His cell phone rested in a holder attached to the lower left corner of the car’s windshield. The phone vibrated and a text message from Ray popped up, notifying him about the time for Billy’s soccer match. Corbin relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. He didn’t have to wonder about the nature of his relationship with his grandson. And that was worth preserving.
The following morning Corbin left the liquor bottle in the kitchen cabinet and fortified himself with three cups of coffee. He drove to the soccer field, which was set up in the outfield of the Little League ballpark where Ray had played baseball when he was a boy. Billy, wearing a purple shirt and high-top purple socks, saw Corbin and ran over to him. The players on the opposing team were dressed in red.
“Hey, Pops,” Billy said. “Thanks for coming.”
Corbin rubbed the top of Billy’s head. “What’s the name of your team?”
“Purple Hurricanes. We’re playing the Red Raiders. Alex Cross, who’s in my class at school, is on their team.” Billy pointed. “He’s number eighteen.”
Corbin saw a short boy with black hair.
“He’s little, but he’s fast,” Billy said. “He plays striker, and I’m on defense.”
“Where are your parents?” Corbin asked.
“I forgot to give Mama a note telling her it was her day to bring snacks and drinks for the team, so they went to the store.”
“Did she get upset?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t like I did something terrible, like break something and lie about it.”
A young man standing on the sideline held up his hand.
“That’s Coach Stevens,” Billy said. “I’ve got to go.”
“Okay, I’ll be cheering for you.”
Billy paused. “You don’t have to yell or anything. Just watch.”
“Whatever you want.”
The match started with both Billy and Alex on the field. Parents and family members clustered along the sideline. Corbin stood by himself and watched. Neither team seemed to have any set plays; the game plan apparently called for everyone to crowd around the ball. Every so often the ball would squirt out and a boy would kick it as hard as he could. It reminded Corbin more of rugby than soccer.
Once, while the ball was at the opposite end of the field, Corbin caught movement behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see Branson and Tommy Kilpatrick. A boy wearing a Red Raider uniform left them and ran up to the team coach. A younger boy with a ball cap on his head stayed behind, holding Branson’s hand. Corbin walked over and greeted them.
“This is Mitchell,” Branson said. “He’s here to watch his brother play. Is Billy on the other team?”
“Yes,” Corbin answered, but he kept his eyes on Mitchell.
He could tell the little boy was bald from chemotherapy, and his dark eyes were sunk back in his head. Corbin knelt down in front of him and extended his hand. “Hello, Mitchell,” he said.
“This is Mr. Gage,” Branson said.
Mitchell extended his hand. It felt as delicate as fine china. Corbin gently shook it. The boy kept his eyes downcast.
“He wanted to watch Kyle play,” Branson said. “But he had a rough morning so we got a late start.”
Corbin stood up. “I don’t want to get in the way of that.”
“Daddy, will you pick me up and take me?” Mitchell asked in a high-pitched voice.
Tommy scooped the boy up in his strong arms and headed over to the sideline. Corbin remained with Branson.
“Mitchell was already a bit of a runt before he got sick,” Branson said, “so this has really knocked him backward. But on the bright side, he’s spending so much time in the house that he’s reading way better than Kyle did at age six. Larissa has really been working with him on the days he can’t make it to school, and I think he’s learning more from her than he would in a classroom.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Branson lowered his voice. “But the chemo treatments send him over the edge. I can’t stay in the room and comfort him. It has to be either Tommy or Larissa. I don’t think it hurts that much when it goes in, but he knows how bad he’s going to feel later. It’s rough.”
Corbin told Branson about his trip to the attorney general’s office in Atlanta.
“I haven’t gone over all the data, but I’m confident there’s enough to get me going with the lawsuit. There was also a reference to an anonymous report filed with the government by a whistleblower at Colfax. I’ll try to find out who that is as soon as I can.”
“How will you do that?”
“I may ask Ray to contact one of the lawyers at the AG’s office. As a prosecutor he’s more likely to get an answer than I will.”
Branson glanced over Corbin’s shoulder. “Here comes Ray now. Let’s ask him.”
“I don’t think now is the best time to bring it up.”
Before Corbin could explain why he didn’t want to say anything, Ray was standing beside Branson.
“Glad you could make it,” Ray said to Corbin, then greeted Branson.
“I said I’d be here,” Corbin replied.
“And we’re going to turn you and Branson into soccer fans,” Ray said. “What were the two of you talking about just now? You had your heads close together like a pair of bank robbers planning a heist.”
“Your dad is representing us and another family in a lawsuit—” Branson began.
“Nothing has been filed,” Corbin cut in. “Did you see Billy knock the ball away from the fast little player on the other team? That’s Alex Cross. He and Billy are in the same class at school.”
“Is that the lawsuit against Colfax?” Ray asked Branson. “I remember you coming by the other day to talk to me about the criminal charges against the company.”
“There’s no—” Corbin began.
“Hold on,” Branson interrupted. “You were just telling me that you’d like to find out who turned the company in to the state EPA, and the folks in Atlanta are more likely to give Ray the inside scoop. It makes sense to me, seeing he’s a government lawyer and works on the same side of things.”
“Was a government lawyer,” Ray corrected. “I’ve left the DA’s office for private practice.”
Corbin, who had been clenching his teeth, tried to relax and sound casual.
“How about it, Ray?” Corbin asked. “Would you do that for Branson? His six-year-old grandson is the one with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Tommy is holding him over there on the sidelines. He’s the little fellow wearing the green ball cap.”
“It’s the hardest thing our family has ever gone through,” Branson added, shaking his head. “And what made it worse is Tommy losing his job and benefits. I’m paying the premium under that COBRA thing so Mitchell can go to the doctor. But that’s going to run out in a couple of months.”
“And there’s another little boy from the neighborhood with the same disease,” Corbin continued, keeping his eyes on Ray. “What are the chances of that being a coincidence?”
“Is that the standard in court?” Ray asked caustically. “Proving that something might not be a coincidence?”
Corbin saw Branson glance back and forth between him and Ray with a puzzled expression on his face.
“There’s no need for us to argue the case on the soccer field,” Corbin replied testily. “If you decide you can help us out, it would be great.”
“Yeah,” Branson added. “I’d appreciate it a lot.”
Corbin moved away toward the field.
Ray watched him go, then turned to Branson.
“I’ll make the call but I’m not sure it will yield much. The important information is what the attorney general’s office has in its file. Dad went to Atlanta yesterday to copy that.”
“Right. He’s working hard for us and the family of the other sick boy.”
“You hired him?”
“Yep, we met with him last week at his office.”
Ray watched his father walk down the sideline toward the end of the field wher
e most of the action was taking place. He struggled with what else, if anything, to say to Branson.
“You say he’s working hard?” He repeated the statement as a question.
“And you know what a bulldog he can be when he sinks his teeth into something.” Branson lowered his voice. “At first I wasn’t sure he still had enough fight left in him, but I trust him to let us know if he gets in over his head.”
“Did you mention that to him?”
“Uh, no.”
“Maybe you should. Just don’t tell him I encouraged you to do it. He hates it when I stick my nose into his business.”
“Really? He’s always talked about you joining his firm someday.”
“That’s not happening, and he’s upset about it.”
“Tommy and I have had our moments,” Branson said, patting Ray on the shoulder. “I wanted him to take over my business, but he likes to collect a regular paycheck. He went by the chicken plant this week looking for a job with benefits. Of course he has to do that so he can get on group insurance with a big company.”
“Did they offer him a job?”
“He’s waiting to hear.”
Some of the spectators along the sideline began to cheer.
“Look at that!” Branson exclaimed. “Kyle’s got the ball, and I don’t think anyone is going to run him down!”
As they watched, Kyle deftly maneuvered past the goalkeeper and nudged the ball into the open net. Branson let out a whoop. Tommy turned around, saw them, and pumped his fist. Ray saw Mitchell’s pale face beneath the brim of the ball cap. He knew dealing with a sick, possibly dying child would generate incomprehensible pressure on a family. They’d grasp at any straw in hope it would turn into a rope.
He looked at his father, standing by himself on the sidelines with his hands behind his back.
Ray doubted Corbin Gage had the ability to weave together anything that could hold up even a child as fragile as Mitchell Kilpatrick.
TWENTY-FOUR
Corbin made sure the boat was securely fastened to the trailer and climbed into the driver’s seat of the truck.
“What do you think?” he asked Billy. “Has it been a good day?”
“Yeah.” Billy nodded. “Did you send Daddy a picture of the fish I caught?”
“No, but I’ll do it before we leave.”
Corbin found the photo he’d taken with his phone. It was one of the largest bream he’d ever seen in Hackburn’s Lake. The fish had put up a ferocious fight, expertly handled by Billy, who never lost his cool and reeled it in perfectly. Corbin stared again at the fish, which they weighed, measured, and released back into the pond.
“Man, that is an awesome fish,” he said more to himself than to Billy. “A lot of fishermen as old as I am have never caught a two-and-a-half-pound bream.”
“How old are you, Pops?”
“Sixty-two. I bet that seems ancient to you.”
“Ancient?”
“Very old.”
“Yeah, but you still go fishing.”
Corbin started the engine and put the shifter in drive. An unopened jar of moonshine hadn’t left its spot behind his seat all day.
“If your daddy or mama asks, make sure you tell them I drank water from the bottles we bought at the tackle shop, not from a mason jar.”
“Okay. What are you going to do with the leftover crickets?” Billy asked.
“Do you want to set them free in your backyard? That way you can listen to them sing through the open window in your bedroom when you lie down tonight.”
“I’d like that,” Billy answered as he stared out the window. “And thanks for coming to my soccer match.”
“You played great.”
“Not really. I’m not that good at soccer. I have a problem making the ball go where I want it to when I kick it. I’m a lot better at fishing because you’ve taught me how to do it. Coach Stevens never played soccer. He’s just a dad who agreed to help out.”
Corbin pulled onto the main roadway and turned toward Alto. When they approached the Hopewell Methodist Church, Billy spoke.
“Is that the place where you go to your special meeting?”
“Who told you about that?” Corbin asked in surprise.
“Mama. She said it has to do with the AA club you joined. What kind of club is it?”
“It’s for people who help each other with their problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
Corbin drove for a few moments in silence. “Maybe you should ask your mama, since she brought it up. That way she can explain it the way she wants to.”
“Does she go too?”
“No.” Corbin smiled wryly. “And I doubt she ever will.”
When they reached the house, Corbin moved stiffly as he got out of the truck. “You’ve worn me out,” he said as he leaned over the side of the truck to take out Billy’s fishing pole.
“Will you help me turn the crickets loose?” Billy asked.
“Sure.”
Leaving Billy’s fishing pole and tackle box on the front stoop, they walked around the side of the house into the backyard. Billy carried the wire mesh bucket that contained about twenty brown crickets.
“These are the lucky ones,” Corbin said.
Billy turned over the bucket. A few crickets fell out, but most of them clung to the mesh.
“Shake it,” Corbin said.
Billy shook the bucket but only dislodged one cricket.
“This isn’t going to work,” the boy said.
“Give it to me. They’re going to take individual encouragement.”
Corbin reached in and carefully caught a cricket without crushing it. He placed the insect on the ground. With all the hungry birds in the neighborhood, the cricket’s life expectancy was probably a matter of hours, but Corbin didn’t point that out to Billy.
“You get one,” he said to Billy.
He watched as Billy gently pinched a cricket between his fingers and lifted it out. Taking turns, they released all the crickets. The back door of the house opened, and Ray came out.
“We’re letting this group of crickets out of jail,” Corbin said. “They survived our trip to the pond, and I decided it would be double jeopardy to keep them incarcerated.”
“I saw the picture of the huge bream you caught,” Ray said to Billy. “Did you use a cricket as bait?”
“No, I hooked him with a lure. Pops says a fish that big wants a big meal.”
“And we’re done,” Corbin said, getting to his feet. “I need to be getting home. Between soccer and fishing, it’s been a long day.”
“Pops drank the water we bought at the bait shop,” Billy said. “He didn’t use a major jar.”
“Mason jar,” Corbin corrected.
“That’s good,” Ray replied. “Go inside and wash up. Supper will be ready in a minute. Your mama is fixing lasagna.”
Billy ran into the house.
“Do you want to eat with us?” Ray asked.
“No, I only stayed to help Billy free the crickets.” Corbin picked up the empty bucket.
“After seeing Branson’s grandson at the soccer match, I understand why you want to help them,” Ray said. “I told him I’d try to find out who reported Colfax to the state environmental authorities.”
“Thanks.”
“But if you’re bound and determined to file the lawsuit, you have to associate another firm to help. Roxy did some checking, and you should give her a call and—”
“No,” Corbin cut in. “I’m not going to be talking to Roxy, and I’d appreciate you not mentioning her to me. Good night.”
Corbin turned around and retraced his steps to the front of the house.
“What happened?” Ray called after him.
Corbin paused and glanced over his shoulder. “I left Billy’s pole and tackle box on the front stoop. Don’t forget to put them away. And tell Cindy thanks for letting me take him. What Billy said about the bottled water was true.”
Sunday
morning was one of Roxy’s favorite times of the week. Like most days, she went for a run, but she rarely arrived at the office until midafternoon. Today she left Piedmont Park and turned onto Eastside Trail. It was one of the first sections to open off the Atlanta Beltway, a comprehensive urban development project designed to unite the center city area with walking, running, and biking trails.
The weather and temperature were perfect, and Roxy ramped up to cruising speed, which meant she passed all the female and most of the male runners on the path. The unfettered freedom she felt when her feet tapped out a light, quick rhythm was an incredible natural high. She looped around at Irwin Street and returned to the park. After completing her short burst interval runs, she jogged to her townhome, where she was surprised to see Peter’s empty car parked near her unit.
Roxy kept a spare key hidden beneath a fake rock in the bushes. Peter knew about the key, but when she checked, it was still there. Holding on to the iron railing, she stretched and looked up and down the street, wondering where he might be. As she finished he came around the corner, wearing khakis and a collared shirt and carrying a tray from a nearby coffee shop.
“What are you doing here?” she asked when he came closer.
“Bringing you coffee and the cheese Danish you like.”
“But how did you know what time to get here?”
“Roxy, you’re more predictable than the tides. I know within a few minutes when you’ll be finished and cooling off.”
“Does that make me boring?”
Peter laughed. “You have plenty of uncertainty in other areas of your life. You’re allowed to have some routine too.”
They walked up the steps into the townhome. Peter put the coffees and bag of pastries on the small round table in the kitchen.
A House Divided Page 17
