by Andrew Gross
Janice held up the jacket and sighed. “Doesn’t anyone ever hang things up around here . . . Always nice to see you, Hil. Let’s be in touch.”
“C’mon,” Jim said, mercifully pointing toward the study, “let’s go in here.”
We went down a step into the sunken wood-paneled room with a brass-hearth fireplace that looked like something out of a Martha Stewart magazine. The wall with the windows was painted a textured green, with two brass sconces bracketing each window. In between them hung a painting of a guy in an ornate Chinese robe with a Fu Manchu mustache down to his waist.
“Janice’s side of the family?” I asked. Truth was, I couldn’t find a single trace of Jim in the entire house. Except maybe in the back, in the McMansion of a play shed he had built, where I knew they kept a couple of small ATVs for the boys to race around the pond, the lacrosse nets and sticks, the pool rafts.
“Distant cousin.” He chuckled. “You never met?”
“Somehow, no . . . Of course we didn’t get invited to the wedding . . .”
“C’mon, Hil, you didn’t drive all the way up here to take shots at me. Anyway, you sounded worried on the phone.” He leaned forward, his beefy forearms on his knees. “You want to tell me what’s up?”
“Listen, Jim, something’s happened. I need to go over a few things with you.”
“Brandon?” He actually sat up and seemed concerned.
“No, Brandon’s fine. He’s doing multiplication and division now. Everything’s going real well. And you should see his artwork. He’s doing amazing things, Jim. I think he’s got a real talent.”
“That’s really good. I know I should come and see it. I mean to. It’s just I’m always—”
“Look—I know he’s not exactly the son you’ve always wanted. He’s not exactly someone you can take boogie boarding at the beach or out to the driving range like Lucas and Trey. Though God knows he does try. But now I need some help, Jim. I don’t know if I can cover the costs any longer. At Milton Farms. I’m four months behind in tuition and next year is coming up. I can’t keep going back to Neil and Judy. They’re getting on. Dad’s starting to go downhill. They survived the storm okay, but they’re underwater on a couple of big boats. They kind of zigged when the rest of the world zagged . . .”
“Guess I know what that feels like,” he said with a glum smile.
“Anyway, they’re gonna be needing whatever they have for themselves. And you’re Brandon’s father, for God’s sake—” I gazed around.
Jim’s eyes drooped guiltily and he sat back, the cat out of the bag now, as if it was ever really in. “I’m sorry about Neil. No one likes to hear that.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. My dad always liked you.”
He folded his thick fingers in front of his face. “You know I had to close up Double Eagle, don’t you, Hil?”
Double Eagle was his construction business. “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry, Jim.”
“I was gonna call you about it. Then I figured, hell . . . you’d probably just think I was trying to wriggle out of another check.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that. I know that company was a big part of you.”
I thought back to those early years when he was making three, four hundred grand a house, several times a year, much of which long ago went down the drain in the financial meltdown, the houses sold at a loss or borrowed up to the hilt against. “But, Jim—look at how you live. I need some help now. You can’t hide behind that anymore.”
His toothy smile turned downward. “I don’t have to tell you the story here, do I, Hil . . . ? Look, I understand how most of this has always fallen on you. I know you’ve had to change your life. And, no BS here, I admire you for what you’ve done. I do. It’s just that right now . . . you’re bringing in a helluva lot more than me.” He snorted cynically. “Right now the UPS man is bringing in a helluva lot more than me.”
“Well, as of the other day”—I fixed my eyes on him—“that’s all changed.”
“What do you mean, changed?”
I told him about Cesta and Steve having to cut things back. That I basically got four weeks’ salary and a month on the health plan. “I’m behind on everything, Jim. We were basically living check to check the past year as it was. Now . . .”
He nodded, his mustache curling into a frown. “I’m really sorry, Hil. That sucks.”
“It does suck. But that doesn’t make anything go away. I’ve cut back on a hundred things over the past few years to keep everything together for Brandon and me. I hoped we had some equity still in the house, but there’s zero in the current market. I had it appraised. The whole thing’s underwater, which, let’s face it, is pretty much how you left me. And anyway, what would be the chance of refinancing now with no job even if there was something to pull out? I’ve been working full time, putting everything toward our son, while you’re what, zipping the kids off to squash practice in that new Porsche I saw outside . . .”
He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “That’s a little cold, don’t you think, Hilary?”
“No. No, it’s not cold, Jim. Look, I’m sorry . . . I know it’s hard to close the company. I know it’s like closing a chapter on yourself, an important one. I get that. But it was no picnic for me getting fired and seeing the past four years go up in smoke. My savings are shot, Jimmy. You’re Brandon’s father. This isn’t about my fucking shoe allowance or jetting down to St. Barth’s for my tan . . . Jim, I need you to stand up. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
I was trying to hold it together. Promising myself not to cry or let my emotions come through. But my eyes started to sting and there was no way of holding them back. “I can’t go it alone anymore. I tried.”
Jim reached over to the side table and pulled out a couple of tissues from a quilted Kleenex box. He handed them to me.
I dabbed at my eyes. “Thanks.”
“So how much we talking about?” he asked. He leaned back on the couch.
“I don’t know . . . The school alone is close to fifty grand. I’m so behind on the tuition plan they’re starting to give me calls. There’s still the mortgage and the taxes. . . . Look, I see you have a new family and I’m happy for you. I am. But I have my family. And you’re his father, Jim. I’m going to do whatever I can to do what’s best for my son. Your son . . . Whatever that is.”
His gaze grew a little harder. “Just what do you mean by that, Hilary . . . ?”
“I don’t know what I mean. I’m just asking you, please, don’t make me beg.”
We were kind of face-to-face, the tears cleared, my desperation out on the table. All of a sudden I could see what was turning through his mind. What must have been from the moment I called, because what other reason could there have been for me to ask to come over?
He’d have to go to Janice. He probably didn’t have a dime apart from her anymore.
He probably didn’t even own the Porsche parked in front of the house.
“Look.” He cleared his throat. “Things aren’t exactly rosy around here either.”
“What does that mean, Jim?”
He shrugged. “Janice had to take a job. She’s gotten her real estate license. At Pepper Loughlin’s place. You know, it’s on the avenue, where that stationery place used to be . . .”
I stared blankly.
“In fact, the whole damn house is up for sale. Trust me, her settlement with Neil is just about enough to keep the kids in school and take care of our nut. Even the furniture’s up for sale.” He nodded to Fu Manchu. “Distant cousin on the wall included. And the fancy table out front, what’s it called, Biedemeister, or meier? I never know. That as well.”
“Jim, you’re on your way out to Vail.”
“Kind of like our last hurrah.” He snorted. “I mean, you can’t let the kids think things are bad. Not in this town anyway. You know what I mean. I’m tapped out, Hilary. The well is totally dry. Trust me, that Porsche won’t even be in the driveway when we come back
.”
I felt a weight crashing through my chest. An elevator falling. The thought snaked through me that if I stayed here even a minute longer, everything would come crashing down and I’d start to cry. “All I’m asking for is what you owe me. Don’t you even care about your son? Can’t you—”
Suddenly the boys ran in. Lucas and Trey, Christopher Alexander III. Like marauding outlaws in The Wild Bunch riding through a Mexican town, except with Brunswick crests on their dress shirts. “Trey won’t give me the Xbox stick,” Luke, who was ten, whined. “And he called me a douche. Didn’t you, Trey?”
“No, I didn’t! He’s lying!” Trey said defiantly, with a glare that read, When we get back upstairs, you’re dead, you traitor.
“You know Hilary,” Jim said, catching Luke by the arm. “Brandon’s mom.”
“Hi,” Trey said, barely shifting his glare from his brother. “Douche bag,” he mouthed silently.
“Hi,” said Luke, not even looking at me, just sticking his tongue out at his brother while in Jim’s hulking grasp.
“Hi, guys,” I said. “You’re both getting so big . . .” All I could think of under the circumstances. I couldn’t believe I came up with something so lame.
“I’m sorry, Hil.” Jim shrugged, his expression hapless. “I hear things are starting to pick up in some places. Maybe I can start up again next year.”
“Sure,” I said, standing up, trying to hold it together. “Next year.”
“Hey, dudes.” Jim cackled. “Homework done? Time for one last game of Madden?”
“Yay!” the two shouted as one.
“C’mon, Jim, I’ll take you both on. You and douchie here . . . ,” Trey said.
Jim stood up too, carrying Luke like a sack of wheat with those ham-hock-like arms. “I’m really sorry about the job, Hil. How about I’ll be in touch when we get back. Okay?”
“Don’t worry about it. I can see you’ve got your hands full. Something will come up. Always does, right?”
I picked up my bag and made my way to the door.
“Hey, Hil . . .”
I turned, praying inside he’d had some change of heart and come to his senses; some realization of what he was putting me through.
Jim winked, holding Luke upside down. “You’re looking good, Hil. You really are.”
I knew if I didn’t get out of there then, I was going to cry.
CHAPTER FOUR
Back in my car, any semblance of control completely broke down. Tears filled my eyes even before I put the key in the ignition. I could take the whole new family thing—Jim playing überdad—even though it did eat at me, where the hell he’d been for the last four years with Brandon. I could even take the spanking-new Porsche, which alone would have paid a couple of years of tuition.
What I couldn’t take was that he’d basically just washed his hands of us. When he could see I was falling. How could you just look at me and say that, Jim? I put my head against the wheel and shut my eyes. About your own son?
It was clearly all on my shoulders now.
I started the car and it took everything I had not to ram it headfirst into Jim’s Porsche and leave it a mound of crumpled steel. I backed out of the driveway and almost made a U-turn a block away, then regretted that I hadn’t.
You could sue his ass, Hil, I said to myself as I drove. There were deadbeat laws. No judge in the world would side with him. But I knew Jim’s assets in his own name might even be less than mine. He was probably down to his ski jacket and a pair of Cole Haans.
And that would all take time. And lawyer’s fees. Money I didn’t exactly have right now. Even if there was something left to take. Whatever was left was surely now in Janice’s name.
What I had to do was figure out how to get through the next two months.
I put the radio on, 1010 WINS news. A Pakistani minister had been blown up in a suicide attack. Residents of Staten Island were still angry over delays in storm relief. Something about a Connecticut politician whose wife had tragically drowned on a family vacation in South America. I winced, suddenly aware of my own blessings. Whatever I was going through, at least Brandon was healthy and alive.
It was 7:36. I’d promised Elena I’d be back by eight. Two things were going around in me.
First, that I would do anything for my son. Anything. Whatever it took.
Any mother would.
And the other, my mind drifting to the satchel in the woods, was that I’d already made enough bad choices that had put me in this situation.
So what was one more?
Which was basically what I was dwelling on when I realized I’d already driven past the highway and was headed back toward the accident site.
As I got near, the road narrowed to a single lane, yellow police tape now marking off the site. Three county police cars and a tow truck were there, all kinds of lights flashing.
I slowed. I couldn’t see if the Honda had been removed. It seemed that it hadn’t. I figured there had to be all kinds of people getting things together down there. With everyone traipsing around, who knew if the satchel hadn’t already been discovered?
Who knew if now they were looking for the person who had flung it there?
I went over what I’d told Rollie. “I’m Jeanine . . .” That was all. No Hilary. No last name. I knew I’d touched a couple of things—the car doors, the victim’s cell phone—but even if they were able to remove my fingerprints, they certainly weren’t anywhere in the system. Nerves suddenly wormed their way through my stomach on whether, if it came to it, Rollie could have ID’d my car.
No. I was sure. I’d parked a ways down the road.
I felt pretty safe.
Which didn’t completely eliminate my fear that the part of the county police force that wasn’t currently on site here would be waiting for me at my house.
They weren’t. Though I did let out a sigh of relief as I drove up the cul-de-sac Jim had developed and into my driveway. Only Elena was there, putting on her coat when she heard me come in through the kitchen door.
“How was he?” I asked, stepping in from the garage.
“Eezy tonight, missus.” Her English wasn’t exactly the best, but she was devoted to Brandon and indispensable to me. Not to mention that my son adored her. “Heez in the bed.” She grabbed her bag. “I be in tomorrow at ten. And don’t worry, I pick him up at school.”
“Elena . . .” I was trying to decide how I should tell her. That I was going to be around for a while. That I had no idea how long I could keep her on, with her present hours. She was like part of the family to me.
“Sí, missus . . . ?” She looked at me with those round, trusting eyes.
“Nothing. I’ll probably be here in the morning, okay?” I knew there had to be some kind of explanation. “Drive home safe.”
She smiled brightly. “Good night, Miz Cantor.”
I closed the door behind her and went through the large brick-and-glass neoclassic Jim had constructed, which was now buried in debt. I had tried to refinance it for years and pull out whatever equity I still had in it, but with home prices still down and Jim’s credit a mess, it simply wasn’t in the cards. Since Jim’s name was still on the note, he was supposed to pick up half of the $1.6 million, interest-only debt, $4,290 a month, a parting gift from the days when lenders were throwing loans at his business. Even though rates had dived in the past year, now I’d have to disclose that I no longer had a job and that Jim’s company had closed. God only knew what workout committee that would put me in. I was scared I could lose the house. In today’s market, the place might go for only $1.6, $1.7. The truth was, I couldn’t leave and I could no longer afford to stay. As it was, I was only praying that some loan officer wouldn’t be reviewing the loan and call me to tell me the bank was foreclosing.
“I’m home, Brand!” I shouted into his room. “I’ll be up in a minute . . .”
I went up to my bedroom. High ceilings, a Palladian window overlooking the pool. Which last year I didn�
��t even open in order to save on the cost. I pulled off my sweater and jeans and threw on the pajama bottoms and yoga T-shirt I usually crawled into bed with. In the bathroom, I pulled my bangs into a scrunchie and took off my makeup. I had short brown hair, a small nose, and wide hazel eyes that I worried were starting to show the strain of everything. I was only thirty-six, had always been told I was pretty, Natalie Portman pretty. But my days of wishing for some handsome knight were over. Everything was all in my hands now.
I went into the kitchen and put on some water for tea, then back down the first-floor hall to Brandon’s room. He was curled up in his bed, playing on his iPad. A design app called FLOW, which always intrigued him, muttering, “Tie, tie, tie, tie . . .” to himself, which he often did when he was in his own world.
“Hey, guy.” I sat on the corner of his bed.
He didn’t answer, just kept swirling the colorful arrows on the app with his index finger.
“Cool design!” I curled up on the bed next to him.
I always said there were two of him: Sweet Brandon and Mean Brandon. Mean Brandon was the one who would say to people who were averting their eyes, “I want to cut off your head.” No matter how many times I took him aside and scolded him, telling him that it was totally inappropriate. When he was four we had a dog, but I had to get rid of it because Brandon once tried to cut off its tail.
There was a time a few years back when I was really worried about him. Who he was inside. Who he would grow up to be. I’d read about these children with what they called C-U tendencies. Callous and unemotional. Kids who seem to carry the gene or the early dispositions that turn them into psychopaths. At times Brandon showed some of the signs. I read about things like the Child Psychopathy Scale and the Inventory of Callous-Unemotional Traits and the Antisocial Process Screening Device. In a particularly defiant stage, I even had him tested. But when everything was in, Brandon tested within only one standard deviation from the norm. Nothing to worry about, I was told.
