THIEF: Part 2 (4 page)

              It’s the end of July when the house sells.  Even the realtor seems surprised; apparently, houses in this neighborhood drag through the market six months or more.  Silas credits his handyman skills, which even I have to admit are impressive.  The kitchen is completely updated, thanks to him cosigning on a loan with me, despite my protests.  “You’ll get way more for the house if the kitchen’s not…this,” he’d said, motioning to the peeling linoleum of Mom’s old floor.  “We’ll pay the loan back when the house sells, don’t worry about it.”

              So, like so many things, I let him talk me out of my worries and just trusted him.  He was right: a bidding war between two newlywed couples ensued, and we closed at 2% over asking.  After we pay the loan back, I’ve got almost 3 years’ worth of my old salary in the bank.

              “Not that it’s a good thing, you know, having your mom die,” Silas says, the night of the sale, “but it’s definitely a silver lining.  Especially since she didn’t have life insurance.”

              “Yeah,” I sigh, and look around his apartment.  With my stuff piled here in the living room, even though I still don’t have much, the place looks even smaller.  “Maybe we should think about a new place ourselves.  When your lease is up, I mean.”  Suddenly, I realize how forward this sounds.  I blush.  “Uh…you know, if you want to.  I can just get my own place if you don’t….”

              Silas laughs, sweeping me into his arms.  “If I don’t what?  Want you here?”  He gives me a deep, knee-weakening kiss.  “You just can’t let good things happen to you, you know that?”

              When he lets me go, I grab one of the bottles of wine I bought to celebrate.  “My high school guidance counselor told me the same thing,” I tell him, “right before I dropped out.”

              “I didn’t know you dropped out.”  He says this like it’s just an interesting fact, no judgement.  I’m reminded, yet again, how and why I fell for him so quickly.

              In the kitchen, I dig the cork from the bottle with a steak knife, pour two glasses, and hand him one before settling into the crook of his arm on the sofa.  “Yep,” I say, taking a long sip.  “End of sophomore year.  I just didn’t see the point anymore.  I got my GED about a year and a half later, landed my job at Bailey Bro’s, got my apartment….”  I take another sip.  “You know the rest.”

              “Sometimes I forget how young you are,” he says.  “Not like, immature, obviously.  Just your actual age.”

              “Like when I break the law to score booze?” I tease, clinking my glass to his.

              Without taking a sip, he sets his down.  “No, really—when I was your age, I was married, which sounds mature.  But I wasn’t at all.  In fact, all it did was make me act more like a kid.  Getting wasted every night, spending grocery money on drugs…and Abby was the same way.”  He clicks his tongue, thinking.  “We kind of poisoned each other.”

              “Speaking of Abby, actually….”  I sit up and laugh at the panic on his face.  “Relax, it’s nothing bad.  I was thinking today about what you told me, how you still owe her alimony, but you don’t want to pay her till you know she’s sober—won’t she take you to court if you don’t pay?”

              He shakes his head, picks up his wine glass, then sets it back down.  “She’s got too much to lose, taking me to court.  I mean…you know, she’s got her own problems and stuff.”

              “Well, in that case, maybe we could open an account—put some of the money in there from the sale,” I tell him, gaining momentum.  “That way, if she did take you to court, you can just show them the account and explain why you didn’t give it to her.  And since the money would be there, untouched, they’d believe you.”

              Silas tilts his head, considering this.  “That’s actually a pretty good idea.  It could even gain some interest, with enough time…. I could put all my monthly payments into it.”  I see his tongue poking his cheek.  “But I couldn’t accept that money, Erin—it’s yours.”

              “You took out the loan for me,” I say.  “You put as much time and energy into that place as I did, probably more.  Hell, if it weren’t for your loan, the damn thing would probably still be on the market, rotting away.”  I kiss him, leaving a couple drops of wine from my lips on his.  “At least let me give you the difference—the extra money the renovations earned.”

              Silas licks the wine from his lips, wincing at the taste.  But he smiles at my idea.  “Yeah…okay.  Let’s do it.”  Now he kisses me.  “How’d you think of it?”

              “It’s been on my mind a lot, lately,” I admit.  “Not Abby, specifically, just…tying up the loose ends.”  I gulp some more wine.  “Making it harder for people to stir up drama.”

              He nods knowingly.  “Some people really love doing that, don’t they?”

              I think back to our first date, as we drove home from the hospital.  Silas’s cheek is healed completely now, the scar fading to a translucent, thin, white line along his jaw.  I trace it with my pinky and echo what he said that night, nodding.  “Yep.  Just when shit starts going right.”

              The phone rings, and for a second, both of us hold our breath.  “Let the machine get it first,” Silas says.  We lean into each other, waiting.

              “Silas,” a man’s voice laughs, over the machine, “hey, it’s me, Luke.  Man, you lucked out—tonight’s meeting got cancelled, something about cockroaches in the rectory.  We all had a good laugh about you planning it so you wouldn’t technically be late, as usual.”  The man laughs again.  “Anyway, just wanted to let you know the next one’s Wednesday, over at Grove Baptist—”

              Silas jumps to his feet and grabs the phone.  “Luke…hey.”  He glances at me, smiles unconvincingly, and turns away.  “Yeah,” he says.  “No, yeah…I’ll be there.  I know, I’ve just….  I’ve been busy, that’s all.  No, man, seriously.  Everything’s fine.  Yeah…okay, tell them I said hey.  See you then.”  He hangs up, sighs, and turns to face me.  “Sorry about that.”

              “Who was it?  Did you miss a meeting at work or something?  You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

              “No, no, it’s fine,” he says quickly.  “It got cancelled.  It’s, uh…it’s kind of a hobbyist meeting.”

              “Silas.”  I raise an eyebrow at him.  “A ‘hobbyist meeting,’ really?  That’s the best you could come up with?”

              He laughs nervously, relaxing a little.  “Um…yeah, that was pretty lame,” he says, and scratches his head.  “I guess I just didn’t want to tell you yet, because it’s not something most guys my age have to deal with.”

              “All right, now you’re making me a little nervous.”  I pat the couch, and he sits.  “Come on.”

              He crosses his arms, chewing the inside of his cheek.  “It’s AA,” he says, finally.  He looks at me.  When I don’t say anything, he elaborates: “Alcoholics Anonymous.”

              “I know what it means,” I blurt, then soften my voice.  “Why didn't you tell me sooner?”  I grab his hand, making him uncross his arms.  “You know you can tell me anything.”

              “Well, yeah, now,” he says, “but I didn’t know that when we first started going out.  Besides, between your mom dying and….”  He waves his other hand in the air, and I know he’s referring to Gordon, the car, the house, all of it.  “…everything else, it didn’t seem that important.”

              “How long have you been going?” I ask.  I’m suddenly aware of how ridiculous this conversation is with a wine glass in my hand, and set it down.

              “Three years,” he says.  “Right after the divorce.”

              I think back to all our dates, movie nights, the drunken laughter during late-night renovations on the house.  “But I’ve seen you drink.”

              “Nope.”  He smirks, a little proud.  “You saw me drink fake drinks, sodas in fancy glasses.  Or holding alcohol, without actually drinking it.  Some tricks my fellow alcoholics taught me.”

              “Oh, my God…I’m sorry, Silas.”  I grab our wine glasses and hurry to the kitchen, then proceed to dump them and the rest of the bottle down the drain.  “I never would have had alcohol around you if I’d known.”

              He laughs, following me.  “Erin, relax.  I can be around it and not drink it.  We actually discuss that a lot in our meetings.  It makes me feel like…like I’ve kind of got power over it, you know, instead of vice-versa.”  He laughs again, this time wistfully.  “Have you noticed,” he says, “that we’ve both apologized to each other for things we couldn’t possibly have known about?  First it was….”

              “You can say his name,” I tell him.  “It’s kind of like you being around alcohol but not drinking it.  I spent a long time not saying his name, thinking somehow…that’d make me weak.”  I lean back against the counter, sighing.  “It was just the opposite, though.  Saying his name again, facing everything…I feel stronger.”

              Silas nods and stands in front of me, his hands on top of mine on the countertop.  “Thank you for understanding,” he says, “but really—I don’t want you to feel like you can’t drink.  It’s my problem, not yours.”

              I look at the sink.  The drain-sifter is stained deep red.

              “I don’t need it,” I tell him.  “Maybe when we go out, now and then.  But I don’t need to keep it around here.”

              “Well…double thank-you, then.”  He presses his body against mine, pinning me.  “For the record, though, I never mind it when you’re drinking.”  His hips rock forward, and I watch as he slips his hand into my shirt, quick and imperceptible, like a magic trick.  He grins and gets a wild look in his eyes when I shudder from his attention, the quick roll of my nipples between his fingers.  “Or when you’re drunk.”

              As always, I’m blissfully baffled by the way Silas makes me feel: intoxicated, without a drop of alcohol.  High without a single puff.  Flying, but anchored firmly to the earth, all at once.

“Let me do the talking, all right?  I know it sounds sexist, but I’m a guy—they won’t try to rip me off.”

              “You’re right,” I say, shoving Silas on our way into the dealership.  “It does sound sexist.”

              “Don’t blame me, it’s just the way the world is.  At least in here.”  Silas bends down, reading the specs on a four-door showroom model.  “Are you sure you want a new car?”

              “I’m sure.”  This morning, I called Goodwill to pick up the Ford Tempo and donate it to a family in need.  “I’m not driving that thing.  It might be mine legally, but it still feels like Gordon’s.”  His name puts a sour taste in my mouth, but at least it’s not vomit; Silas convinced me to see a therapist so I could work through things a little more.  I was skeptical, but after a month I’ve got to admit—it’s helping.

              “What can I do for you two honeymooners today?”  The salesman who approaches us looks friendly, but his overdose of cologne confirms he’s like all the rest I’ve seen: smothered in fake charm.

              “Excuse me,” Silas says, stepping away from me, “this is my sister.”             

              The salesman sputters an apology, and Silas winks at me.

              “We’ve got him frazzled,” he whispers, on our way to the lot.  “Now we’ve got an edge.”

              “Cut the wheel-and-deal slang,” I hiss back, laughing.  “Let’s just find a good car and get him under the sticker price.”

              In the middle of our first test drive, Silas’s phone rings.  “Sorry,” he says, “it’s work—gotta take it.”  I don’t know if he’s apologizing to me or our salesman, Gary, but both of us nod.

              “Hey, Juliet, what’s up?”  Silas looks confused.  “What?  Uh…yeah, she’s with me, but she’s driving.  I—I’m not sure….”  He lowers the phone, covers the microphone, and whispers, “Erin—turn around.  We’ve got to head to Fox Ridge.”

              The salesman looks like he’s about to burst with a great offer—I’m sure he thinks this is some elaborate haggling ruse.  I wave him off as we leave the dealership and jog to Silas’s car on the side of the building.

              “What’s wrong?” I ask, breathless.  “Is Juliet okay?”

              “She just told us to get to Fox Ridge as soon as possible, didn’t say why.”  We climb in.  He buckles up, waits for me to do the same, and peals out of the dealership.  “She said it’s really important, though.”

              “Must be,” I say, checking my phone.  “She called me about eight times in a row, but my ringer’s off.”

              The first thing we see when we pull into the Fox Ridge employee lot is a cop car.  Then another.  Juliet stands at the entrance, talking to an officer with a notepad.  She doesn’t respond to our waves, hands on her hips when we approach.

              “Silas, Erin—we’ve got a problem.”

              “What happened?” I ask.  “Is everyone okay?”

              Juliet purses her lips, looking away.  The officer steps in front of her.

              “Ma’am,” he says, “we’d like to ask you some questions concerning stolen funds from the special needs ranch.”

              “What?”  I crane my neck around him, looking at Juliet.  “What the hell is he talking about?  Someone stole money from the camp?”