Unlikely Allies

by C. C. Koen

  “On the nightstand next to you.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Done. Lay down.” Rick spit out the order instead of vomit and wiped his mouth with the towel Matt shoved in his face.

  “Shirt off first.” Unable to get his limbs to work, Matt saved him again, pulling the damp, sweaty fabric over his head. “Lay back.”

  Rick dropped his head on a cushioned, soft surface and his eyes closed again. A cover got laid over his shoulders and on an exhausted breath he muttered, “Tired.”

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  “Lost,” he mumbled.

  “Yeah, that too.”

  “He shouldn’t sleep in those pants. They might be a mess. Take 'em off him, Matt.”

  “Sleep,” Rick answered.

  “He’ll be out in a second. Leave him alone.”

  “Lone . . . nobody,” he grumbled.

  “Oh god, Matt. He’s breaking my heart.”

  “Welcome to the club, babe. Fucked up for a long time.”

  “He doesn’t deserve this.”

  “No, he doesn’t. Best damn man I ever met. Come on, let him sleep it off. I’ll talk to him in the morning.”

  “You have to help him.”

  “I’m trying, Soph. I really am.”

  “Have you asked Emma? She might have some ideas.”

  “She’s on board already.”

  “Good. Between the two of you and me, we should be able to figure something out.”

  “Yeah, I’m hopin.’ Goodnight, buddy.”

  “Night,” he murmured, his eyes popping open when he felt a kiss on his temple. When it wasn’t the person he hoped, he slammed them shut. The squeeze pinched and amplified the stabbing and ramming in his head.

  “Sweet dreams,” Sophia said on his forehead.

  “Dreams,” he whispered, and on his next breath, “Maggie.”

  A freezing rush of air washed over Rick’s bare chest. He threw an arm over his pounding head and the other across his aching stomach.

  “Let’s go. Get up. We got stuff to do.”

  His right eye opened, but the other wouldn’t cooperate. Rick glanced at Matt, hands on his hips, dressed and raring to go. Rolling onto his side, he stuffed a hand under the feather-soft pillow and attempted to tune him out.

  “There’s sweats on the dresser. Get a shower. Don’t bother going back to sleep. I swear if you do, you’ll be covered in an ice bath like we used to give pledges at the frat house.”

  Rick mumbled, telling Matt exactly what he could do with that BS technique.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll call Maggie and tell Cece you’re not coming. Go ahead and break her heart. But see if I ever talk to you again. Don’t call, don’t write, don’t fucking come near me.”

  Regardless of how bad things got, Rick never reneged on a promise. He propped his arms on the mattress, muscles straining under his unsteady weight and a truckload of other burdens crushing him, yet he somehow staggered to his feet.

  Ignoring Matt’s you’re-dead sideways glares, Rick shouldered past him, snatched the clothes from the dresser, and slammed the bathroom door, grateful for the peace and quiet. Too bad his spinning and pounding head didn’t agree.

  “When you’re done having a pity party, you’ll find me in the kitchen making your hangover breakfast. Then I’ll take you home to change.”

  With the hot water turned on full blast, he tried to drown Matt out.

  It didn’t work.

  “All right, I’ll wait in the car with my girls, you go get yours.”

  Rick fixed Matt with a narrowed scowl. The underlying prod hadn’t been appreciated, but he wouldn’t bother to argue with him. They already had it out when he exited the bathroom, dressed in Matt’s sweats, and found him sitting on a bare mattress, sheets and covers piled on the carpet. If he hadn’t known Matt for over ten years and better than the back of his own hand, he would’ve taken offense with the fucked-up insults to his manhood and spit-flying brutal attacks to his wounded and already battered frame of mind. When all was said and done though, Matt pulled him into a man hug, pounding him on the back. “Time for a strategic move, buddy. Face the writing on the wall. Read what it says, process it, and don’t ignore the save-your-sorry-ass message.”

  “Max,” Cece chanted his name over and over like a cheerleader yelling for the star quarterback. Rick leapt out of the car and swept her into his arms. Maggie came up not far behind, the momma bear focused on her straying-again cub. “Ya came.”

  Setting Cece on her feet, he got down on a knee and clasped her hands in his. “Of course I did, sweet pea. I said I’d pick you up at noon.” He showed her his watch, positioned above her leather bracelet, and pointed to the big hand. “See that. It’s on the nine, not twelve. It’s eleven forty-five. I’m early. And since I am, you need to plant one right here.” He pointed to his cheek, waiting for his reward.

  Cece giggled, threw her arms around his neck, and smothered him with a slobbery kiss.

  “You look beautiful, princess. Is that a new dress?” Different from the fancy attire worn on her birthday, but no less frilly, the purple layered tutu and shimmery camisole would be something found on a ballerina.

  “Yeppers.” Her arms stretched wide, she twirled in a circle, beaming at his compliment. Her smile brightened her chubby red cheeks. The sunshine highlighted them and made the garment glisten as if she were front and center on stage under the spotlights.

  “She’s never been to a musical before. I tried to explain, but she’s stuck on the ballet since I’ve taken her a few times.”

  “Hmm.” He stood, deciding on a tactic. More than excited about the opportunity to spend the day with her, he didn’t want her disappointed when she got there and found out it wasn’t what she thought. On the sidewalk, in front of Maggie and the entire neighborhood, radiating through his heart, he sang, “Love Will Find a Way.” A musical rendition he recalled from The Lion King II and enhanced by motions that went along with the lyrics. He extended his hand out to her, and as graceful as a prima ballerina, she spun and twirled in a circle along with him as he held them above her head, providing the support as a premier danseur noble male lead would for his partner.

  Each of his verses resulted in a different move, facial expression, and emotion: covering his eyes to represent darkness, clutching his arms and shivering to show fear, pointing from his eyes to Cece’s demonstrating enlightenment shining through, and the grand finale, jogging over to the porch, where Kat laughed in hysterics, but he didn’t care. With a firm hold on the railing, a leg and arm suspended midair, he sang about love, home, and togetherness from the top of his lungs.

  When he finished, the standing ovation came from Matt, Lizbeth, and Harley who had jumped out of the car at the beginning of his performance. Maggie and Cece whooped cheers and clapped in a roundabout fashion from the top of their heads, down to their waists, and back again in a circular motion. His affection for them clogged his throat. And Kat, with a forefinger and pinky thrust between her lips, whistled like a sailor. His bow completed the once in a lifetime show. He swooped a hyena-laughing Cece into his arms, and after she gave Maggie and Kat goodbye kisses and hugs, he secured her in the booster chair in the back of the SUV. Lizbeth and Harley climbed in and buckled their belts too, while he made his grand exit, collapsing into the passenger seat.

  In the side-view mirror, Rick caught sight of Maggie being held in Kat’s arms, heard hiccupping whimpers through his open window, while Matt shifted into reverse, retreating out of their driveway. Oblivious to her mother’s affected appearance, Cece’s exuberant chatter about meeting Simba and singing the same song “like Max” consumed their excursion.

  As best as he could, he pretended his own internal, gaping wounds weren’t visible. After his less than stellar performance last night, Matt wasn’t buying his stoic expression. His hunched posture, trembling hands, and vacant stare intensified the longer Matt drove. Numbness crept through his limbs, replacing the blood that used to pulse throu
gh them, a zombie-like replacement sitting in his seat.

  When he turned thirteen, excited about becoming a man, he couldn’t wait to be a grown up. He’d been wrong—it sucked.

  It didn’t take long for them to arrive at West Forty-Second Street due to the low traffic on a Sunday. A half hour before the performance started, Rick watched the girls pick through the hundred or so souvenirs. Matt bowed out, stating he’d be right back. He returned with a bottle of Five Hour Energy, demanding Rick chug it. “Since you had enough of the stuff that didn’t work last night, this and the aspirin you took should help.” Not wanting to guzzle anything in front of the kids, Rick waited until after Matt took the girls into the auditorium, and went into the bathroom, doing what he ordered for once.

  Their seats in the front row were located on the left side of the orchestra pit and stage. They got situated in a particular order: Matt on the end cap, then him, Cece, Lizbeth, and Harley. The girls had coloring books out and dove in, using the crayons to shade Simba and the other Disney characters.

  While Rick flipped through the pamphlet, reading the cast bios, scene descriptions, and highlights, Cece climbed over the armrest and into his lap, crushing the brochure and his hands underneath her. “I gotta ask ya somefin, Max.”

  “What’s that, sweet pea?”

  “Ya gotta dada?”

  A hot iron seared his gut and dried up his unblinking eyes. Not sure how long it took for a reply, at some point, he muttered, “Yeah, he’s in heaven.”

  Her eyebrows scrunched up and bottom lip turned into a pout. He darted a wide-eyed plea to Matt, but his supposed savior just tilted his head and shrugged an out-of-the-mouth-of-babes non-answer.

  “Like my frog?”

  Snatched out of the heat by Cece’s question, he blurted, “I didn’t know you had a frog.”

  She patted his cheek. “'Cause he’s in heaven, silly.” On the flipside, she asked, “Ya gotta sissy or brofer?”

  “No.”

  Scooted onto her knees and sitting back on her bent legs, she faced him. He gripped her upper arms so she didn’t fall while she assumed her new position. “I don’t got none of 'em eifer.”

  His mouth dropped open, closed, and opened again. All he could manage was wheezing short gasps. He had no idea what to say.

  The orchestra cueing the first song saved him, triggering Cece to leap across the armrest and into her chair. Excitement bubbling, her behind bounced up and down in her seat. As the costumed characters appeared, breaking out in song, Cece, Lizbeth, and Harley hopped to their feet. Their bodies shifted into girly swaying while they joined hands and crooned along, becoming more and more captivated by the musical adventure. For Lizbeth and Harley this hadn’t been the first time he and Matt brought them to a Broadway show. Often invited along for many of their father-daughter activities, since he enjoyed hanging out with them, he hadn’t given much consideration to their time together. But now, as he processed what Cece called attention to and observed her joyful delight, she brought to mind a lifetime of memories of father and son outings: fishing in the backyard pond, his dad holding on to the back rim of his two-wheeler when the training wheels were removed, showing him how to hold and toss a football, painting and constructing model cars, and so many other precious moments.

  Although Cece’s representation hadn’t been accurate, she had a daddy. Still, in her young mind, maybe it felt like she didn’t. Any gaps in his knowledge about Maggie and Jake’s history had been filled in by Kat and added to by hyper-alert Matt. None of which he asked for. It didn’t take him long to wish he had a minute alone with Cece’s dad though. He wanted to beat the shit out of Jake. Every child deserved to be loved, wanted, and have a safe home. His dad showed him in every way he cared. His mother did the same.

  “Sing, Max, sing,” Cece shouted over the music.

  He did, noting she already sang much better than her mother. That thought had him smiling along with Cece. Her happiness and thrilled energy wrenched him from his depressing thoughts. The bundle of joy, swinging his hand, bouncing on her tiptoes, deserved many more experiences like it.

  And he didn’t need the title “father” to make it happen either.

  MAGGIE DIDN’T MIND THE NIGHT shift since fewer than a handful of employees were on the schedule at this hour. The peace and quiet after a fast-paced restaurant atmosphere provided a calm end to her hectic day. Time away from Cece wasn’t pleasant though. When they lived in Texas, the shifts she worked at her grandparents’ place varied. Three nights a week she supplemented her salary with a part-time data entry position at a customer support center. The extra pay contributed to her personal go-to-culinary-school-someday fund, with half set aside for Cece’s college savings.

  When she and Jake married, he insisted their finances remain separate. He already had his own savings and checking account and so did she, setting it up when she turned thirteen to deposit a small salary she received for hosting and handling the register for her grandparents. The request wasn’t out of the ordinary because her mama mentioned she and Daddy had done the same thing.

  During their four years of marriage, they lived in a rented house and didn’t have many bills. She had the Honda Civic her parents bought her when she turned sixteen, and Jake had a motorcycle, which he paid off. Once a month they divvied up expenses, but he refused to contribute any money for Cece’s care: clothes, diapers, formula, baby food, everything. He said since he didn’t want kids, and she did, she’d pay for it.

  It—he used that reference for his own daughter, not once or twice but too many times to count.

  She argued with him, but her pleas hadn’t mattered. His complete indifference made no sense. Who would act that way? Why? Yes, he had a horrible upbringing. An alcoholic father who had nothing to do with him and a mother who took off, abandoning him when he was six months old. The replacements: a revolving door of women who kept his dad entertained. Even so, she wasn’t anything like them. She loved Jake and did her best to show him. But he still didn’t want Cece or her.

  Jake’s tough exterior and wounded spirit tugged at her heartstrings. Another of her “idiot-syncracies” as Kat reminded her over and over again. Her sister tried to talk her out of marrying him, but she didn’t listen. For as long as she could remember, she wanted to have kids and a husband. Her dad didn’t like Jake, and her mama worried but allowed her make her own decisions. Maybe she had a little rebel in her too because Jake had been the only time she’d gone against her family’s wishes. And look how that turned out. As a parent, up to her neck in hindsight, she understood now.

  “Excuse me. Ms. Tyson, right?”

  She jumped in her chair, and her head whipped from the computer screen to the opened office door. The clock above it showed nine p.m. The receptionist locked up on the way out at six thirty, so she had no idea how the elderly gentleman had gotten in. She stood and moved closer to the phone at the corner of her desk. “We—we aren’t open. I—I mean, you have to come back between nine and five if you need something.” Her nerves were rattled and she stammered through the unprofessional explanation. In the four months she worked here, no one had been let in after business hours.

  “I know Mr. Westlake personally.” His refined posture, suit and tie, and calm demeanor didn’t put her at ease.

  She looked over his shoulder to see if the glass entry doors were closed, but she couldn’t tell from her position. All she could see was the corner of the receptionist’s desk and an empty seat.

  “Maybe I should have introduced myself first. I’m Horatio Stone, Rick’s grandfather.”

  Now she recognized him, somewhat. For a brief second in Emma’s kitchen, by the time she finished staring at Rick’s hasty retreat and turned around, all she saw was the back of a gray-haired man wearing a business suit, and Emma chastising him as they left. Her concern for Rick and reeling from their intimate dance together, she hadn’t paid the man and his strange outbursts any mind.

  Collapsing into her chair, she attempted
to relax by resting her shaky hand on her rapidly beating heart and chuckled at her silliness. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just a little on edge. Visitors and clients don’t come by at this hour.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  That comment along with Mr. Stone closing the door and taking a seat at the front of her desk launched sirens and alarm bells in her ears. She sat up as ramrod stiff as he had in his seat, her hands clenched on a Westlake Security calendar pad.

  “What’s going on? Is Rick okay? Emma?”

  “I’m glad you asked. As a matter of fact, there is a problem.”

  Concerned, she prompted, “Did something happen?”

  Quiet for several nerve-racking heartbeats, he stared as she shifted to the edge of her chair. Calm, cool, and collected, his lack of clarification should have alerted her.

  “I’m a businessman, Ms. Tyson. I don’t mince words. I’ll be frank with you.”

  His don’t-mess-with-me professional tone became her defensive position too. “By all means, you won’t leave until you do. So say what you came here to.”

  “My grandson may be savvy in business, but he’s stupid when it comes to his personal life.” She opened her mouth to deny she had anything to do with that, but when he held his hand up, she paused. Not because of his silence-imbecile action though. Her internal battle and warring emotions kept her from speaking. “You’ve been offered money to stay away, and since you haven’t, that makes you a fool too.”

  She bit and clipped the side of her tongue, blood pooling under it. Over the sting and the lump in her throat, she swallowed the acidy-salty fluid into the pit of her sunken stomach, along with her infuriated, clamped-down response.

  “When at first you don’t succeed . . . I’m sure you’ve heard that saying before, Ms. Tyson. In the corporate world we learn tenacity, perseverance, and how to overcome adversity. Otherwise, we fail. I study my opponent, do my research, and change strategies. I always get what I want. You—I do not want for my grandson. You and your brat are welfare-laden expenditures, expecting a handout, and an inconvenience—an expense my grandson does not deserve. So, I’ll appeal to your parental side, and the affections you may have . . . created for my multimillionaire grandson.”