by Matthew Nuth
Paul could see through the doorway that William did not acknowledge Lanny as he walked through the office; he just stared straight ahead and exited. Quietly he overheard Lanny, “what a mess . . .”
Paul whispered, “Shut the fuck up, Lanny.”
William started to cry as he walked down the steps for what he thought to be the last time. Not a good day in the office.
Chapter 17
By the end of October, nights in Fort Collins could be cold, frigid enough to drive even the toughest person indoors to huddle in an oversized sweater in front of the fireplace. Tonight was no different, but William sat outside on a wrought iron chair, legs crossed and propped up on the table, looking up at a moon and stars that pierced through the blackened sky. Stan Getz’s jazz album masterpiece Moonlight in Vermont filtered out through the open patio door, the rich, warm, breathy strains of the sax calming his mind. An empty glass occupied his right hand; a half-filled bottle of Jack Daniels, his left. What Getz could not calm, Jack Daniels numbed. He had wrapped himself in a blanket; that and the whiskey were his only protection from the cold. He closed his eyes letting the smooth sax slowly flow over and through his body like honey.
Life had crashed down on him yesterday, crushing his hope and faith in life and family. The weekend had been something to look forward to, a rest from the work week, a time to recharge his batteries, so to speak. Now all he had was time; time to think and reflect on what he had done to deserve this.
The phone began to ring; it had rung several times since he had been home. He let it ring; he imagined the caller was Paul trying to get ahold of him to talk, as if talking would somehow relieve Paul of his own guilt. “Fuck him!” There was no way that William was going to make this any easier emotionally for his brother. Sure, he would do what he could to transition his job; he still needed the company to be successful, it was his only income, but he did not want to be the only miserable Simmons in town. “Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.”
William refilled his glass. He was not much of a whiskey drinker and really did not want another, but he could think of nothing better to do with his time. He looked up to the sky taking in the unfiltered starlight. Given how cold it was, he had no doubt he had this sky view all to himself; he was getting to enjoy this privately, not having to share it with anybody else in town and certainly, not Paul. Normally on a Sunday night he would go over his schedules and any plan changes then go to bed early. He would be at the construction site by sun up waiting for his crews to make sure he did not waste time or daylight; the days were already getting short in anticipation of winter. There would be no need to go to bed early tonight.
Getz’s sax had flipped from the meandering, almost drunk title song on the record to the frenetic Jaguar track. It was a disturbing contrast, much like what William had experienced in the last couple days. One moment, everything is working as it should be; he was a success, he was respected, he was making a real difference to the company and to his community. The next, well he was now contemplating moving to another town just to escape the humiliation. He brought the drink to his lips and sipped. No big gulps, just sipping, he wanted to stay in this mood. It did not make sense, but he wanted to stay in this sorrowful mood a while. Drinking too fast would just knock him out and, hell, he’d probably freeze to death. The worst thing, he did not feel guilty about the money, nor would he. Maybe someday Paul would understand why.
He would feel like hell in the morning. Banging head, dry mouth, tired, and lethargic. It is how he would feel most of the time from now on.
* * *
Paul had moved aggressively to replace William as the Operations Manager for their housing development. They already had a number of homes effectively sold, only waiting for construction to be completed to consummate the sale. He wanted to button up the majority of these by Christmas. Being able to log the additional revenue would be a boon for their profit distribution. This was shaping up to be a record year for the company. Secretly, he was even more motivated so that the profits would be sufficient to carry his brother financially through the foreseeable future. Even though he could not understand William’s transgression, he did not want him to suffer. Hell, he was family.
Initially, Paul had thought getting a qualified replacement to take over for William was going to be tough. Surprisingly, one of their earliest competitors in town, a hard-core general contractor with years of direct construction experience by the name of Leonard Sky, was more than happy to run from his own business to join PW Simmons. Sky’s firm, LSC, Leonard Sky Contracting, had been competing first against Simmons & Sons, and now PW Simmons; it had been losing ground for years. In Sky’s mind, joining now was no admission of defeat; that had happened a long time ago. The job offer was a gift of preservation for him and his family. Little did he know how much of a boon it was for PW Simmons. The addition of Sky also came with access to some pretty talented carpenters, as well.
LSC would continue to exist under the direct guidance of Sky’s eldest son, but would not compete against PW Simmons in the market space of housing developments as long as Leonard Sky remained under their employ. Instead, LSC would focus strictly on custom home design and construction. Without having to pay for Leonard while getting some relief from overhead burden of the LSC carpenters, Leonard hoped his son could eke out a livelihood in a more synergistic, if not smaller, co-existence with PW Simmons in the Fort Collins region. In any case, this would stave off bankruptcy for a while, at least.
Leonard Sky now sat in the PW Simmons office across the conference table from Paul and Lanny. They were hashing out the specifics of Sky’s offer. Sky was happy to accept a modest salary with a small profit sharing provision. Any portion of a profit was likely going to be a lot more lucrative than what he had expected prior to the job offer.
“So, Paul, what the hell is that brother of yours going to be doing with himself now? I know you guys are doing pretty good, but he can’t really be thinking of retirement and just living off the company profits, is he? Not that I care, but he’s way too young. I hope he’s not planning on just taking a little vacation and then having you guys cut me out to make room for him again?”
Paul responded almost too quickly, “Sky, you do not have to worry about William coming back. I think he has set his sights on a different opportunity that has little to do with construction and housing developments. If you are really concerned, we can draft something up to protect you.”
At that Lanny piped in, “We cannot guarantee Leonard Sky employment, Paul, but we can do something to make him more comfortable. Perhaps a guaranteed severance payout in the case of us needing to cut our ties without there being cause for a dismissal. I was thinking something like a six-month salary payout, plus you would still get your pro-rata profit sharing. You okay with this?” Paul nodded in agreement.
Sky squinted a little, trying to make it look as though he was still contemplating whether or not to accept the offer. He suspected Lanny and Paul had no idea that he was thrilled with the offer and would have accepted it even without the severance offer. He really had few choices.
In the future Sky, would be surprised to know that Paul and Lanny were fully aware of LSC’s business difficulties. Although they had guessed Sky would be happy to accept pretty much any offer they threw on the table, previous to this discussion Lanny and Paul had agreed they would not take advantage of the situation. They could not afford another “William” situation, and they needed Sky committed for the long-term, even though he would never get an equity stake in the company. The meeting was shaping up pretty much as they expected.
Sky reached out his right hand toward Paul to shake. “I think we have a deal. When you want me to start? And Lanny, when do you want me to talk with the carpenters regarding what we discussed about coming on to your payroll?”
“Deal, it is. Lanny, I think you can wrap up the carpenter question with Sky without me. I need to head over to the de
velopment to spell Lyle. Sky, if you can start Monday, maybe you can fill out some paperwork today, before leaving?”
Sky smiled, “Hell yes. I’ll meet you anywhere you please, Monday morning.”
Lanny had not really comprehended how badly things must have been at LSC until he saw Leonard’s eyes welling with tears of joy. Lanny could not help thinking, a talented guy like Sky should never have been so hopeless. He was actually happy that William’s transgression had led them to save this old, crusty codger.
* * *
I was born on Thanksgiving Day 1962.
Uncle Bill fished out his worn wallet and began to flip through pictures that had apparently been secreted away for years. “Randall, this is one of my favorite pictures.” It was an old black and white, 3x5 inch print that had been folded in half to fit in his wallet. Your dad gave me this just after you were born.”
He handed me the picture. It was of my Mom holding a baby wrapped in a receiving blanket, lying in her hospital bed. Surrounding the bed was the whole team from PW Simmons: Arlin, Joe, then Dad, half sitting on the bed with Mom. On the other side of the bed was Lyle, Virginia, Granddad and Grandma Simmons. I had seen this picture before and until now had assumed Uncle Bill had taken the picture. “You were not there, were you, Uncle Bill.”
“I wanted to be, but I don’t think I would have been welcomed into the hospital. I mean, you were born at night, so I was probably in a conversation with a dear bottle of something, no doubt drunk, sitting alone in my living room. Besides, even if I had been sober, no one in that picture would have been glad to see me, let alone be photographed with me” he said as he pointed dismissively at the folks in the picture.
“You know you were a gift to your Dad and Mom, but probably even a bigger gift for me.”
* * *
Paul pulled into William’s driveway with his brand new Ford. William’s car, a shiny light green Buick LeSabre convertible, sat in the open garage. Paul did not get William; his car was always immaculate and cared for, but yet he apparently did not give crap about his house, a house that he, himself, had built. What had once been a nice green lawn, now was nothing more than weeds and dirt. Paul had to admit to one thing, it sure as hell made it easy to find William’s house; just turn on to his street and drive until you see a shitty yard and house that badly needed some fresh paint.
William’s home had become antithetical to this quaint, well-kept neighborhood and the neighbors were demanding a change. Phone messages had started to pile up on Paul’s office desk prodding him to do something about his brother and his house. It had been several months since Paul had driven this street. He had actually avoided it out of a desire not to run across William by accident. He dreaded having to stop and make some small talk belying his true feelings for his brother. He had never gotten over the $3,500 and likely never would. When he did run into William, he was always shocked by William’s attitude; no humility, no regret. It was almost as if he were waiting for Paul to apologize for something. Only God knew what.
Today, however, Paul was not counting on some chance meeting. He was here for a couple of reasons. The first purpose: to tell William he had become an uncle once again; this time to a brand-new baby boy, Randall. Maybe he could talk him into coming by the house to see the family. In spite of the hard feelings from the apparent embezzlement, he still loved his brother and wanted him to know his nephews.
The second reason for the visit was not going to be so pleasant; he was here to demand Paul to clean up the house. Or what? Well, he hoped it did not get that far. Theoretically he really could not do much other than to appeal to William’s pride and decency to fix up the place. His neighbors certainly had nothing to do with his dismissal from PW Simmons so there was no reason to punish them. He was hoping to get a commitment for some action. If his appeal failed, he was prepared to pay for a yard service to get the lawn and fencing back in shape and keep it nice.
Sitting in his car, he gave a quick assessment of the property: green grass had pretty much degraded to weedy brown tufts, a couple broken risers where sprinkler heads had once been, punctuated by an old garden hose with a rotary sprinkler spitting a steady stream of water onto some weeds and a long dead tree, creating nothing more than a growing pool of mud that ran up the entire side of concrete walkway leading to William’s front door. The wood facia board under the eaves of the roof were in bad need of some scraping and new paint. He would not be surprised if some of the wood would need to be replaced. Thank goodness most of the house was brick. The brick still looked as good as the day William moved in.
Paul opened his car door and stepped out onto the driveway, took a deep breath and marched up the walk to the front door. He stopped briefly to push a weathered, half empty card-board carton filled with some garden tools off the front walk so that he could pass without having to step into the mud. He kidded himself that he wanted to avoid the mud so as not to not to tread dirt into the house, but that was a lie. He really did not give a shit about the William’s floor; he just didn’t want to mess up his new leather loafers.
Paul knocked at the front door and waited. Not getting any response, he opened the screen door and tried the door knob to see if it was unlocked. The knob turned. Pushing in on the door, Paul quietly called out “William? You here?” Paul caught himself. What a stupid question; if William wasn’t here, how could he expect him to answer? Paul called again, “William, are you okay?” Not knowing why, but Paul felt like a criminal, breaking and entering into someone’s private domain; but in this case the only thing he would be stealing was little bit of William’s time. By the look of the yard, it looked like time was something William had plenty of. “William, you here?” He called more loudly this time.
“Well, I’ll be if it isn’t my favorite brother. Coming to slum a bit?” William had been watching from an armchair in the living room. The television was on, but no sound emanated from it. In his lap, William, was holding a large, loose leaf binder. He slapped the binder closed and dropped it on the floor next to his seat. Surprisingly, William hopped out of his chair and gave Paul a big hug. “Welcome to casa de William.” At this he turned and left the room for the kitchen.
Paul had noticed the prevailing whiskey odor on William. There was no way to tell the smell was from some early day imbibing or just a holdover from the previous night. For William, evening and day ran together and liquor was just the grease to slide from moon to sun. He pretty much smelled like booze all the time. Paul guessed the odor poured from his pores.
Surprisingly, the living room was spotless. He had expected to see the outside decadence to be matched by an equally decrepit interior. “Orderly” and “clean” were the last two adjectives he would have thought of upon seeing the yard, but orderly and clean is exactly what he was seeing. It was as if two different people occupied this house: a lazy slob and a fastidious neatnik. Paul just shook his head, having difficulty processing the apparent dichotomy that was his brother.
From out in the kitchen, “You want a little something to drink; just something to tie you over until lunch?” Without waiting for an answer, the voice continued, “I sure as hell could use something. You know just to clear up those mind cobwebs.” William returned to the living room, in one hand a glass filled with an amber liquid. In the other, a glass filled with ice.
Paul sat down on the sofa and placed a stack of phone messages he had been accumulating for the past several weeks on the low coffee table. “So, is the whiskey or the ice for me?” he asked.
“Neither. You didn’t ask for anything. You want something?”
“No, not really. William let me jump into it so I can get back to the office to work.” Paul proceeded to pull the top note of the pile and read it to William. Likewise, he moved on to the 2nd and 3rd and so on until he had read more than a dozen of the notes.
“William, I am getting these calls every day and a lot of them are repeat calls to co
mplain about how your house looks.”
William pushed the stack of notes onto the floor and smiled. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to get up the nerve to come see me and have a little chat. I think it is about time to get some things off our respective chests. You know why my house is always clean inside, but looks like shit outside?” without waiting for Paul to respond, he continued to plow on. “It’s because I have a great housekeeper, but she’s not so good at yard work. She doesn’t complain a bit and I’m sure she is not included in that bunch of telephone messages even though she lives right next door. I think you even might know her. She’s Mary Mattson. You remember that name?” William stopped to let the name sink in.
“Mattson? Sure, I remember the Mattsons. Mary’s husband lost his job and they backed out on buying a house from us. You telling me Mary and Richard finally ended up buying a house in your neighborhood?”
“Well, not Mary and Richard. Just Mary. You see Richard killed himself back in ’53. Sucked down a small hunk of lead from a pistol he had kept from his time in WWII. Apparently, it didn’t sit well with the back of his head. I guess he thought he could at least get some money for Mary from his little life insurance policy. Pity, it had a suicide rider that meant the insurance company didn’t need to pay up. They didn’t owe him a dime. You know how it goes; a contract is a contract. Shit, Paul, he blew himself away for nothing leaving Mary without two pennies to rub together. By the way, that’s where the thirty-five hundred bucks went, if you still want to know. I didn’t keep a dime. I gave it to her as a return of the down payment from our company; you know that down-payment that you and that fucking father of mine refused to refund. God, Paul, you were pricks. I was so ashamed when I found out Richard killed himself. I’ve been giving her a couple hundred bucks each month for the housekeeping, just to help her get by.”
