Extra Credit (2 page)

Everyone went back into the dining room, where Meaghan and Erin were still lapping up ice cream cake and Max was regaling the group with a story about the off-camera goings-on for her show
Hooters: PIs,
a program that had become a ratings juggernaut. I’m not going to explain what it is; the title says it all. All I heard was “popped implant,” which really was all I needed to hear. I pulled a finger across my throat to signal to Max that discussing the ins-and-outs of shooting a show about big-breasted waitresses who investigate cheating husbands really might not be acceptable cocktail-party conversation, but she wasn’t having it.

“And Miss Downtown Abbey over there thinks it isn’t highbrow enough,” she said, shooting me a look.

“It’s Down-
ton
Abbey, and no, I don’t think shows about waitresses beating up cheating husbands is highbrow,” I said. “Call me crazy.”

“You’re crazy,” she said. “Tell that to the Nielsen people. You should see our ratings.” She turned back to her rapt audience, a group who clearly didn’t think they’d see the two of us throw down about a show with such high drama, if Max’s description of it was any barometer. Max claims that I don’t think what she does is “art.” It’s not. It’s titillating and salacious and possibly entertaining, but “art”? Hardly. She shook her head. “She’s so dismissive of what I do.”

I took a seat at the head of the table while Crawford grabbed the presents off the sideboard and handed them to his daughters.

The girls whipped through them. To everyone’s credit, the twins each had a pile of individualized, personal gifts to open. There were Uggs boots for Erin and a ski pass for Meaghan from her mother and her husband, Tim; Paulie and his wife, Ava, gave them both gift cards to a bookstore chain; and Crawford and I had sprung for Tiffany charm bracelets for both. Chick waited a few seconds before ceremoniously handing each of them an envelope, their names written on the front in chicken scratch only he could read. The girls looked alternately at the envelopes in their hands, then their uncle, and then their mother, who had a grim expression on her face. Her history with her brothers obviously telegraphed something to her that none of the rest of us could see, and judging by the looks of it, it wasn’t going to be good.

“I love you guys more than words can say,” he said, tearing up a bit, “and I’m sorry I haven’t been in your lives more than I have.”

I looked over at Crawford, who was studying a scratch on the sideboard with great intensity. Emotional oversharing was not his cup of tea, and it looked like that was what we were in for. Kevin, on the other hand, was eating this up. This was the party he never would have been invited to or able to attend if he were still the chaplain at St. Thomas University, ministering to a bunch of reluctant students at a Catholic college.

“The last few years have been hard for me,” Chick said. “Life has not been easy, as you might have guessed. But I’m back, and I want to be with you and be there for the big days in your lives. Your weddings! Your first babies!”

Now it was the girls’ turn to look away. They were barely halfway through college and not thinking about husbands, weddings, and babies. Christine walked over to her brother and put her arm around his waist. “It’s getting late, Chick,” she said gently, obviously not the first time she’d extracted one or another of her brothers after he had overstayed his welcome.

I attempted to communicate with Crawford telepathically. “You owe me big-time,” I shot toward him, hoping that he could read my mind. He turned and looked at me. Apparently, he could.

Chick leaned into his sister. “I had to go away for a while. You know that,” he said, looking at the girls again. “After what happened in my life, things just kind of fell apart.”

It was a story almost all of the people in the room had heard before, judging from the sympathetic sounds and soft groans coming from them. Now, though, I had a feeling that we were going to get more details than we really wanted.

From behind her novelty sunglasses, Max chimed in. “What happened?” I heard Fred grunt in his wife’s direction. “What?” she whispered. “I don’t know what happened. It sounds good.”

With that, Chick fell apart, a combination of too much booze and too much sadness building up inside until he could no longer hold it together. Great, heaving sobs came out of the sturdy, barrel-chested man, the weight of what he was thinking too much to bear. “What happened?” he asked rhetorically, tears in his eyes, staring at a spot over Max’s head. “Well, I lost everything. My wife, my best friend, my business, my staff. It all went to hell in a suitcase.”

“Isn’t it ‘handbasket’?” Max whispered to no one in particular. Fred grunted again and this time added a little muscle. “Ow!” she exclaimed, rubbing the arm that her husband had just pinched to shut her up.

“My Sassy!” Chick cried. “My dear, sweet Sassy. I just wish it had worked out.”

I looked over at Crawford, who mouthed, “I’ll tell you later.”

In my mind, I figured it was a pet. A cockatiel, a lovely Maltese. What else could a being named Sassy be?

Kevin leaned against the dining room wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Finally, a family that was as dysfunctional as his own, he seemed to be thinking. That, or he was planning how to make a quick getaway. It was hard to say.

Chick rubbed a hand over his florid face and tried to compose himself. “Sorry … sorry. Like I said, I’m back, and I want to say that I love you all very much and I’m sorry for what I put you through. All those years when you weren’t sure where I was, weren’t sure what I was doing.” He paused dramatically. “I was just trying to survive.”

Christine, obviously the recipient of a batch of recessive genes that allowed her to be beautiful, smart, and poised, unlike her roughneck brothers, kissed Chick’s cheek and rubbed his back. “We’re glad you’re back, too, Chick. Now why don’t you give the girls their presents?” she asked.

He nodded. “I need to make amends,” he said.

“Oh, boy,” I telegraphed to Crawford, whose face had turned white.

“To you, Bobby,” Chick said, gesturing toward Crawford, who was now busy staring at a hole in a window screen at the back of the dining room, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Why he hadn’t tackled that little home improvement job while he had been retired was anyone’s guess, opting instead for a plumbing project that was clearly beyond his skill set. “Look at me, man. I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Crawford said quickly. “No need to apologize.”

“No, I want to, brother. I want to tell you how sorry I am that I never accepted you into the family. How I never thought you were good enough for my little sister. How I always thought you were kind of a big stiff.”

Max couldn’t resist another interjection. “He
is
kind of a big stiff,” she said. Fred, Crawford’s partner on the PD and his closest friend, glared down at her from his perch on the edge of the sideboard. “Well, he is…” She trailed off.

“Really, it’s fine,” Crawford said. He’s actually not a stiff, just what I would call “measured” in his response to things. If that made him a stiff, I was completely in. “Thanks for coming,” he said, moving toward Chick to usher him from the house.

“I’m not finished.”

Crawford froze.

“Alison, you seem like a very nice lady. I never saw this guy here,” he said, hooking a thumb in Crawford’s direction, “with a professor, but hey, life’s a funny thing, right?”

And getting funnier all the time, if Kevin’s stifled guffaw was any indication.

“I hope the two of you are very happy in your life together.”

“Thank you, Chick. It has been so nice having you,” I said, getting up and going over to give him a parting embrace. Before I got to him, he started again. Apparently, he wasn’t finished.

“Christine, I love you, sis. All the best to you and Tim,” he said, nodding toward Christine’s husband. Tim was kind of a stoic sort and so far seemed to have only one facial expression, a cross between concerned and confused. I was relieved to find that indeed he did have another expression, although fear wasn’t the one I would have chosen. Chick let out a huge exhale and threw his arms wide. “I’m back! And I’m happy to be here. So open your presents, girls!”

The girls looked at their father, still dumbstruck like the rest of us. Crawford nodded his assent, and they ripped into their envelopes, taking out identical cards and opening them up at the same time.

Meaghan was the first to speak, and what she said came out in a hoarse whisper. “It’s some money.” She had better manners than that, so I knew something had to be wrong.

Erin looked at her mother, and then her father, catching a hundred-dollar bill before it fluttered to the floor. “It’s not
some
money. It’s a
lot
of freaking money.”

Two

Five thousand dollars
was
a lot of money for one person to receive.

Times two, at ten thousand dollars, it was even more for someone to give away.

Ten thousand dollars, in one-hundred-dollar bills, bestowed upon two nineteen-year-old girls by an uncle they hadn’t seen in almost a decade. It was a bizarre capper to an even more bizarre get-together, the likes of which I hoped never to have to host—or endure—again.

Christine and Crawford had lobbied mightily for Chick to take the money back, but he refused. He was out the door before anyone could reason further with him. After he left, Crawford conferred with his ex, and they decided that we would keep the money here until one of them could convince Chick that a five-thousand-dollar gift was a little too generous for the girls on their nineteenth birthday.

Something else was niggling at Crawford, I could tell, but I didn’t have a chance to ask him what it was. I suspected it had something to do with the origins of the money, but don’t ask me how I knew that. All I gleaned from our evening together and subsequent conversation about it was that Chick had been gone for a long time. Maybe he had struck it rich while on a great adventure far away from his family.

Or maybe the truth was far more nefarious and that’s where Crawford’s mind was going. Either way, even if it hadn’t been stolen from an orphanage or been liberated from an offshore bank account, the money was going back.

I was in bed by the time Crawford returned from driving Meaghan, a sophomore at St. Thomas University, the school where I teach, back to campus. Erin had her mother’s spare car for the semester, and although she didn’t enjoy driving a 2000 Honda Odyssey that had seen its fair share of cheddar Goldfish and juice-box meals, she liked having her own transportation and the ability to come and go as she pleased. Where she went was anyone’s guess and, now that her mother had returned, something I didn’t have to worry about anymore. Her school was about an a hour and a half north, so she had set off fairly quickly after the Stepkowskis, promising to text as soon as she arrived back at her dorm. Meaghan’s and my school was about thirty minutes south, so Crawford made that journey, hoping that he could catch up with his older-by-a-minute daughter and find out what was going on at school and in her life.

Good luck with that,
I thought. Although the girls were close to their dad, Meaghan and her father shared the same gene that allowed both of them to wall everything off from everyone else. I suspected the conversation would be an interrogation on Crawford’s part with few answers coming from Meaghan. Did that make them both “stiffs”? I didn’t think so, but apparently Chick was of a different mindset.

The party had been the most time I had ever spent with Christine, and despite her brother’s emotional unraveling after dinner and the behavior of the pack of wolves she called stepchildren, nieces, and nephews, my feelings about her were confirmed: I liked her. I could see why Crawford had fallen in love with her but understood, too, why they had broken up. They had married young, had two children soon after that, and had tried to endure the pressures of his very stressful job, all of which weighed heavy on their unstable union. They had drifted apart and, to their credit, in much less dramatic fashion than I had from my first, philandering, late husband. (God rest his soul.) She seemed incredibly happy with Tim, who seemed to be the yin to her yang, and while I didn’t think the four of us would go so far as to vacation together, dinners that revolved around Meaghan and Erin were certainly not out of the question in the future.

I was going to draw the line at the rest of
la famille
Stepkowski, though, and would be clear with Crawford on that.

It was close to ten when Crawford got home. I heard him greet the dog as he walked through the kitchen. He looked surprised to see me awake, tucked under the covers, a hardcover open on top of the quilt.

“Fun night!” I said.

“Not really,” he said.

“I was being facetious.”

“I wasn’t.” He pulled his belt out of its loops and took off his shirt. At almost six and a half feet, Crawford is what I call a “tall drink of water,” a formerly skin-and-bones bachelor who had put on a few pounds since we had gotten married, something that served his physique well. Before moving in with me, he had existed on a diet of bad Chinese food and beer, and despite that, had stayed almost gaunt. A few years with me and he had filled out around the middle, but not in an unattractive way. He stripped off his pants and jumped into bed next to me, and we nestled together. I was grateful for the warmth of his bare skin against mine.

“What was that all about?” he asked. I assumed he was referring to Chick’s outburst at dinner.

“You’re asking me?” I replied. “He’s your ex-brother-in-law.”

He leaned back and turned the light off on the nightstand on his side of the bed. We lay in the dark, holding each other. “It’s strange. I don’t know where it came from.”

“Obviously he feels pretty bad about the last several years. It seems clear to me.” I adjusted my arms so that I could hold him tight. “When exactly did he leave?”

“He left one day in the fall of 2001. No one knows where he went.” He made a noise, and I wasn’t sure what it meant. “For days, we thought he was dead. He finally called and left Christine a message a week later saying that he was fine and not to look for him.”