Jones moved around the desk and put a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. It was a condescending gesture, but was also Jacob’s first human contact since leaving the hospital, not counting the bartender’s touching his palm while returning change.
“Do yourself a favor, Jacob. Get some help. See somebody.” Jones looked through the office door to make sure none of the other agents were eavesdropping. “It’s hard as hell when you’re a man. Nobody will let you cry, and you can’t let yourself do it even when you’re alone.”
“She was all I had left, Ray.” Jacob choked down a sob, knew he would sound like a blubbering drunk if he let himself slip and break.
Rayburn Jones patted him on the back, cool and manly. “No. You’ve got Renee, and you’ve got the rest of your life. What would Mattie think if she saw you like this?”
Jacob rolled his eyes heavenward. In the blur of tears, the ceiling tiles could have been the thick, white cotton of holy clouds. But he couldn’t see Mattie’s face. If she were up there, she was just as far from him as ever.
She couldn’t forgive him because she wasn’t here anymore.
Anger drove the moistness from his eyes. “Sorry I lost my temper, Ray. I know it’s not your fault. You’ve got procedures to follow.”
Jones gave a grim smile. “Hang in there. You’ve got some savings, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Ray. I’ll check back soon.” Jacob wasn’t going to tell him about the million-dollar policy on Mattie, eight hundred thousand of that for accidental death. The policy was made under Renee’s name through another insurance agent. He didn’t know if she’d filed the claim yet. The Wells financial philosophy had been to have all developments and properties appraised for as large an amount as possible, borrow as much against them as the banks allowed, and over-insure everything.
As Rayburn Jones had once told Jacob, you didn’t buy insurance because you expected to collect. You certainly didn’t bet the life of your loved ones. But in the final amortization of things, tragedy was just another wise investment. The safe play.
Insurance agents and undertakers took their pounds of flesh. The cops and firefighters and ambulance drivers cashed their paychecks whether you lived or died. Hospitals stayed open by overcharging those with major medical coverage, even the patients on deathbeds, so the poor could die alongside the rich. Churches collected the wages of sin, at least from those whose guilt compelled them to tithe. The system worked.
Jacob turned to leave, bracing himself for the exposed walk back through the main office. Before the fire, he had moved between those desks with his head high and shoulders square, a smile for the ladies and a handshake for the men. He had been a Wells, a Somebody, a pillar of the community. Now he was just another object of pity. They avoided each other’s eyes.
And they didn’t even know the worst of it. They hadn’t seen him huddled in the Ivy Terrace laurel thicket, a sheet of construction plastic tied overhead for a roof, a bundle of blankets for a bed. He took his liquor a bottle at a time, so the litter hadn’t piled up, but the Beanie Weenies, sardines, and Pop-Tarts had left their silver bones around him and wrecked his digestion. His view of the world was not from a panoramic ivory-tower turret, but rather a narrow gap in the waxy leaves that allowed him to watch his wife’s apartment door.
It was not just a matter of perspective. It was point of view. He was at the wrong point.
Back under the sunshine of the parking lot, Jacob looked out at the vast green ridges that surrounded Kingsboro. The tops of houses were scattered among the slopes, and a few oversize displays of success rose above the tree line. He’d never blamed anyone for building up high, and the views allowed Realtors to demand outrageous lot prices. Jacob himself had put together a few cabin subdivisions, some of which had led to the slaughter of hundreds of old-growth hardwoods. Money didn’t grow on trees, but paper came from trees and money was printed on paper. The progression had once seemed logical.
Instead of running through the forest and screaming at the top of his lungs, he had to walk with feigned dignity a couple of blocks to the counselor’s office. He knew he should change his jacket, at least. He’d slept in the shirt for three nights running and the white collar had turned a dingy shade of ivory. His shoes were scuffed and muddy. The uniform was all wrong for the business at hand. But he couldn’t muster the energy for a shower and shave, and most of his clothes had burned up in the fire. The real estate mogul’s stage costume he once wore was now smoke, mingled with the melted electrical wiring and the ash of rayon carpet, entwined with the soul of his dead daughter.
If only he hadn’t stopped by the M & W office in the middle of the night, drunk and looking for money. He’d cleaned out the petty cash drawer, flipped through his mail, and found her note:
“Meet me at Total Wellness at 3 p.m. Wednesday. Please. I love you. Renee.”
It was a waste of time, and he didn’t want to expose their pain to a stranger. He’d had enough of counselors when he was a teenager. But he owed her something. He wasn’t sure what, but if he gave her an hour, maybe she would shut up and leave him alone. She’d brought out the heavy artillery, the bravest lie or the most pathetic truth: “I love you.”
Total Wellness was a two-story building set off the highway in a business park. It combined a daycare, substance abuse center, and counseling services and was subsidized by various government funds. The behavioral health care industry was booming in these days of escalating stress, all bright brick and painted columns, the sun and clouds reflecting off the windows. Jacob cut through the lawn, no longer a man for sidewalks and other ordinary routes.
Shouts arose from the daycare’s playground. Jacob couldn’t imagine a worse sound. The high-pitched laughter was broken glass in his ears. How dare those children be happy and healthy when all those tomorrows ahead were denied to Mattie and Christine? Through the whitewashed fence, he could see the swing sets, tangled hair, and pale, dirty faces.
He stopped, his lungs like stone.
Mattie stood behind the fence, her arm thrust between the tall pickets. Her upturned hand was curled into a small fist.
Her fingers slowly uncurled, and gray ash poured from her palm.
Jacob reeled, the sky spun, and he found himself on his hands and knees, his face pressed against the grass. Vomit sluiced up from his gut, razing a raw path through his throat and stinging his nasal cavity. Tears filled his eyes as he coughed and spat the dregs of undigested liquor and bile. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked back at the fence.
Mattie was gone. A dark red ball floated over the playground fence, hung a moment at the apex of its arc then fell as if gravity held a grudge. The giggles continued, an adult supervisor shouted, and one of the kids began bawling. Someone was watching Jacob from a window, and he forced himself to stand and head for the counseling center.
They would think he was just another drunk putting in a court-ordered visit. The disguise fit too readily. He swallowed and the acid burned its way back to his stomach. A drink would help, but he was dehydrated and knew the liquor wouldn’t stay down. Jacob staggered through the double doors.
A woman with a pinched face slid open a glass window at the counter and sniffed like a rodent. “May I help you, sir?”
Help. That was a good one. “I have an appointment.”
“With whom?” She flipped through a notebook. “Or are you looking for the AA meeting? That’s in Room 117, down the hall to your left.”
“I’m in no shape for quitting,” he said. “I’m with Rheinsfeldt.”
“Oh.” The clerk checked the book. “Excuse me, Mr. Wells. I didn’t recognize you.”
Jacob was sure he’d never met the woman. But his photo was on file at the local newspaper, and between the Chamber of Commerce and the Kiwanis Club, he appeared in its pages at least twice a year. His development projects often came before various planning boards, sometimes bringing opposition from the neighborhoods where M & W’s bulldozers disturbed morning sleep and residential character. And, of, course, the fire had been front-page news.