Closing Costs

by Bracken MacLeod

  She stepped lightly over to the closet and got down on her knees. She pushed aside the stack of shoe boxes piled on the floor inside and reached for the pair of Mary Janes she’d bought on clearance a year earlier. They hurt her feet and gave her blisters, so they stayed in the closet. The stubby screwdriver was right where she’d left it, inside the toe of the left shoe. She took it out and prised up the single floorboard she’d loosened during their restoration while he was at work. When it was in place, you couldn’t tell it wasn’t a fully lacquered and secured part of the hardwood floor. She wasn’t just good at restoring  furniture. Her dad had shown her a thing or two. His little girl, the carpenter.

  The underwear went in the compartment next to the shoebox she filled with the cash she skimmed off her sales at craft fairs and garden shows. Mack always bitched about her doing those because she never made any money. As far as he knew, she barely made enough to buy new junk to fancy up. And she kept it in a box instead of a bank account because she thought he might be smart enough to install a keylogger on her computer, but he wouldn’t think in a lifetime to pry up floorboards under her shoes. This cash was as good as locked away in a fortress.

  She looked at the second box—the one under the floorboards with his gun and bullets. He never shot it, and she was sure he thought it was still up on the shelf up above in the closet. Hiding it from him was another insurance policy. While she could live with a beating, if he got drunk and angry enough to go looking and got his hands on the thing . . .

  She thought about how good it felt in her hands. As much as she wanted to take it out and hold it, feel its reassuring weight and the deadly potential in it, she resisted. Not tonight. Not ever, if she could help it. Though she might not be able to help it.

  Could I kill him? No, she realized. Because she knew she’d pay if she did. She’d go to jail. And he was not going to make her pay any more than she already had.

  Samantha stuffed her husband’s stinky silk trophy in the hole and fitted the board back into place. She replaced the screwdriver in her shoe, got up, washed her hands in the bathroom sink to get the smell of that damn perfume off. In the morning, she resolved to swallow her pride and call her dad to ask for help. She could take all the I-told-you-so’s he could utter if it got her out of this house.

  She went back into the front room to look at her phone and see if anyone else had liked her post. In a while, she’d go to bed and hope that Mack stayed on the sofa and didn’t wake up until it was time to get ready for work.

  Thirteen likes. The night was looking up.

  39

  DEPARTURE DAY

  Sam watched Mack rifle through the laundry, digging down to the bottom of the hamper, pulling out clothes, and looking behind it while his agitation grew. “Whatcha looking for?” she asked. His head whipped around, and he made a small, startled high-pitched yip. She almost laughed, but didn’t. She waited for his answer, eyebrows raised. “Maybe I can help you find it,” she added.

  He blushed deep red and turned away. His ears looked like if she poked one with a needle, it’d spray a firehose gout of blood like in one of those Tarantino movies she thought were so disgusting. He stuffed the clothes he’d pulled out of the hamper back in and half shoved, half kicked it into the corner with his foot. “I was looking for the pants I wore the other night.

  “Oh, I washed those. You said they were dirty. Was there something in the pocket you needed?”

  He straightened his back and took a deep breath. When he turned around, his face looked like she imagined it did as a boy when he got caught doing something dishonest. Wasn’t that exactly what was happening now? She’d known long ago he was cheating, but it was only a few days ago that she finally had found real proof. The proverbial nipped candy bar in his pocket. And he couldn’t claim it was an innocent mistake.

  Finally, he said, “It’s nothing.” He tried to leave the bedroom, but she wouldn’t step aside. He stopped in front of her and nodded for her to make way. She smiled.

  “No, really. What was it? I bet I found it in the wash. If it was money, I already spent it when I went out with the girls the other night.”

  His expression soured. “You know it wasn’t money.”

  “Then what?” She was playing a risky game, but she wanted this moment. He wasn’t smart enough to talk his way out of it. He could shout and argue and even hit her if he wanted to, but he couldn’t say or do anything that would cast into doubt what she knew to be true. No amount of denial or gaslighting would make the evidence disappear from under the floorboard. The smell-tail heart. She almost laughed at the thought. At him. She wanted this because it was the last chance she’d get to see him wrestle with her having more power than him. No matter what he did to her at this point, she was going to come out on top. With what she’d saved up combined with what her dad had promised when she called him to say she wanted to leave, she had enough for first, last, and a deposit on her own place. It had been hard to admit her dad had been right about Mack, and she almost hadn’t been able to work up the nerve to make the call, but she did. And her dad hadn’t said “I told you so” even once, but rather that he’d help any way he could, starting with getting her out of that house. She could stay with him and her stepmother until she could get her own place. He already knew a lawyer, and said he’d gladly pay for that. But it was time to go. The antiques store could wait, but not her departure. Not any longer.

  All she had to do was be frugal for a few weeks. Save up enough so she didn’t slip underwater and she could get away for good. Stand on her own and leave her mistakes behind. Eventually, everything would be all right. She was moving on, and this moment was what she wanted to leave in her wake.

  In a calm voice that defied her desire to laugh in Mack’s face and spite him for being pitiful and stupid, she said, “Tell me what you are looking for, and I’ll tell you if I found it.”

  He didn’t say anything. He nodded for her to get out of the way again. She stepped aside and let him leave. Though she didn’t get to hear him confess, he’d all but admitted it with his sullen silence. His inability to construct even an attempt at a lie communicated clearly he was aware of what she knew. He’d gotten pass-out drunk and had forgotten about his trophy. By then, it was far too late to do anything about it. He was caught out.

  Mack stomped through the kitchen into the dining room. She heard a chair groan across the floorboards and his weight settle into it solidly as he sat to put on his work boots. She followed along, stopping by the stove to watch him.

  Without looking up from his boots, he said, “You think you’re so smart.” It came out “smaht.” She almost laughed again.

  Smaht enough, Mahky Mahk.

  “I’m smarter than you,” she said.

  Another sharp inhalation. He let this one out slowly through his nose. “Yeah, maybe you are. But I still know something you don’t.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  He looked up from tying his boots and said, “I know which one of your friends you shouldn’t tell secrets to.”

  A sudden tightness grew in Sam’s chest. One of her friends? It can’t be any of my friends, you stupid son of a bitch. All the same, her mind started racing with worries about what she’d said to whom. Whether she’d told any of them that she had her stash in the hidden space she’d built in the bedroom, that she was leaving him. Was that why he was so calm? Because he knew and already had a plan to undermine her escape? No. He couldn’t know because she hadn’t told anyone yet. Not any of her girlfriends, anyway.

  “You think I’m messing with you. Maybe I am a little,” he said. “But you’re smart; you’ll figure things out.” His accent wasn’t funny to her anymore. He stood up and grabbed the small, hard-sided cooler he used as a lunch box off the dinner table. He opened the door to the garage and stepped out. He lingered a moment in the doorway, waiting. When she didn’t reply, he said, “Take out steaks for dinner. I won’t be late.” He closed the door behind him.

 
Sam’s mind raced. She couldn’t know whose underwear he’d brought home, but she’d found hairs on his clothes too. Blond. Not all of her friends were blond. Lisa was a redhead, and Randi had dark hair like hers. Siobhan was blond and so were Sarah and Rebecca. She tried to think if any of them wore perfume like she’d smelled on him. A couple of them did, but she’d never smelled that scent before. At least she didn’t think she had. Was it because it was mixed up with that other smell? No. You bought it for her, didn’t you, you pig? You bought her the perfume, and she wears it special for you.

  Samantha wanted to run to the closet and dig out that pair of underwear and burn them, but she stood her ground by the oven. He was goading her. He was waiting in the garage, trying to trick her into running to her secret stash and showing him where she’d hidden his trophy. She wasn’t going to fall for it. A second later, she heard the garage door roll up and his car door open and slam. The Demon’s engine growled to life, roaring through the house like a monster that lived in the cellar. He sat there for a moment, revving it like a teenager before he tore out of the driveway.

  Sam stood where she was, listening until she heard his car roar down the road and away. Once he was gone, she sprinted for the bedroom, falling to her knees in the closet and clawing things out of the way to get to the board. She yanked it open, half expecting to see everything that she’d saved up over the last few months gone, replaced with a note that read You think you’re so smaht?

  Everything was right there where she’d left it.

  She pulled out the shoebox and opened the lid. Her craft show money was still inside, bundled neatly in like denominations and bound with rubber bands. She set the box aside and reached for the second one. It was heavy and felt good in her hands. She set the box on the floor between her knees, opened the lid, and peered inside. The yellow oilcloth was still there. She unwrapped the revolver and pulled it out of the box, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She popped out the cylinder and carefully loaded five bullets in. She’d read it was safer to leave the chamber under the hammer empty. But she felt better with all five filled. It was more dangerous, yes, but it was psychologically satisfying. She wanted all the chambers to count.

  She stuffed the gun in her hoodie pocket and got up to retrieve her suitcase from the basement. She was going to miss having a basement. It was unlikely that she’d find an apartment with space to continue to restore and store antiques at home. But that was temporary. She’d find a way to make it work. It’d be small pieces, things she could manage out of her car and a smaller place. And then maybe in the spring next year she could quit teaching. Nothing was going to stop her. She patted the gun in her pocket. Nothing.

  Upstairs, she packed her favorite clothes and a few other things she’d stored away. The day had come. She was doing this. She turned to grab the last of her stuff when she heard a car door slam. She fumbled the pistol shoe box and dropped it. A box of bullets fell out and broke open, scattering rounds—the gun nuts online called them that, rounds—around the closet. She froze, waiting to hear the sounds of Mack walking in the front door. That was impossible. She hadn’t heard his engine come back up the road or pull into the driveway. The dog wasn’t barking to greet him. Still, she sat quietly, hand stuffed in her pocket, listening, wondering if she’d have to shoot him. Wondering if she could. After a minute, she let out a breath. It was probably Juanita’s car next door. Samantha scrambled to collect the bullets she’d spilled. She dropped them loose into the shoe box and set it next to her suitcase. She stood. There was so much left. Her nice clothes, the rest of her shoes, the furniture in the basement, pictures and personal things. But for now, she just wanted to pack the most important belongings and get out.

  She took one more look inside her secret space, to be sure. Everything was in her suitcase. Everything except the stranger’s underwear. She picked them up and rubbed part of the waistband elastic between her fingers. She tried to get a good sense of the perfume scent for some other time. It was faint, but there. She’d know it when she smelled it again. A night out with the girls and hugs hello.

  He’s just getting into my head. None of my friends would fuck him.

  But it wasn’t bullshit. He’d lied to her about things before to manipulate her. Get her to change her mind, forget something shitty he’d done. Every time he’d done that, there was a tiny little itch in the back of her mind that said, It’s a lie. Not this time. The way he’d said it, like it was meant to be a kick in the soul, had convinced her. One of her friends couldn’t be trusted.

  She thought about saving his souvenir to give to her lawyer. But then she set the underwear back in the hole and replaced the board. Fuck him. Let him be near what he wanted but never able to actually have it. He deserved far worse, but she only wanted out. Remember what Dad said. When you’ve won, you can quit fighting. She hadn’t won yet. But this was part of it. She could get the divorce without that thing, and she didn’t need to keep it with her. A trophy of her pain, her bad choice in husband, and the failure of her marriage.

  First marriage. Lots of people have first marriages.

  Samantha stood and grabbed her bag and walked through her house toward the front door. Mack left through the garage, but god damn it, she was going out through the front.

  In the front room, she lingered for a moment, looking back at the house she’d lovingly redecorated. At her home. The room still smelled faintly of paint. She’d thought it would be hard to abandon it after putting so much labor and time into it. But no. After finally breaking free from him, that part was easy.

  “Maxim! Maxey Max!” The dog came trotting into the room, mouth open, tongue hanging loose. His little vulpine face looked like a crazy smile, and his curled tail wagged hard. “You want to go for a ride?” The dog barked excitedly and ran up to her, waiting patiently for her to attach his leash. He was a good dog. She couldn’t hold it against him that he loved Mack. She had once too.

  She walked out with her dog and closed the door behind them. In the car, she dialed her father. “We’re out,” she told him.

  “I’ve got the truck. Me and the boys will be over in twenty minutes.” He’d shut down the build site for the day, enlisted two of his biggest laborers with promises of time and a half, and rented both a Ryder truck and a storage unit to fill with her things. She imagined what might happen if Mack came home early. She didn’t want that. The idea of a pair of mountainous men with rough hands holding Mack while her father “tuned him up,” as Dad said he wanted to, appealed. But more than that, she wanted him to come home to a house with big empty spaces. Without the smell of dinner cooking, the sound of their—her—dog greeting him, and the taste of a cold beer. “You sure everything you want us to get is on the list? Because we have room in the truck.”

  She looked at the dog in the passenger seat and thought about the gun in her suitcase. “Everything I couldn’t carry on my own is on there. If you treat yourselves to all the beer in the fridge, that’d be fine, but I don’t need anything of his.”

  “Okay, Sam I Am. Love you.” He was the only person in the world who’d ever be allowed to call her Sam from now on, and only with I Am at the end like he’d always done.

  “I love you, Hop on Pop.”

  She hung up and dialed in to work, telling them she needed to take a couple of days off, and then backed out of the driveway.

  X

  ◆

  Mack

  40

  NINE MONTHS BEFORE DAY ZERO

  Mack looked up from his desk, expecting the man approaching him to be a co-worker. Gerry, perhaps, with a new location assignment. But it wasn’t him, or anyone else he recognized. The others in the office watched in mute astonishment as the man marched right up to his desk, having stridden past the low swinging gate that separated the lobby from the office space without asking if he could enter. The office was an “open plan” meant to foster a collaborative work space. What it really did was force them to pretend that the person at the next desk wasn�
�t talking too loudly about last night’s game or making a personal call during working hours. Except no one pretended not to notice the stout man standing in front of Mack. No one had stopped him to ask where he thought he was going. They all stared, not making any effort to spare Mack the indignity of what was about to happen.

  “Malcolm P. Roarke?” the man said. His voice was gravelly and possessed a jaded, bored tone. Mack nodded at the name plate on his desk. It read MACK ROARKE. The man didn’t look amused. “I can see you’re sitting at his desk. Are you he?”

  “Yeah, I’m him.”

  The man reached into his jacket, and Mack had an awful moment where he imagined staring into the barrel of a gun before it blossomed fire. The man withdrew an envelope from his pocket instead and held it out. Mack didn’t reach for it, so the man dropped it on his blotter. “You’ve been served, Mr. Roarke.”

  “With what? What do I do with this?”

  “I can’t advise you, sir. Have a good day.” Mack thought he caught a hint of amusement in that last sentence. The process server turned and walked away. Everyone in the office waited until the man was out of the office before they approached Mack’s desk to find out what had just happened.

  Mack picked up the envelope and read the return address. It was from the Civil Service Division of the Sheriff’s Office. Beth asked what it was. He shrugged. Gerry, his supervisor, shook his head but didn’t say anything. Rob offered his condolences for the mere fact of being served process for whatever bullshit it was.