Once he’d regained his bearings, he sat on the side of the waterbed, frankly not caring if it broke and flooded the house. Getting in and out of it was becoming increasingly problematic. Outwardly, he blamed it on the surgery; internally, he knew better. Karen was probably right. Time to get a new bed for the two of them. But there were so many types to choose from these days. Where would they start?
He’d ask her about that, and the tickets, when he saw her next.
After he brushed his teeth, he turned on the tube. He flipped through the politicos, NCIS of who knows which city, and the Yankees game. Forget that. Not in this house, unless they were playing the Red Sox. He settled on some visually appealing show about living in Alaska. That was a place he and Kassie never visited, or ever talked much about visiting, even after his sister had vacationed there and jabbered on about it forever. She’d brought him back a large raven totem he’d displayed on his credenza at the office, in which he squirreled away keys to the lockbox that had precipitated the collapse of his marriage.
He thought about the day before. How he took care of business, literally, ensuring Bill got a piece of the company’s pie. For the time being, until sometime in the future when he actually married Karen, all his worldly possessions would be dispersed among Kassie, Chris, and Bill. Well, mostly among those three. He’d left a directive for Kassie to provide a small stipend for a couple of other folks, confident she’d follow his wishes, if it ever came to that.
Lying in his bed in the dark, barely watching the television, Mike grimaced at the lights bouncing off the ceiling, picturing what might have been. That weekend had not at all gone according to plan. The house was not supposed to be quiet that Sunday night. He had his own headache just thinking about the real reason Sarah and Charlie bolted after breakfast on Saturday. Reaching for his phone, he considered giving Charlie a call to make sure everything was okay between them and that his and Sarah’s plans for Monday were all taken care of. Did they need a ride anywhere? It was later than he thought. He decided to wait and call Charlie tomorrow, maybe around midday when Sarah would be at the museum doing whatever philanthropists do. He tapped a reminder note on his phone.
And that was that. Monday morning Mike woke up to an invasion of sunshine streaming across his bedspread. He turned on the television to MSNBC, expecting Morning Joe. What? 9:17. When had he ever slept that late before?
He commenced a routine one of the nurses at Boston Clinic last year had recommended. Wiggle toes. Rotate ankles. Place feet flat on bed, knees up. Cross one leg over the other and press on that knee. Repeat on the other side. Then get up. He swung his left leg over the bed and began to lift his body, and some tweak or twinge made him think better of it. Slinking back under the warm covers, he buried his head in his feather pillow, vowing not to part with it when they replaced the bed. When he pulled Kassie’s old pillow over his face to block out the morning, the deep lingering smell of her perfume helped further postpone his decision to get up.
After drifting off again, Mike finally decided it was time to greet the day around ten thirty, and he shuffled into a much-needed shower. He stood, letting the warm, not steamy, water flow from his head and down his back, balanced by his palms against the tiles. Why didn’t he wash off the sand and stench last night? I’m slipping.
Slipping a bit, perhaps, but not completely. In an unusual move, he made the bed, or let’s say he pulled up the covers and fluffed the pillows, sniffing Kassie’s perfume one last time. Then he went downstairs; retrieved The Boston Globe off the front stoop, straightening out the mat he’d flipped over on its side to dry the night before; and settled down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. He’d have his morning joe one way or the other.
Something fluttered by the bay window. A bluebird perched on the outdoor thermometer, poking its head to-and-fro. Listening for friends to come by and pay a visit perhaps, or fly off with to a shady pond where they could be protected from the July sun and quench their thirst at the same time.
Midmorning and the mercury registered eighty-two degrees already. The day portended to be a scorcher. “Hotter than a griddle,” his mother—God rest her soul—would always say on days like this. “Better get your ass out there and enjoy it while the gettin’s good,” she’d say, literally pushing him out the screen door. Figuring he ought to follow her advice at least once in his life, Mike took his coffee and paper and headed to the back porch, pausing to adjust the air conditioner’s thermostat.
That lasted a little more than a quarter hour. He got through the op-ed page, but when he flipped to the comics and a pearl of sweat the size of a penny from his forehead landed smack dab in the middle of Dilbert, Mike folded the paper and went inside. He tossed it on the floor next to his Pleasure Chair, patted his face with a wad of tissue, and moseyed around the first floor until he stood at the doorway of his office. Now, what did I come in here for? Maybe I’m slipping after all.
Mike turned around, thinking he’d go back where he started and retrace his steps, and whatever he was planning to do in his office would come back to him. “Isn’t that what they say you should do?” He threw back his hands but didn’t move. A cold sweat took over where the hot sweat left off. Maybe he should sit down.
The closest chair was behind his desk. He wiped his forehead, around his neck, and under his chin. Lucky for Mike, he took Kassie’s lead and stored bottles of water in his office closet. Even luckier, two unopened ones stood like soldiers on his desk within arm’s reach. He unscrewed one and guzzled all but an inch of it, leaving some to pour on a napkin that he used like a cold washcloth. He folded the napkin in thirds, applied it to his forehead, and leaned back in his chair, letting his arms flail toward the floor.
Ten minutes later, feeling revived, Mike removed the half bandana he’d concocted with the napkin. “The bills.” That’s why he’d come to his office in the first place. He shuffled through a stack of envelopes on his desk, unfolded his checkbook, and paid the Visa bill, the electric bill, and the bill to the waste management, a.k.a. garbage, company. Maybe it was time to set up electronic bill pay, just as Kassie had nagged him to do on more than one occasion.
Almost done with that monthly task, Mike slid his chair over to the portable shredder. Ugh. Something was stuck. He groaned, and using the arms of the chair like a cane, he got up to unjam it.
“Holy shit.” Red Sox tickets.
21
Where There’s a Will
Mike’s body may have been slipping, but his mind was as sharp as a tack, if you ignored the most recent incident when he forgot why he needed to go into his home office. Even at his advanced age, he could put two and two together as easily as a four-year-old.
He spun his chair around to check the Seth Thomas antique mantel clock he’d acquired years back when he first launched the business. He always liked that clock, but he had to move it to the house after Kassie’s mother had redecorated his office with a more modern, contemporary flair.
By sheer coincidence, as his eyes met the clock’s face, it chimed twelve. Bingo. FedEx would’ve delivered his three packages by now.
“Hello, Wendy. It’s Mike Ricci here. Fine. Thanks. You?”
Mike’s left knee quivered.
“Did you get a FedEx from me this morning? Saturday, I sent it.”
How do you steady a knee that has a mind of its own?
“Good. Is Stephen in today? Can I . . .”
Not only because he was heading out to meet his lawyer but also because he’d soaked through the shirt he was wearing, Mike trudged upstairs and swapped his gray T-shirt for a blue button-down oxford, going full business casual, except for the socks. Too hot. And who’d be looking at his feet anyway?
He cranked up the air conditioning in his car for the fifteen-minute ride to Stephen’s office in Arlington, wondering how long it would take to cool it down on his return trip home after it baked in the sun for an hour or so. He’d cross that bridge.
Normally, he’d turn the radio t
o a jazz station, or even the local news once he settled in his car to occupy his mind and pass the drive time away. That day, more than enough noise occupied his brain waves. No additional distraction required.
Suffice it to say, it was Karen who flashed across his mind’s eye. At a stop sign, he shook his head as if to get the cobwebs out, but in reality he struggled with the color of her hair. Most of his life he’d known her as a blonde, and now all, or most, of his visions of her were red.
Putting that quandary aside for the moment, Mike switched the movie reel in his mind to the events of the weekend that provoked him to make changes to his will in the first place and why he was in such a rush to see Stephen that afternoon.
Clearly the first triggering event was dinner Friday night when he realized he hadn’t taken care of Bill quite at the level he should, given his longtime loyalty to the company and to him and to Kassie. That Karen and Bill would need to improve their working relationship going forward was an understatement. “Just give it time. What will be will be,” Mike said, stuck behind a bus and pounding the steering wheel, though he hadn’t a clue who he was more exasperated with at that moment, the bus driver or Karen.
Wanting to take care of Bill had nothing to do with Karen, really. But certain words kept popping up that did. “Aw shucks”—Charlie’s key-in-the-bag game. “Headache”—Sarah’s excuse? No, that was Karen’s excuse for Sarah cutting their weekend together short when it had just gotten started. “All taken care of”—Mike was sure Karen told him she’d put the tickets under the mat. Now he was dead certain she’d lied.
Something was rotten in Newton. He knew it right down to his achy bones. He didn’t need Kassie’s finely tuned intuition to tell him to beware. There just had to be some intrigue between Charlie and Sarah and Karen beyond the familial issue of Chris. They’d had forty years to come to grips with Chris’s adoption. Of course, they’d had only one year to get used to the new state of affairs. But damn it, of all the parties involved, the two folks who should’ve been pissed beyond belief were Chris and Kassie. It was their relationship, their future, that went to hell in a hand basket.
For all Mike knew, the friction among Karen-Sarah-Charlie could be traced all the way back to college. Did Charlie’s key game suggestion rekindle a smoldering fire among them? Who the hell knows? And since Charlie and Sarah were heading back to Chicago that night, there was no need to dwell on it or solve it now. Yet, if he got the chance, he still planned on reaching out to Charlie to clear the air. Mano a mano. We’ll see how the afternoon goes.
Mike didn’t need to be behind a car with a Red Sox bumper sticker to remind him Karen’s lying about the baseball tickets was the match in the powder barrel—the driving force behind his need to see Stephen to make sure his affairs were in order.
From his vantage point, two problems existed. Karen’s lying, the first and most obvious. A clear affront against him and an insult to the dignity of their relationship. But secondly, why in God’s name did Karen want to screw up a day at Fenway Park for Bill and his family? No one in their right mind living in the Boston area would ever purposely shred game tickets to pieces and prevent someone from going to a Red Sox game. It was mean and cruel. A sin, yeah, that’s what it was. A sin. Plain and simple.
All kidding aside, what was in it for her? Hell if he knew. Only she would be able to answer that, and Mike was willing to give her a chance to explain herself even if whatever her reasons were didn’t save her.
Of course, there were other red flags too, inconsistencies over the weekend that gave him the heebie-jeebies. Kassie would call them clues. Maybe she was right. Whatever moniker you applied, the chill traveling up his back and goosebumps on his arms gave him pause.
Why did Karen bring up Barry after the concert, after spending a nice day with him? Why was she so pushy and embarrassing at breakfast? Why did she leave his phone in the car when they hiked the dunes? Why did she pressure him to officially propose when it was a given they’d get married at some point after the divorce? Yeah, what was that all about? Did he really get down on one knee?
For that matter, why did she sleep at her apartment in Charlestown after he’d just proposed? What woman does that? Isn’t there an unwritten rule that all women follow? When your man proposes, you go fuck his brains out as soon as humanly possible. Didn’t she know the quickie in the back seat of his car was just an appetizer? She had to have known there’d be more lovin’ in the oven once they returned from the Cape.
So I was tired and slept all the way home. I’d have done her even if I wasn’t up to it. Wouldn’t have been the first time I turned on my charm, and my skills.
But Karen didn’t stick around to find out. She didn’t follow the rules. Didn’t even come in to pee after a long drive. What woman doesn’t do that, for goodness sake? She hotfooted her way to Charlestown. Didn’t even call or text him when she got there.
Mike pulled into a visitor’s parking spot alongside Stephen’s office and reached for his phone that occupied the seat next to him. He palmed it to eye level. This explains it. She knew Bill would try to call him about the tickets. No phone was no accident. She manipulated him. Big time. All weekend. Did she take him for a fool? Was it the first time, or the last?
As he sat in Stephen’s waiting room flipping through one of the dozen or so law journals staggered on the coffee table, Mike thought about all the hoops he’d jumped through during the last year—the surgery, Chris joining the firm, the divorce. He’d learned the importance of staying on top of the legal aspects of his life, even if he hadn’t done the same on the medical side.
The uneasy feeling he had about Karen when he went to bed after talking with Bill the night before became a reality shitshow when he saw the tickets half-shredded that morning. Piecing together the rest of the pie on his way to Stephen’s reinforced in his mind he had some serious decisions to make about his future. Taking care of the business was a good first step. He’d deal with Karen later.
“So a codicil will take care of it?” Mike sat across from Stephen, his lawyer of thirty years.
“Yes, Michael. Since you were heading in, I had my paralegal draw it up. It should be ready for your signature and witnessing shortly. Now tell me, what’s this all about?”
Since Mike wasn’t making substantial changes to his will, mostly adjusting the business ownership percentages to leave something to Bill, he focused on that as the reason he sat there sockless. He felt no need to bore Stephen about his issues with Karen and decisions he knew he’d have to make. Those were personal, not legal. At this juncture, Karen was only marginally in his will, with a directive to Kassie to continue the stipend he’d started after Barry had died, should anything happen to him. Until he sorted things out with her, his will, including the business side of his estate, would remain the way it was being updated that day.
After the paperwork was signed and notarized, Mike and Stephen sat for a spell. Stephen peppered him with questions about the health of the business, his relationship with Karen, his own body and soul. If it were any other lawyer than Stephen, Mike would accuse them of probing for too much information. But this was Stephen, a longtime friend and confidant.
“You’ve gone through a lot this past year, Mike,” Stephen said, tweaking his mustache. “How you really doing?”
The business was booming. Chris was a youthful shot in the arm it needed to rise to another level. They were now competing with firms who had embraced social media a step ahead of them.
“Funny thing, though. Working with Chris every day, I think of him as a partner, not my son. Not sure why. Folks like Bill see a resemblance. I just don’t get it.”
“Any residual resentment about his affair with Kassie?” Stephen asked.
“Resentment or regret? Guess it depends on who you talk to. Seems they both have moved on. He’s got another long-distance romance, I hear. Imagine that. You’d think he’d look for someone in his own backyard. And I hear Kassie’s in Europe, I think Italy agai
n. Wonder if she’s wishing for lightning to strike in a bottle a second time.”
“Well, it did for you and Karen, right?”
“Right. We’ll see.”
“Looks like we’re done here,” Stephen said in a dismissive, yet familiar, way—a way Mike customarily used himself when he needed, or wanted, to move on to bigger and better things. “I’ll let you know when we get the court date for the divorce.” Stephen patted Mike on the shoulder, his hand squeezing it ever so comfortingly.
“Thanks,” Mike said aloud, and I needed that to himself.
22
Men and Directions
Mike stood outside his car in Stephen’s parking lot, letting the air conditioner work its magic—the bridge he predicted he’d need to cross came to pass. Unpredictable was the bile taste invading his throat and an unexpected queasiness he usually felt after overindulging. He got in the car, rifled through the console, and popped an Altoid. That should do it. That’s weird. It didn’t.
Of course, it wasn’t what he ate but that he hadn’t eaten all day that was his problem. It was already after two. No real breakfast or lunch. Not quite living according to doctor’s orders. He pulled into a diner and solved that issue.
A cheeseburger and fries later, Mike decided to take a bite off Eve’s apple and tempt fate. Or if not tempt it, at least see if he could redirect it from the downward spiral path it seemed to be taking.
Mike needed to see Karen. He had to find out what the hell was going on with her. Though he felt he was her puppet and she was pulling the strings, he believed she must have a reason for behaving so out of character. She gave him her kidney. Gave him life. He owed her the chance to explain things before he told her he couldn’t marry her under the circumstances.
What's Not True Page 14
