CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cleaning out my uncle’s place isn’t as hard as I thought it would be. If I’d liked the guy, I can see how it might be tricky because every object would have pleasant memories attached. I can imagine how this would be hard if, with each little thing, I sweated what he would have wanted preserved and taken care of after he’s gone. But my Uncle Ernie was a bastard. So I’m mostly just tossing everything that the church or Salvation Army don’t want.
Because it’s a pain in the ass — and because I have the sticky issue of Maya dangling over my head until Thursday — I decide to reframe the cleanup process as something enjoyable. It’s challenging, but beer and pizza solve everything. With enticement duly offered, I call the few people I’ve kept in touch with and invite them over then ply them into doing my bidding.
I consider an evil laugh when this plan starts to succeed, but something tells me this would be pushing my luck.
My guest roster is short. Other than the postcards and infrequent emails I’ve sent to Maya over the years, my general eschewing of LiveLyfe means there are only two people I’ve kept in touch with at all. The first is Joe Harper, who became a fireman like his old man. The second is Brandon. Joe arrives first, just in time to point out how stupid I was to try and lure Brandon with free food and beer like a college kid.
“You know Brandon’s rich now, right?” Joe asks when he shows up. He has a pair of work gloves in hand and is wearing a tight, ratty T-shirt that makes him look like the Hulk in the middle of his shirt-busting transformation. I like to think I’m sly about my bait-and-switch cleanup tactics, but Joe’s attire and gloves are proof that I’m not as sly as I think. He’s brought everything but a shovel.
“Brandon’s not rich.”
“He married rich.”
“But this is Brandon we’re talking about,” I say, as if no time has passed. We were practically three gutter rats together. But then again, Joe used to be this skinny little kid with thick glasses and slicked-down hair, and now I’m pretty sure I saw, like, three women have orgasms as they watched him cross the street outside.
“You’ve been gone a long-ass time, G.” There’s something unsaid in that short sentence, but I don’t want to ask. I might sense judgment in my old friend, whose eyes stay on me a bit too long before settling in and looking around, likely seeing Ernie’s legacy as the fire hazard it is.
“Brandon said he’s coming.”
“Then I guess he still likes you. I’m guessing he doesn’t need the charity.”
“I heard something about Mason James. The developer?” Mason was building when I was a kid, but I gather he’s much bigger now. Like maybe-responsible-for-half-of-Cherry-Hill bigger.
“He married Mason’s daughter. But he was already some big shit in the company even before they met. You know Brandon.”
I do. Unless Brandon has changed, he’s a Boy Scout. Guys like Brandon don’t manipulate anyone. If anything, they’re self-effacing and overly proud. If his wife is rich, that’s something for Brandon to cope with rather than embrace. He was so poor when we were kids, he sometimes emptied garbage cans to find aluminum cans to recycle. Compared to Brandon and even Joe, I was living the high life with my folks, then finally with the bastard whose detritus surrounds us now.
I wonder if Brandon will show up with his new wife, and I’m struggling to figure out how I’ll explain that this was all a trap to some hapless woman when Ernie’s doorbell rings. Brandon’s there, and there’s a tall, hot brunette beside him. But it’s not his wife. Nope. I know and slightly fear this one.
Something hits me in the chest. It’s a six-pack. A phenomenally cheap six-pack, which tells me that if Brandon’s rich, this is beer Bridget bought herself. Not because she’s cheap, but because she’s kind of a bitch. An adorable bitch who’s always sorta been one of the guys, but a bitch nonetheless.
“Fridge,” she says, moving past me. She’s also holding work gloves. Her shirt is tight and tattered, and I have to remind myself I’m not allowed to look at her boobs.
Then I see Brandon. Who’s also dressed to work, but could be the same poor kid I knew all those years ago if not for his close shave and relatively neat haircut. The only real change is a scar on his cheek, which I’ve been expecting. Of everyone I left in Inferno, Brandon is the only one I’ve done more than a passable job of keeping friendly with. I know that scar’s story, and it’s not hard to believe. He got it defending his sister. Bridget grew up tough like Brandon, juggled through all those foster homes, but apparently she fell in with a guy who got past all her old defenses.
That’s the thing about love. It turns the smartest people stupid, and the strongest people weak.
“You look good,” Brandon tells me from the doorway.
“Liar.”
I extend a hand for shaking, but Brandon uses it as a handle to reel me in and give me a back-slapping bro hug. I hear an affectionate “Don’t give me that shit,” and then I’m released. Joe and I look at each other like maybe we should have hugged it out too, but we’re dudes so we let it go and stare around the group: just four guys, one of whom has tits we know better than to acknowledge.
We spend the next three hours taking Ernie’s crap outside by the hand- and boxful, tossing it into the dumpster unless it looks remotely interesting. The lawyer already has his will and all the other important documents, so the way I figure it, the rest is ready for the landfill.
The place isn’t completely devoid of treasures; I find a few trinkets that may not be worthless and a wad with two grand in cash at the back of a bookcase. I divvy the cash four ways, and Brandon is cool enough to take a share rather than point out how he doesn’t need it because now he’s better than us. I imagine it’ll find its way to Bridget and Joe once I’m gone anyway, in the form of many rounds of drinks on Brandon. There’s also a lamp made from a human skull that I hope is fake. Bridget and Joe tussle for dibs. The fight turns physical, and there is much immature wrestling. Eventually, Joe must let Bridget have it because his arms are like steel girders, but that doesn’t stop Bridget from rubbing her victory in his face.
We eat. We drink my good beers, but go out of our way to avoid Bridget’s six-pack.
At the end of the evening, the place is mostly cleared out. I’ve kept the furniture that seems worth attempting to sell when I auction the house, but most of it ends up in with the rest of Ernie’s worthless shit. It’s a little sad to see his life piled high in an open-ended dumpster — one man’s existence reduced to trash at the end of his days. But then I remind myself that this is Ernie, and he didn’t deserve much better. There was a reason I left town. Many reasons, really … but the idea of living another year with Ernie didn’t exactly help.
I look at my phone. It’s only 9:30; we made shorter work of the job than I’d thought. I can spend the remaining days between now and my park date with Maya cleaning more, maybe hiring someone to come in and do it better than I have the patience for. But it’s good enough for now, and I’ve managed to not think about that park date for a while. That’s a victory. The next two days — knowing I need to wait, but not make additional contact per the situation’s clear fragility — will be harder.
“I guess that’s it,” I say, looking around our tired group. I turn to Joe. “You sure you don’t want to use this place as one of those training houses? Where you set it on fire for practice?”
“I kind of doubt it,” he says. I’m still getting used to Joe’s new look. I’m not usually comfortable admitting when men look good, especially when they’re my friends, but he really does look like a model or something. Either puberty came late, or he was going for an ugly duckling reveal back in school because he now has a serious brow and Superman’s jaw.
“Well, thanks.”
Bridget stands, walks over to me, and for a minute I think she’ll hug me, maybe say welcome back. It would be out of character, but that’s what seems on the verge of happening when she slaps me hard with her work gloves instead.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she says.
“Thanks, Bridget,” I repeat, now a little satirical, as she glances down at Brandon, who must be her ride.
She turns and, out of the blue says, “I have to ask.”
“What?”
“Did you call her?”
“Who?”
“Who.” She rolls her eyes. “Maya.”
I look away. I’m actually surprised this didn’t come up earlier. Maya and Bridget were only ever connected through me, and we never really chummed around with both girls in the mix. But a lot of time has passed, gossip has had time to spread, and Inferno just isn’t that big of a place. They could be best friends by now, with many wasted evenings spent complaining about me in my neglectful absence.
“Hey, Champ. I’m talking to you. You with the pubes on your face.”
My hand goes to my unshaven cheek.
“Yes, I called her.”
“I’ve gone to where she works a few times to eat. We’ve chatted. She still seems nice.”
Shit. So they do know each other better than they used to. Why is Bridget waiting until now to bring it up? Has she been working this whole evening hating me?
“She’s real good to that little girl,” she says. “She’s been all alone, but she’s tough.”
Joe is looking from Bridget to me. He either doesn’t know Maya, or doesn’t know the story.
“We’re going to the park together Thursday.” I feel the need to emphasize this, to prove that I’m not being badgered by Bridget. I was already planning to be a good guy and see her, so there.
“Just you and her? Or is Mackenzie going too?”
“I don’t know.” Honestly, I’d been trying to avoid thinking about it. The answer is probably yes, and it’s giving me chills. I can only imagine how I’ll react. I can only imagine how I’ll feel when I see them together, and wonder what could have been. What probably should have been.
Bridget slaps me on the upper arm with her free hand, but this time it’s less chastising, more companionable. More like the slaps she gave us all when we hung out together as kids.
“Be nice to her.”
“I’m not going to be rude to a little kid, Bridget. Give me some credit.”
Bridget’s face becomes the unique strain of patronizing that women save for men who don’t get it — because they’re men and can’t help being a little stupid.
“Mackenzie doesn’t know you from Adam, Grady,” she says. “It’s Maya whose heart you’re dangerously close to breaking again.”
I start to say something, but my mouth just opens and closes.
“A lot of time has passed,” she adds. “Maybe it’s time for forgiveness.”