The Accident

EIGHTEEN

My father was a good man.

He took pride in his work. He believed in giving 110 percent. He felt that if you treated others with respect, you’d get it in return. He didn’t cut corners. If he bid twenty grand to remodel someone’s kitchen, it was because he believed that’s what the job was worth. For that money, he’d provide quality materials and excellent workmanship. If someone told him they could get someone to do it for fourteen, Dad would say, “If you want a fourteen-thousand-dollar job, then that’s the guy you should go with, and God bless you.” And when those people called him later, wanting him to fix everything the other contractor did wrong, Dad would find a nice way to tell them they’d made their choice, and now they had to live with it.

You couldn’t do an under-the-table job with Dad. People were always taken aback by that. They thought, if they paid in cash, Dad could cut them some slack on the price because he wouldn’t have to declare the income.

“I pay my taxes,” Dad used to say. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m always thrilled about it, but it’s the right thing to do, goddamn it. When I call the cops at one in the morning because someone’s trying to break in to my house, I want them to show up. I don’t want to hear I’m on my own because they’ve had to lay off cops because there’s not enough money in the budget to pay ’em. People not paying their taxes, that hurts all of us. It’s bad for the community.”

It was not a commonly held opinion. Not back then, and not now. But I respected him for it. My father was a principled individual, sometimes to the point of driving my mother and me crazy. But he held to his beliefs. He was no hypocrite.

He would have had a dim view of some of the things I’d done.

I consider myself a pretty law-abiding individual. I don’t rob banks. When I find a lost wallet, I don’t empty it of cash and then pitch it into the garbage. I make sure it gets returned to its rightful owner. I try, within reason, to keep to the speed limit. I signal my turns.

I’ve never killed anyone, or even hurt anyone. A couple of bar fights in my youth, sure. I gave as good as I got, and afterward, we all had a few more drinks and forgot about it.

I’ve never gotten behind the wheel drunk.

And, every year, I’ve filed my return and paid my taxes. Just not all of them.

But, I admit, there have been times over the years when things were slow, when I have participated in the so-called “underground economy.” A few hundred here, a couple of grand there. Usually jobs that did not go through the company. Jobs I did on weekends, on my own time-when I was still working for my father, and since I took over running the company. A deck for someone down the street. Finishing off a basement for the neighbors. A new roof for a buddy’s garage. Jobs that might be too small for the company, but were perfect for me.

Or, if I needed a bit of help, I’d bring in my good friend Doug. And I’d pay him out of the cash I got.

While I’d had to tap into it during lean times, I’d managed to sock most of it away. I didn’t want a record of the money, so I didn’t bank it. I kept it at home, concealed behind a removable strip of wood paneling in my downstairs office. Sheila and I were the only ones who knew the cash-just under seventeen thousand dollars-was hidden there.

Although Doug didn’t know how much I’d managed to save, or where I kept it, he knew I’d made money that was never reported. So had he, for that matter. But when he made his threat, he knew I had more at stake. I owned the company.

I hadn’t ripped off the government for millions. I wasn’t Enron or Wall Street. But I’d hung on to a few thousand the IRS would have been quite happy to pocket for themselves. If they found out, and could prove I owed them money, I’d find a way, over time, to pay them back.

But not before they’d turned my life inside out. They’d audit me, and when they were done doing that, they’d audit Garber Contracting. I knew those books were clean as a whistle, but it’d probably cost me several grand in accountants’ fees to prove it.

I knew what my father would say, if he were alive today. He’d sing me a few of the old standards. “You reap what you sow,” he’d have said. “If you’d kept your nose clean, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

And he’d be right.

Later on Saturday, I grabbed my tools and rang Joan Mueller’s doorbell. She looked delighted to see me. She was in a pair of jean shorts and a man’s white dress shirt, the tails knotted at the front.

“I almost forgot,” I said. “About the tap.”

“Come in, come in. Don’t worry about your shoes, keep them on, it’s okay, God knows if I was worried about the carpets I wouldn’t be taking in half a dozen kids every day, would I?” She laughed.

“No, I guess not,” I said. I’d been in this house before and knew my way to the kitchen. There was half a bottle of Pinot Grigio on the kitchen table, and a nearly empty wineglass not far from it. Between the two, an issue of Cosmopolitan.

“Can I get you a beer?” Joan asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” She opened the fridge. “I’ve got some Bud, a couple of Coors, and a Sam Adams. I seem to remember Sheila saying you liked Sam Adams.”

“Thanks, but I’m okay.”

She looked disappointed as she closed the fridge. “I didn’t think there was a man alive who didn’t like a cold beer.”

“It’s this one?” I asked, setting my toolbox on the counter next to the sink.

“Yup,” she said.

The tap wasn’t dripping. “It looks fine.” I turned the cold on, then off, then did the same with the hot.

“It’s kind of intermittent,” Joan said. “It’ll do it and then it won’t. It won’t do it all day, then I’ll be in bed and I can hear it going drip, drip, drip, just driving me mad till I come down here and turn the taps off harder.”

I’d been staring at the end of the faucet for nearly a minute and not a single drop had come out of it. “It looks okay, Joan. If it starts up again, give me a shout.”

“Well, I’m really sorry to have put you to any trouble. I feel like a total idiot. Why don’t you sit down for a second, anyway.”

I took a seat across from her at the kitchen table.

“So, Joan, tell me again about this conversation you had with Sheila, about Mr. Bain.”

She waved a hand dismissively at me. “It’s no big deal.”

“But you told her about him. About his son saying he beat up on his wife.”

“Well, little Carlson didn’t say that exactly, but it was certainly my take on the matter.”

“And you talked to Sheila about whether you should call the police?”

Joan nodded. “I wasn’t going to do it, and I wondered, maybe she did, but you know, she never mentioned anything.” She smiled sympathetically at me. “I guess, in the bigger scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter now, whether she did or not.”

I thought about that. “I suppose. Except for the fact that this jerk may still be beating up on his wife. And wondering whether you might have called the cops about him. Maybe what you should do is, tell him you’re cutting back, you’ve got too many kids, and give him two weeks’ notice to find someplace else to put his kid.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I mean, he’s going to know I’m singling him out. And what’s to say, even if I don’t look after his kid anymore, that he won’t come back here to get even if he thinks I’ve ratted him out?” She filled her wineglass. “But I’m only going to have to do this for a little while longer anyway. Once the settlement comes in… did I tell you about that?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Half a mil is what they tell me.” She downed a third of the glass in one swig. “I’ll be fixed pretty good. I guess I’d still work-five hundred grand won’t last forever-but I’d stop babysitting. It’s too hard, too stressful. House is always a mess.” She paused. “I like to keep a neat house. And I’d still look after Kelly, after she gets home from school. I’ll always be happy to do that for you. She’s a wonderful child. Have I told you that? She’s just wonderful. It must be terrible for her, not having a mother.”

She reached out and patted my hand appreciatively, letting it linger for just a second.

“Sheila was so lucky to have you,” she said.

“I should be going,” I said.

“You sure about that beer? It’s no fun to drink alone, although if you have no choice…” She laughed.

“I’m positive.” I stood, grabbed my toolbox, and found my way out.

I lay awake most of Saturday night, wondering whether Darren Slocum would show up the following day, insisting again that he talk to Kelly. I hoped I’d given him enough that he wouldn’t feel the need. I kept wondering about the significance of Ann’s phone call, the one Kelly’d overheard. I wondered whom she might have been talking to, and why she didn’t want her husband to know. And why he was so determined to find out.

When I wasn’t worrying about Darren, I was thinking about Doug, and whether I should throw a few hundred bucks his way. Not because I actually believed he’d bring the wrath of the IRS down on me. I was convinced it wasn’t a serious threat on his part. Despite some of our differences, we’d been friends a long time. I was debating whether to give him some money because he needed it. But I also knew if I started giving him extra money, it would never end. I didn’t have enough, not even taking into account what I had hidden behind the paneling, to solve Doug and Betsy’s financial crisis.

I tossed and turned and thought about that house of mine that had burned down. I thought about whether the insurance company would cover my losses. I worried about whether the economy was going to pick up, whether there’d be any work for Garber Contracting five months from now.

I thought about the kids who called Kelly “Boozer the Loser.”

I thought about the man Joan Mueller was worried about, and the unwelcome interest she seemed to be taking in me. Sheila had told me one time, jokingly, that I better watch out for her. This was even before Ely died on the oil rig. Sheila’d said, “I know that look she gives you. It’s the same one I gave you. Of course,” she’d smiled, “that was a long time ago.”

I thought, briefly, about Belinda Morton, and her strange question about whether there’d been an envelope in Sheila’s purse.

But mostly, I thought about Sheila.

“Why?” I said, staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. “Why did you do it?”

Still so angry with her.

And needing her so desperately.

When Kelly came through the door just after six on Sunday, I was expecting her to be followed in by Marcus and Fiona. But it turned out to be just Marcus.

“Where’s your grandmother?” I asked Kelly.

“Marcus brought me by himself,” she said. Kelly never referred to Fiona’s second husband as “Grandpa” or “my grandfather.” Fiona wouldn’t allow it. “So we could have some ‘just us’ time.”

Marcus smiled sheepishly. “Whenever it’s the three of us, it’s all girl stuff. So I asked Fiona to let me bring her back on my own.”

“And she let you?” I asked.

He nodded, acknowledging that it was quite a triumph. “I think she was feeling a bit off, to tell you the truth.”

Kelly asked, “What smells?”

“That’s lasagna.”

“You bought some lasagna?”

“I made some lasagna.”

Kelly’s look bordered on outright fear. “We had chicken fingers on the way back.”

“It’s true,” Marcus said. “Glen, I wonder if you might have a moment…”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Kelly, honey, why don’t you head up to your room and unpack?”

“I didn’t pack anything when I left, remember?”

“Then just scoot.”

She gave me a hug and did, and Marcus came into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and made himself comfortable at the table. Although, to be honest, he didn’t look all that comfortable.

“So how are you doing?” he asked. “I mean, really?”

I shrugged. “Like my dad used to say, you play the hand you’re dealt.”

“Know what my dad used to say?” Marcus countered.

“I give up.”

“ ‘That lady over there’s got a nice ass.’ ” He lightly slapped his palm on the table. “I thought that was funny.”

“Sorry, Marcus. I’m not much for laughs these days.”

“I know. Forgive me. You just made me think of my old man. He was a son of a bitch.” He smiled wistfully. “And yet, my mom, she always took him back. I guess because deep down, no matter what he did that might make you think otherwise, he loved us.” His smile seemed to wash away, and he looked a little lost.

When he didn’t speak for a moment, I said, “I’m guessing something’s on your mind.”

“Yeah, I guess there is.”

“Something you don’t want to talk about with Fiona here.” A nod. “Does that mean it’s about Fiona?”

“I’m worried about her,” he said. “She’s taking all of this very hard. Losing a daughter and all.”

“Luckily, she has me to blame. That must help.”

Marcus shook his head. “She’d never show it in front of you, but I think she blames herself as much as she does you. Maybe more.”

I got out the bottle of scotch and two tumblers. I poured us each two fingers and handed him his glass. He knocked it all back at once. I didn’t take all that much longer.

“Go on,” I told him.

“She goes into the bedroom and closes the door and I can hear her crying in there. One time I heard her saying, between sobs, that it was her fault. I asked her about it later and she denied even saying it. But I think she’s been asking herself what she’s been asking you-why didn’t she see the signs? Why didn’t she notice that there was something wrong with Sheila?”

“She’s never indicated to me she’d like to shoulder any of this guilt I’m carrying around.”

“Fiona can be a difficult woman,” Marcus said. “I know that, Glen. But beneath that tough exterior, there is a heart.”

“She probably ripped it out of someone else’s chest and put it there,” I said.

He grimaced. “Yeah, well.” He shook his head. “There’s something else.”

“About Fiona?”

“About Fiona.” He paused. “And Kelly.”

“What?”

“A couple of things, actually. First, this idea of Fiona’s to have Kelly come live with us and go to school in Darien, I’m okay with it but-”

“It’s not going to happen,” I said. “I don’t want her gone from me five days out of every seven. That’s just not on.”

“Well, I kind of agree with you, but for a different reason.”

“What reason?”

“Fiona’s got money problems.”

I poured myself another scotch. Marcus held out his tumbler and I obliged. “What’s going on, Marcus?”

“I guess you’ve heard about this Karnofsky guy.”

The Wall Street investment genius who turned out to be running a massive Ponzi scheme. Countless people had lost millions of dollars and were never going to get a cent of it back. “I watch the news,” I said.

“Fiona had a lot of her money invested with his company.”

“How much?”

“About eighty percent of it.”

I felt my eyebrows soar. “How much is gone?”

“She doesn’t share all her financial details with me, but from what I can tell, we’re talking about two million, give or take.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“What’s she going to do?”

“Even if she loses the two mil, she won’t starve. But she’s going to have to cut back quite a bit. She’ll still have some of her nest egg, but she knows it still has to last a few years. And when she started talking about sending Kelly to school-Glen, you got any idea how much those schools cost?”

“More for a semester than I charge to build a house.”

“About that. So if you’re against the idea, I think you just have to put your foot down. In a way, it’ll be a relief to her. She’ll have made the offer, and felt good about doing it, but she’ll have to defer to you.”

“You said there were a couple of things.”

“Yeah, well, Fiona started pushing Kelly pretty hard about this sleepover thing and what happened there.”

“She did? Why?”

“I don’t know. Kelly was getting really upset. I really had to get tough with Fiona, tell her to lay off. The kid’s been through a lot, and Fiona wasn’t making things any better, putting Kelly through a goddamn cross-examination.”

“Why would she do that?” I asked.

Marcus threw back his second scotch, and said, “You know Fiona. She’s always got some kind of hidden agenda.”

Kelly came downstairs and didn’t make much of the fact that Marcus had left without saying goodbye. “He seemed tired,” she told me. “He said we’d do lots of talking but he hardly said a thing.”

“Maybe he’s got a lot on his mind,” I said.

I’d taken the lasagna out of the oven and it was cooling atop the stove. Kelly inspected it, gave it a sniff.

“It’s supposed to have sauce on the top,” she said.

“Well, I put cheese there instead.”

She took a fork from the cutlery drawer and dug into the middle of it. “Where’s the ricotta? Is there ricotta?”

“Ricotta?” I said.

“And you used the wrong dish to make it in,” she said. “It’ll taste funny if you make it in a different dish.”

“It was the only one I could find. Look, do you want to eat it or not?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’m going to try it.” I shoveled some onto a plate and grabbed a fork from the drawer. Kelly took a seat to watch me, like I was a science experiment or something.

“Something happened that’ll make you mad,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Grandma took me around to a couple of the schools I could go to. But I only got to see them from the outside because it was the weekend.”

“I’m not mad.”

“If I did go to school there, would you come and live with me at Grandma and Marcus’s? My room there is really big. They could put another bed in there. But you wouldn’t be allowed to snore.”

“You won’t be going to school in Darien,” I said. “I’m going to see if there’s another school here in town, if you still want to switch.”

Kelly thought about that a moment. Then she said, “So, Emily’s dad came over here yesterday?”

“That’s right.”

“Did he come by to give us an invitation to the funeral?”

“No. And that’s not exactly how it works. People don’t go around inviting-let’s not worry about that now.”

“So why did he come over?”

“He wanted to be sure you were okay, you being Emily’s best friend and all.”

She digested that, but she still looked worried. “There was nothing else?”

“Like what?” I asked.

“He didn’t want anything back?”

I focused in on her. “Like what?”

Kelly was suddenly looking very anxious. “I don’t know.”

“Kelly, what would he want back?” I asked.

“I already got in trouble for being in their bedroom. I don’t want to get into any more trouble.”

“You’re not in trouble.”

“But I’m gonna be,” she said, starting to tear up.

“Kelly, did you take something from the Slocums’ bedroom?”

“I didn’t mean to,” she said.

“How could you not mean to take something?”

“When I was in the closet, there was a purse bumping up against my foot, so I reached down to move it, and there was something clinking inside it, so I took it out, but it was too dark to see what it was, so I put it in my pocket.”

“Kelly, for God’s sake.”

“I just wanted to see what it was, and when Emily found me and I could see, I’d look at what it was. But then Emily didn’t come in, her mom did, so I just left it in my pocket. It kind of made my pocket stick out, so I sort of held my hand over it when Mrs. Slocum made me stand in the middle of the room.”

Wearily, I closed my eyes. “What was it? Jewelry? A watch?” She shook her head. “Do you still have it? Is it here?”

“I hid it in my shoe bag.” Her eyes were large and moist.

“Go get it.”

She ran to her bedroom and was back in under a minute, carrying by its drawstring a blue gingham bag with a sailboat on the side.

She handed it to me. Whatever was inside was heavier than I expected. I felt the item through the fabric before opening the bag, and my guess was that Kelly had left the Slocum house with a pair of bracelets.

I reached into the bag and took out the item. Heavy, bright and shiny, with a nickel finish.

“It’s handcuffs,” Kelly informed me.

“Yeah,” I said. “So they are.”