7

 

Eric sat on the front porch and watched the moon cast its weak light on the slope of meadow that stretched from the woods to the county road. Steinhauser had come, looked at the cigarettes and the roach, bagged them, and then gone. He didn’t seem to find them as significant as everyone else had, but said that he’d bring them back to the station and talk to his chief. He explained that he hadn’t learned anything new from talking to the boys’ friends or teachers earlier in the day. He said he’d keep working the case until they were found. Suzanne asked about the possibility of issuing an Amber Alert. She was clearly scared by even the merest hint that the boys might have been abducted.

Steinhauser had hedged his response, saying that since Jack had run away once, it was more than likely that he’d done it again. Amber Alerts were issued only after certain criteria were met, criteria that this situation didn’t rise to—at least not yet.

Branch and Suzanne had finally left around nine. Jane had taken off for Minneapolis a few minutes later. Before she left, she’d said that finding the phone might be a positive sign. If someone had abducted the boys, why toss Gabriel’s cell carelessly under a bush? Why not throw it in a lake or a Dumpster and erase it completely? The fact that it was found by the library suggested that it might have fallen out of Gabriel’s pocket, pointing to a less terrifying conclusion than an abduction. Until the boys were home and safe, however, nobody would know for sure what had happened, and yet it was a piece of hope in an otherwise depressing day, something Eric intended to hold on to.

Tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm of the wicker rocking chair, he refused to get up and go back into the house to look for Andrew. He was probably upstairs packing more of his clothes to bring over to Ingersoll’s house. Burl Ingersoll was president of Ingersoll Savings & Loan, the largest bank in Winfield. Andrew had worked with him, and with Garland Friedrich, a home appraiser, during the heyday of Andrew’s house-flipping empire.

Garland was long gone, but Burl still owned the bank, and for whatever reason—nefarious or otherwise—was one of the richest men in town. Many residents thought Ingersoll and Friedrich should be in jail for fraud. Nothing had been proved, though the scuttlebutt around town suggested that Friedrich had inflated the price of the properties, and thus, to get people with iffy credit a loan, Ingersoll had been only too happy to offer subprime loans. While Andrew hadn’t been involved directly, all of the houses he’d rehabbed had been sold through Ingersoll, with Friedrich serving as the appraiser. The fallout had cast suspicion far and wide, landing on Andrew as well as Branch.

The truth was, both Branch and Andrew had lost a ton of money. In hindsight, it was clear that they’d stayed in the market too long. Made bad investments. Bet on a housing market that seemed like it would never turn sour. Eric had done everything he could to help Andrew through the worst of it. He didn’t blame him, and yet Andrew assumed that since he blamed himself, Eric had to feel the same way.

Listening to the jangle of crickets, the house rafters settling after the heat of the day, Eric wondered what the next few days would bring—for the entire family.

“I fixed us cheese and crackers,” said Andrew, coming through the screen door with a tray, glasses, and a bottle of wine.

Eric raised his eyebrows.

“Come on. We need to regroup. We can be civil for ten minutes, can’t we? Besides, I’m hungry.”

Andrew was always hungry. It was something Eric loved about him. “Does it feel weird being back here?”

“Yeah, a little. But it also feels … sort of normal.”

“I’m not sure what normal is anymore.” Eric touched the wedding ring on his finger. “Do you know how many houses we’ve lived in since we moved back here?”

“Don’t start,” said Andrew, sinking down on a padded love seat.

“I’m not trying to start a fight. I’m just curious if you remember.”

“Five,” he answered. “I know how to count.”

“I was just thinking about the parties we used to give.”

“We had it down to a science. The music. The wine. The food. The cleanup.”

“Why haven’t we given any parties in the last few years?”

Andrew picked up a slice of cheese. “Maybe there’s nothing to celebrate anymore.”

“How … utterly … utterly … sad.” Eric fingered one of the crackers. “I assumed you were inside packing more of your clothes. You still staying with Ingersoll?”

He shook his head.

“No?”

“No.”

“Where then?”

He poured them each a glass of wine. “I work up in Minneapolis. Since I’m not living here anymore, it makes sense to stay up there.” Taking a sip, he let the news sink in for a minute, then continued, “You’re going to be angry when I tell you.”

Eric looked over at him.

“I’m staying with Terrence.”

“Terrence Wilson? The guy who used to book your band gigs?”

“He’s got a big house in Eden Prairie, with an apartment above his garage. It’s actually pretty nice. Bedroom. Living room. Kitchenette.”

This was not what Eric wanted to hear. “So tell me, Andrew. Are you sleeping with him?”

“None of your damn business.”

“He’s been after you for years.”

Sucking in a breath, Andrew said, “It’s not like that. I’m not interested in him. Besides, I work so damn many hours that when I get home, all I have energy for is sleep. I’ve got four side jobs going at the moment. What more do you want from me?”

“We’re moving into dangerous territory here.”

“What isn’t dangerous territory for us these days?”

Eric had come to one major conclusion since Andrew had moved out: Running the café, even though he’d made a commitment to his father to take over the place, wasn’t bringing in enough money. It also allowed him way too much free time. He was lonely and was therefore constantly frustrated with Andrew for being gone so much. Andrew had the opposite problem. He was crazed by too much work, with no time to think about anything except keeping their heads above water financially. Each silently—and not so silently—blamed the other.

Shifting in his chair, Eric made a stab at changing the subject. “Sometimes I think this town is dying.”

Andrew kicked off his athletic shoes. “The Ben Franklin store closed last week. The sporting goods store up on McKinley is hanging on by a thread.”

“It’s the Walmart up on the highway. It’s killing the retail stores. They can’t compete.”

“This isn’t the town we grew up in.”

“We agree on that,” said Eric. Draining his wineglass, he continued, “Shawn Wainwright called me last week. He wants me to do some speechwriting for him, and for the conservancy.”

“You gonna do it?” asked Andrew, grabbing another piece of cheese.

“I’m thinking about it.”

They sat silently for a few minutes, looking up at the stars.

“If Jack did run off again,” said Eric, pouring himself another glass of wine, “I can’t help but think it’s because of us—our split.”

Andrew exploded. “Absolutely everything is my fault, isn’t it?”

“Do you realize how often you respond to something I didn’t say?”

“It’s subtext. I get it. You’re the long-suffering one. The good son and the good father. I’m the screwup because of the houses I couldn’t sell, and because I’m gone so much that I’m not around to do my fair share with Jack. Do you really think that I want to live like this?”

They were like dueling phonograph records. The needle—their conversations—might slip and slide around for a while, but eventually they always fell back into the groove. “Can you see that we’re in some sort of crazy blame loop that neither of us can climb out of?” The phone in the back pocket of his jeans began to ring. Sighing, he said, “I better take it.” He said hello and listened. When he heard nothing but silence on the other end he said, “Is anybody there?”

“I’m calling about your boy,” came a man’s voice.

Eric felt his pulse heat up. “Do you know where he is?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve got no business being a parent. That kid of yours doesn’t have a chance. He’ll grow up just like you. Sick. Twisted. You gays make me want to hurl.”

“Who is this?”

“You should be run out of the state—out of the country. Maybe I’ll get a posse together and come visit you one of these nights. I know where you live. Better keep your doors locked is all I can say.” The line disconnected.

“What is it?” asked Andrew, gripping Eric’s arm. “Who was that?”

Eric closed the phone and held it to his lips. “The wing nuts are coming out of the woodwork. The guy said he might come by with a bunch of his buddies one night soon. We’re gay so we have no business being parents.”

“You know, there are times when I wish you’d let me bring my rifle home, instead of leaving it with Branch.”

“No guns in the house. Ever.”

“You like being a sitting duck?”

The landline in the kitchen rang.

“I’ll get it,” said Andrew, thrusting himself off the love seat.

Eric followed him inside, standing in the doorway, holding his breath.

Andrew said hello. A moment later, “Oh, hi, Mrs. Knox.” He listened. “Thanks. We appreciate that. Yes, I’ll tell him. You’re very kind.” He paused. “Yeah, we’re holding up. It hasn’t been easy. You’re right, having a pastor in the family helps. Sure, we’ll let you know. Yeah, you too. Night.” As he placed the phone back in its cradle, he said, “Thank God not everyone is a bigot.” He paused, then added, “I’m staying here tonight. I’ll sleep on the living room couch. Until we get this settled,” he said, moving to the back door to check the lock, “I think we should make sure this place is always secure.”

Eric was silently grateful. With Andrew in the house, he wouldn’t feel so alone. It was something. Not much in the scheme of things. But something.