he’s thinking. That I should have that as pocket change and is waiting for the rest of that sentence to be something like “I paid it but it was too late, they had sold it already” but I tell him the truth.

“I don’t have it. Leo gambled it away,” I say, like pulling off a Band-Aid.

“Oh God,” Billy says. “He…” he starts to stutter, so I don’t make him sit there trying to come up with a proper response. I just continue.

“I know the talk, so I know people know he gambles, that he got hit hard by COVID with the last couple small restaurants. People felt sorry for him but they still assumed—if all the overheard gossip I get wind of is accurate—that he still had a fortune tucked away from all the prosperous years, but as you might have figured out, that is not the case. If he did, in fact, tuck away a fortune and not gamble it all away, he made sure I didn’t know about it and is living large on it in who knows where with it now.”

“Oh, Mack,” he says. “God, I had no idea.” I move to the couch with a sigh and sit down next to him, leaning my head back and staring at the ceiling, feeling numb and overwhelmed at the same time.

“I don’t even know what to say—it’s shocking. I’m so sorry,” he says.

“I’m sorry to dump that all on you. You didn’t sign up for this,” I laugh humorlessly.

“It’s hard to believe. I mean, all of it is, I guess—he was the nicest guy. It’s just never added up,” he says. I lean over to pick up the wine bottle on the coffee table, filling both of our glasses.

“A nice guy who I recently found out has been stealing money from the Oleander’s.”

“I’m sorry, what?” he says, and again, I don’t know why I feel the need to vomit out all of this information, but I want to be free from the burden of it. I just need someone to talk to, so I keep spilling.

“I’ve had a lot happen at once, so that one was just a bullet item on my list of things to dig into,” I continue. “But then I found his missing work bag yesterday, and there was more evidence that he is stealing. I found out about some of it recently, but it gets even better… and it looks like he takes a percentage of everyone’s Medicare and Medicaid that gets filtered through a bank I’d never heard of till I found the paperwork…after some gets taken out, the rest is deposited to the Oleander’s.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wanted to be certain before I brought this up to Shelby because I thought…”

“She could be in on it,” he finishes.

“What? No. No! That’s…”

“Oh, sorry,” he says quickly, cutting the air with his palm—a “forget I said that” gesture.

“The Oleander’s is going under. She’d never let that happen. No way. I just thought… What if someone knows about this? What if someone knows money is being stolen over years and they’re fucking pissed and they think she is a part of it?”

“So you mean, what if Leo was a victim, and now Shelby is in serious danger for the same reason—they’re thieves together.”

“I don’t know. I mean, that’s a thought, yes. Someone thinks they are working together profiting off the elderly. I don’t know. Maybe that’s way off track, but I’m just trying to make sense of anything that has an ounce of sense to it.”

“I know,” he agrees. “It’s all so out there. It’s hard to know what to think. I had no idea about Leo.”

“But you did hear that he gambled, right?”

“Like you said, I heard ‘COVID got him drinking and gambling a bit more, but who could blame him?’ sort of talk—I never heard any of the things you’re telling me.”

“I don’t know who knows what anymore. Maybe because I don’t really know a goddamn thing myself. The money he’s taking off the top from the Oleander’s checks—it was all carefully and fraudulently crafted so nobody would catch on, and now it’s just on an automated system—” I say, but then he interrupts.

“Wait,” Billy puts his wine down and shifts his body to face me square on. “You’re saying there is still money going into an account that he has access to?”

I nod.

“Holy shit!”

“Yeah,” I say, and I know what he’s thinking. That this is evidence clear as day that Leo is alive, and not a victim. A minute ago he was maybe a victim along with Shelby, and now he’s definitely an active criminal. And I know it’s a roller coaster, but I think the truth lives somewhere in the middle, despite what it looks like when you sum it up like that.

“And the police can’t track him through that account?” he asks. Then he must read the look on my face and his expression shifts. “Oh,” he says.

“I’m gonna tell them. It’s just…between the phone and find ing out about an active bank account, I just—I wanted to try to find him myself instead of giving it to Riley and being told to stay out of the way and just wait. No way.”

“I guess,” he says, and I can’t tell if there is a tone of judgment underneath his words.

“I’ve hit the end of the road, obviously, so I guess I have nothing to lose by turning this stuff over to the police now. Tomorrow,” I say. He picks up his wine, runs his hand through his hair and leans back on the couch. I copy him. We stare at the ceiling and listen to the fire crackle for a few minutes.

“What can I do to help you? Do you need a place to stay or anything? I mean, where will you go?” he asks softly.

I sigh. “That’s very nice of you, but I’m less worried about me. I’ll sleep in a booth in the cafe if I need to. At least that place is still mine. My main concern is Rowan and how to figure something out before she gets out of school for the summer. I thought about selling the cafe, but then I pay the back taxes—all the debt on the house and have no business. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not like I have no income. I just don’t have that kind of money lying around, not since Leo…” I stop and restart, more calmly. “Maybe I stay at the cafe for a while and find an apartment after I save up…” I’m rambling now, I know it, but it’s nice to just think out loud and verbalize everything that’s been boiling over inside of me.

“Let me help. Let me give it to you,” he says, and I almost spit out the sip of wine in my mouth, but I collect myself and sit up, turning to him with my mouth hanging open.

“You’re nuts. No way. I mean that’s very kind of you to offer that, but I couldn’t possibly.”

“Why not?” he asks, brows raised.

“What do you mean why not? Because I can’t just take that kind of money from someone,” I manage to splutter.

“I’m not someone. I’m a longtime friend, and you need money and I have it sitting in a savings account that made ap proximately six cents in interest last year. You can pay it back if it will make you feel better, but just…down the line when you feel like you’re in a good spot,” he says earnestly, and I’m so utterly shocked and moved by this gesture that I don’t know what to say. I feel tears threatening to form behind my eyes, so I get up and walk over to the pups. I perch on the edge of the ottoman and pet Linus.

“That’s…probably the nicest thing anyone has ever offered,” I say, my back still to him. “But I just wouldn’t feel right about that.”

“You deserve someone to give you a freakin’ break,” he says. I turn to him and we look at one another for a long moment, then I stand and I think he takes that as a sign to leave, because he stands too, but I really don’t want him to leave.

“How about this. Say you’ll think about it, and offer’s open,” he says. I smile at him and nod.

He makes his way to the front door and starts to pull on his boots.

“I said I’d be out looking for Bernie, so I should shove off.” Before he can pull on his coat, I move closer to him and wrap my arms around his shoulders.

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it with every bit of my soul. I needed so desperately to feel listened to and heard, and…not like an extension of Leo. Not like someone who is either a victim or might also be guilty, but just to feel like myself again for an hour. I don’t want it to end, and I find myself kissing him. Lord help me. Kissing him. Right on the lips. He pulls back with a look of surprise on his face, his eyes wide, and then, before I can be mortified at my actions or even apologize, he kisses me back.

For a few moments it’s all a blur as I end up with my back pushed against the wall and my hands up the back of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, his breath, his hands on my hips. Exhilaration mixes with profound guilt and the comfort of being so close to another person after all this time fights with shame because I’m still married and the world seems to be falling apart around me and this is the last thing I should be thinking about.

I stop. I catch my breath and look at him as he steps back in the glare of the overhead kitchen light and adjusts his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“No, I’m sorry. I…” He hesitates and I think about it for a second—about just saying fuck it and inviting him up to my room, but something stops me.

“You should be out looking for Bernie. Sorry,” I say instead.

“Right. I should go,” he says, pulling on his coat.

“I’ll come with you. If that’s okay,” I say, because as exhausted and devastated as I feel right now, I think a distraction and being of some use will be the best thing so I don’t lose my shit completely. He smiles and hands me my coat.

“I’d love that,” he says.

We drive the quiet, snowy roads with the heat piping into the truck cab and the radio humming a barely audible Bob Dylan song in the background, and we don’t say much to one another. We stop for Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate at the Speedway and wind through the lonely back roads of town, trying to find places we haven’t already been. It’s solemn business, looking for a missing, elderly man who everyone fears has frozen to death somewhere, alone without his phone or a coat. I feel nauseated even thinking about it. Poor Bernie.

We pull onto a narrow road that hasn’t been plowed since last night’s snowfall. Billy shifts into four-wheel drive and we rock and sway over uneven ice and fresh snow. I’m looking out the passenger’s window into a thicket of pines when I hear Billy take in a sharp breath.

“Holy shit,” he says, and I look to where he’s looking.

“Oh God,” I say, putting my cup in the console and leaning over the dash to get a better look. It’s his car. It’s the Firebird they showed on the news. “Oh no, oh my God.”

We put the truck in Park maybe thirty feet from where the car is, and can see that it’s backed up against a snowbank, and there are footprints in the snow.