Billy wondered what that would be like—to be capable of that kind of concentration.
At the third or fourth private school he’d been bounced out of, his parents finally took him to a shrink, who gave them the news that their son had ADHD—attention deficit hyperactive disorder. He’d read up on the symptoms on the Internet and concluded that this, finally, was the reason his head often felt like a pinball machine—with ringing bells, flashing lights, and a little metal ball that careened wildly in one direction and then the next.
Although he’d always loved music and had taught himself to play piano and guitar, the ADHD diagnosis became a gift, because it helped him recognize that music quieted the constant noise in his head.
Finally, he gave up trying to reach Scott and headed over to Shutters for dinner.
* * *
As soon as he walked into his mother’s kitchen he wished he hadn’t come. The tension between Evelyn and Riley was palpable.
“Where’s Maggy?” Evelyn asked.
“Upstairs. I’ve called her twice, and she says she isn’t hungry.”
“Well, she has to eat, or she’ll get sick.”
“I’m aware of that, Mama,” Riley said, rolling her eyes.
“Call her again and tell her Mimi said we’re having Janice Snider’s chocolate delight for dessert.”
“Is that the stuff with the layers of cookies and chocolate pudding and cream cheese and Cool Whip?” Billy asked. “I friggin’ love that stuff.”
“It’s Janice’s signature dish,” Evelyn replied. “And it’s Maggy’s favorite.”
“Mama!” Riley exclaimed. “You know she can’t have all that sugar.”
“Hush. A little taste or two won’t kill her.”
Riley stalked out of the room. Five minutes later she was back with Maggy in tow.
Maggy’s slight form was ensconced in a blue-and-white-pinstriped men’s dress shirt with a button-down collar, which hung down to her knees. Her hair was mussed and her face was set in an expression best described as mutinous.
“Good heavens, Margaret, what on earth are you wearing?” Evelyn asked.
“She found one of Wendell’s old shirts in the laundry room,” Riley said, taking her seat at the kitchen table.
“But why is she wearing it?” Evelyn asked. “Has she taken up finger painting?”
“Because I want to,” Maggy said. “It’s Daddy’s. It smells like him, and it reminds me of him. Is that okay with you?”
“Maggy!” Riley said.
“She was rude first,” Maggy said defiantly. She looked over at the CorningWare dish in the center of the table. “Is that dinner?”
Riley shot her daughter a warning look and spooned a small helping onto her plate.
“This happens to be Helen Meehan’s Chinese Chicken Surprise,” Evelyn said.
Billy took a gulp of the vodka tonic he’d toted along in his plastic tumbler and wished he’d thought to bring a refill. “And just exactly what does Helen know about Chinese cuisine? I didn’t know she’d ever been out of Baldwin County.”
“I think it’s called that because she tops it with chow mein noodles,” Evelyn explained. “All the girls in book club just love it.”
He took a taste and promptly got up and dumped the rest of his portion in the trash.
“And just what was wrong with that?” his mother demanded.
“I don’t know which is worse, the cream of mushroom soup, the water chestnuts, or the Velveeta cheese goop. Don’t your friends know how to make anything that doesn’t call for canned soup or imitation cheese product?”
“If Bebo doesn’t have to eat it, neither do I, right, Mom?” Maggy said, following suit.
Riley sniggered, which triggered an instant reaction from their mother.
“Fine!” Evelyn threw her napkin down on the table and glared at Riley. “You and your brother insult the delicious foods my friends have contributed out of the goodness of their hearts, in our time of bereavement. You make ugly comments, and then wonder why that child’s manners are so appalling? I really don’t know how I managed to raise two such ungrateful children. I hope you two are happy. I have lost my appetite, and now I have a screaming headache.”
She pushed away from the table and swept out of the room.
Billy took a gulp of his cocktail. “Was it something I said?”
“Partly. But mostly she’s just pissed at me.”
“You? What did you do?”
“Nothing, really,” Riley said. “Maggy, Mimi is right. It wasn’t nice of Bebo to make fun of Helen’s casserole, and it was rude of you to throw it away without even tasting it. Now you still have to eat something.”
“Peanut butter and jelly?” Maggy said hopefully.
“Only if you have some salad with it.” Riley got up and fixed the sandwich and put it on a plate along with a helping of tossed greens. At the last moment, she added a teaspoon of Janice Snider’s chocolate delight. “Why don’t you take that upstairs to your room? And if I were you, I would stop by your grandmother’s room and apologize.”
* * *
“Want a drink?” Billy asked, as soon as he was alone with his sister.
“God, yes,” Riley said. “What kind of wine do you suppose goes best with Cool Whip and instant chocolate pudding?”
“The only kind Evelyn Nolan buys. Cheap stuff. Allow me.”
He poured Riley a huge goblet of red wine, fetched two plates, and then plopped a mound of chocolate delight on each one.
Riley took a bite, licked her lips, and groaned. “I’d forgotten how amazing this stuff tastes.”
“Huge improvement over ersatz Chinese whatever,” Billy said. He leaned back in his chair. “Now, to get serious. What have you figured out about what was up with Wendell? I know things weren’t great with you and him. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Where do I start?” Riley asked.
* * *
Somehow, as his sister poured out her story, Billy managed to stay in control of his emotions. Maybe it was the massive amount of vodka he’d drunk, maybe it was the Valium he’d started taking again right after the discovery of his brother-in-law’s corpse.
“All of it?” he asked, when Riley told him about her trust fund.
“He left me some pocket change,” she said bitterly.
“And there’s no mistake?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been holding out hope that maybe he transferred the money into an account at Baldwin Community Bank. But they won’t tell me anything about Wendell’s accounts there, because of some stupid banking confidentiality laws.”
“But it’s your money. Daddy left it to you.”
“And he left Wendell in charge of it. But, supposedly, once I have the death certificate, they’ll unlock the keys to the vault. Until then, I’ll be sucking off Mama’s goodwill.”
“That’s gonna get old fast,” Billy predicted.
“It already has.”
“You haven’t told her yet about all the missing money?”
“No. I don’t want to say anything until I know everything. But, Bebo, I’m afraid to keep looking for fear of what else I might find. We were married for almost twenty years, and I had no idea Wendell was capable of something like this. How could he do this to me? And his daughter? I thought he loved us. I thought he was a good person.”
Billy was almost tempted to tell her the full extent of Wendell’s capabilities. But if he told her the truth about her husband, she’d know the truth about her brother. And that he could not bear.
26
It had been nearly three years now, but the memory of that night had never dimmed.
Billy had been sober for eleven long months. Every Wednesday that summer, he’d take the late-afternoon ferry to Southpoint, then drive over to the Methodist Church hall in Snead’s Ferry.
His AA sponsor was a black, tattooed ex-Marine named Calvin—an unlikely but surprisingly effective mentor for an effete New York jazz pianist l
ike Billy.
Calvin’s life—what he knew of it—fascinated Billy. Calvin usually listened more than he talked, but from snippets of information he’d gleaned, Billy knew his sponsor had seen combat duty in Afghanistan, and the inside of a prison. Prison was where Calvin had gotten sober.
He made a living as a sign painter, and he lived on the cheap, renting a tiny apartment above a Mexican restaurant in the downtown business district. Calvin’s driver’s license had long ago been revoked, so he got around town on foot or on a rusty beach cruiser, usually accompanied by his German shepherd, Heidi.
It was late August, a Tuesday. Scott hadn’t been down that week, and Billy was lonely and restless, which was a dangerous combination for a recovering drunk. He took the afternoon ferry to town, picked up the battered, maroon Delta 88 he kept in the marina parking lot to run errands and, like he’d done hundreds of times before, set off for the Harris Teeter.
He was in the produce department when he spotted a display table heaped high with limes. Limes.
Only a lifelong drunk would see limes, abandon his cart, head directly for the checkout, and then make a beeline to the nearest liquor store for a fifth of Grey Goose and a liter of tonic water. He bought a bag of ice at a convenience store, along with a sleeve of plastic cups and a cheap knife, and poured himself that first drink. The first in nearly a year.
He drove around the countryside with the Olds’s windows rolled down, a John Coltrane CD playing at top volume, sipping and savoring life. He felt so fine he couldn’t remember why he’d ever wanted to quit drinking. It was nearing dusk when he tipped the last of the tonic water into his cup and was suddenly struck with the reality of what he’d just done. The tonic water was gone and so was his hard-won sobriety. The half-empty bottle of Grey Goose was rolling around on the passenger-side floorboard. And then it came to him. The hangovers, the blackouts, the shame, the ruined relationships, the self-hate, all of the damage his drinking had done.
Without hesitating, he dialed Cal. “I fucked up,” Billy cried, when his sponsor answered.
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ten miles out of town?” He’d stared out the window, searching for a landmark, but all he saw were more farm fields.
“Did you take a drink?”
“Yeah. I’m such a fuckup.”
“It’s called a relapse, man. It happens,” Cal said calmly. “What triggered it?”
“I don’t know. Scott’s not here. I’m bored, I’m lonely. I saw limes at the store, and all I could think about was how good a drink would taste. I’ll tell you what else. I’m fucking tired of being sober. It’s too damn hard.”
“Yeah, man. It is hard. That’s the point. You been livin’ on that pink cloud. You got complacent, let down your guard.”
“If Scott finds out, he’ll leave me,” Billy sobbed.
“This ain’t about Scott loving you. It’s about you loving you, Billy. I think we need to meet, bro.”
“Can’t we just talk like this?”
“I don’t think so. Is it safe for you to drive?”
“Yeah. I haven’t had all that much. Just a couple of stiff ones.”
“That’s a lot,” Cal said sharply. “You need to get out from behind the wheel before you do something bad.”
“I’ve already done something bad,” Billy said. “Anyway, I’m way out in bumfuck Egypt.”
“Come over to my place,” Cal repeated. “I’ll make you some coffee and get you sobered up.”
* * *
Billy sat in his car in the alley behind the Mexican restaurant, with the car’s engine running, staring up at the single light burning in the second-floor window. He sighed and poured vodka up to the rim of his plastic cup. Most of the ice cubes had melted, and the tonic water was gone. He took a sip, sucked on the lime slice, and tried to gather the courage to get out of the car and face the music.
Five minutes later his cell phone rang.
“I see you sitting down there in your car,” Cal said. “Come on up. The coffee’s on.”
“Forget it. This is a waste of time.” Billy started the car.
“No!” Cal yelled. “Don’t go. I’m coming down.”
A minute later his sponsor scrambled down the steel staircase, with Heidi following on his heels. Cal was barefoot, dressed in raggedy jeans and a paint-spattered T-shirt. He reached in the open window and made a grab for the keys.
Billy batted his hand away. “I’m gone, man.” He threw the car into Reverse and started to back out.
“The hell you are.” Cal ran around and yanked the passenger’s-side door open, sliding into the seat. The dog barked and dove onto his lap.
“Get out,” Billy said plaintively. “I can’t do this. Just get out, okay?” He was slowly backing the car out.
“I’m staying right where I’m at,” Cal said stubbornly. “You can do it. You’ve got almost a year sober. You know how many guys quit before they do that? A lot. Most don’t make it as far as you have.”
The dog scrambled into the backseat with one sharp bark.
“And this is where I quit,” Billy said, lifting the cup to his lips.
Cal snatched the cup from his hand, spilling vodka and ice cubes all over himself and the floorboards.
“Jesus! Look what you did.”
“Good riddance,” Cal said, tossing the cup out the window. “You don’t need that shit anymore, Billy.”
“That’s what you think.” Billy put the car in Drive and looked over at his sponsor. “Get out, Cal. I mean it.”
“I’m not leaving this car,” Cal said.
“Suit yourself.” Billy floored the accelerator and the car blasted out of the alley and onto Main Street. A few minutes later he was back on the county road, doing seventy miles an hour. The wind whipped through the open windows and the fields and farmhouses became a blur.
“Slow the fuck down,” Cal commanded.
Billy sped up to eighty.
Cal crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you think you’re doing, brother?”
“I’m out of tonic water. And ice,” Billy replied. “I will drink straight vodka, if I have to, but everything’s nice with ice, don’t you think?”
Cal didn’t take the bait. “You say you’re afraid Scott will leave you if he finds out you’re drinking again. Is that what you want?”
“I’m not talking about this,” Billy said. “And leave Scott out of it.”
“Okay, I’ll do the talking. You fucked up, yeah. But you don’t have to keep drinking. You can save your sobriety. Save yourself,” Cal said urgently.
“Maybe I don’t want to be saved,” Billy said. “I suck at sobriety. But I am great at being a drunk. It’s the one thing I’m good at. Like playing the piano. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve been a practicing drunk my whole life.” He shoved the CD back in the player and turned the volume as high as it would go, drowning out Cal’s reasoning and his sanity.
Cal reached into the cup holder and grabbed Billy’s cell phone. He scrolled through the numbers, nodded, and held the phone up for Billy to see.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m calling Scott. Maybe he can talk some sense into you.” Cal’s finger was poised on the screen.
“No!” Billy grabbed for the phone, but Cal jerked sideways. The next thing Billy knew, the Olds veered off the road and onto the shoulder. A massive oak tree loomed in his headlights. He slammed on the brakes. Too late.
* * *
The first thing he heard when he regained consciousness was a soft whimpering. With effort, he looked over to check on his passenger. But Cal was gone. Billy’s view was obscured by what looked like a tree limb, and what he could see of the seat was covered with bark and leaves and bits of sparkly glass pebbles. He felt a warm liquid trickle down his cheek, reached up to touch it and stared at the blood covering his fingertip. His head felt as though it had been pummeled with a sledgehammer. He passed out again.
He had no idea whether minutes or hours passed before he came to again, but he was cold, his head throbbed, and there was a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. He moved slightly and cried out in pain. He gritted his teeth, and with supreme effort managed to wrench open the heavy car door. He pulled himself out of the vehicle and propped himself up on the open door.
Moonlight spilled onto the crumpled hood of the Olds. Now he heard the whimpering again. He staggered toward the source of the sound. Heidi, the German shepherd, was crouched down on the grass, her muzzle pressed close to the motionless head of her master.
Billy stood for a moment, rooted to the spot. “Cal!” he cried, rushing to his friend’s side. He knelt down in the heat-seared grass and, with a trembling hand, gingerly touched Cal’s neck, feeling for a pulse. The dog whined, a high-pitched keening sound that chilled Billy’s soul. She nudged repeatedly at Cal’s shoulder with her snout.
Billy stroked her fur, and she turned her head slightly, looked up at him with deep, liquid eyes, hesitated, and then licked his hand. “He’s gone, girl,” Billy said softly. “He’s gone.”
* * *
His phone rang. The sound was muffled, and he was still disoriented. He walked in circles until he found it where it had landed on impact, a few yards from the car. He picked it up and saw that the missed call was from Scott.
“Oh, God,” he moaned.
He would never forgive himself for what happened next. Billy started walking. He didn’t look back, didn’t allow himself to think about Cal. Cal was dead. And Billy was alive. He had to get away. His panic rose with each step that carried him away from the accident site. And it was an accident, he told himself. He kept to the side of the road, darting into the underbrush to hide each time he saw the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.
When he was well away, he took out his phone and called the only person he knew who wouldn’t ask questions, wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t lecture. He called Wendell Griggs and told him the truth. Or a version of the truth. It didn’t really matter, because Wendell would eventually figure out his own truth.
The Weekenders Page 18
