Dan didn’t look at the smiles. He studied the eyes. He wanted to run his fingertip over their hard pebbles; rub them like Braille to feel if a hidden story could be read.
“Everybody looks so happy,” Darly said, sober and slouched. “When did things go bad?”
“When they grew up and quit listening,” Big Dan said. He flipped pages faster. “And when your grandmother died.”
The truth was that things were always kind of bad. Big Dan and his wife, Allie, had tried to set the kids right. He’d spared no expense and no punishment.
The slightest show of weakness in these kids-bad grades, poor performance on the field, teenage romance-and he’d get the whole family to make fun of them. The tape recorders in their bedrooms and the late-night spying discovered their secrets and gave him grounds to correct them with beatings. And every time he got back talk, he’d lock them in the basement. Hell, he’d forgotten Andrea down there for a day and a half one time.
All that discipline, and still they’d broken bad. Turned sneaky. Gone bitter. Given up.
Big Dan shut the album and grabbed another at random off the stack. He flipped through, not exchanging a word with Darly.
“Everything looks so pretty,” Darly said, hands clasped in her jacket pockets again. “Guess that’s what money gets you: A lot of pretty.”
That’s all she said. And that was fine by Big Dan. It was enough to know she understood-knew what was necessary in life and what his family had given up.
Andrea gave up on everything but an endless course of scumbag baby daddies. Chrissie, she was a sour old maid at 35 with love only for cats and self-cutting. Dan Junior and Dick, they were in and out of the pen, the church and the poorhouse.
How he’d fought for those kids. Fought without compromise or remorse.
All they did was fight back.
He slapped the album closed midway and tossed it back on the table. A belt of scotch only made the cramped burn in him worse.
All that fighting, and now the only thing he had left-his Chevy store, his sign and his castle by the lake-would be lost to him.
The storm slammed the windows like the laughter of the mob. The chemicals had slipped their stink through his window seals. The burn in him just sank deeper no matter how long he drank.
Darly lifted it with a touch of his hand.
He set down the glass and found her eyes waiting. They were carved wise like his, but wanton. Interest glowed through their weary cores.
“Can we look at another?”
“I got a better idea,” Big Dan said, before he even really knew what it was.
“What’s that?”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Where?” The eagerness snuck into her lips and stretched them wide.
“New Orleans.”
“Really?” She giggled. Big Dan felt like giggling too. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt like that. Probably some time before his old man began to use the buckle of the belt to whip him with, and that was his first memory-stretched onto the stove, his nose against burner soot, as the iron gouged his bare ass.
“Yeah, let’s get out there and settle in.”
“But this place is so nice.”
Big Dan waved that away. “We’ll find another nice place. This place is done for.”
She didn’t take a moment to think-just nodded. Enthusiasm lunged Big Dan to his feet without even feeling his knees ache. He didn’t leave Darly’s eyes.
There was hope and youth enough there for the both of them-the bright breed of youth that still believed in flight and fresh starts.
“I’ll pack my things,” he said, tipping her chin with a finger. She lifted her grin, crooked little teeth showing. “You get drinks and snacks for the road.”
He wouldn’t bring much. Enough to live on until New Orleans.
Living was what this was about-getting out from the toxic flood, the tonnage of the business, the wreck of his family.
Darly skipped to the kitchen as if the pounding of the storm were less than just a nightmare.
Big Dan studied his razor before tossing it into the sink.
He’d give up shaving awhile. Go bearded on a fishing boat, reeling in catfish and gar and perch with Darly reading a romance novel by the beer cooler.
Besides, it was his old man’s razor.
He’d bring the toothpaste but leave the cologne. Bring the dog tags but leave the cufflinks. Bring the watch he’d bought with his first paycheck but ditch the engagement bracelet from Allie.
He dropped Allie’s perfume into his Dopp kit for Darly, though.
She reminded him more of his late wife with every heartbeat: Her spirit, her wit, her girlish manner. Allie had been two years younger than Darly when they married, but the teen had a bounce to her that the burden of growing up under Andrea’s tyranny hadn’t crushed. It had only gone clever.
Big Dan appreciated that cleverness as he looked himself over in the mirror, popping the collar of his Polo shirt. He was plenty clever, too. Always had been. Having to get around his fucker of a father gave him the smarts and drive to seize what he wanted no matter what.
He left the dealership keys on his bedside table. Potter Chevy had been won hard: Cutthroat deals. Backstabbing marketing. Backroom nights passing cash into the hands of the fat bastards on the zoning boards, the town council and the inspection office.
It was all worthless now. The flood of the spill sites saw to that.
Time to liquidate.
He crammed the Dopp into a satchel bloated with his safe’s six-figure cash supply, slid into his work boots and turned out the light on ten pairs of Italian loafers.
It made him want to whistle Dixie as he sauntered for the kitchen to meet Darly.
He spotted Chrissie instead.
Big Dan frowned. It was impossible not to when one saw Chrissie-the woman’s worry lines had taken a washboard to her face. Anything that might’ve been pretty about her was sagged like a saddlebag.
Her scowl was turned to Darly. She gave her dad a flick of her eyes. They were fixed on the.357 in Darly’s hand.
“Chris?” Big Dan said. The frosting feeling in his chest soured and sank heavy. It made him aware of the air choked by stinging chemical from the spill. “What’s going on?”
Darly swung the gun at him. Something struggled unsaid behind the stitch of her lips. The affectionate interest in her eyes was now a desperate hunger.
“She shot Andrea is what’s going on,” Chrissie said, a lifetime of Benson & Hedges croaking her tone. “Shot her own mother. Put her in a coma.”
“Shut up,” Darly said, snapping the Magnum back at Chrissie.
“Might’ve killed her. Might’ve killed her own mother.”
“Shut up!”
“Darly,” Big Dan began. The gun’s aim cut him off, almost swayed him. His body felt like brick, head like a balloon, chest burning.
“I came here to tell you because you must’ve changed your damn phone number on us again,” Chrissie said. Big Dan ignored her. He cared only for his granddaughter, beautiful and rabid, and for getting out with her.
“Darly, we can still work this out,” he said, forcing his legs forward. They managed one step. It made the women flinch.
“How? Lawyers?” Darly smiled, all sweet poison. “You’d lose.”
“We can just get out of here,” Big Dan said, demanding another step but failing.
“Are you serious?” Chrissie yelled. “She shot Andrea, Pa! She’s going to prison!”
“I’d take care of you,” Big Dan said.
Darly’s stare softened. He stepped toward it.
Softness only survived a moment. The blaze came back to her eyes, hotter than before, with pain fueling it.
“I’ve heard that before,” Darly said, smile twitching as something in her fractured, “from my bitch of a mother.”