Frank woke with a fierce hangover. He had drunk whiskey until he had passed out the night before. A lot of whiskey. It was so easy to fall off the wagon. One shot, and the warmth of the whiskey inside his body just eased the fall. It was like coming home for Christmas, except it was only Thanksgiving.
Frank did not run that morning. He did not work out. He did not bathe in the Gulf. He went straight to his protein shake, with two shots of vodka. He was off the case and off the wagon. He was back to his old life. Back to drinking hard liquor. Back to being a worthless beach bum of a lawyer.
His son no longer needed him.
Becky stepped out onto the back porch of the bungalow.
"Anyone want coffee?" she asked.
"Coffee?" Chuck said, as if she had said broccoli. "Caffeine's bad for your health."
"And whiskey and cigarettes aren't?"
"You have to make choices in life, Becky."
She had driven down from Houston to spend Thanksgiving on the beach with her father. And his friends. Dwayne, Chico, and Chuck—she liked them. They were great characters in her book—so many flaws. Tragic flaws. Like her father. But she didn't want Frank Tucker to be a tragic hero. Just her hero.
"Ecuador," Dwayne said.
The others groaned.
"Ecuador?" Becky said.
"Everything's cheap, and they got beautiful beaches."
"And girls?" Chuck said.
"Oh, yeah."
"I'm in."
Becky sat down with her cup of coffee, opened her laptop, pulled up her manuscript, and typed fast. Her book was racing to the end now. But how would it end?
Billie Jean pulled up in her candy apple red Mustang at noon. The top was down, and the sun was out. She got out and scanned the beach. She spotted Becky and Frank walking far down the sand and tossing sticks for Rusty. About fifty feet from the bungalow sat a deep fryer, apparently placed there so as not to endanger the bungalow and its inhabitants. Chuck was up to something for Thanksgiving dinner. Strung from the fryer to the bungalow was a long orange extension cord. Billie Jean was pretty sure that didn't meet code. Just as she was pretty sure that she would find Dwayne and Chico sitting on the back porch and smoking tobacco and marijuana, respectively. Billie Jean Campbell was forty years old, and she now found herself in a place she thought she would never be in her life. Actually, two places: Rockport, Texas, and in love.
She was in love with an older man. A broken-down lawyer. Life had kicked her to the ground before; she knew how it felt. She had bared her body to survive. But survive she had. She had pushed herself up off the ground, and then she had kicked life in the balls. That's the kind of girl she was. Which is to say, not the kind of girl most men would find appealing. But Frank did. Find her appealing. She thought. She hoped.
But if his son went to prison, Frank would do the time with him. He would never be free of guilt. Never free to love and live. With himself or with her. She wanted to help him. And his son. Because she was the son's court-appointed lawyer. And because she was in love with his father.
"You got that turkey fried yet?" Dwayne said. "I'm hungry."
They were all lounging on the back porch. Chuck checked his watch.
"Should be done."
Chuck stood, stepped down to the sand, and headed to the fryer. He had assured Frank that he knew what he was doing; he had seen a turkey fried on cable. Frank had his doubts, but he figured Chuck couldn't hurt himself too badly.
BOOM!
The force of the explosion knocked Chuck back and down to the sand.
"Shit!" Dwayne shouted.
Frank jumped up and off the porch in time to see the fried turkey fly through the air and land in the surf.
"And they say turkeys can't fly," Chico said.
"You okay, Chuck?" Frank asked.
Chuck rubbed his face free of sand. "Yeah. Might've got the peanut oil too hot. Should've stuck to Crisco."
Becky laughed loudly. Then she typed fast.
"You can't make this stuff up," she said.
Frank shook his head. "You're in the book, Chuck."
The defense fund had a balance of $325 so they decided to celebrate Thanksgiving with fried shrimp and cold beer in town. Billie Jean volunteered to be the designated driver. Dwayne, being the biggest of the bunch, sat in the passenger bucket seat up front. The four others squeezed into the back seat. Becky was almost in Frank's lap, as if she were still his little girl.
"Mom and Dale are in Romania now," she said.
"Chico, blow that smoke the other way," Dwayne said. "I'm starting to feel young."
"That's why they call it medicinal, my friend. And it's cheaper than an antidepressant prescription."
"You depressed?" Chuck asked.
"Spending Thanksgiving with you guys instead of my girls, playing poker with sand dollars, my wife married to another man—"
His wife had left him for another man while he was incarcerated, but he still loved her.
"—hell, yes, I'm depressed."
He sucked hard on the joint. It was night, and they were playing poker on the back porch. Becky had left for Houston and Billie Jean for Austin. But Frank could summon up no interest in playing poker with sand dollars. He was hard into the bottle these days, so his emotions had sunk to the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. He pushed his sand dollars to the pile and tossed his cards on the table.
"You're not going to try to bluff me?" Dwayne said.
Frank stood and walked through the sand to the surf. He stared out to sea. He had climbed out of the gutter to save his son. He had put the bottle down. He had a purpose in life. He felt needed again. A man needs to be needed. At least by his family.
But his son didn't need him.
He sat on the beach where the tide kissed the dry sand. And he cried. He cried for himself, and he cried for his son.
"Man, this turkey good. I like dark meat."
The gangbanger next door laughed. William did not. He did not laugh, and he did not eat. Motion denied.
"Thought you say you leaving me, William Tucker?"
"My lawyer said he could get me out of here. He didn't."
"They lie. Take your money, don't do shit. And they call us criminals."