Frank paused next to the garage, as close as he could get without actually stepping into the rubble. He refused to look back at the house, and yet even without doing so, he knew his mother was watching him through the kitchen window, urging him on. She’d sent him outside to do a visual inspection. The problem was, with so much charred debris covering the floor, what she wanted to know was impossible to find out. She was being overly cautious, in his opinion. The last thing he wanted was for a fire investigator or insurance adjuster to find him squirreling through the wreckage. Not that simply looking into what was left of the old garage suggested anything untoward.
Stop it, he ordered himself. He dithered like this all the time—back and forth, examining one side of an argument and then the other. He was sick to death of himself. His self-loathing was redirected by the sound of his cell phone. Holding it to his ear he barked “Hello.” He knew it wouldn’t be Wendy. He’d texted her three times yesterday and received nothing but silence in return.
“Mr. Devine? This is Caroline Millbank. I’m Walter Mann’s secretary?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, moving away from the garage. He could see his mother pointing toward it. All he could do in response was shrug.
“I’m wondering if we can set up a time for you to meet with Mr. Mann.”
“What’s this about?” he asked, holding a hand to his other ear as a passenger jet flew overhead.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any information on that. Would this afternoon be a possibility?”
“Tomorrow would be better,” he said, remembering that he’d promised his mother that he’d be around when she met with the insurance guy.
“Would ten work for you?”
“I suppose.”
“Good. I’ll let Mr. Mann know you’re coming. Have a nice day, Mr. Devine.”
“Whatever,” he muttered, clicking the phone off. His mother was motioning him inside. He felt like a fly struggling to get out of a sticky web. He pointed to the garage and once again, shrugged. And then he pointed to his phone. “Later,” he mouthed. He didn’t wait to see her reaction.
* * *
Stopping for breakfast at a local diner, Frank made small talk with a waitress he’d known for years. He spent the rest of the morning at the tax office, mostly with his feet up on the desk, reading the latest copy of Entertainment Weekly. Ever since watching The Tudors on TV, he’d had a crush on Natalie Dormer. After devouring an article on her, he stuffed it into one of the desk drawers and forced himself to work on organizing his files for the upcoming tax season. He still needed to sign up for the annual continuing education program—two hours of ethics, three hours of federal tax law updates, and two five-hour sessions on related tax subjects. As usual, he’d left it until the last minute, hoping beyond hope that one of the lottery tickets he routinely bought at the gas station by his house would pay off and he could quit his job and go live on a beach somewhere.
Before leaving for the day, he texted Wendy again, taking a different tack this time. He hadn’t apologized for his behavior yesterday. Today he would.
I’m so sorry, hon. I was an asshole.
I hope to God it’s not a permanent
condition. If I come by tonight, will
you talk to me? Please, please please,
Wendy. Forgive me?
It wasn’t enough. He left the office and drove to a local grocery store, one that always had nice fresh flowers. He dithered over his purchase for so long that the woman behind the counter started eyeing him, as if he might be loitering for some nefarious purpose. He finally decided on a bunch of yellow daisies. Was that trite? Maybe he should have given her a dozen red roses, but they were so expensive.
Frank and Wendy had bought a house in Roseville two months before they were married. It represented a new start for him, a place apart from his mother and Lena. He was such a freakin’ cliché, living in his mother’s basement for all those years after his first marriage had blown up. It was just easier. He liked easy. He also thought it was fun to tell people that he lived in his mother’s basement and then watch their reactions. It was better than most prime-time TV shows.
Driving up 35W, Frank took the County Road D exit. Wendy wouldn’t be home for another hour. She taught fourth grade at the local elementary school. Frank didn’t want to actually run into her. If she wouldn’t return a text, it was even more doubtful that she’d talk to him. But he did want to leave the flowers. And maybe a note. Oh, God. A note. He should have bought a card, or at the very least, taken one of those little cards the flower kiosk gave away for free. But even if he had remembered to buy a card, he had no idea what it should say.
Fitting his key into the front door lock, Frank carried the flowers into the kitchen. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Wendy sitting at the kitchen island staring down at a package of Oreos. “You’re home.”
She raised her eyes to his. “Got one of the other teachers to cover my class so I could leave early.”
He paused before reaching over and placing the flowers on the counter, pushing them gingerly toward her. “For you,” he said, stepping back away from the island.
She looked at them as if they were covered in anthrax, then turned toward the patio doors.
He followed her gaze and saw that the chair he’d broken two nights ago was resting on the deck, on its side. One leg missing. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Did I do that?”
“It didn’t get that way by itself.”
“I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry if … my actions scared you.”
“You’re sorry? So you bring me flowers. You think that’s what I want?”
“I wasn’t trying to scare you, hon. I threw it at the wall.”
“Where I happened to be standing.”
“I’d never hurt you. You know that.”
She picked up a spoon and removed a tea bag from the mug resting next to the package of cookies. “I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.”
“You never answered any of my texts.”
Clearing her throat, she straightened up and said, “Did you really see your therapist?”
“Do you think I’d lie about that?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, of course I saw him.”
“And? Did you tell him about the fight? What you said? What you did?”
“Well, I mean, sort of.”
“And what did he tell you?”
He scratched the back of his neck, inadvertently loosening the clip in his bun. Several hunks of hair fell free and covered his ear. Brushing them back, he said, “He said I was depressed.”
“That’s news? What else?”
“Well, he said that I might have a problem with anger.”
“You think?”
“I’m a mess, Wendy. I always have been. You must have known that when you married me.”
Pushing her glasses back up her nose, she appeared to give it some thought. “What I knew was that you were a wonderful man with a bad self-image. I thought I could help you with it.”
“You can, Wendy. You can.”
“I also knew that your mother was a shameless control freak whose sole mission in life was to prevent you from having a life of your own.”
“Don’t start,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? Where did you spend the last two nights? At a motel?”
“We don’t have money to throw around like that.”
“Honestly, Frank, I’d be thrilled to learn you spent them with a hooker. Anything but your mother’s basement.”
The skin on the back of his neck began to prickle. “I was glad I was there. For your information, someone set fire to her garage in the middle of the night. She was terrified.”
That stopped her. “A fire?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you set it?”
“What?”
“Did she get you to do it so she could bank the insurance money?”
“Are you crazy? Of course not.”
She shook her head, returning her attention to the contents of her mug. “I don’t know, Frank. I just don’t know anymore.”
The silence stretched.
Finally, Frank said, “Can I come home? I love you, hon. I don’t want to be away from you. Not ever.”
She drummed her fingers on the counter. “I guess I’d rather have you here than think of you in that awful hole.”
His mother’s basement wasn’t a hole. Well, technically, it was. But it was also comfortable, if a little moldy smelling. “Is that a yes?”
“No more throwing chairs.”
“Promise.” He took a couple of tentative steps toward her. “So … I can stay?”
She looked up at him with her pretty brown eyes, telegraphing, he hoped, forgiveness.
This was probably the moment when he should have moved the conversation to the bedroom. But, as with all such moments, it passed. “You feel like a pizza?”
“When don’t I?”
“I’ll drive.”
* * *
Eleanor kept an eye on the clock as she washed the dishes in the sink. She hoped beyond hope that Frank would remember that the insurance man was coming by. Perhaps she should call Iver, see if he might be willing to stop over to give her the support she needed. Lena would be no help at all. Her gruff manner did nothing but put people off.
Hearing a sound behind her, Eleanor swiveled halfway around to find her sister wheeling herself into the kitchen. The worried look in Lena’s eyes mirrored her own.
“What are we gonna do?” she demanded, her gnarled hands resting on the wheels.
“Be patient.”
“I’m no good at patience. I saw Frank from my window. Why the hell didn’t do more to look around?”
Eleanor had the same question.
“You should go out there, El. See what’s what.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Early this morning, after everyone left.”
“And?”
“I didn’t want to take a flashlight. I was afraid. I couldn’t see much.”
“This sucks so bad.”
“Maybe not. Maybe everything will be all right.”
“In what universe will cops and arson investigators crawling around our garage be fine?”
“It was just a fire, Lena. They’ll take a look, determine whether it was an accident or arson, and that will be the end of it. Remember when old man Chung’s garage went up in flames? That’s exactly what happened.”
“That was twenty years ago.”
“So? In the end, I think it’s possible that it will be a good thing. We could use the insurance money. We can hire someone to scrape away the debris. So what if we don’t have a garage?”
Lena drew her eyes away. Her mouth barely moved, though she seemed to be saying something.
“What?” asked Eleanor. She turned to see what her sister was looking at only to find nothing but the kitchen table. “Lena?”
“Over there,” she whispered, jabbing her finger. “Don’t you see him?”
“See who?”
“He’s right there.” For a second or two, she seemed to be listening.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Oh, bite me.”
Eleanor placed her hands on her hips, staring down at her.
“Maybe it’s time we fessed up. You know? Don’t you ever feel like the weight is too much to bear?”
“No,” said Eleanor flatly.
“You’re a hard one.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“Great. Let’s have a fight. Perfect timing. The cops will walk in on us, hear us arguing over our sins, and send us to lower hell like we deserve.”
“Will you stop it?” said Eleanor. “We have to stay strong. Stick together. It’s the only way we’ll get through this.”
Lena wheeled herself around and headed back through the doorway, belting out the opening words to a song she often referred to as a hard rock spiritual, the Rolling Stones’, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” When she came to the second line, “A glass of wine in her hand,” she raised her arm and gave Eleanor the finger.