“He’s my brother,” the kid said.
“Okay,” I said. “Better still.”
Jesse was in the living room, cutting a triangle from a piece of drywall to go in the stairwell. “Coming right along,” he said.
“I got some business over at the office,” I told him. “I might not be back.”
“We’re making progress here. Rest up and book yourself some tickets. You know where’s a good place? Hawaii.”
“Never been,” I said.
“My unit stopped off there. Some of us did. You got the money. Spend it while you still can.”
Amber must have heard me come in, but she didn’t look up from the screen; her lips were tight together and she was tapping her nails on the desk. I stood and watched her. Finally she moved the mouse and sat back. “You ever play chess?”
“When I was a kid. My father used to let me win.”
“They say if you’re good with numbers, so I’m trying to teach myself. It’s hard. The computer just comes in and destroys you every time. I might be better with a person. If it was somebody stupid enough. I’m not really fucking off, okay? It’s slow this afternoon.”
“Any calls?”
“Oh, shit! Yes! The lawyer. That I found for Uncle Bill? I have to see him next week, but you know what he says? Rough figures? Like two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Mostly from the house, but he saved a lot. What the fuck, right? I mean I’d give it all to have him back and everything.”
“Don’t let that asshole know about this.”
“I’m not. I’m not going to even tell my friends.”
“Don’t.” I sat down in my swivel chair, at the rolltop desk I used to think was cool. “Listen, what would get you to stay?”
“With him?”
“With me.”
“And be stuck here? It’s not like you can’t get some other girl to answer the phone and shit.”
“But they wouldn’t be you. Listen, what if I made you a partner? Maybe you and Jesse. I don’t mean put your money into it.”
“I don’t even get what you’re saying. Is this some fucked-up way of trying to get into my pants or something? Just because I got drunk and fucked an old guy one time—you’re even older than him. Anyway, you got your rich-bitch.”
“I just don’t want anything to change,” I said. My stomach heaved and I pulled the wastebasket over and retched into it. There was nothing to come up.
She came and put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay? Are you having like an episode? You want me to call somebody?”
“Like who? Just give me a minute. Then I’m going to go home and have a drink.”
“I don’t think that’s a real great idea.”
“You remember what Billy used to say—‘If nothin’ ails ya, it’s good for that.’ ”
“I never heard that one. What does that even mean?”
“Think about it,” I said. “You might as well take the afternoon. I won’t be needing you for anything.”
I was all over the road, and when I made it to my house I stayed in the truck running the heater to put off going in. The last time I’d fed the stove must have been before I’d gone upstairs with Kristin the night before, and I could see frost starting on the insides of the windows. You won’t believe this, given what I do for living, but I hadn’t touched the place since I bought it, not even blown in insulation so the house would hold heat. Dana used to get on my case about that, along with everything else. It had belonged to an old farmer named Clarence Johnson, who couldn’t keep it up anymore after his wife died and who went to live with his son in North Adams. Inside, it was the real deaclass="underline" not the real deal circa 1803, when the place was built, but the real real deaclass="underline" I’m a bigger purist than any of my clients. Flowered wallpaper that had turned sepia, flowered curtains that didn’t go with the wallpaper, rag rugs, linoleum in the kitchen, Depression-era cabinets with Bakelite handles, a pink electric range from the fifties—this must have been Mrs. Johnson’s call—and an old single-door Kelvinator with a foot-square aluminum freezer compartment. The cast-iron woodstove in the living room had a nickel-plated finial on top in the shape of an urn; the stovepipe, with its old-fashioned damper, ran through the wall and into the chimney with a tin collar against the wallboard. It felt as cold inside as it was out. Thermometer said fourteen. I sat on the sofa with my jacket on and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. I’d polished off half of it last night, but there was still that vodka out in the kitchen if need be. The days had been getting longer since December, but the sun was already down behind the hill.
I sipped for a while, thinking the thing through, ate some cereal to have something in my stomach because it wouldn’t do to vomit, then drank more while I went around opening windows, except the ones at the front of the house that somebody might see from the road. I brought the bottle upstairs—I could feel it was starting to get the job done—and ran a hot bath. I had a claw-foot tub like the Holtzmans’, but somebody (I bet Mrs. Johnson again) had dolled up the outside with pink house paint. I counted out six Advil PMs. Any more and I might puke up everything and be back to square one. I stripped down to my boxers and got in the tub. It seemed wrong to get them wet, but I didn’t want anybody to have to see the whole deal and then not be able to get it out of their head. I had the bottle right there next to me. Eventually the water would get cooler—I thought I could already feel it—and then cold, but I’d be asleep by then. I got a ridiculous image of a man in a block of ice shaped like a bathtub, which told me I was going down. When the pipes and toilets froze up and burst, somebody would end up with a good-paying job: whatever rich person got the house would want everything brought back to 1803 and they’d have themselves a showplace. I could just see it.
—
Of course it was the dumb-ass move of all time. I don’t think the water was even fully cold when Jesse hauled me out, though I can’t remember much about those minutes. Amber had called him to stop by and check on me when he got off work. He got hold of Junior Copley, who was just sitting down to supper, and Junior came around with the EMS van and they got me down to Greenfield for an overnight in the hospital. The doctor wanted me to go into counseling; I was back hanging drywall Friday afternoon. Junior and Jesse both said they’d keep it quiet, but things like that get around in a town this size. Then after a while, they just fade into the background of what people know about you.
Johnny ended up coming back to work for me. He’d driven all the way down to Daytona Beach and Arlene was pissed as hell, but he says they’re getting along better now. So I’ve got my big three together again. Myron’s talking about retiring, but Jesse, they’ll have to carry him out feet-first. I figured out I’m worth a million dollars; that’s on paper, though, and a million’s not as much as it used to be. Amber didn’t go to California; she moved to South Carolina, bought a little condo and got into veterinary school. I don’t think that’s right for her; she should be working with people. I’ll hear from her a couple times a year. She’ll send me pictures of pit bulls she’s rescued, but never one of herself. She’s got a website called forpittiessake.com, which she thought up herself. She’s going to get married someday, I know that about her.