“Can’t tell,” he says. “He’s surrounded.”
“I bet he is. How’s he look?”
“Good,” his dad says. “Still in great shape, too. Oh look. He’s with some old broad. That can’t be his wife.” Teddy chuckles. “You remember the day we watched him break Lou Gehrig’s record?”
Sam stops pacing. “Yeah, Dad. I remember.” It was the day you met Phaedra, stupidest name in history.
“That was a great day, wasn’t it, Sammy?”
Sam laughs. “A great day? Are you kidding me?”
“You all right, Sammy?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he snaps. Do it Sam, get it over with. “Listen, Dad. I’m calling about the money you deposited into Mom’s account. I went to the bank, and there was some discrepancy—” There’s more commotion and then loud music.
“Things are starting here, Sammy. I have to go. Can I give you a call later?”
“Later? No, Dad, I need—”
“We’re getting ready to head off for the winter, down to one of Phaedra’s places in the Caribbean. Nice, huh?”
Sam stops in the middle of the street. “We who?”
“Me and the missus,” Ted says.
“You and Phaedra are still married?”
“What are you talking about? Of course we are. Better than ever, in fact.”
“I thought you got divorced. You said in the letter—”
“Letter? What letter?”
“The letter about the money. On your stationery.”
“No idea what stationery you’re talking about.”
“Dad,” Sam says, stern. “The letters you’ve been sending me. Asking me to call.”
“I’m sorry, Sammy, but are you drunk?”
“Drunk? No—”
“Hang on a minute,” Teddy says. “Phaedra wants to say hi.”
“Sam!” Her voice is breathy, as stupid as her name. “I heard your dad say you got married, which is a real bummer. I opened a bridal veil store. I could have hooked you up. Next time you get married, send her our way.”
Ted’s back on the line, laughing. “Real good hearing from you, son. You should come down. We got plenty of room. Gotta run. Take care.”
The line goes dead in Sam’s hand, the realization crystallizing.
His father’s not divorced.
Which means there was no settlement.
Which then means that—
There is no money.
“She made it all up.” Sam says the words out loud.
His mother made it up.
His father didn’t write that letter Sam found. And not only that, it appears from what he said that he didn’t write any of the letters. The stationery. The assurances that his father thought about him, that he loved him, always ending it with an invitation to call, which Sam never did. It was all her—Margaret—the whole time, desperate to make everything okay.
His phone rings in his hand, and he closes his eyes again, allowing himself an absurd moment of hope that it’s Ted, calling back, apologizing for being a dick and asking if Sam’s got a pen. Realized I wrote the account number down wrong, Sammy!
But it’s not him, it’s an unknown number. Again. The dude from the debt collection agency. He says his name is Connor, but there’s no way his name is Connor because he lives in India making two dollars a day and Sam can’t imagine many boys are called Connor there. He’s called twice today already, from the same unknown number.
“Hello, Connor,” Sam spits into the phone. “It’s nice of you to call again. It’s been five hours and I’ve sort of missed you. Also, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m a psychologist and I’d suggest you look hard at some of your life choices because honestly, this job you have—”
“Sam?” It’s a woman’s voice.
“Yes?”
“It’s Sally French, from Rushing Waters.”
“Hello, Mrs. French,” he says, clearing his throat, embarrassed. “How are you?”
“I’m good, Sam. Thank you.” She pauses. “You okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” No, I feel like I’m losing control. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Well, no,” she says. “James, our head of accounting, was going to call you, but I wanted to do it myself. The check you sent bounced.”
“Is that right?” he mutters.
“I’m sure it was a misunderstanding, and we’re hoping you can drop another one off tomorrow.”