When Rachel and I can’t stop crying, we turn off Mom’s phone and unplug the landline. Rachel’s friends keep texting her to ask what happened, and she finally turns off her phone. I’ve never seen her do that.
It gets worse. A News Ten van shows up in front of our house just as it’s getting dark outside. The crew sets up lights and I try to watch as a lady reporter stands on the lawn and interviews the guy Dad was running against, but Rachel pulls me away from the window.
We ignore it when the reporter rings the doorbell and calls, “Mrs. Denton? Mrs. Denton, would you like to comment on your husband’s probable arrest?”
I ask Rachel, “Is it against the law to cheat on your wife?”
She shrugs.
“You think the F.B.I. found something here?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Just shut up.”
The reporter goes around the house tapping on the windows, so we hide in the hallway.
Mom emerges from her room around ten o’clock. The three of us sit in the dark in silence that is broken only by our sniffling. Finally, Mom asks, “Are you girls hungry? I can heat up a pizza.”
Rachel and I shake our heads. It hasn’t been hard to avoid eating today. I can’t stand the idea of food. My stomach’s still kicking back the Ding Dongs, and that makes me think about spilling the coffee. Then this whole shitty day replays in my head.
We watch the news. The plastic-faced anchorman looks very serious next to a photo of my father from a rally he held about a month ago. Dad looks like a crazy person. I think they chose the worst picture they could.
“Good evening. Thank you for joining us. I’m Gerald Higgins. News Ten is the only station to bring you the breaking story of a candidate for the United States Senate who ran on a family values platform—but we’ve learned that his own marriage may be in trouble.” He turns to his equally fake-looking cohost. “Deborah?”
“Thanks, Gerald, and good evening, everyone. I’m Deborah Walters. News Ten became aware of this story after a member of Reese Denton’s campaign staff called our tip line to report that the successful investment banker and senatorial candidate—who is incidentally an outspoken advocate for the preservation of the family unit—confessed today that he left his wife for another woman. And that’s not the only disturbing aspect of this story. The source went on to tell News Ten that Mr. Denton is also being investigated by the F.B.I. and local law enforcement because of allegations that he has stolen from both his campaign and his investment firm’s clients.”
Mom gasps and makes a strangled cry. She claps her hand over her mouth and bends at the waist. Rachel and I put our hands on her back and rub at the same time. Our hands touch, and we lock eyes.
Deborah continues, “Even though he was leading in the polls, Mr. Denton quit the campaign, leaving his supporters stunned and seeking answers.”
Gerald turns to another camera. “That’s right, Deborah. As soon as the story broke, our own Susie Harlan contacted Tim Deaver, Reese Denton’s opponent, to see what he has to say about the suddenly unopposed political race that he finds himself in. They met in front of the Denton home, which the F.B.I. and local law enforcement searched this afternoon.”
The story opens with a close-up of our house, and Mom practically runs from the room. “I…I can’t do this. This can’t be happening.”
Rachel and I watch Tim Deaver smile so big, it looks like his face is cracking. Susie asks, “Mr. Deaver, how do you feel about this development in the life of a man who has worked so fervently to defeat you in this race?”
Tim Deaver switches his face to Serious/Sympathetic. “It is, of course, early in the investigation, but I would hope that the voters come to the correct conclusion that the vicious rumors spread about me by the Denton campaign were just that: rumors. Who can trust a man who claimed to be the poster boy for family values but has been living a secret life?”
Susie Harlan frowns. “As you said, Mr. Deaver, it is early in the investigation—”
He cuts her off, breaking into a wide grin. “Traditional marriage, Susie! Right? That was Reese Denton’s platform, and yet last time I checked, that means one”—he holds up a finger—“and I mean one man—and one woman—at a time.” He wiggles his fingers and looks into the camera. “Hey, Reese, how’s that working for you now, hmm?” He works his eyebrows up and down, and his smile reveals teeth so white that they look like Chiclets.
I turn to Rachel. “Our lives are over. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Shut up,” she whispers. She tosses her shoes to the floor, tucks her feet under a sofa cushion, and hugs a pillow tightly against her chest.
Gerald’s back. “News Ten’s own Mario Morales brings you this exclusive interview with Mr. Denton’s campaign manager, Patrick Osmer.”
Rachel picks up a shoe and throws it at the TV. “Traitor! I never did like you!”
I ask quietly, “But what if it’s all true?”
She punches me hard in the arm. “Shut up, Colby!”
Mario Morales looks supernatural in the glare of the spotlight. He’s standing next to a huge yard sign bearing my dad’s You Can Trust Me face and the words Family. Truth. Commitment. Denton.
Mario apparently doesn’t realize he’s on the air. He laughs at someone off camera: “Yeah, you serious? Hey, I’d hit that, too…” He blinks a few times. “We’re—we’re on? We are?”
Deborah says flatly, “Yes, Mario, you’re on. Loud and clear.”
Mario switches to his somber face. “Thanks, Deborah. It may have started with allegations of using the campaign credit card to subsidize an affair, but that led to uncovering massive theft of his investment clients’ accounts. Reese Denton is now facing felony charges of embezzlement and theft with intent to defraud. I spoke with Patrick Osmer, Mr. Denton’s campaign manager, earlier this evening. We met in the office vacated just minutes before by his candidate, whose problems are just beginning.”
Mario stares awkwardly at the camera a moment or two, like he’s waiting for a signal. Finally, he says, “Uh, roll tape. Play the interview.”
My parents’ wedding portrait is on the bookcase behind Mario, who is seated in the chair near the door in my dad’s office. When I was there earlier, the picture was on the top shelf behind Dad’s desk. Guess they moved the photo.
“Mr. Osmer, according to my anonymous F.B.I. sources, an independent campaign finance auditor contacted the F.B.I. to report”—he consults his notes—“Mr. Denton’s inappropriate usage of the campaign’s credit card for personal use, substantial sums of money that are missing from the campaign coffers, and I’m told that Mr. Denton’s investment banking firm is also likely to be indicted for fraud because of a financial scheme that he was instrumental in perpetrating. First things first: didn’t he have permission to use the card?”
Patrick sighs heavily and nods his head. “Well, yes, he did, but certainly not for what he was spending money on. Shortly before resigning from the campaign, Reese admitted to using the campaign’s credit card to take his girlfriend to the Four Seasons spa; he did that three times. He bought her tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry, sent her flowers every week, and they went on weekend trips and to restaurants outside the Dallas area.” He swallows hard. “Expensive…restaurants.”
Mario prompts, “And, as far as you can tell, this began…?”
He sighs and chews his lip, then looks down at his folded hands, which are, incidentally, in the same spot that Dad’s calendar used to be. “It started in April, when Mr. Denton was in Austin for the Family Is the Foundation conference. The spending binge has continued since then. We’d questioned him about it, and up until now, he’d insisted that this had to be a mistake on the part of the credit card company. Our committee chose to keep this quiet, because we believed him. He’d never given us a reason not to trust him.” His eyes seem to darken, and his face turns red. He clenches his jaw and mutters, “I really don’t have anything else to say about this.”
The ca
mera shifts to Mario. “My source tells me that it’s possible that Reese Denton will be charged with the highest-grade felony because of the amount of money he stole to lavish on his mistress. Those spa trips add up to heartache for those who love and trusted him…and to much more than mere credit card abuse. Law enforcement agents have been in contact with Mr. Denton, and he is expected to turn himself in tomorrow morning. Back to you, Deborah.”
“Thanks, Mario. News Ten’s own Susie Harlan reached out to Mrs. Denton for a comment on this story, but she was unresponsive.” They show footage of Susie knocking on our door, tapping on our windows, and tromping through Mom’s flowerbeds. Deborah continues, “Late this evening, Susie tracked Reese Denton to the Northside Motor Lodge downtown, but he also declined to speak with her.”
Rachel and I lean forward and watch as our father shields his face with a newspaper. He springs from his car and runs awkwardly across the parking lot. A motel room door flies open and he disappears inside. A woman’s face appears in the window just before the curtains slide closed.
Rachel switches off the TV and buries her head in the pillow.
The next morning, I wake to Mom and Rachel arguing. I step to my door and press my ear against it.
Rachel yells, “No, I’m not! I’m not going now!”
“Yes, you are! You’re not giving up everything you’ve worked for, and that is my final word on the matter!”
Rachel wails, “I don’t want to go to Oregon now; don’t you understand? I’m not going to leave you! I’ve already made up my mind that I’ll call the scholarship office. Maybe they’ll give me a leave of absence or something; I—”
“Rachel, you’re not doing that. I want you to go to school. You have a place waiting for you, and that’s the one thing I can count on right now. At least I know you’ll have a roof over your head. I may not be able to afford a big enough place for the four of us.”
There’s silence; then Rachel chokes, “…What do you mean?…Aren’t you going to stay here?”
Mom snaps, “The F.B.I. has frozen our assets, Rachel. That means that we can’t get to any of our money, because your dad stole—I mean—they think that your dad stole from his investors and campaign backers.”
“But this isn’t your fault! You’re not the one who—who—” I can’t make out what Rachel is saying through her sobs, or what Mom is murmuring.
I flop back onto my bed and stare at the plastic stars above me. They’ve been stuck to the ceiling ever since I can remember, and now they’re so old that they don’t glow in the dark anymore. When I was younger, Dad would read me a story before bed; then we’d turn off the lights and play “Ask Me Anything.” I could ask him any question, and he’d give me an answer. I can’t think of even one time that he said, “I don’t know,” and I never questioned whether his answers were correct—or true. I believed everything he said.
I hear a car door slam. I spring off my bed and peek through the blinds. Brenda’s car is in the driveway, and the News Ten van just pulled in behind it.
I throw open my bedroom door and sprint to the entryway in time to see my mom with her hand on the doorknob.
“Mom! The reporter’s ba—”
She steps out onto the front porch, leaving the door wide open. Drew nearly knocks her over, wrapping herself around Mom’s body like a spider monkey. Drew’s face is all splotchy like she’s been crying, but she isn’t now.
Brenda squishes Drew when she hugs Mom. “I’m so sorry, Sonya. The girls were watching DVDs last night, so I hadn’t heard about this. If I’d had any idea, I wouldn’t have turned on the news this morning.”
Susie Harlan and her cameraman are jogging across the yard toward us, and I’m frozen in place on the porch in my Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas. Mom, Brenda, and Drew rush past me into the house.
Rachel digs her claws into my upper arm and pulls me backward. “Don’t just stand there, Colby!”
“We want your side of the story!” Susie calls. “What do you want to say about your father’s imminent arrest?”
Her cameraman trips on the edge of the sidewalk and knocks over the flowerpot that I painted for my Mom’s birthday when I was in fifth grade. It shatters. I yank my arm free of Rachel’s grasp and stomp toward Susie.
“Go away! Leave! We don’t have a side! We don’t know anything!” I fall to my knees and begin gathering up the flowerpot shards, trying to put them back together. I wail and scoop up the plants. I’m crying so hard, I don’t even notice my mom step around me.
Her voice is cold. “Stop filming my daughter. She is a minor child, and you do not have my permission to do it.” I fall back on my bottom and cover my face with my dirty hands. Snot’s running down my lips and off my chin, and I don’t even care. I’m sitting on the sidewalk in my Pooh-Bear pajamas, boohooing like a two-year-old.
“Stop tape, Bob,” Susie tells the cameraman. She speaks gently to Mom. “Mrs. Denton, the comments on News Ten’s Facebook page indicate absolute support for you—and outrage that your husband would commit adultery and steal from those who trusted him. This is your chance to be a voice for wronged women everywhere. Won’t you speak out on their behalf?”
Mom bends down and grasps my arm. I’m much too heavy to be lifted. Her voice is quiet and cold. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself. Get up and go in the house. Now.”
I want to—I really do—but I just shake my head and bawl harder. Mom tries in vain to pull me up; she even grips me under my arms, but I’m not budging. She sighs loudly, lets go of me, and steps away. Susie and the cameraman follow her toward their van.
Rachel’s narrow feet appear in front of mine, which are as wide as beaver tails. Her voice is flat. “Do you have any idea how stupid you look right now? It’s not bad enough that Dad did this; now you have to make us look like a freak show. If you don’t get your fat ass off this sidewalk right now, I’m going to turn the water hose on you.”
I wail, “Shut up, Rachel!”
Brenda’s soothing voice behind me: “Come on, sweetie. I’ll help you.” She steps around me and extends her hands.
I sob, “I’m…too big…you c-can’t lift me.” I roll onto my knees and accept Brenda’s help to find my balance. She puts her arm around me, and we start toward the house. “Wait!” I run back to the broken flowerpot and retrieve the pieces that would still form a heart with the word LOVE on it, if I hadn’t spilled that coffee on Dad’s calendar.
Chapter Five
An F.B.I. agent shows up at our house first thing Tuesday morning. He tells us that their investigation has revealed that our house was paid off with money that Dad stole from his investors, and we have two weeks to find somewhere else to live because they’re seizing our home.
Mom doesn’t flinch. In the past two days, she’s gone from being a curled-up, sobbing mess on the living room floor to having ramrod straight posture and tightly controlled emotions. And she’s completely put together—dramatic makeup and beauty pageant hair—from the time she comes out of her room in the morning until bedtime. Usually she doesn’t wear her poufy hairstyles when it’s just us. But who are we anymore, anyway?
That night, Dad’s on the news again. He’s been booked on charges of embezzlement and theft with intent to defraud, but they don’t keep him locked up. He walks out of jail holding hands with the brown-haired lady—Marcy—from the kissing photo. I guess that stealing from other people is okay with her, since she lets Dad “be who he is.”
Drew bursts into tears and runs from the room. Rachel starts texting. I think about the tub of chocolate chip cookie dough in the freezer and how I can get to it without anyone seeing me.
Mom unplugs the antenna cable so that the only thing the TV’s good for is watching DVDs. “I don’t want you watching the news. Period.” Then she goes to their bedroom and throws Dad’s stuff in trash bags. She doesn’t ask Rachel and me, but we get up and help her carry them to the garage. She tops the awkward pyramid of sacks with a mounted mallard duck that Dad shot a few
years ago, and tucks his tube of athlete’s foot cream under one of its wings.
Wednesday morning, we go to the U-Haul store, buy a shitload of cardboard boxes and strapping tape, and all of us start packing our things. It feels good to be busy, even though we don’t know where we’re going. I select my “Fuck You” songs playlist and listen to my iPod while I clean out my closet.
Drew squeals with delight when she opens the door Thursday afternoon to find our grandmother—my dad’s mom—standing on our porch in what I’ve come to think of as her “uniform”: long, dangly cross earrings; short, spiky red hair; perfectly applied makeup; chunky rhinestone cross necklace; oversized satiny blouse; black polyester slacks; and smelling of White Diamonds perfume. My sisters and I give her White Diamonds body powder every year for Christmas. I’ll bet that when she dies, she’ll be buried in that outfit, and they’ll embalm her in White Diamonds.
Mom looks stunned. “Carol? What are you doing here?”
Grandma holds her arms open, and Mom walks into them. For the first time since Sunday, she breaks down and weeps.
“Aw, honey, I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” Grandma’s deep Southern drawl, the way she stretches out each word, sounds like warm honey to my ears. She pulls back and picks a piece of lint off Mom’s shirt. “Sam wanted to come, too, but he’s just been elected president of the Chattahoochee chapter of Take Back Our Country!—and he’s knee-deep in planning a community prayer breakfast. Dale will be here tomorrow to help move Rachel to school.”
Rachel’s jaw drops. “Uncle Dale’s coming all the way here? You mean Dad’s not even going to move me out?” Her voice cracks. “Seriously?” She pulls her phone from her pocket. “That’s got to be wrong. I’m texting him.”
Big Fat Disaster Page 4
