If you listened only to Bud Goodman’s side, his subs were a capricious and moody bunch, every last one of them. Danny learned quickly that there was always another side of the story, usually involving a Bud Goodman tantrum that ended in a mushroom cloud of rage.
Even when Sarah moved out, he didn’t understand that maybe he’d gone too far in the opposite direction. “For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you?” Sarah had snapped one day. “Do you not care what happens to us? Do you not even give a shit?”
“Come on,” he replied, making her point. “Let’s talk this through reasonably. No need to shout.”
Lucy once told him about a psychologist and marriage therapist named John Gottman who had identified what he called the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. These were the four most destructive behavior patterns that, if exhibited by a spouse, spelled doom for the marriage. This psychologist claimed that within the first three minutes of observing a couple, he could tell with ninety-four percent accuracy whether they would be divorced in the next five or six years. One of the most destructive of the Four Horsemen was “stonewalling”-tuning out, evading, avoiding conflict.
Didn’t all men do that?
No, Lucy had insisted.
“Well,” he replied, “I’m not the angry sort. Sorry about that, but I’m just not.”
“What are you not telling me?” she asked.
“Lucy, come on, you’re making a whole lot out of nothing.”
“Are you still worried Abby spends too much time at the Galvins’?”
He shrugged. “Not especially. I mean, I wish she spent more time with her other friends. Given how volatile friendships between girls this age can be.”
“So you’re no longer worried about her head being turned by their wealth?”
“Their kids seem to have a good set of values…”
They’re good people, he almost said. Nice family. But he caught himself.
He didn’t know what to think about the Galvins.
“Maybe I’m not as concerned about them as I used to be,” he said.
He slipped out of bed-dressed in an old pair of gym shorts and a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt (Tunnel of Love Express Tour, 1988, purchased at the concert at the Worcester Centrum)-and went out to the kitchen to grab a glass of tap water.
Abby was still awake-no surprise; she was a night owl-and was standing against the refrigerator, spooning Ben & Jerry’s Red Velvet Cake ice cream out of the container. She held out the spoon. “Want some?”
“No, thanks.” He gave her a quick hug. “I love you, Boogie.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
He took a water glass from the cabinet over the sink, held it under the faucet, and lifted the handle.
“That ice cream won’t keep you up?”
She shook her head.
“Don’t forget to take Lactaid.”
“I know.” She paused. “Hey, um… you didn’t go to BC, did you?”
“Boston College? I went to Columbia. You know that. But BC’s an excellent college.” Was she actually thinking about which colleges she might go to? This was a historic moment.
“I know, I thought… I mean…” She hesitated a beat. “So why do you have a Boston College medal? I don’t get that. Did they give that to you or something?”
He froze. He watched the water brim over before he remembered to pull down the lever to shut off the flow.
He’d left his jeans on the floor outside the bathroom, setting, as always, a lousy example for his daughter. But why was she going through his pockets?
“Did I drop that thing somewhere?” he asked.
“My pen died, so I wanted to borrow one of yours and I didn’t want to knock on your bedroom door, you know, and disturb you guys.” An artful roll of the eyes. “So how come you have it?”
He shook his head vaguely. He was too weary to concoct a plausible lie and didn’t want to come off as defensive or angry and provoke her suspicion. “It’s a long story,” he said. “Boring and complicated. Now, come on, isn’t it your bedtime?”
“What?” she protested.
“And, Boogie-let’s not poke around in each other’s things, okay?”
23
Two days later, at a few minutes after five in the morning, Danny was awakened by the triumphal tritone plink of a secure text message on his iPhone. Lucy stirred in her sleep, mumbled, “What?”
“Sorry,” he whispered.
He grabbed the iPhone from the bedside table. He slid it unlocked, saw that the message was from AnonText007. MEET 9AM 75 WEST BROADWAY, SOUTH BOSTON. TAKE T.
Another meeting? He’d thought he was done with them. Now what was the problem?
The T was, in Boston slang, the subway. For some reason they didn’t want him to drive. What was that about?
He was too keyed up to go back to sleep, so he went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.
By the time Abby awoke, he was wide awake and jittery.
She sat in silence in the front seat during most of the ride to school. Every half a minute or so, she’d change radio stations, dissatisfied with all of them. Her favorite hip-hop station was all talk. When she wasn’t changing radio stations, she was busy texting.
Ever since she’d become a teenager, Danny had given up trying to read her moods in the morning. She could be pouting or seething, or she could be just fine. She wasn’t a morning person. Anyway, sixteen-year-olds weren’t biologically programmed to get up at six thirty. He’d read that somewhere.
She hadn’t said another word about the Boston College medal she’d found in his jeans. Of course not. What had struck such fear in Danny’s heart was just one more minor scuffle between Abby and Dad, another one thrown on the pile, already forgotten.
“I hate this!” Abby said suddenly.
“What do you hate?”
The length of the drop-off line at school they’d just pulled into?
“This… stupid piece-of-shit flip phone!”
“Hey. Language.”
“Sorry. Piece of crap. It’s so hard to text on this thing. How come I can’t get an iPhone?”
“You want a Mercedes-Benz with that?”
“No, I’m serious. I hate it! None of my friends have flip phones anymore.”
“I know, life can be so cruel. First there’s that genocide in Darfur, then there’s the famine in Somalia, and then, worst of all, Abby Goodman is forced to use a last-year’s-model LG flip phone.”
Abby smoldered and didn’t reply. Too easy, Danny thought. Shooting fish in a barrel.
A car pulled up in the line behind him. Galvin’s chauffeured Maybach. Tom Galvin sat in the front seat, talking on his BlackBerry.
“We must be right on time,” Danny said. “We’re ahead of the Galvins.”
Abby turned, saw Jenna, waved.
“That’s not Esteban,” she said.
Danny glanced in the rearview mirror. “You’re right.”
“Maybe Esteban is sick. He must get sick sometimes.”
“Sure.”
When they pulled up to the front entrance of Lyman Academy, Abby allowed herself to be kissed, though on the top of the head, not offering a cheek.
“Have fun, Boogie.”
“How could I not,” she replied drily.
She pulled open the door and slinked out.
The high beams on Galvin’s car pulsed on, then off. “Danny,” called a man’s voice. Abby slammed the car door and scampered over to Jenna.
Danny turned to his right, then turned around, and saw Galvin’s hand out the window of his limo, waving at him.
“Got a sec?” Galvin called.
Danny pulled forward into the short-term parking area, off to one side, and the Maybach pulled alongside.
Danny got out, tense and smiling. His mouth was dry.
The driver had gotten out and come around to open the passenger’s-side door for Galvin. It definitely wasn’t Esteban. This one wore the same uniform, the billed cap and black suit and tie, but it fit him awkwardly, like something he’d taken off the rack at a uniform shop. He was around the same height and breadth as Esteban, but his build seemed more exaggerated: arms like ham hocks, a torso that tapered sharply. He looked brutish, like a wrestler or maybe a boxer who’d spent too much time in the ring. He had a small, sloped head atop a neck that was as wide as the head it supported, thinning black hair, deeply inset raisin eyes. His face was spiderwebbed with broken capillaries. His lips were purplish and fat, like two slabs of liver, and seemed permanently parted even when his teeth were clenched.