The Request

by David Bell

  “It’s over, Blake.”

  “How does Amanda accept you owning a stake in a bar when her sister died in a drunk-driving accident?”

  “We talked about that before I ever got involved with the Pig. I wasn’t going to do it if it caused problems for her or her family. But she said it was okay with her, that people have to move on. It’s over, Blake.”

  His face suddenly grew serious. “Is it over for Emily Steiner and her family, Ryan? Limping around with a shattered leg and a speech impediment? Having to live with her parents all these years instead of finishing high school with her classmates and going off to college? Their other child dead.”

  “You’ve made your point. I haven’t forgotten them. I never can.”

  “Things are tough today, Ryan. The political climate. Everything is so politically correct. If the people you worked with, the clients at your company who you help with their social media and branding campaigns . . . Would they want a PR guy who had his name smeared all over the news for killing someone? Would Warren Manufacturing want their screen doors being branded by someone who committed vehicular homicide? Or the people who buy your beer at the Pig—would they buy your beer if they found out the role you really played in that girl getting killed? If they found out you were the one driving and not Aaron. Think of the clients you’d lose, Ryan, the money. The business. The charities you’ve supported. Which ones are they? The local chapter of MADD, right? The women’s shelter?”

  “I said you made your point.”

  “What if everyone found out, Ryan? Hell, the police. There’s no statute of limitations on felonies in Kentucky. Did you know that?”

  But he’d lost me. I was shaking my head.

  “I’m not going to do it,” I said. “And the only person who could expose me is you. Are you saying you’re going to tell everyone I was driving that night if I don’t do this . . . this asinine request?”

  Blake remained silent for a moment. A new scent reached my nostrils . . . a burning pastry, something left in a toaster too long. It acted as an irritant, almost causing me to sneeze. The barista waved a towel around behind the counter, fanning smoke, her face creased with disgust.

  “I’m not going to tell anyone, Ryan,” he said, the words coming out slow. “These letters I wrote to Jen, the things we shared and talked about . . . You see, that accident and the truth about it, the truth about you—well . . . I haven’t been able to tell anyone about it either. Ever. I can’t even tell Sam because her parents would flip. It’s a secret I’m keeping too. So that article came out in the paper, and it brought it all up for me again. You know, I was in that car too. So . . . when Jen and I were still dating back then . . . and because I felt freer with her, looser, I felt liberated to tell her things I couldn’t tell anyone else. Telling her . . . It was like when you meet a stranger in a bar or in an airport. I unburdened myself to her because she was separate from the rest of my life. I knew we weren’t going to get married, so I spilled my guts.”

  The door to the Ground Floor remained closed, but I’d have sworn it had opened, letting in a cold wind. Some chill gripped me, creeped over every inch of my body. The feeling made me nauseated, and I struggled to say anything. But I finally managed to.

  “Blake, no.”

  “She knows. And I mentioned it in one of the letters. . . . I told her how much it meant to me that we could speak freely about everything, all the things that matter to me. So it’s in there. In writing. The truth about that night. The truth about who was driving. The truth about you.”

  The cold feeling gradually turned warmer. It felt like a small fire was burning in my chest. Dead center.

  “Blake.” My voice was low, bitter. I looked around but no one paid any attention to us. “She knows? And you put it in writing? Are you the biggest damn fool who has ever lived?”

  “So you see,” he said, “it’s in your best interest to get those letters out of there. We both have a lot at stake. You’d be exposed and put in legal jeopardy for driving the car. My relationship with Sam and her family would be in jeopardy.”

  Blake started fishing around in his pants pocket. He brought out a piece of paper folded into a tiny square. He handed it to me, and after a short pause, I took it from him but didn’t open it.

  “The address is on there,” he said. “So’s the door code. It’s a small house, and you just need to get into the bedroom and look in the top drawer of the dresser. She doesn’t have a dog or a roommate or anything, so you don’t have to worry about that. Just get in and get out. She goes to a late-night yoga class on Thursdays. She’ll be out of the house until eleven. Maybe later if she gets a drink with a friend or something, like she sometimes does. But you don’t want to dally. Just get in, get the letters, and get back out.”

  “Maybe this woman wouldn’t do anything with the letters,” I said. “Maybe she’s just bluffing.”

  “She might be. You’re right. Maybe she just wants to make me sweat. But can either of us take that chance?”

  “Why does this have to happen tonight? Why such little notice?” I still held the folded paper in my outstretched hand.

  “I just told you, Ryan. The wedding is Saturday. And Jen knows that. So if she wants to stick it to me, she’d do it before the wedding. She’d blow everything up now. And tonight is the only night this week I know when she’s out of the house. You tell Amanda whatever you want to tell her to get out of your house at ten. But do take care of it tonight if you don’t want everyone in town to know about who was really driving that night.”

  My hand, the one holding the paper, shook, causing the paper to quiver.

  I don’t know if Blake noticed or not.

  For the distraction more than anything else, I put the folded paper into my pocket. I couldn’t look Blake in the eye.

  I thought of everything I’d done in the six years since college, in the six years since the night of the accident. The one that ruined Emily Steiner’s life. The one that killed Maggie.

  The one I caused but didn’t get caught for.

  Could that bring everything all down?

  Did I intend to find out?

  “I don’t ever want to see you again,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  Maybe I’d spoken quietly, too quietly for him to hear. So I said it again, making sure he understood.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “But then after I bring you these letters, I don’t ever want to see or hear from you again. Ever. This is the end between the two of us. Do you understand?”

  He looked a little surprised but not completely.

  He nodded, and I turned on my heel like a soldier and left the coffee shop without looking back.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Amanda was in the kitchen when I came home. It was eight fifteen, and she sat at the table with a mug of tea and a book, her phone resting right next to her. The kitchen smelled like the meal I’d missed. Grilled chicken, sautéed onions and peppers.

  Amanda’s face, her presence, always brought me relief. I wanted, needed to see someone normal. Someone with their feet on the ground.

  But she didn’t look up right away when I came through the door. She kept her eyes fixed on her book for a beat longer than normal, so I knew she was irritated by my late arrival. And I couldn’t blame her. After five years together, two of them as a married couple, we recognized the slightest ripples that passed across each other’s face. I could tell by the way her brow creased and the set of her jaw when something was bothering her. And she always spotted the way I pursed my lips or squinted my eyes as a sign of trouble.

  She picked up a bookmark and stuck it in the book. “Is everything okay?”

  “It is. And I’m sorry I’m late. I know I missed bedtime.”

  “I was mad when you didn’t come home on time.” She tended to be philosophical and analytical about her moods, often tak
ing a step back and examining herself from a careful distance. “I’ve been trying to get myself into a reasonable frame of mind since then.”

  “I’m sorry.” I leaned down and kissed her, tasting the tea. “Mmmm. Peppermint.”

  “You want some?” She wore her brown hair pulled back off her face. Her skin was clear, her lips red. The light showed the flashing brightness of her teeth when she spoke.

  “No, thanks. And I really am sorry. It was my night to check on the Pig, as you know.”

  “I do. I know you have obligations there.”

  “And then when I was leaving, Tony—you know that kid who’s been waiting tables there for the last six months? The one with all the tattoos?”

  “Don’t they all have a lot of tattoos?”

  “Yes, they do. But Tony is the one with the mermaid tattoo on his arm.”

  “I remember him. He’s a cute kid.”

  “Well, he broke up with his boyfriend and wanted relationship advice. So I listened and gave him some. I guess he sees me as a wise old man.”

  “You are to a college kid.” She winked and picked up the tea mug. “Look, I’m really not mad, okay? I think this is the first time you’ve missed putting Henry down since he was born. Life happens sometimes. You can change two diapers full of poop tomorrow to make up for it.”

  I withheld the conversation with Blake. What he’d asked me to do made me sick and nervous. I felt a heavy, dense pressure in my gut, and I tried to distract myself by turning it into something else.

  “I need to eat,” I said.

  And I did suddenly feel achingly hungry. I opened the refrigerator and found a cold piece of grilled chicken. I took a couple of bites, not even bothering with a plate, and washed it down with a glass of water from the tap. It was cold and hurt my teeth.

  I stared out the window above the sink at the backyard even though it was dark. I’d been fantasizing ever since we’d found out we were pregnant about installing a swing set and someday being able to push Henry on a swing out there. We’d contracted with a local company to add a patio and landscaping first to make the yard, which had been badly overgrown when we moved in, the kind of place we could really spend time. We could think about the swing set in a few years. . . .

  That was why I had almost no extra money to just hand over to Dawn.

  I turned back around, wiping the corner of my mouth with my fingers.

  “Hey,” I said, “it looked like the car was moved. Was there a doctor’s appointment today? I tried to call you earlier.”

  “Oh, that.” She put the mug back down. “I ran to the store for a little bit.”

  “The bane of your existence, going to the grocery store. Did you take Henry?”

  “No, Mom came over. She stayed with him while I went. It was no big deal.”

  “I just wish you could go out and do something more exciting than a trip to the store.”

  “I am. Next weekend. Or have you forgotten already?”

  “Is that next weekend already?” Since Henry’s birth, time moved with the speed of a rocket. But I knew what she was referring to. “Your trip to Nashville with Holly and Kate? My weekend as a single dad?”

  “I think you can handle it. You change diapers better than I do. That’s why I was so quickly able to get over you not being here for bedtime. Yes, you missed the ceremonial changing of the dirty diaper, and I had to do it myself. But next weekend”—she rubbed her hands together—“it’s all yours. Every dirty diaper.”

  “That sounds like revenge.”

  “No. It sounds like a mom who needs to get away. I’m sure I’ll bawl when I leave him though. Didn’t we both cry when we went away to Lexington in January and left him with my parents?”

  “You cried.”

  “Okay, tough guy. I didn’t see you wiping your eyes. Right. Anyway, I think he definitely has some teeth coming in on the bottom. He could be getting real cranky real soon.”

  “Can’t we just rub whiskey on his gums? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”

  She laughed a little at my suggestion. “If you’re from the old school.” She turned her chair to better face me. She wore yoga pants and flip-flops with my old Ferncroft College sweatshirt. “You know, if you want to make it up to me for being late and missing diaper duty, we can watch that movie tonight. The one about the former FBI agent who tracks down missing kids? I feel tired but not quite as exhausted as I normally do, so I’ve got a chance to stay awake until the end.”

  I wished more than anything the night could have been a normal one. The two of us could have curled up together on the couch and watched a movie, even if one or both of us ended up falling asleep halfway through. I even wouldn’t have minded if Henry woke us up, or if I changed a dirty diaper or took the trash out.

  All of those very normal things sounded too good to be true. Because they were.

  I picked up a napkin and wiped my hands.

  “Oh, crap. I’m sorry. I forgot I promised Eric and Ron I’d play basketball with them tonight. At the Y. They’re down a man, and I’m on their sub list. The game’s at nine forty-five.”

  “Really? That late?”

  “Yes, really. The league goes late on Thursday, and I’ve been telling them no for a long time. Kind of like you were telling Holly and Kate no for so long about the girls’ weekend until they practically forced you to say yes.”

  “You got me to say yes.”

  She let out a long, disappointed sigh. And she placed her hand on the book, absently riffling the pages, the only sound in the quiet kitchen. Lately our ability to find time to spend together was always compromised by work, Henry, and the accompanying exhaustion. We’d been trying to find a good night to watch a movie together for over a week, and my encounter with Blake had ruined it, like an infection spreading through every aspect of my life.

  “Can we try for tomorrow?” I asked. “I’ll be sure to get home early. Maybe Henry will go down earlier.”

  “It’s okay,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry about it.” She didn’t sound convincing as she nodded at the book. “I need to finish this for book club next week anyway. And it’s actually good. Someone picked a book I like for a change.”

  I went over to her again and placed my arm on her shoulder, pulling her close. “I’m sorry, Amanda. Really. I’d bail, but I promised, and they need another guy. And I’ve been putting them off for so long.”

  “And you’re such a good basketball player.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “You’re right. You’re terrible. I’ve seen you play. You’re the living, breathing embodiment of the phrase ‘White men can’t jump.’” She forced a smile. “It’s all good, I guess. You and I can have a night together tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for understanding.”

  I released her from the hug but stood there, staring down at her. Her natural beauty. Her shining hair, her hazel eyes. The life we’d built together—home, careers, a baby. I felt a tearing in my chest, a wrenching ache. I wanted to stay home. I wanted to be there with her and Henry.

  But if I stayed and everyone found out about my role in the accident, I could lose it all. I’d face legal jeopardy, civil jeopardy. I’d lose my job, my ability to provide for my new family.

  “What is it?” she asked, her brow creasing with curiosity.

  “Nothing.”

  “Something’s on your mind, Ryan.”

  “Anticipation,” I said. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow night more than tonight.”

  She reached up and cupped her hand against my cheek. “Tomorrow night?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But,” she said, stopping me in my tracks, “you need to tell me something.”

  “Sure.”

  She sounded serious. Did she know something? Had Blake come by the house?r />
  “Am I turning into one of those boring mothers who only talks about her kid’s sleeping and teething? Is that what I’ve become? I used to have a career, before the little bundle of joy came along. I made almost as much as you do.”

  “You’re not boring. I promise. Remember just this morning we had that talk about the election, and you gave me that long, complicated theory on why people vote against their own interests. That wasn’t boring. Not at all.”

  “So you’re saying I still have some intellectual heft?”

  “Absolutely. More than I do.” I kissed her again. Our lips lingered for a long, sweet moment. “And you can go back to work whenever you want. You actually made a little more money than I did a couple of years when you hit those bonuses. And you know they’d love to have you back, even as a consultant.”

  “I know. I’m thinking about it. I see all my friends on social media, posting about their fabulous work trips and high-pressure meetings. I feel cut off.”

  “You should do whatever you want, Amanda.”

  I had started up the stairs to the bedroom to change when her voice stopped me.

  “Hey,” she said, “do you know what I saw on Facebook today?”

  I came back down. “I don’t know. What?”

  “As you know, I don’t get on there every day anymore. It’s tough to keep up with all of it these days, and I’d rather be focused on the little guy.”

  “Of course.”

  “But I checked it out today. Did you see it? Sam posted that she and Blake are getting married this weekend. Did you know about that?”

  I tried very hard to keep my face neutral and stoic.

  “No, I didn’t see that on Facebook,” I said.

  “Blake didn’t tell you about it?”

  “No.”

  “I know he’s stayed away ever since I chewed him out over the lampshade incident. But I can’t believe he didn’t invite you. They’re getting married, and we just don’t know about it or get invited?”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?” I asked.