The Inheritance (Volume Two) (3 page)

No press are allowed in the dining hall. No cameras, no reporters; no one anxiously scribbling notes or recording with their cell phone. No one darting around the room with their camera hanging from their neck, snapping photos of people dancing, laughing, drinking, scowling. No one is allowed but the J.M. Wheeler family, all of them – all of us – drinking in the night with our eyes and ears. No need for recording devices, we have our memories for posterity.

Neal snaps his head towards our table. “What’s going on over there?”

A man’s crouched on the floor. His cheap brown suit falling off his slim form. He ducks behind Nick Rodriguez’s wife but I see him, sweating fingers cradling his camera. All eyes on him, he reluctantly stands, growing to his full, unimpressive, height. I recognize him instantly: Anthony Serafin, The Chicago Times.
Mr. Eight-oh-Six
.

“Sorry about that,” he says, raising a hand in faux-apology. He’s grinning, though a thin film of nervous sweat pools at his hairline.

Neal casts a few pointed glances around the room and one-by-one, four men rise to their feet. Two grab Anthony’s upper arms, dragging him from the room.

“Freedom of the press, Dietrich!” he screams. “That’s what Julian Wheeler always believed in.”

Neal stares at him as he goes. The hall door closes and I notice I’ve been holding my breath, trapping it in my chest.

“There’s not another reporter in here, is there?” Neal asks, his eyes surveying the room.

Everyone looks around, gazing over at their neighbors.
Are you a reporter? Are you?
Gilda and I make eye contact and her hand touches my arm. She squeezes and smiles.

“I didn’t think so,” Neal says.

Have you ever seen The Godfather? Goodfellas? Or another mob films where the entire cast are men aside from three key female roles – the mother, the wife, and the girlfriend. The ones that take hours to watch and are always at the top of those
100 Movies All Men Must See Before They Die
lists. Like all men are going to find themselves in a suit and fedora, a gun pointed at their genitals as they sip coffee in a corner café.

The rest of the night plays out like a scene from one of those films. The light grows dim and everyone’s a little looser, glasses topped off with alcohol, the stale smell of it filling the room. Neal sits next to me, his arm thrown protectively over my shoulder, his foot kicked up on his right knee as a line forms around the table.

Everyone has something to say or give to him, their mouths inches away from his ear as they stuff an envelope in his jacket. He grins and pats their shoulders, passing the envelope beneath the table, to Martin, then Chris, who piles them neatly at his feet. I purposefully drop my bracelet and watch the exchange, three hands seamlessly working together, the pile growing taller until it topples over.

The women cradle his face in their hands, their thumbs pressing into his cheeks as they let him know: “If there’s anything,
anything
, you need, please don’t hesitate to call me.” They’re pressed so close I can only see the top left of their foreheads and hair, but I have no doubt they all wink.

If they could smoke in here, they would. Their fingers spinning cigarette boxes on the table in time with the music from the band. Jazz. So very fitting to the theme of the night: Let’s All Pretend to Be Wise Guys; though the gravitational pull in the pit of my stomach tells me, no one’s pretending.

I imagine my father standing amongst these people – his people, his family – a drink sweating his hand as he throws his shoulders back and laughs, his round stomach vibrating over his belt, eyes growing smaller with every tug of his lips. I see him throwing a cautious glance around the room, making sure all eyes are where they’re supposed to be before he accepts an ominous envelope, stuffing it in his jacket with a serious twist of his mouth, clapping the delivery boy on his shoulder before he points him to the bar.

My father was a crook. It’s what I’ve always heard and believed in the same way you believe everything negative about someone you hate. But it’s jarring, witnessing it firsthand. Knowing my thin suspicions have been correct all along; that my father’s tainted image is well-deserved.

Neal laughs and I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, his tongue swiping along his bottom lip, his eyelashes curling against his cheeks. His arm feels warm, thrown over my shoulders and it’s a comfort to feel his knee bumping occasionally into mine. His way of letting me know his attention is always divided between the rest of the party and me.

Panic replaces that warm glow of excitement spreading through my fingers.

I’m turning to one of them. Gina. Darlene. Ashleigh. I can feel it.

Chris nuzzles his nose against Ashleigh’s cheek and she smiles. She pulls away but he’s getting to her, digging his hook into her back and reeling her in. Much like my father. Much like Neal.

I push away from the table and move towards the tall double doors. Neal grabs my hand.

“Hold on a second,” he says to the men he’s talking to. Then to me, “Where are you going?”

My jaw tightens. “Does it matter?” Neal raises an eyebrow.
Play nice or else.
“I’m going to the bathroom.”

“The ladies room,” Gilda says. She grabs her purse. “I should powder my nose too.”

“No,” I say. Her eyebrows shoot to her hairline. Neal’s fingers tighten around my wrist. “I need some air, that’s all.”

Neal releases my arm. My eyes fix on the exit, dodging glances and outstretched hands and open mouths ready to hurl conversation.

In the hallway you can barely hear the music, though the noise of the crowd haunts me. Conversations mixing together like a poorly produced song, nonsensical and without rhythm.

The bathrooms are around the corner, down the same hall Neal led me when we first arrived. It’s empty – thank God – and I press my back against the wallpaper, the thin mold pressing into my skin as my head tilts forward and I take a breath. In and out. In and out.

In college I had a roommate who was prone to panic attacks. When another boy stopped calling or her mom was back in the hospital she would crawl beneath our coffee table, curl into herself, and rock back and forth as waves of panic shot through her. Her eyes were always wide and black, staring into nothingness or drawn into herself. I learned to sit with her. To touch her shoulder as I rocked along, chanting, “That’s right Donna, breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.”

I will not turn into one of my father’s ex-wives. I will not be the woman everyone pretends to love and pity but behind my back whispers about how stupid I am. How blind. Can’t she see he’s seeing someone else? Doesn’t she know he’s about to leave?

“Tough it out,” I say aloud, filling my chest with air. I need to stay long enough to grab the key. Then I can delete Neal’s number and never see him again.

The door to the men’s bathroom opens and out steps Carl. He’s wearing the same suit from the night we met at the club, a dark, grassy green with a plaid tie and brown boat shoes. His pungent odor grows thicker as he ambles down the hall, wiping his hands on his pants, leaving a slight trail of wetness. He spots me and freezes, his jaw hanging open and fingers sliding together. He slowly takes in my dress, my hair, and my mouth.

I pull my lips inside and give him a tight smile. “Hello.”

His mouth snaps shut. He ducks his head and a wave of heat crawls up his neck, spreading to his hairline and painting his face red. It’s much less endearing on him than Neal.

Carl shoves his hands in his pockets and takes three large steps, leaning against the wall on the other side of me. His pelvis sticks out and I stand a little straighter.

“You…You remember me?” He’s grinning nervously, hands jiggling the change and keys in his pocket.

“Of course I do,” I say. “Are you enjoying the party?”

Excitedly, he nods. “I didn’t know you were
with
Neal.”

“We haven’t been together very long.”

“But you were together at the club?” he says. He licks his lips and saliva pools at the corner of his mouth. I almost gag.

“We were.”

Carl shakes his head. “I would never let my girlfriend suck another guy’s cock.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “What are you talking about?”

His eyebrows furrow. “At the…The other…You said you remembered me.”

I take a step forward. “What happens at the club, stays at the club.”

The women’s bathroom has a royal Indian couch made of brown leather with gold feet. It matches the mirrors, tall and gaudy, hanging above the crystal sinks by a hook.

I can’t splash water on my face without ruining my makeup, so I turn on the cold water and wait for it to run ice cold. I stick my hands beneath the spray and watch as my skin transforms from white to red, my fingers curling into my palm, my bones chattering beneath it. It’s the shock that I need. Something to wake me up. To remind me to keep my eyes on the prize.

The bathroom door swings open. I’m expecting Gilda, with her white purse slung over her shoulder, lips pursed as her eyes catch mine across the small room, but it’s Carl. The door shuts behind him and he stands near it, wringing his sweat-slicked hands as he gnaws on his bottom lip.

“This is the women’s bathroom,” I say.

He already knows that.

My mother prepared me for moments like these. The precious minutes before your about to be cornered by a man. Every second counts.

Carl sucks in a nervous breath and I turn to him, smiling. “Did you come with your wife?”

He shakes his head and steps forward. I take a small step back. His eyes drop to my feet.

“I don’t have a wife,” he says.

“Oh.”

He takes another step and I move to the side. Lesson one: never back yourself against a wall.

“I have a friend I can introduce you to. Ashleigh? Do you remember her?”

Carl takes another step and I shift my body, back to the bathroom stalls, my face to the mirrors. There’s a sliver of fear that shines in my eyes, larger than usual, brimming with anxiety.

“You said…What happens at the club…Stays at the club.”

I nod. “That’s what Nicky told me.”

He moves and I move, edging closer to the door.

“Did Nicky tell you what happens…What happens when you don’t complete a dare?”

“No. But I don’t feel comfortable having this conversation in here. Why don’t we talk outside?”

Carl takes one giant step towards me. My heel catches on the tiled floor, a curse sliding past my lips as I stumble. That one little hiccup slows me down enough for Carl to grab my arm and swing me into a bathroom stall.
What do I do now?

He blocks the door with his body, shoulders barely fitting in the narrow space. I have a strange thought: Are women’s stalls made smaller than men’s? Then think, I’m already doing it. Disassociating myself with the act that’s bound to happen, so it’s easier to swallow.

My legs knock against the toilet. “Please. Let me go.”

A thin film of sweat builds on his upper lip, shimmering in the low light. He licks it off and my stomach lurches in my throat.

“I’m gonna…If you…If you don’t complete the dare, I can…I can force you to do it. That’s what the rules say.”

I slowly nod. “You don’t have to force me. I’ll…I’ll do it, just don’t fuc --” I bite my tongue. Lesson two: keep your anger under control. “Please don’t corner me.”

Carl lunges forward. There’s nowhere to move. He grabs my wrist, his fingers pressing into my skin as he forces my hand towards his cock. The heat between his legs envelops my hand in a violent embrace.

I don’t want this. I don’t want to touch him.

I yank back my arm but he’s stronger, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he forces me closer.

“Stop,” I say, trying to remain calm. “
Please
.”

The bathroom door opens and I scream. There’s no thinking about it, no hesitation, just a raw bundle of fear flying from my throat. Carl releases my hand like I’ve burst into flames and burned him.

He steps away from the stall, all the way to the sink, his hands burying in his pockets as his eyes grow wide.

“I…I…Con…I never got the chance to say, congratulations.”

Neal
.

I can see myself, once again, in the mirror, hovering in terror near the toilet.
Move
. The word floats around in my mind but I remain frozen.

“Caitlin,” Neal says.

Carl’s eyes dart to me. He’s back to wringing his hands in front of his lap, his bottom lip between his crooked teeth, chewing nervously as Neal’s feet slide against the tile. He pokes his head in the bathroom stall and all at once, a wave of relief shoots up inside of me.

I rush across the small space and fling my arms around his neck, burying my face into his shoulder. My lips brush against his suit – red staining black – but I can’t bring myself to care. All that matters is Neal’s here to drag me away from Carl.

Neal places his hand against the small of my back, his warmth spreading to me. “What’s wrong?” he asks, in a tone that says he already knows the answer.

It sounds cliché, a line straight from the mouth of a damsel-of-the-week but I truly don’t want any trouble. I just want to take Neal’s hand and go back to the hall, where I can avoid Carl from across the room.

“Nothing,” I say, grabbing his hand. “Let’s go back to the party.”

Neal turns to Carl. He’s slowly edging towards the exit but freezes under Neal’s gaze. “What happened?” he growls.

Carl’s mouth drops open, then closes with a pop. He glances at me from over Neal’s shoulder. “She…She…” he points with a trembling arm. “She said she was gonna….You know…Um…Ginish what we started at the club.”

Neal removes his hand from my back. My fingers tighten around his, wanting to keep him close but he pulls away. Quickly, he crosses the small space, advancing on Carl who backs into the sinks.

Neal’s hand wraps around Carl’s throat, his fingers pressing into the fleshy, sweaty skin, hard enough that I hear him choke on his lack of air.

“Neal, please,” I say but he isn’t listening.

His eyes are boring into Carl’s their noses inches apart as he says, “You’re a fucking liar.”