MAY
Grease blotches the kitchen table, courtesy of yesterday’s gas station dinner. Two TV trays hang on Dad’s bicep. A fried chicken leg is trapped between his teeth, barbarian style. “Breaking Bad before I head out?”
“Sure.”
The last three days of perfect weather had Dad castle-ing non-stop. I told Nick last night, “There’s mud on the bathroom floor and a filthy rogue sock between the toilet and wall, but the coverlet on his bed’s in the same exact position as Monday. We’re communicating in notes and money left at the end of the counter.”
Don’t wait up. Pizza in the freezer. —D
K. Need money for cap and gown. $45.
I can’t exactly leave a note below that one:
And btw, did you murder Chris Jenkins? —T
Or: Careful, FBI might be watching you.
Dana has been stonewalling us since Nick told her about the receipt. Which, good for her, professionalism and all, but I wish I knew what’s coming—if anything’s coming. They could have already ruled Dad out and I’m anxious for no reason. Whatever is happening in that ether, the media is clueless.
They’ve covered the Jenkins family extensively, but there have been no leaks, no leads, no ties to Wildwood or Aulus McClaghen. A new spread in People shows the Gemini Thief timeline. They’re milking what they have, but they don’t have much. That issue of People is on the coffee table. Dad shoves the magazine sideways to grab the remote, the wrong remote, plops down in his recliner, and then asks, “Can you turn that up? Air compressor’s messing with my hearing.”
Finger hovering over the volume button, I ask, “Uh, Dad?”
He stops midchew. Hair clings to the corner of his lip and I stare at the dead ends splitting in different directions. “Whatcha thinking about?”
“You haven’t been around much, and I was just—”
“—feeling abandoned? Thinking I’m the worst dad in the world?” he jokes. The execution isn’t smooth. “Don’t worry. You know it’ll rain again and you’ll be stuck with me.”
I try to relax my face. “When you’re not here, are you always at the castle?”
He rests his napkin on the plate and dusts his hands. “I’m not dating anyone if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I wish. “I didn’t think you were dating someone.” Are you holding someone against his will? “Where are you all the time? Like, what do I do if Mom calls some night and wants to talk to you?”
Dad sits up straighter, dumping fried chicken crumbs on the floor. “Your mom called?”
“No. But she could.”
“Tell her I’m working.”
“At the castle?”
“Honey, your mom doesn’t have a key to my basement anymore. I’d rather her not know about the castle. She might assume things, show back up and want something.” He huffs and mumbles something about her being the last thing he needs right now. “What’s this about? You fighting with Nick?” He toes the corner of People with his boot. “You still caught up on this Chris Jenkins thing?”
“Maybe a little.” I look away and dig my hands between the cushions of the couch.
“Honey, I like Nick, but I love you. Whatever it is, tell me.”
“Sunday night . . . ,” I begin. He’s invested now. Turned completely in my direction. Walter White is in his underwear, frozen on the television screen. “We had a disagreement about Aulus and I wished you were here. I waited up.” This is a lie. On Sunday night I didn’t know I needed to account for his whereabouts.
“I’m sorry, knucklehead. I was . . .” His eyes dart up and to the left. “Working on the bell tower. Time got away from me.” He watches the ceiling fan take a couple laps. “Yeah, that was definitely Sunday night–Monday morning. I fell asleep in my truck Monday afternoon, after I saw you and Nick.”
He’s lying. I turn up the volume on Walter White. “You should sleep here more.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” He grins, plate tabled on his chest for easy access to the chicken. “And don’t take any crap from Nick, okay?”
I give him two weak thumbs-up.
My cousin visits me again that night.
Dream Aulus is not who vogued into the Wildwood lunch-room hoisting a letter from Madonna, or the Aulus who helped me limp through pre-cal. And he’s not June Boy Aulus either. Can’t be. Dream Aulus comes like a Target-shopping Jiminy Cricket. Small. Charming. More smartly dressed than he ever was in real life.
He sits atop my pillow, head bowed in concentration, assembling and disassembling small-motored appliances. Last night, a Magic Bullet. Time before last, a toaster oven. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we don’t. Inevitably, he cranks the tool a final turn and examines his handiwork.
“Finished,” he announces, followed by, “Thee, do you need a . . . a rice cooker?” I tell him I need him to come home and he says, “Can’t.” I ask, “When?” And he says, “Tell me about the Sasquatch trip again.” We are a well-polished routine that ends with him saying, “You’ll see me when you see me.”
Except last night he hopped onto my shoulder, placed that green Jiminy mouth directly in my ear, and yelled, “Where does the money come from?” Tip of the flat cap. Wink-wink. He and the Magic Bullet are gone.
Sunlight pings off the tabletop. The clock isn’t visible, though it must be at least five a.m. I fell asleep on the couch after Dad left for the castle last night. His boots aren’t by either door. I’m alone. There’s a rogue roll of duct tape beneath the recliner. Some houses have knickknacks; we have construction remnants. I sniff the sticky sweet smell of tack and gum. Dust bunnies cling to the edge and I tug them away.
Interviews with the older June Boys include copious accounts of duct tape. Over their mouths. Around their wrists. Circling their ankles. I tear a section the width of my mouth and seal it to my skin. With my allergies, breathing through my nose is like sucking oxygen through a clogged straw. At fifty-three Mississippis, red spots hover around my eyes. At sixty, I rip the tape away, fraught by my own freedom to do so. I race my tongue along the edge of my lips and then grow desperate for my toothbrush.
No amount of empathy transports me into Aulus’s world and no amount of investigation returns him to mine.
My cousin’s not just in a hole; he’s missing his life. Reminders are everywhere. Graduation, which tiptoed around the periphery last semester, stomped into the present this week. New cars with Class of 2010 banners turn up daily. People are writing It’s been fun knowing you in yearbooks. No matter which hallway you’re in, someone’s crying about leaving and someone’s crying about staying. It’s downright existential. Aul would have loved this part of high school. The finishing.
I deal with the Fridayness of Friday until lunch.
Rather than meet Gladys in the gym for our daily Doritos deluge, I slip off campus in Tank’s truck. The tax office occupies the street-level shop near the WCC. I make a loop to confirm Dad’s Ram isn’t here, knowing it won’t be. He lunches at the castle. That gives me forty minutes to poke around. Aulus wants to know where the money comes from and so do I.
Dad’s vague on the topic. Secret stash or The office had a good year, he says when I ask. I laugh. Are you a member of a cartel? He never offers up anything.
In elementary school, the bus dropped me at Delacroix Tax. I played with Matchbox cars on this old carpet and got my favorite red Ferrari stuck behind the row of filing cabinets. Those are the cabinets I’m targeting today.
The automatic lights brighten the room when I open the door. They’re LED and uncomfortably white. The storefront is glass; my only hiding place, the desk.
There’s no peace in destroying privacy. No peace at all. The desk’s middle drawer swims with rubber band odds and paper clip ends. I open three drawers on the right. Nothing but copy paper, empty files, and blank forms. That leaves the wall of cabinets.
They’re oiled; each metal sleeve slides out revealing meticulous, hand-labeled files. Dad shows the same thoroughness here as he does at the castle. Except when I check the Ds, where I assume his own tax return will be, there’s no file for Delacroix Taxes or Donald Delacroix. Thirty minutes in, I’m drowning in irrelevant government forms and positive I’ll never be an accountant.
He’ll be back any minute.
Before I leave, I want to investigate potential connections to Aulus. I change skimming tactics and search files that might be related to my cousin.
Scottie McClaghen. Nothing. He probably evades taxes.
Pattie Wittersham McClaghen earned seventeen thousand dollars from Dunkin’ Donuts in 2009, twenty-two thousand in 2008, and twenty-one in 2007. Similar records go back another six years. None show reception of child support.
Griff and Ruby must do their own taxes. No files for Holtz.
Leo Wittersham, on the other hand, claims two dependents: Pattie and Aulus. According to W-2s, he made fifty-one thousand trucking for SCC Transport last year and another six thousand from Delacroix Taxes. According to this, Dad employs Leo. Six thousand dollars’ worth. 2010. 2009. Thirteen thousand in 2008. My dad’s been paying Aulus’s uncle at least five hundred a month for three years. Not only that, he comps his taxes. The two men aren’t friends. In fact, they speak terribly of each other when the occasion presents itself.
I jump at a passing shadow. The shadow jumps back. Ruby. She pops her head through the door and says, “Hey, skipper. Whatcha doing?”
I offer a defense in case she checks with Dad. “I left without money.”
Ruby pats her pockets, produces a twenty-dollar bill for me, and blows palm kisses as she runs off toward the WCC.
Twenty in hand, I’m out the door too. I slip into senior English thinking I’ve gotten away with my sneaking. On a break, I text Nick, Gladys, and Tank and ask them to come over tonight.
Nick: I’ll bring the pizza rolls.
Gladys: Be there. Where were you at lunch???
Tank: In my truck, you thief. Be ready to share. See you tonight.
They show up at 6:30 and I give them the story as I lived it.
Gladys’s response is typical Gladys. “You broke into your dad’s tax office? Right on” with a big high five.
“I have a key.”
Tank pops the bill of my ball cap. “Takes cojones. I’m proud of you for being willing to investigate Big Poppa.”
Nick’s stuck on Leo’s money. “How much a month?”
“Five hundred. At least.”
Gladys shields her face with her hands. Through her fingers she says, “Thea, you’re thinking that’s what? Hush money? That Mr. Wittersham and your dad did this together?”
Tank spat a half-chewed pizza roll onto his plate. “Leo and Aul were super close. No way Mr. Wittersham’s involved.”
“Aul and my dad were close too.”
Nick flings a napkin at Tank. “Everyone’s a suspect until they aren’t.” And then he sits a little straighter.
“What?” Tank asks.
“We’ve been under the impression that the Thief keeps the boys in one location, but what if that location moves? What if it’s a storage container? And that’s how he gets away with it? Leo could be moving the containers around with his truck.”
“That would be in the testimonies,” I say.
“Not if they drug the boys.”
We argue the logistics—they seem downright impossible to me. That’s multiple hiding places, increased risk of exposure—and rather than fall headlong into rabbit holes we return to the topic of Chris Jenkins. Nick re-explains everything Dana told him, which, granted, isn’t much. By the time we stop debating and rereading old articles, it’s three a.m.
Sending Nick and Tank home at this hour is like taking a cheese grater to my intestines. They’re guys; it’s nearly June. I make them stay.