Dry as Rain (29 page)

“Mom tell you she's auditioning at Sal's?”

I sat beside him. “Yeah.”

“You know how much that stupid job will pay, and that's if she even gets it?”

I shrugged.

“Straight tips. Guess she'll be living on alimony.”

“How are you?” I asked.

He laid his head on the armrest. “Good, I guess. I started filling out college applications.”

“Do you actually want to go to college?”

He opened his mouth to say something but closed it again.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Tell me the truth. This is your life, Ben, not mine.”

“I can't think of anything I'd rather do less.”

My heart sank, but I did my best to hide it. “That's okay. College isn't for everyone. You still thinking you might want to make a living from the ocean?”

He looked at me a long time, then said, “I was thinking that I could maybe get a job as a sales associate and work my way up like you did.”

“No,” I said so gruffly that I think it shocked the both of us.

He sat up. “Why not? You make good money.”

“Money isn't everything.”

“Since when?” He kicked his bare feet against the base of the couch and looked over at the envelope I'd laid down. “Is that divorce papers?”

“If your mother wants a divorce, she'll have to be the one to do it. It's just a letter.”

“She's so mad at you.”

“I know.”

“She probably is going to divorce you, you know.” There was vulnerability in his tone and I hated it for him. Hated it for all of us.

“I hope not.”

“Me, too.” He scratched at the ketchup stain. “Mom says we're going to sell the house.”

Hearing it made me sad, but it didn't surprise me. “She did?”

“Yeah. She said she hates it here. She wants to go back home.”

“To Braddy's Wharf?”

He gave me a sad look. “She's just talking. She wouldn't leave us here.”

“She'd leave me,” I said.

“If she were serious about moving, she wouldn't be applying for jobs here.”

“I hope you're right.”

“So, will you get me a job at Thompson's?”

I hated the thought of my son spending his adult years the way I had, but I reminded myself that they were his to do with what he wanted. “Is that what you really want?”

He shrugged. “Will you?”

“Sure, but Benji, money really isn't everything, which is good because you won't be making a whole lot of it in the beginning.”

“That's okay,” he said. “As much as I like money and love the ocean, working at Thompson's would give me a chance to spend time with you.”

“I'd like that,” I said. “We've never gotten to do much of that, have we?”

He shook his head.

“Ben, I'm sorry I didn't spend more time with you when you were growing up. I want you to know that I regret that.”

He looked at me for a long time. “Me, too,” he finally said.

Thirty-Six

My first day back to work I felt completely disoriented, but then I hadn't been off more than two days in a row for years. I suppose it made matters worse that two of our regular employees were now gone, and Thompson kept me from getting anything significant done by calling me into his office every five minutes. It might have given me confidence if he hadn't been doing the same thing with Larry.

I had no idea what he was talking to Larry about, but in my case, it was mostly just a lot of questions about operations. At first I assumed he was doing sort of a stream of pop quizzes just to make sure I knew my stuff before he made up his mind, but then I caught him taking notes, which made me wonder if he was trying to extract as much practical information as he could just in case I decided to quit.

The funny thing was, for the first time since I had started working for Thompson, I didn't feel like the world would end if I didn't get the promotion. If I did, great; but if I didn't, well, that would just mean that Larry had. I actually found myself wanting it for him as much as I ever had for myself.

Despite feeling a little disoriented at being away so long, dealing with the tension over who Thompson would pick to succeed him, and the avalanche of paperwork that had built up on my desk in my absence, being at work felt more comfortable than it had in a long time.

It was a relief to not have to deal with Danielle anymore. Santana, on the other hand, I kind of missed. He was the only other guy on the lot with a sense of humor that mirrored Larry's and mine.

The sales associate Thompson had hired to take Danielle's place when she was promoted tried to fit in, but his jokes were corny, and most of the time he walked around looking like his head might explode at any given moment. Maybe once he learned the job a little more he'd loosen up and his jokes would get better, though I doubted it. I knew the wound-too-tight type when I saw it.

At the end of the day, Thompson took Larry and me aside and said he'd announce his final decision tomorrow, but no matter what happened, he wanted us to know that he thought we were both excellent employees and hoped there would be no hard feelings. It was all starting to feel a little drawn out and melodramatic, but that was Thompson for you.

I was on my way out, preparing to crash hard, when Benji called my cell phone to say that Kyra wanted me to stop by on my way home. I assumed she'd read my letter and was ready to lay me out once and for all. Gathering my resolve, I headed up the walkway and knocked on the door before I could lose my nerve. No matter how ugly it got tonight, I told myself that after this, for better or worse, we could all finally move on.

Kyra answered in sweatpants and a T-shirt. Instead of hello or a string of expletives like I expected, I was met with “Steve's dead.”

I stepped inside. “Who?”

“Our fish. I think he starved to death. Did you feed him when I was in Milan?”

“Yes, of course.” I remembered sprinkling flakes into his bowl at least once, but I was at Larry's more than here. Why wasn't
she
feeding him? I closed the door behind me.

“When was the last time you fed him?” she demanded.

“I don't know,” I said. “Recently.”

She wore her hair in a ponytail, which swung as she turned to walk further inside the house. “You've got to flush him. I can't do it.”

“Hey, Dad,” Benji said from the couch. He was still wearing those same stained sweatpants.

“Son, you think you might want to shower sometime this month?”

Kyra scowled at me. “Leave him alone. This isn't his fault.”

“I didn't say it was.” Smelling smoke, I looked around but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. “Is something burning?”

Kyra grunted and hurried to the kitchen. “That's just great. It's ruined!”

“What's ruined?” Benji asked.

“Really, Son,” I said, “at least change your clothes once in a while.”

“I'm officially no longer a sailor as of today,” he said.

“Oh no.” My heart sank. Here I was giving him a hard time about something so shallow when he just received a blow like that. I guess I'd have to work harder than I thought to keep the 180 I'd just done from becoming a 360. “I'm sorry, Ben.”

He stared at the ground. “It's fine. It's not like I didn't know it was coming.”

Kyra stepped out of the kitchen with an oven mitt on her right hand and a smear of black on her left cheek. “Thanks for ruining my brûlée. This was supposed to be for Marnie's dinner tomorrow. Now what am I supposed to bring?”

“Yes,” I said, watching wisps of gray float across the room, “I'm sure it was all my fault.”

She turned and marched into the kitchen. “Are you going to flush Steve or what?”

“How long has he been dead?” I called to her.

“Since about ten this morning,” Benji said flipping to the Food Network. “Dad, check this out. They're making stuffed rainbow trout. You can't catch a tastier fish.”

“Just flush him!” Kyra yelled from the kitchen. “He's starting to stink.”

“There's no way he's starting to stink that fast,” I yelled back. I turned to Benji. “Yeah, rainbow trout are the bomb. Where's Steve?”

He pointed to the fishbowl that was now just half full and sitting on the entry table. A hard-water stain formed a ring around the top of the bowl, where his water would normally be filled to.

“Why didn't you do it?” I asked him.

“She wouldn't let me. She said since you were the one who killed him, you should do it.”

“
I
killed him?”

He shrugged. “She's not exactly being rational. I think she just wanted a reason to call you.”

“Did she read my letter?”

He gave me an apologetic grimace. “Yeah, she tore it into a million pieces, then set it on fire and shoved the ashes down the garbage disposal. Did you know that Brenda Harrington has breast cancer?”

“What?”

“I don't hear the toilet flushing,” Kyra screamed.

“How did you find that out?” I asked him.

He picked up one of his mother's
Southern Living
magazines from the end table and thumbed through it faster than he could even look at the pictures. “I told you I go over there.”

“Eric!” Kyra yelled.

“Ben, go flush the hall bathroom so we can finish talking.”

Always the obedient child, he did as I asked and walked back to the living room. “Bram's devastated. He shaved his own head so she wouldn't feel bad when she starts losing her hair to chemo.”

“That's terrible,” I said, feeling guilty for all the things I'd said about them over the years. I had no idea.

“He says they caught it early, so she should be able to beat it.”

I pulled the curtain back and looked out at their house. A For Sale sign stood in the front yard.

“Are they in financial trouble?” I asked.

“I don't think so,” he said. “I think they just want to be near her parents in Wyoming.”

“But isn't his whole family here?”

“Yeah, but she's the one who's sick.”

“What about his job? He just got promoted.”

Benji frowned. “Are you serious, Dad? That's his wife.”

Kyra walked out of the kitchen carrying a baking dish with what looked like a glob of charcoal pudding stuck to it. She glared at the fishbowl, then me. “Why is he still here?”

Benji's gaze bounced between his mother and me.

“I asked Benji to flush the toilet so you'd be quiet long enough for him to finish telling me about Brenda Harrington's cancer.”

“Typical,” she said. “My husband, the liar.”

“How is that a lie?” I asked.

“How isn't it?”

“Kyra, please don't do this.”

“Or what? You'll fall in love with another woman?”

“I'll be upstairs,” Benji said, looking miserable.

I waited for him to go, then reached for Kyra's hand. “I never loved her. I love you.”

She yanked away from me. “You don't have an affair on someone you love.”

“It wasn't an affair,” I said. “I only slept with her once, and I'll spend the rest of my life regretting it.”

Her face distorted in rage as she threw the dish. The brûlée hit the wall right before the dish shattered against the floor. “No, you didn't just sleep with her once. You slept with her a thousand times and will sleep with her a thousand more. And every time I close my eyes, you'll sleep with her again. As long as I live I'll never get that image of you and her together out of my head.”

I laid my hand across my eyes. “You wouldn't let me touch you.”

“I didn't even know you anymore! You were so wrapped up in your stupid job, I felt like I was married to a stranger. You stopped talking to me, you stopped thinking about me, and for all I could tell, you stopped caring about me.” She paused and looked like she was trying to regain her composure. “And besides, I knew what you really wanted.”

I looked at her. “What did I really want?”

“The stupid routine is getting old.”

“What did I want?” I repeated. At this point I honestly had no idea what she meant. I wasn't sure
I'd
even known what I really wanted.

“That Latin bimbo.”

My mind reeled trying to figure out what in the world she was talking about. I drew a blank.

“I was standing on the landing when you kept rewinding and playing that thriller with Chantico Lopez.”

I felt like I'd entered the twilight zone. “Who?”

“The woman with the long dark hair, brown eyes, and the big—” she cupped her hands in front of her chest. “You think I want you touching my body while you're fantasizing about her?”

The only thing I could figure was that the concussion had planted false memories. “Honey, you're confused—”