Godsend

by Barry Knister

  Rivera drank. The soda was bitter, flavored with herbs. It was the sort of thing Stuckey liked. He was a vegetarian and believed eating meat was backward. People who were hip to the ecosystem knew better, he claimed. They were people like himself who respected the biosphere and didn’t use aerosols.

  Rivera pulled out one of the table’s wicker chairs and sat. Stuckey sat opposite. He put his bottle on the table and turned it.

  “Do you like this job, Dennis?” Looking up from the bottle, Stuckey nodded gravely. “What is it now, three months?”

  “Fourteen weeks.”

  “How much did you clear this month?”

  “Don’t know, bro. Serious bread. It’s good. Nice people, great weather.” He looked around. “This crib.”

  “Do you know what you have to do to keep your job?”

  “Sure.” Stuckey turned back, acting serious. “Take care of business. Stay focused like you say. Don’t fuck up. Call before I do anything, like today.”

  “Good. And what you have to do right now is bring me what you took today.”

  Stuckey creaked back in his wicker chair. He wanted to protest but was unable to think of anything. “It’s just little shit,” he said finally. “Like a keepsake. Something to remember Mr. Ivy by.”

  Rivera looked to the kitchen cabinets and back. Stuckey sighed. He got up and went over to them, opened one and came back with a paper shopping bag. He’s just like a kid, Rivera thought. Once he was caught, Stuckey would always give it up. He opened the bag and turned it over. Loose bills dropped out, women’s costume jewelry, a Masonic lodge ring with small diamonds, a man’s watch. Lastly, Chester Ivy’s wedding ring clattered on the table, too large for him to wear for many years.

  “Maestro, look,” Stuckey said. “From that time with the Nesbitts, I thought—”

  “I made a mistake with the Nesbitts. I let you get away with it, so now you think you can take things without telling me. Get me a kitchen knife.”

  Stuckey dropped the empty bag and stepped back to the kitchen counter. He rattled cutlery in the dish rack and came back with a paring knife. Rivera took it and picked up the watch. It wasn’t a Rolex or a Piaget, but it was a good one. From the weight he knew it was real gold. He began cutting along the rib of leather where the band was attached.

  “Have a seat.” Stuckey again sat opposite. The strap fell off, and Rivera started on the other half.

  “I’m not mad you took this,” he said. “You do things for people. Help them go to the toilet, get out of bed. And I know the pay isn’t great. What’s going to keep people in this line if there isn’t a little something else? A little profit-sharing? I understand, Dennis. I started out just like you. Even lower. I washed dishes at a hotel, then I cleaned toilets. Scraped out garbage cans on a cruise ship. Then landscaping. Trimming hedges, spreading mulch. You don’t know what real work is until you dig drainage ditches in this climate. In the summer.”

  “Not me, man.” Stuckey watched the knife. “It’s not part of my work-study plan.”

  “No, you wouldn’t be good at it. Okay—”

  Rivera finished cutting off the watchband. He held the timepiece between his thumb and forefinger. “You have a little money you found. Maybe a hundred dollars Mr. Ivy put in a drawer and forgot. The jewelry isn’t valuable. The rings you could pawn for maybe fifty dollars. But you can never be sure, Dennis. When the family shows up, sometimes they know where everything is. If something is missing, you can have trouble. With Ivy it’s not a problem. The son kept him down here to get him out of the way. He stopped thinking about his father a long time ago. But you don’t know that. Are you listening to me?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “What I’m saying, Dennis, is always tell me first. Every time, no exceptions. You pick out what you want and show it to me before the family comes. Not some of it, all of it. I put it someplace safe, in case they ask. ‘Where’s my father’s watch? What happened to my grandmother’s amber necklace?’ I go get it for them. I tell them I had it stored for safe keeping. You know how they react? They’re grateful. They tell others, and All Hands on Deck gets more clients.”

  Stuckey looked up from the watch and nodded solemnly. “I get it.”

  “Good. Now this—” Rivera wagged the watch “—is worth more. Maybe a thousand or fifteen hundred. Do you want it?”

  “I was pretty sure—”

  “Do you want this watch, Dennis?”

  “I want the watch.”

  “And you want the job.”

  “Hey, look, I get what you say. I tell you every time. I show you—”

  “Do you want this job?”

  Knowing something was coming, Stuckey took a breath and faced away. He looked back at Rivera. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “This is good for me, I want the job.”

  “Good. This is a test to prove to me you mean it. You see I took off the band.”

  “So you can weigh it?” Stuckey looked up again from the watch. “They buy just the watch part, I get it.”

  “I cut off the band because it’s leather,” Rivera said. “Meat. I respect your beliefs and values. You’re a vegetarian. If you want to stay with All Hands on Deck, you have to eat this watch. But I don’t want to make you do something against your values.”

  Stuckey stared at him. “Eat the watch.”

  “You get to keep it, and the money and rings. But you have to swallow the watch in front of me. Right now. You can eat it with tofu if that’s better for you, I don’t care. You eat a high-fiber diet, you should pass it pretty soon. There’s no battery in this one, and it’s real gold, it won’t hurt you. That’s what you have to do.”

  “Swallow a fucking watch—”

  “Yes or no, right now.”

  Stuckey looked around the small house and back to the money on the table. Once he was home, he had put on his earring. It was probably one of the diamond studs he had taken from Mrs. Nesbitt’s jewelry case two weeks ago. He touched it now, thinking, then grabbed the watch from Rivera.

  “What time is it?” Rivera asked.

  “Huh?”

  “On the watch. What time is it?”

  Stuckey looked. “Ten to ten.”

  “That’s your lucky number, Dennis. Double tens.”

  Very quickly Stuckey put the watch in his mouth. He worked with his tongue to position it, got the bottle of soda and filled his mouth. Looking at Rivera, he threw his head back and swallowed. He sat forward, alarmed, following the watch’s progress down.

  Rivera stood. “I’ll let you get back to your dinner.” Stuckey was still assessing the change in his condition. “Time is money, Dennis,” he said. “Ever hear that expression? I got it from Dale Burlson. We’re going fishing tomorrow.”

  Saturday

  8:50 a.m.

  Up before sunrise, Brenda had taken a walk to the gatehouse. Snowy egrets ignored her as they slow-marched along the edge of a pond. On the pond’s bank, a pair of Muscovy ducks still slumbered side by side, heads tucked.

  Once back at the villa, she had made coffee and showered. Now, she was set up with her laptop on the patio table. She connected to Mrs. Krause’s internet account. It loaded, and she went to Google Search. She typed “All Hands on Deck” in the address bar and sat back. The menu appeared. A savings-and-loan, a porn site (“All Hands on Dick”), a mortgage firm, a marine supply company… There it was, “All Hands on Deck Services.” She clicked the link.

  The home page displayed a white van parked lengthwise to show the name. On either end stood two smiling men. All four were dressed in white with arms folded, but James Rivera was not one of them.

  Home / About Us / Our Services / Those Who Rely on Us / Contact

  Brenda clicked About Us.

  Two years ago, Ray Colon and his cousin James started All Hands on Deck, a multi-faceted niche company providing a broad range of services for senior citizens and their families.

  In typical marketing jargon, the text told an upbeat story of hardworking
men fulfilling a dream. She read about Ray and James’s early years in Boca Raton, followed by their move to Naples.

  Through commitment, dedication to service and hard work, the two cousins set out to be All Hands on Deck for their clients. Like crew members on a ship, their mission is to come to the aid of senior citizens who need help with basic home repairs, personal hygiene, supervision, transportation, etc.

  A good web designer had developed the site, but the message sounded just like Rivera. Niche—that had to be him. More interesting was the emphasis on Ray as the head of All Hands on Deck, not James Rivera.

  She clicked on Those Who Rely on Us. “Here is a sample of comments from some of our clients.”

  She scanned down the photos. Some showed an elderly person alone; others presented smiling family members gathered around an old man or woman. Each photo came with a quote: “They are a godsend, we highly recommend All Hands on Deck,” “Your search is over, All Hands on Deck will take good care of your mom and dad,” “With the help of All Hands, I can stay in my own home,” “I count myself blessed to have picked up the phone…”

  Brenda ran a finger down the list. Dunlap, Frieslander, Gromby, Ivy—the webmaster hadn’t yet deleted him. Jollard, Lerner, Nesbitt… Brenda scrolled back and studied Chester Ivy. Frail and stoop-shouldered, the old man was wearing red swim trunks. He and a white-clad attendant stood facing out, waving for the camera. The photographer had taken the shot from the golf course.

  She remembered the security guard at the Donegal entrance. Hey, Jim. Do you know yet about Chester Ivy? Then, a few hours later, the two couples eating dinner at the club. Maybe the husband’s comment was why it felt wrong to her—I say he dropped the ball. As Rivera drove her and Sweeney, an All Hands client had died. Rivera had found out while taking her to Donegal, the same club where the old man died. But Rivera had said nothing.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m gonna do it anyway.”

  She looked up from her laptop.

  “Over here.”

  On her right, a woman was peering down from the privacy wall between the two villas. “I’m not in the NBA,” she said. “I’m on a chair.”

  “Good morning,” Brenda said. “Please bother away.”

  As the head disappeared, Brenda closed her laptop. Damn. She didn’t want company, but the woman was now passing outside, along the back of the screened cage.

  “I know it’s pushy, but there it is, I’m pushy.” She laughed.

  Brenda moved to the screened door and held it open. The woman stepped in, balancing a plate of fresh fruit. She put out her hand. “Rayette Peticore.”

  “Brenda Contay.” They shook.

  “Is Contay French? I’m told Peticore’s French for small body.” The woman laughed again. “Not all that far back it was true, then something happened.”

  “My father was French Canadian. Please—”

  She stepped aside, and the woman crossed with the platter. In her forties, she was medium height and deeply tanned, her bleached yellow hair drawn back in a ponytail. She wore flip flops, and tennis shorts that showed her legs to good advantage. Tied at the waist, a blue gauze shirt emphasized what appeared to be breasts with implants.

  The woman set the plate next to the laptop. She turned and smiled. “This is mostly to give me a reason for horning in,” she said. “But it’s fresh.”

  “There’s no entry fee here for horning in.” Resigned to being social, Brenda smiled. “It looks great,” she said. “Are you a coffee drinker?”

  “Drink it, snort it, shoot it up.”

  She followed Brenda inside. “Yeah—” She stopped in the living room and looked up. “I remember she got some new fans.” Curious now, Brenda stepped into the kitchen. “She has nice taste,” Rayette said. “My place isn’t exactly trailer-park tacky, but it’s definitely time for a fashion makeover.”

  “That means we have something in common,” Brenda said.

  “How so?”

  She got a second mug from the cupboard, and two small plates. “You know Marion Ross?”

  “Sure do. The lawyer daughter.”

  Brenda handed the plates to Rayette before getting the coffee carafe. “I’m a journalist, and I wrote a piece about Marion,” Brenda said. “That’s how we became friends. Marion claims my decorating dates from the Stone Age. She’s pretty much right. Trailer-park tacky would stack up well in comparison.”

  She led the way back out, and they sat at the table. Brenda poured coffee as Rayette peeled back plastic wrap on the fruit. “It’s just another day to you, but this weather is doing me serious good,” Brenda said.

  It wasn’t true. She didn’t give a damn about the weather.

  “I’m glad it’s nice for you,” Rayette said. “But we get bad days here.” She balled up the plastic and sipped her coffee. Nodded approval. “Last month? Cold, and I mean cold. All the flowers were under wraps. The nurseries lost a bundle.”

  Brenda took a slice of cantaloupe and ate. “Delicious.” But it was too sweet, and she never ate before noon.

  “Yeah—” Rayette popped in a piece of pineapple and chewed. She shook her head. “But it doesn’t seem right to enjoy something right now,” she said. “I was home when your ride dropped you off yesterday. You know, spying through the blinds. I saw Pat Sweeney with you.”

  Here we go, Brenda thought. Now would come local gossip about the smiling lobbyist. She studied Rayette Peticore and remembered Sweeney’s missing wedding band. Still pretty, Rayette was now paying the price for life in the sun. Her deep tan both helped to conceal and emphasize weathered skin. But with or without breast implants, Rayette was someone Brenda could easily see Patrick Sweeney charming all the way through Happy Hour, into next morning.

  “I knew his wife,” Rayette said, and picked up a slice of honeydew. “We played scramble golf tournaments together. Last fall, she killed herself.”

  On the drive to Naples, Sweeney’s whole aspect had changed. He had seemed a different man—and Brenda remembered the toys on his driveway.

  “Do you know why she did it?”

  “No,” Rayette said. “I don’t think anyone down here does. Such a really nice woman. She was pretty, she loved her man and her daughter. Her grandchildren. She enjoyed the life she and Pat had down here. Anyway, that’s how it looked. Then they stopped coming down.” Rayette shook her head. “You just never do know.”

  She drank her coffee and set down the mug. “But there was no cover-up about her,” she said. “You know when a person’s trying too hard to convince herself things are great? There wasn’t any of that with Terri Sweeney. She enjoyed life, it came out naturally. When I heard she went up to that place they had in Michigan? In the Upper Peninsula? Out in the woods in the fall, when Pat was off doing whatever he did? Goes up by herself in the woods, and cuts her arms. Not the wrists, I heard. Inside the elbow, so you wouldn’t see when they laid her out. She had a cell phone, I heard she sent Pat a voicemail, just before she did it. That’s how they found her. From the phone.”

  After a moment, Rayette looked over. “See what I mean? How you never know?”

  “Yes,” Brenda said. “There had to be something.”

  Rayette took another cube of pineapple. “Nope, you don’t do that because you’re having a bad day. Not unless there’s been a lot of ’em. And it’s true, you never do know how it really is for others.” Rayette chewed and swallowed. “Maybe, down here, they put on shorts and had a ball. Until it was time to go back up to Miseryville.”

  Rayette said this as though Miseryville was familiar territory. “He hasn’t been down for maybe three years,” she said. “That’s why it shook me up to see him. They used to come down for long weekends every other month or so. I kept checking if he put the house on the market. His daughter and her family always came for a couple weeks before school started. They stopped coming, too. I drove past once or twice, looking for him. You know, to pay my respects.”

  Brenda took a piece of kiwi fruit,
then put it back. “As you say, who’s to know?” she said. “He seemed fine on the plane. Full of stories, good company.”

  “See? That’s why I feel guilty,” Rayette said. “I’m over here with all this fruit and howdy-do, when really that’s the reason. The longer you’re divorced, the more the old radar cuts in when a good man reenters the market.” Rayette drank her coffee. “I suppose you think that’s trailer-park tacky,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Sticking my head over the wall. Running over before you’re half awake.”

  “No, I don’t,” Brenda said. “It’s real life. I spent about four hours with Pat Sweeney. From what I saw, I don’t think a man like that should be alone.”

  Rayette knocked her coffee mug on the glass table for emphasis. “I want to read something you wrote,” she said. “I bet you’re a good journalist. What you just said is true. There are men, and there are men. Larry my ex, the last one, he wasn’t a bad man. He worked hard, he was a supervisor for DiVosta down here. A big builder. He had his check deposited automatically every payday, he came home instead of going to the tavern with his buddies. It was my third marriage, his second. That alone makes you hang in there harder. I really did, too. I held on as long as I could. In the end? I just had to say goodbye. The man had nothing to say to me. You see where I’m coming from in terms of Pat Sweeney. He’s a keeper that way. He’s going to do right by you, and he’s going to have something to say. You meet him the first time, you think this guy’s a smoothie, watch your wallet. But I know he’s not just charm. He’s good people.”

  She leaned on the table, cradling too firm breasts. “After Larry and me split, I gave Pat the green light,” Rayette said. “More than once. He stayed right there in Park.”

  A car door slammed outside.

  “Damn.” Brenda pushed back her chair and stood. “I forgot. I’m down here to write about real estate. A realtor’s going to show me around Naples. That must be her.” Rayette got up quickly. “Please take the fruit, it was delicious.”