Charlie parked in front of the garage, then unlocked the door with the key Nathan had given him. I followed him inside and looked around—really looked around. Mom had renovated every square inch of this house herself. She’d chosen the paint colors, the furniture, the window coverings, the wainscotting. She’d put the iron hat rack by the door, the lead glass candy dish in the phone nook, the milled soap in the powder room. This house reflected her taste, her work ethic, her whims, her sense of humor. It didn’t just remind me of her—it was her. While I bore no sour grapes about the money going to someone else, I was crushed that we weren’t getting the house. Because losing it meant losing all that was left of her. And despite our differences, it hurt to have to completely let her go.
“You want something to eat?” Charlie asked, and I suddenly wondered what that Ashley woman planned to do with all Mom’s stuff. It was hers now—the will explicitly said “my home and all its contents.” If I made myself a sandwich, would that be stealing from her? Should I leave a twenty on the mantel? At what point would Charlie and I be considered trespassing or, God forbid, squatting?
“I’m OK,” I said, sucking up my inner turmoil. I could walk to the Boulevard from here—it was only a half mile. I didn’t need to eat food belonging to the woman my mother had chosen over me.
“We can’t just leave like this,” Charlie said. “We need a lawyer. I mean our own lawyer. One that’s not sleeping with Mom’s heir.” Even in death, Mom had found a way to manipulate us. I genuinely liked Nathan, and would have loved to try to resurrect the closeness we once all shared. But thanks to Mom and the bomb she’d detonated upon her departure, our cousin was morphing into enemy number one. And it suddenly occurred to me that maybe this was by design? Because of course Mom would burn it all down on her way out the door. If she couldn’t enjoy family harmony, no one could. It wasn’t enough to sour her relationship with her kids—she had to blow up the whole damn family.
“Let’s talk about it later,” I said, suddenly exhausted. “Right now I need a nap.” What I really needed was a drink. Luckily my bottle and my bed were in the same place.
As I made my way upstairs, I inhaled the pungent memories of my childhood home. Admittedly, many of the memories embedded in the walls I’d scribbled on and furniture I’d hid behind were bad, but that didn’t mean I wanted to forget them. They were my story, the damage I had to undo. Without adversity there is no triumphant comeback, and I relished the idea of taking a well-deserved victory lap someday.
As I approached my room, I saw the door was closed. I didn’t remember closing it, but I didn’t remember a lot of things I’d done on this trip, thanks to the whiskey and the whirlwind of emotions it helped suppress. I reminded myself, No pets, no parents, nothing to find dead, then put my hand on the knob and opened the door.
Of course no one was there. And once again I found myself alone with nothing to do but drink.
CHAPTER 36
* * *
CHARLIE
I couldn’t put it off anymore. I had to call my wife.
Winnie had gone upstairs to take a nap, but I didn’t want to risk being overheard spewing lies, so I went outside to make the call.
The grass was soaked from the morning downpour, and mud oozed up over the soles of my shoes as I made my way through the misty rain into the garden. There was a little bench under the eaves by the bird feeder. I ran a hand along the top of it to make sure it was dry, then sat my sorry ass down and dialed.
“Charlie, how are you?” my wife asked when she picked up the phone. The house was quiet—no baby crying or TV blaring. As usual she had things under control.
“Hey, babe,” I said. “I’m OK. Is Zander at practice?”
“Yes, Alice is going to bring him home so I don’t have to wake the baby.” She was so calm and organized when I was gone, able to manage everything, mobilize neighbors and friends to help out. She once remarked how things were “so much easier” when I went away for a gig or a boys’ trip because she knew she was responsible for everything and could “plan properly.” I used to wonder if she just said things were fine to be generous, so I wouldn’t feel guilty about leaving her. But the calm in her voice, and the absence of chaos in the background, suggested that she said it simply because it was true.
“Thanks for holding down the fort,” I said.
“Easy peasy,” she replied. I’m sure her intent was to make me feel better, but her carefree tone smarted like a bee sting. She clearly didn’t need me around the house. What she needed from me—the only damn thing she needed from me—was to do what any self-respecting husband and father did: bring home the bacon. And on that account I had just failed.