10

Frank’s Market, the small grocery store just outside the main gate of Lakeside, does a booming business in the summers, though I’m not certain how it survives in the winter. The cramped parking lot is crowded with cars tonight. I squeeze the Flex in beside the metal chest filled with self-serve bags of ice for one dollar.

There are barely any people in Lakeside year-round, as I mentioned. Certainly no one would be buying ice during the brutal winters. Buck is one of the few exceptions if he actually does live here full-time. It’s weird to stay here year-round. It’s not a place conducive to that. It’s cold and isolated and void of creature comforts. Maybe Frank’s closes in the winter months. It should.

I walk into the place and push my mini shopping cart down the first aisle, almost running over the tennis shoe of a woman standing in my way. I give her a look and she steps back as she should. The shelves are crowded too close for regular-sized carts, and there are far too many people in the store for shopping to be anything but a chore. I will hurry.

I shake my head, looking at the selection—you can’t be picky here. The produce looks like it has endured being at a large grocery store first; I imagine that after it was not selected by shoppers in a big city, it was shipped here for its final chance. The lettuce is strictly iceberg, wrapped in plastic, and more white than green. The apples are bruised, and the grapes, well, they’re simply unacceptable. “Sorry, honey,” I mumble. Turning the corner, I find crackers and Mia’s cereal, both looking as if they may be undamaged. But looks can be deceiving. I find the cheese selection. Three offerings: Cracker Barrel cheddar, string cheese for kids, and Velveeta slices. The cheddar it is.

Typically, Mia will go to the gourmet market near our home for provisions for the lake, but this trip, she said, she ran out of time. I’m not sure what she was so busy doing, but it’s not like we’ll starve. We’ll just eat more simply. Up here, they haven’t heard about organic foods, and as far as vegetables, well, it’s mostly in cans unless it’s corn, iceberg lettuce or potatoes. The limes look passable, thank goodness.

There is a sushi place we like just a short drive down the coast, but these days, we don’t go there much. The kids like it because they have hibachi grills and chefs who flip shrimp tails at them, make volcanoes out of onion slices and basically entertain them through the entire meal. Before Mia stopped eating “animal protein,” we liked it because they have sushi-grade fish and a full bar, and the kids are happy. Their vegetarian options, however, aren’t “optimal,” according to my wife. Since she has changed we haven’t been. It’s a shame.

This grocery store is not optimal, according to me. It reminds me of a gas station, but with some attempts at fresh food tossed in. I think they should stick to packaged stuff and alcohol. Oh, and yes, that is the primary reason Frank’s Market survives, I assure you. Ten feet away, you drive through the gates of a dry little town. All of us heathens stock up before we enter, and pop over here to replenish.

As I wait in line to check out, I wonder if Buck will have the nerve to show up at my house for happy hour. It’s a disturbing thought, nagging at the back of my mind: he actually might. I check my watch, and note the time is 5:45 p.m. My ideal scenario would be to arrive back at the cottage before him, if he were to appear. Then I would be the one answering the door, there to discourage his presence at my home at all. If he or Mia insisted, I would find a way to tell him man-to-man why lingering would not be prudent. I need to hurry.

There is a line of five other customers in front of me and one cashier, a local or Frank himself perhaps, a thin man with a circular bald spot on top of his head and stringy gray hair pulled into a strange-looking ponytail. His nails are yellowed, presumably from smoking.

Those fingernails resemble my late father’s, yellow and cracked. They bring me back to my childhood, sitting at our dining room table, a dinner plate in front of me with an untouched portion of green beans. My father was tapping his yellowed fingernails on the table. I must have been Sam’s age, maybe younger. I had finished eating the meat loaf and the mashed potatoes, but I was not able to get myself to ingest any of the beans. My mother had kindly suggested that I be allowed to leave the table but my father stood up, shoving his chair back into the dining room wall.

“He will sit at this table until that plate is clean,” he said. He was the king, and we were all his subjects. My little brother gave me a sympathetic look before pushing his chair back and hurrying to carry his plate into the kitchen. He knew the storm was brewing; the air was thick with tension. My stomach threatened me with bile. My mother touched my shoulder on her way to the kitchen, but said nothing. I heard her murmuring to my father in the other room, smelled the sulfur from the match he’d blown out after lighting his cigarette.

“I told you he will finish it all. That’s final,” he yelled at my mother. I could hear the sliding glass door to the back patio open as he stepped outside, closing it with a solid thud.

I remember I wished then that we could lock him out there forever. I remember that feeling of hope and escape if it were possible. But I knew in my heart, from my earliest childhood forward, there was no escape from a dictator. He was bigger than me, larger than life. I had to learn to outsmart him, to play his game better than he could. Until we were teenagers, he beat us. He had a fondness for yanking his belt out of his pants loops and slashing our thighs and bottoms with it for the smallest offenses.

I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, of course. Everybody has to go through things in this life. Sure, I sugarcoat my childhood when I’m talking to strangers, when I’m talking to anyone, including Mia, about it. I tell them about cozy family dinners, at the house and out at the fancy restaurant. But that’s a survival trick I learned from my mother, I suppose. You don’t discuss family dirty laundry, not at all. You smile and quietly accept what comes your way. Don’t make waves, not until you’re the one in control. Then you get your revenge.

My six-year-old self finally gave in after a couple of hours sitting alone at the table in the dark. I picked up one of the green beans, grown limp and cold and slimy, and placed it on my tongue and then slid it to the back of my throat. Of course, I vomited my dinner all over the table, and myself. I knew I would, I suppose, somewhere down inside. I won that battle. Never had to eat a green bean at my house again. They’re symbolic of victory for me now. I made a point to eat them whenever we were someplace else, like the nice restaurant in town. I pretended to love all green beans except the ones he wanted me to eat. Each green bean I ate in his presence, say at a restaurant, slowly and with a smile, reminded my father of the night I won. It was a green-coated foreshadowing of my ultimate victory.

By now you’re probably wondering why my wife and I were comfortable living in a home next to my parents, the same dictator and his accomplice who were the villains of my childhood. Well, the simple answer is we needed help with childcare, for starters. Plus I am too old to beat with a belt, and I didn’t need his money to live. He couldn’t hurt me anymore and he wouldn’t dare touch my boys.

Perhaps I also wanted to allow my parents a glimpse at how great my life is compared to theirs, how beautiful my wife is, how rich we are. Our house is bigger, of course, twice the size of theirs and we have double the backyard. It was almost as if they lived in the outhouse of my large mansion, or at least I liked to think of it that way. My life has more of everything. I proved to them that I could move into this upscale suburb now, when it was the place to be. When they moved here, it wasn’t. They were just lucky. Me, I’m übersuccessful. I wanted them to see that, to see each of my boys and how happy they are. Watch as they eat whatever they’d like, as much or as little as they wish. Yes, living well is the best revenge.

I’m the opposite of my father in many ways. I fight to be like that, to be his opposite, every day, tamping down the anger that’s there, the fire-filled rage he instilled inside me from an early age. It’s like a wildfire that is 80 percent contained. It flares up sometimes, but it’s mostly under control. In fact, most people who meet me in the business world think I’m easygoing, friendly, the life of the party. And I am, because I work hard to be those things.

Living next door to the person you despise gives you a constant reminder to be better, to do better. My little brother, Tom, moved away years ago, and none of us have heard from him since he graduated college. Well, he did “call in” to the private funeral, but that hardly counts. His absence all these years was a strain on my mom, I’m sure, no doubt contributing to her early onset Alzheimer’s, even though he would never take responsibility for that, I’m sure. He’d rather hide in California, pretend none of us existed until there was a chance for an inheritance. Too bad, Tommy, too bad.

Who knows, maybe it wasn’t Tom’s fault. Maybe my mom just wanted to fade away from the ogre she had married and allowed to rule her roost. That could be the case. My hope back then was that it was contagious, the Alzheimer’s, that soon I’d see my father decline into a babbling, drooling mess. I dreamed about that too often, imagining his slip into helplessness as a just punishment for his crimes. It never happened, but that’s fine because the gas took care of it. It doesn’t bother me that I now live next to the house where my parents died, though as I mentioned, Mia thinks it ought to. Why should it? We all go sometime. It was their time.

As for my long-lost brother calling in to the funeral, that really happened. Mia and the boys and I walk into the funeral parlor, both caskets closed up in front, the rent-a-pastor standing stoically, awaiting our arrival.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the preacher said, nodding at us. “I’m sure you won’t mind that we have one more person here who wishes to pay his respects. Your brother, Tom, couldn’t be with us today in person, but he did want to participate in the service remotely.”

That’s when the preacher pointed to a cell phone propped on top of my dad’s casket.

“Are you kidding me? Tommy?” I managed before Mia grabbed my arm.

“Hey, big brother. How’s it going?” the cell phone said.

I tilted my head, the shock clearing at the sound of his voice. I knew why he’d made contact, but there was nothing left. I’d made sure of it. “I’ve been better, Tommy. Where are you?”

The cell phone voice laughed. “Same place as always, big brother. But now’s not quite time for small talk. Shall we get on with the service, then?”

I swallowed and shrugged as Mia guided me into the seat next to hers. The preacher spoke for what seemed to be no more than a minute and then it was all over. We said amen and I leaped up, grabbing the phone, pushing the button to get it off speaker.

“Tom, listen, I need to talk to you,” I said. I cupped my hand over the phone, my back to my family, my waist pressing against my dad’s coffin.

“There’s nothing left to say. I’m assuming you’ll split any inheritance that is left, as that’s customary and fair, but I suspect I’m not going to get anything. The pastor has my attorney’s information, if you do find it in your heart to share any proceeds of their estate with me.”

I kept my voice low, in control, and said, “They were totally leveraged. There won’t be a penny left after funeral costs. But why don’t we meet, talk about this in person?”

“Right. I figured you’d say that. Have a nice life, Paul.”

And the phone went dead. He’s a piece of work, that brother of mine. Crazy, too. I just wish I could get my hands on him, you know, to talk, brother to brother. I’ve tried to find him, but I have no idea where he is hiding. California is a frustratingly big state. I’m sure he’s having a happy little life. He sounded good. I’ll find him if and when I need to. He and I are survivors; we both escaped our parents, we just did it in different ways.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m being too dark on this special day, thinking about dreary memories instead of focusing on the moment here at this wonderful little community hugging the lake. Instead of thinking about my deceased father, who died before any cognitive slip could happen, unfortunately, I should focus on the bright orange sky proclaiming the sunset. Or smile about the fact that I’m up next to be checked out by the man with the yellow fingernails. Or I could congratulate myself again, for outsmarting the yellow-taloned dictator, for rising so far past him and his pungent reach.

Fingernails just like my dear old dad’s drum on the counter. “How you doing?” the man behind the cash register, Frank or not-Frank, asks. “Find everything you need?”

He is smiling at me, revealing teeth also yellowed from tobacco, like corn kernels dangling from his gums. Did I find everything I need? Well, no, of course not. Do we ever?

“Yes, just enough,” I say, flashing my pearly white teeth and cutting myself off before adding: considering I didn’t go to a real grocery store. Because even though that is the honest answer, I’ve learned people don’t often want to hear the truth. Some get their “feelings” hurt. As if a feeling could be hurt. Strange, us humans, stranger still. I’ve told you I’m a student of emotional reactions. And I’m an actor. I’ve studied how to imitate the reactions one is supposed to have: tears for sadness, or at least droopy eyes. Smile and twinkling eyes for joy. You know the rest. You’ve probably learned how to fake some yourself. I mean, are you actually as heartbroken about a friend’s dog dying as you say you are on Facebook? Come on. It’s a dog. Though I’m sure you probably feel more emotions than I do. I feel anger and lust, mostly. Sometimes, I must admit, I feel proud of myself.

“That’s it, then?” the man asks, as if the empty counter in front of him couldn’t answer the question.

“I’ll take a pack of Marlboros, red,” I say, surprising myself. I don’t smoke, never have. “Matches, too, if you’ve got them.” That was a gut reaction, an impulse purchase they call it. I wanted to feel a pack of cigarettes, his brand, in my hand again, to feel the power of crumpling the pack beyond smoke-ability. One of the tiny acts of defiance of my childhood. Oh, and I need matches. Always have a pack of matches on you, dear old dad told us, in case he needed to bum a light. We were his servants, Tommy and I. But in his defense, I’ve found it a good practice to have quick access to a flame.

“Sure,” the man says, reaching behind him to the locked cabinet, turning the key and pulling out the pack. He seems to look at me with renewed appreciation. We’re kindred spirits now, us smokers.

I slide my credit card across the counter, noticing the dirt and grime that years of packaged goods, plastic bags of vegetables, hands and sweat have ground deep into the countertop surface. I wonder how many different people’s DNA is represented here. The man swipes my card and hands it back. I wipe it on my jeans before putting it back in my wallet.

“Got another? This one’s been declined,” he says.

I feel that emotion, the fire spark. “Run it again. It’s an American Express. It has no limit,” I say. I swallow to keep my voice in check. There are two people behind me, soon to be more. I don’t look at their faces, just down at their shoes. The man behind me is a worker of some sort; he wears thick-soled tan boots and loose, stained khaki pants. Behind him is a woman with Nike tennis shoes and tight yoga pants. She’s a weekender, a vacationer. I know they see me as a successful business executive.

“Still no go,” the man says. “Just give me a different one—you’re holding up the line.”

We are no longer smoker comrades. “You’re probably doing it wrong, but fine, here,” I say. My voice is deep, angry. My jaw is tense. If I could see myself in a mirror, I know I’d see my father’s dark, angry eyes. I’ve given him the credit card I save for emergencies, as I must get out of here and back to my cottage. The emergency card is one I applied for six months ago; it’s just mine, not joint, but it’s almost tapped out. The offer came in the mail at the perfect time. This card has been fueling most of my life.

“Receipt with you or in the bag?” he asks, sliding the merchant copy across the counter for me to sign.

“The bag,” I say, signing with a jagged line, more of a P squiggle S squiggle than anything. My monogram is something I’m proud of, come to think of it: Paul Randolph Strom. PRS: almost a person. Just missing a couple things. I smile; the fire is dying and something like relief is washing over me. “Have a nice night.”

“Whatever, dickhead,” I hear a male voice say to my back. I know it’s the man in the work boots, because it isn’t the man at the cash register’s voice. I know working-man is jealous of me and my life: my closet full of designer clothes, my grand home on a treelined, sidewalked street, my beautiful wife who he is imagining in tight yoga pants. Probably, he’s tired of all of us, the wealthy city folk already clogging the streets and shops of his small town, and it’s not even Memorial Day weekend yet.

The fire is almost out, and I want to keep it there. So instead of turning around, I chuckle and shake my head back and forth. Poor working-man, that’s what I’m saying with my body language. I know he’ll get the drift so I hurry to my car and load the three brown bags of groceries quickly. I don’t have time to fight this man. I shove the cart up against the ice bag machine and jump into the car.

As I back out of the parking space, working-man appears in the red glow of my taillights. If I push on the gas, I’d run him over. It would be ruled an accident. He’s barely visible in the fading light. He pauses, hands on hips, weighing his options, his chances. And then he flips me the middle finger of his right hand and I smile. He moves out of the way as I reverse, just like I knew he would. This life is about one thing, winning and losing. He knows he lost.

As I pull back through the open gate into the perfect little community, I check to be sure working-man isn’t following me. I doubt he would brave the gates—we do have security even when it’s not high season. Still, it is rather easy to follow someone, tail them in your car, if you’re skillful and careful. I’ve done it before, not lately, but enough times to know how. It’s sort of like in the movies. You wear a black shirt, make sure it’s a dark, moonless night if you can. Most of the time, people don’t notice their surroundings. They wouldn’t even realize if the same car was following them for miles.

It’s the same following someone on foot, or, say, sneaking into someone’s home. It’s easy if you’re quiet and methodical. Take my father, for example. It’s as if he was blind, not deaf. It was the middle of the day. He should have seen me sitting in the corner of their cramped living room, suit coat tossed on the couch and my tie loosened, waiting for my mom to come home from running errands. He walked right past me on his way to the bedroom, but he didn’t notice. He never did see me for who I am, always underestimating me.

It wouldn’t have changed anything, but he should have seen me coming.