The Millionaires

42

“Welcome to Suckville – Population: Two,” Charlie says dryly, knee-deep in the sea of cardboard file boxes.

“Can you please stop complaining and just check that one over there?”

“I already checked it.”

“Are you s-?”

“Yes, Oliver, I’m sure,” he says, carefully pronouncing every syllable. “For the ninety-fifth time, I’m absolutely sure.”

It’s been three hours since Charlie joined me in the Warehouse of Useless Garbage doubling as Duckworth’s garage. In hour one, we were hopeful. By hour two, we got impatient. Now we’re just annoyed.

“What about those over there?”

Charlie glances at a stack of brown boxes stuffed between a heap of rusty lawn chairs and a broken, rotted-out barbecue. “I. Checked. Them,” he growls.

“And what was inside?” I challenge.

His ears burn fiery red. “Let me think… Oh yeah, now I remember – it was yet another carton of thumbed-through sci-fi novels and outdated-as-the-dinosaurs computer texts…” Ripping the lid off the top box, he pulls out two books: a water-damaged paperback copy of Fahrenheit 451, and a faded handbook titled The Commodore 64 – Welcome to the Future.

I stare him down and point to the other boxes in the stack. “What about the ones underneath?”

“That’s it… I’m gone,” Charlie announces, flying toward the door. He trips and stumbles over one of Gillian’s oversized canvases, but for once he doesn’t land right back on his feet. Smacking into a separate stack of boxes, he regains his balance, but only after knocking the entire pile to the ground. Dozens of books scatter across the floor.

“Charlie, wait up!”

Chasing him into the living room, I quickly spot Gillian, who’s hunched over on the armrest of her dad’s wicker chair. Her head’s down and her elbows are resting on her knees. As she looks up, her eyes are all red – like she’s been crying.

Charlie blows right by her and disappears into the kitchen. I can’t help but stop.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

She nods silently, but that’s all she’ll give. In her hands, she’s holding a blue wooden picture frame with a tiny Mickey Mouse painted in the bottom right corner. The picture inside is an old photograph of an overweight man standing in a swimming pool – and proudly showing off his tiny one-year-old girl. He’s got a crooked-but-beaming smile; she’s got a floppy beach hat and bright pink bathing suit. Even the moleman had his day in the sun. With the little girl frozen in mid-clap, he holds her close to his chest, arms wrapped snugly around her. Like he’ll never let go.

I don’t know Gillian Duckworth all that well – but I do know what it’s like to lose a parent.

Kneeling down next to her, I do my best to get her attention. “I’m sorry we’re rummaging through his life like this…”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Actually, it is. If we didn’t get you all riled up, we wouldn’t be-”

“Listen, if I didn’t go through his stuff now, I would’ve done it in six months. Besides,” she adds, looking down at the photo, “you never promised me anything.” She goes to say something else, but it never comes out. She just stares at the photo, shaking her head slightly. “I know it sounds pathetic, but it just makes me realize how little I knew him.” Her head stays low and her curly black hair cascades down the side of her neck.

“Gillian, if it makes you feel any better, we’ve got the exact same photo in our house – I haven’t seen my dad in eight years.”

She looks up and our eyes finally connect. She wipes the tears away with the back of her hand. There’s a tiny gap between her lips. I reach out and palm her shoulder, but she’s already turned away. She buries her face in her hands, and as the tears start flowing, she cries to herself. Even with me kneeling next to her, Gillian’s doing her best to keep it private. But eventually… as I’m learning… we all need to open up. Sagging sideways, she leans her head against my shoulder, wraps her arms around my neck, and lets the rest out. With each breathless weep, she barely makes a noise, but I feel her tears soak my shirt. “It’s okay,” I tell her as her breathing slows. “It’s okay to miss him.”

Over her shoulder, I spy Charlie watching us from the kitchen. He’s searching for the glint in her eye… the flicker in her voice… anything to prove it’s an act. But it never shows. And as he watches her crumble, even he can’t look away.

Realizing I see him, my brother spins around and pretends to recheck the kitchen cabinets. As Gillian’s sobs subside, he circles back toward us in the room.

“Who’s up for some TV?” Charlie interrupts. “We can-” He stops and suddenly acts surprised. “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to-”

“No, it’s okay,” Gillian says, sitting up straight and pulling herself together.

What’re you doing? I ask with a glance. I’m not sure if he’s jealous or just trying to calm her down, but even I have to admit, she can use the distraction.

“C’mon,” Charlie adds, putting on his nice-guy voice and waving us over to the TV. “No more heartache – time to relax with some mindless entertainment.”

She glances my way to check my reaction.

“Actually, it’s probably not a bad idea,” I agree. “Just to clean the mental palate…”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Charlie says as he cruises past us. Springboarding off the carpet, he lands on the couch with his feet already crossed on the coffee table. Gillian follows me to the living room, her fingers holding on to my hand.

“That’s it – there’s room for everyone – one big happy family,” Charlie teases as he grabs the remote. He clicks it at the TV, but nothing happens. Again, he clicks. Again, nothing.

“Did you hit Power?” I ask.

“No, I hit Mute – the sad thing is, I can still hear you.” Flipping the remote over, Charlie presses his thumb against the back and shoves open the battery compartment.

Raising an eyebrow, he looks up at Gillian. The party’s over. “It’s empty.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she says. “I meant to put some new ones in.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “Charlie, didn’t you say there were some in the closet?”

“Yeah,” he says coldly, still locked on Gillian. “There’s a whole toolbox of ’em. Every size imaginable.”

Running back and forth to the closet, I return with a handful of fresh double-As. Gillian’s already manually turned on the TV, but Charlie’s focused on the remote. He slides the batteries in and gives it another shot. Nothing happens.

“Maybe it’s broken.”

“In this house?” Gillian asks. “Dad fixed everything.”

“Here, give it here,” I say to Charlie as I sit on the edge of the coffee table. Time for the trick I used to use on my old Walkman. Pulling the batteries out of the back, I bring the remote up to my lips and blow a quick puff of air into the empty battery area. To my surprise, I hear a fast, fluttering sound – like when you blow hard against a blade of grass… or the edge of a sheet of paper.

Charlie’s head slowly cocks off-center. I know what he’s thinking.

“Maybe it is broken,” Gillian admits.

“No way,” Charlie insists. His eyes are wide with that hungry look on his face. In any other house, a broken remote is just that. But here… like Gillian said, Duckworth fixed everything. “Let me have it,” Charlie demands.

I’m already one step ahead. Cramming two fingers into the battery compartment, I start feeling around for whatever made that noise. Nothing there.

Charlie’s out of his seat, anxiously standing over me. “Break it open.”

Gillian shakes her head. “You really think he…”

“Break it!” he repeats.

With my fingers still inside, I yank hard on the back of the remote. It doesn’t give. Not enough leverage.

“Here,” Charlie says, tossing me a nearby pencil. I jam it into the battery area, and pull hard on the lever. There’s a loud crack… plastic snaps… and the entire back of the remote breaks off, flying straight into Gillian’s lap.

“Well blow me down,” Charlie says.

I’m not sure what he’s talking about. Then I look down. Inside the remote, tacked down by two thick staples, is a sheet of paper folded up so small and tight, it has the length and width of a flattened cigarette. The Secret Service may’ve ripped through every other nook and cranny, but they certainly didn’t come to watch TV.

Gillian’s mouth gapes open.

“What is it?” Charlie asks.

I wedge the staples out with the tip of the pencil. With a yawn, the folded-up paper slowly fans open. The excitement hits so fast, I can barely…

“Open it!” Charlie shouts.

I unfold it in a blur of fingertips – and from inside the first sheet of paper – a glossy, much shorter piece of paper falls to the floor. Charlie dives for it.

At first, it looks like a bookmark, but there’s a confused squint on Charlie’s face.

“What’s it say?” I ask.

“I have no idea.” Flipping it around, Charlie turns the bookmark sideways and reveals four photos – headshots, all in a row. A salt-and-pepper-haired older man, next to a pale mid-forties banker type, next to a freckled woman with frizzy red hair, next to a tired-looking black man with a cleft chin. It’s like one of those photobooth strips, but since it runs horizontally, it looks more like a lineup.

“What’s yours say?” Charlie asks.

I almost forgot. Gripping the legal-looking document, I skim as fast as I can: Confidentiality… Limits on Disclosure… Shall not be limited to formulae, drawings, designs… “I may’ve never gone to law school, but after four years of dealing with paranoid rich people, I know an NDA when I see one.”

“A what?” Charlie asks.

“NDA – a nondisclosure agreement. You sign them during business deals so both sides’ll keep their mouths shut. It’s how you prevent a new idea from leaking out.”

“And this one…?”

I hold up the document and point to the signature at the bottom. It’s a mad scribble in muddy black ink. But there’s no mistaking the name. Martin Duckworth.