Push

by Claire Wallis

  “Thanks for fixing my window,” I say as I sit down next to him and reach for the can.

  “Yep.” Then, after a few seconds, he asks, “When did you do that?”

  “Right after I saw Michael’s number on your phone. I wasn’t snooping, David. I went to call the Chinese place, and the number was right there.”

  “Oh.”

  “But after I threw the box out the window, I did snoop. I scrolled through your call log, and I saw that you called Michael before. And Ricky. The day that you took me to poker with you. And I just lost it. My mind was racing with reasons why you would call them, and I couldn’t rein myself in.” As soon as I mention David’s previous calls to Michael and Ricky, his face changes. His eyes start searching the room as his hand rubs his chin. It’s as if he is scrambling for the right thing to say. He closes his eyes and tilts back his head. A few seconds pass before he flips his head back down and looks at me again.

  “I’m going to tell you why I called them, Emma, but I need you to promise me something first,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Promise me you won’t freak out until you listen to everything that I have to say. Don’t fly off like you did last night. Okay? Can you promise me that?”

  “Yes,” I say. My ears feel hot, and a boatload of anxiety sits on my chest like an enormous fucking anvil. David shifts in his seat and rests his elbow on the back of the sofa. His eyes look ignited.

  “The moment I saw you sitting on the floor holding your dad’s cut-up dog tags I knew I had to do something about Michael. I went from being so fucking happy that you had just agreed to be my girlfriend, to a seething, bitter mess over that man and his motherfucking stunt. And then, hearing you tell me all the things that Michael did to you—it made me want to hunt him down. You spent your whole life on some kind of roller coaster, and I wanted to make it stop. I told him to stay the fuck away from you, and he didn’t. And so, while you slept that night and worked the next day, I found a way to punish him.”

  “Jesus, David. What did you do?” I say quietly.

  “I looked at the boxes in your closet, and I copied down his name and address. I went online to find out about him. And that’s when I saw an article about TruTimber Imports and the trial. I called Michael up and pretended to be from a collection agency. I told him that I was looking for his stepson, Richard Searfoss, and that this was the most recent number the agency had for him. He gave me Ricky’s cell number without so much as a second thought. And then I called Ricky.” David shrugs. He looks as if he wants to stop talking. As if I am not going to like what he has to say next.

  “I made up a bullshit story. I told Ricky that I was involved in his stepfather’s illicit business dealings and that he and I had something in common—we both stood to benefit greatly if Michael was no longer in the picture. I said that if word got out about my dealings with the company, it would cause my family a lot of embarrassment and probably incite criminal charges against me. Ricky asked me what all of this had to do with him and why he should even care. I told him that if Michael was removed from the equation, he and his siblings would inherit a whole lot of money, but if Michael’s case were to go to trial, I would be exposed, and if he was found guilty, there would be nothing left for his stepchildren to inherit.”

  “What did you do, David?” I am starting to feel sick to my stomach.

  “I told Ricky that I would pay him to get rid of Michael, either by doing it himself or by hiring someone.” There is a complete lack of remorse on David’s face.

  “What?” There is panic in my voice.

  “He asked me why I came to him instead of just hiring someone else. I told him that he was my insurance policy simply because he had the most to gain from Michael’s death. If the crime was traced back to Ricky, he would never see his inheritance, so, essentially, it was my way of ensuring that it would be done cleanly and anonymously. If Ricky made a mistake, he would lose everything—but if he did it right, he would be set for a long, long time. Paying him to get rid of his stepfather made perfect sense.”

  “Are you fucking crazy?” I shout at him, my panic morphing into a full-blown conniption. “I understand wanting to protect me, David, but what the fuck were you thinking? What if this comes back to you? And me? What if the police find out about all this? Jesus Christ.”

  “You promised,” he says softly. “You promised that you wouldn’t freak out. I’m telling you the truth, and I’m not finished.”

  “Yeah, well, I had no idea it was going to be this fucking messed up when I made that promise.” I slouch back on the couch and cross my arms over my chest. I can’t even look at him.

  “Please. Just let me finish.”

  “Fine,” I snap at him, “but you are completely out of your mind.”

  “I know that’s what you think, Emma, and I probably am, but then something happened that I didn’t expect. Ricky told me that he had to think about it. He said he wanted to see if he could access Michael’s will. He needed to make sure you three would actually be the ones to inherit all of Michael’s money. He said he would let me know by Monday night.” David runs his hand through his hair and then drops it back down on to the arm of the couch. “But then we came back here on Monday, and that letter was in your mailbox. Evan had beaten us to it, taken Michael down with a baseball bat the day after I made my offer to Ricky. Only at that point no one knew it was Evan. But I knew that Ricky wouldn’t have gone through with the plan unless he had his money first. I had no clue what the fuck was happening, and I don’t think Ricky did either.”

  “So then, you had nothing to do with Michael’s death? You didn’t end up paying Ricky to do anything?” I ask.

  “Well, not exactly. It turns out that Ricky is smarter than I thought.” His eyebrows raise, and his mouth presses shut.

  “How? What happened?”

  “He showed up here on Tuesday morning.”

  “What?” I snap. “Ricky was here last week?” My mind is racing, and my eyes are darting around the room. “He must have found my address at Michael’s house. Fuck. Why would he come to see me?” I am blabbering now, thinking out loud.

  “Actually, he wasn’t looking for you. He was looking for me. He used my cell number to find me. I came back home after dropping you off at work, and Ricky was sitting on the steps of the building.”

  I give him a what-the-fuck-were-you-thinking face.

  “I know,” he says quietly. “It was stupid of me to use my cell phone. It wasn’t my finest moment. I don’t make mistakes like that, Emma. Ever. I was just so desperate to fix this. To get Michael out of your life. And I had a very small time frame in which to do it.”

  “Jesus.” I am disgusted with all of it.

  He takes a deep breath and continues.

  “Ricky had no idea who beat Michael in that parking garage but said it had nothing to do with him. He assumed I found someone else to take care of it, but I assured him that that was not the case. Then he told me he wanted forty grand to keep his mouth shut about our potential arrangement.”

  “What?”

  “I told him he was fucking nuts. And then he smiled at me, and I knew instantly that he knew more than he was letting on.” David stops and takes another deep breath. He rests his elbows on his knees and his head is in his hands, looking at the floor. “Ricky said he knew that I had no involvement with TruTimber Imports and that I was trying to get rid of Michael for a very different reason. He said he came here wanting twenty grand to keep his mouth shut, but then he saw you and me get into my car together that morning. Everything clicked, and when he realized why I really wanted Michael gone, he decided to double his money. You said your brothers were assholes, Emma, but I had no idea.”

  “That fucking cocksucker.” I stand up and start pacing the living room.

  “I told him that you didn’t know anything about all this and that if he ever so much as looked at you again, I would take him down. I was so fucking pissed off at myself for underestim
ating him, and I needed it all to go away, Emma, and so I told him that I would get him the money.”

  “Was he here when I called him on Tuesday night to confirm that Michael was really dead?” I am repulsed by the thought of Ricky being so close to me. And with the idea that David was the one who made it happen.

  “Yeah,” he says, looking intensely ashamed. “And he was upstairs on Wednesday night when you came home from work.” He flinches when he says it because he knows what is about to happen.

  I stop pacing and turn toward David. “He was in your apartment? Jesus fucking Christ, David! Is that why you were counting that money? To give it to Ricky?” I press my fingers into my eyes. I am boiling with anger. I pull my hands away from my hot skin and stab my finger at him as I talk. “You mean while we were down here fucking on my couch, my motherfucking brother was upstairs in your apartment waiting for you to pay him off?” I didn’t think it was possible for me to be as angry with David as I was yesterday, but right now, I am about to explode.

  “Brad and a couple of other guys were up there with him. Ricky left with twenty grand that night. And then on Saturday night, when he called to tell you about Evan’s involvement, I knew it was really meant as a reminder to me. A reminder that I still owed him money and that he was still in control. That’s why I made that phone call to Michael’s house after you fell asleep. Ricky is living there now, and I called to tell him to leave you the fuck alone and to find out where and when he wanted me to deliver the rest of the money. He insisted I take it to him that night. He was worried that by Sunday morning, the cops would be all over him because they had just arrested Evan. I left to take him the money right after he and I hung up, knowing that I wouldn’t be here when you woke up.” He pauses for a second and draws in a long, steady breath. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

  “You’ll be even more sorry when Ricky comes back asking for more money. Because he will do that, you know. He’ll be back for more.” I am livid, and my voice is crackling with sarcasm aimed right at David’s stupidity.

  “No, he won’t. I made it completely clear to him that if he ever contacts you or me again, I will shoot him in the goddamned head.” He says it with so much force that I can’t help but believe him.

  I am furious that David did all this behind my back and that he let my dickhead of a brother blackmail him out of forty grand. How could he be so stupid?

  “You were never going to tell me about this, were you?” I say bitterly.

  “No. I didn’t want you involved. I should have deleted those phone calls, and I am mad as hell at myself for not. But I did all of it to protect you, Emma. And I would do it again.”

  I sit down at one of the chairs around my little table. We are quiet for a long time.

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this last night when I asked you?” I sound calmer now, even though inside I am still seething.

  “Because I needed time to think,” he answers.

  “You were going to lie to me about it, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, but again, I was only trying to protect you. But then tonight, when you mentioned the earlier phone calls, I knew you wouldn’t settle for the lie I had conjured to cover my ass.”

  “I want you to leave now, David. I want you to go home.”

  I watch his chest fill up with air. When he exhales, his head snaps around, and his eyes meet mine. His face looks worn. He stares at me for a few minutes without moving.

  “I mean it, David,” I say. “I need some time to think about this. Just give me till Wednesday. You have poker tomorrow night anyway.” His expression drops even farther, and his eyes close for a brief second. “Just let me breathe, David. Give me till Wednesday. Please,” I add.

  “Okay,” he says, standing up and wiping his palms down the front of his thighs. “But all this is over, Emma. I just wanted you to stop hurting.” He walks to the door and puts his hand on the knob. “Call me if you need anything, and I’ll be here in a heartbeat. You know that.”

  Part of me doesn’t want him to go. Part of me wants to say thank you and tell him that what he did was the craziest and most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me. But the rest of me is angry that he risked so much to get Michael out of my life.

  “Can I pay you back for the new window?” I ask as he is walking out the door.

  “No fucking way,” he says. And then the door closes quietly behind him.

  * * *

  By the next morning I feel better. After David left last night, I tried hard not to think about the whole situation. I tried to distract myself by making a decent dinner, ironing some work clothes, and paying some bills. It worked until I went to sleep. It was then that thoughts of David’s idiocy rocketed around in my head. What a fool he was to use his own cell phone to make those calls. I’m left hoping that Evan’s confession will be enough to keep the police from digging further into Michael’s death. Even though David wasn’t involved in Evan’s eventual attack, he could still go to jail for merely discussing the idea with Ricky. It terrifies me to know that the only thing stopping Ricky from taking the details of David’s offer straight to the police is a threat from David. I hope it’s a big enough reason for Ricky to keep his fucking mouth shut.

  I spend Tuesday morning at work trying once again to distract myself. But no matter how deeply I immerse myself in my design work, my thoughts continue to drip back to David and last night. I won’t see him all day, and I’m left wondering if I’ll wake up tomorrow morning with him in my bed, smelling of whisky and smoke and money.

  Just before I leave my desk for lunch, Matt peeks his head around the corner of my cubicle. He was in meetings all morning, so it’s the first time I’ve seen him all day.

  “Hey, Emma,” he says, looking guarded. “Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to ask you if everything is okay. Did you and David manage to figure everything out last night?”

  “Yeah, we’re okay,” I say, trying to muster a small smile. He doesn’t look convinced.

  “Okay, well, I know it’s none of my business, but I just got a text from David asking me to check in on you and make sure you’re all right. It made me wonder why he just didn’t text you directly.”

  I sigh and roll my eyes. “He thinks I’m still mad at him. Which I am. But don’t worry about it. I’m not nearly as angry as I was yesterday, and it’s not for the same reason. I asked him to give me some space for a day or two.”

  “Okay. Hey, at least he’s doing what you asked,” he says with understanding. “I’ll text him to let him know you’re all right.”

  “No, don’t,” I say. “I’ll text him myself. I didn’t think he’d be worried.”

  Matt nods and puts his hands into his pockets. “So, does that mean I’ll see you at the game tonight?”

  “Nah,” I say. “I don’t think so.”

  “Can I at least convince you to join me and Brent for lunch in the cafeteria?”

  “Sure,” I say, standing up to grab my purse. “I’ll be down in a second. Let me text David first.” Matt heads down the hallway, calling for Brent as he passes his cubicle.

  I flip open my phone.

  Hi.

  His reply is instantaneous.

  Hi back.

  Wanted to let u know I’m ok. Matt said u asked.

  Douche bag wasn’t supposed to say anything to u.

  Well he did.

  Glad u r ok.

  Yep.

  Will you come tonight?

  I don’t think so.

  Do you hate me?

  His words hit me hard. I think he made a really fucking bad choice, but I don’t hate him for it.

  It’s lying I hate. Not u. Don’t do it again.

  I won’t.

  Good.

  Two minutes pass with no reply, so I flip my phone closed and head to the cafeteria. On my way it buzzes with a new message.

  I would do it again, though, if it meant u were safe.

  I know. Because u r insane.

  Like an outta
control circus freak.

  I smile at his duplication of my own texted words of reassurance from yesterday afternoon. When I read it, I know that we are going to be all right. I know because each of us consists of half lunacy and half absurdity—and neither one of us is fit to be with anyone else.

  Two of the same.

  After I press send, I enter the cafeteria to let Matt know that everything is just fine.

  * * *

  At the end of the work day, I head home and make myself dinner. I finish washing the dishes and watch some television. I put my feet up on the coffee table and lay back into the sofa. In one hand, I have the remote. And in the other, a big glass of white wine. It is sweet and crisp and the perfect Tuesday night companion. I am watching an old episode of The Big Bang Theory and laughing at Sheldon as he swims around in a ball pit organizing the colored balls into molecules. Then there is a knock on my apartment door.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Emma—Age 18

  I sit in the pew behind Michael looking at how all the small, dark hairs on the nape of his neck are standing on end. His back and shoulders are rigid, and he keeps lifting his white handkerchief to swipe at his face. He is not crying. He is sweating. The minister looks over at Michael from his place on the pulpit every time the handkerchief rises up to meet Michael’s brow. I can’t help but think of how much the motion suggests surrender, raising the white flag. It isn’t surrender, though; of that I am sure. It is nothing more than a repulsive, greasy man trying to wipe the slate clean. Trying to wipe away his rotten conscience. Trying to erase my mother. He knows that he’s the reason she’s up there in that casket. We all know it. And yet no one is saying a word. We are all just sitting here, half listening to the minister and thinking to ourselves about how my mother would have never gotten into that car to drive to the airport if Michael hadn’t made her. If Michael had done what he was supposed to do. If he had put his own vile self into that Cadillac instead of sending her. He should be the one in the casket. Not my mother.