My Life Next Door (26 page)

“So then what?”

“So then the uncle and Daniel start fighting. Daniel’s begging him not to tell his parents and his uncle keeps screaming at him. Finally, he agreed not to tell if we ‘Left the Premises at Once.’”

I can see where Daniel gets his diction. “So you came home then?”

“No, it was really late. We used my emergency American Express card to stay at the Doubletree Midtown. Daniel tried to pick up where we left off, but the mood was gone. We just watched a
Star Trek
marathon and fell asleep.”

I reach out my arms and this time she slides into them, her drooping head on my shoulder, her own shoulders shaking.

“Why can’t things ever work for me? I just wanted to be irresistible and adventurous. Now I’m a Scarlet Woman and I didn’t even
get
the sex. I’m a Faux Scarlet Woman.” Her hot tears soak my collarbone.

“I think you were awesome. Ripping off his shirt, taking charge. You’re a Scarlet Woman in all the best ways, Nan Mason.”

“It was really hard to rip off, actually.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Brooks Brothers must sew those buttons on with wire.”

“He said you were beautiful and brave,” I tell her. “And you were.”

“Don’t tell anybody what happened. I didn’t even tell Tim. I told him Daniel rocked my world. Ugh.”

Seems to me Tim would understand things not turning out as planned.

I rub her back gently and say, “Pinkie swear.”

She sits up suddenly. “No matter what you do, don’t tell that Garrett boy. I can’t stand the thought of you guys laughing at us.”

I wince. Knowing how protective Jase is of his sisters, how he tried to nudge Tim into having more compassion for Nan, I know he would never laugh. That Nan would think he would hurts, almost as much as it hurts that she thinks I would. But all I say is, “I won’t tell anybody.”

“I need more ice cream.” She says. Her face is so red and swollen that her eyes are squinted. “Want to split that Doane’s Dynamo thing that has ten scoops and comes in a Frisbee?”

Chapter Thirty-three

“Wish me luck at Chuck E. Cheese.” Mrs. Garrett sighs as she drops Jase and me off at the hardware store. “Hell on earth, with pizza and a giant talking mouse.”

It’s Jase and Tim’s shift today. Except that Tim didn’t show up to give us a ride. Mrs. Garrett, saying she didn’t need me to babysit because of a birthday party George is invited to at Chuck E. Cheese, drove us. My early afternoon free from Breakfast Ahoy, I’m thumbing idly through the SAT test prep guide Nan gave me.

Jase begins unpacking a shipment of nails. We say nothing about Tim’s absence, but I notice Jase’s eyes, under their thick dark lashes, flicking to the clock over the door, just as mine do. I don’t want Tim to screw up. But ten minutes go by, then twenty, then half an hour.

Mr. Garrett comes out of the back room to say hello. He claps Jase on the back and kisses me on the cheek, telling us there’s plenty of coffee in his office. He’s holed up back there, he says, doing the quarterly books. Jase whistles under his breath, sorting nails, scribbling amounts down on a pad. I hear a little repetitive sound coming from Mr. Garrett’s office. I flip pages in the prep guide, trying to identify the sound.

Click-click-click-click-click
.

I look over at Jase inquiringly.

“Pen cap,” he explains. “My dad says clicking it always helps him add—or, in our case, subtract.” He opens a bag of bullet-head nails, letting them clatter into the clear plastic drawer in front of him.

“No better—the finances?” I come up to stretch my arms around his back, resting my cheek against his shoulder blade. He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt today and I inhale the Jase smell.

“But no worse,” he responds with a grin, turning to face me, cupping the heel of his hand to the back of my neck, smiling as he pulls me closer.

“You look beat.” I trace the dark bluish shadow under his eye with a slow finger.

“Yup. I am. That feels good, Sam.”

“Are you burning the midnight oil? Doing what?”

“I guess I’m burning the daylight oil, but it sure doesn’t feel like daylight at four in the morning.”

His eyes are still shut. I smooth my finger down his cheek, then slide it back up to the other eye.

“You’re getting up at four in the morning? Why?”

“Don’t laugh.”

Why does that phrase always bring out a smile? He opens his eyes and grins back at me.

I school my face into a somber expression. “I won’t.”

“I’m a paperboy now.”

“What?”

“I’m delivering papers for the
Stony Bay Sentinel
. Starting at four, six days a week.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Two weeks. I didn’t think it would be quite this bad. You never see paperboys in movies chugging down Red Bull and No-Doz.”

“Probably because they’re usually ten. Couldn’t Duff do it?” His hand slides up to tangle in my hair, to pull out my elastic, because that’s what he always does.

“Duff doesn’t hope to go to college next year. I do. Even though it’s damn unlikely, the way things are going. Hell, I shouldn’t have bought that car. I just wanted it…so badly. And it’s nearly running now. With more money poured in, that is.” I bite my lip. I never have to worry about money. “Don’t look so sad, Sam. It’ll be okay. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“I brought it up,” I remind him. “I’m your girlfriend. You’re supposed to be able to talk about this stuff with me. It’s not just about me making free with your hot body, you know.”

“Though that completely works for me,” Jase says, twisting his fingers in my hair and pulling me closer.

“Oh hell. Not more of this PDA crap.”

We turn toward the door as Tim stalks in, wearing his gray Impress Grace Reed suit and looking crumpled and extremely pissed off.

“Mason,” Jase greets, not letting go of me. “You okay?” He indicates the clock with a hitch of his shoulder.

“That would depend on what ‘okay’ is.” Tim yanks off his jacket and shoves it onto a coat hook. He untwines his tie as though it’s a boa constrictor with a chokehold around his neck. “Which I wouldn’t frickin’ know, would I?” Stalking
over, he takes his place beside Jase, who surreptitiously checks his pupils and sniffs his breath. I can’t smell anything. I hope Jase doesn’t. Tim doesn’t look high…just furious.

“What’s up?” Jase hands him his time card.

Tim bends over to scribble the time in black marker. “Samantha? How the fuck much do you know about that Clay Tucker?”

“Tim, come on. Stop swearing.” I put a hand on his arm. He’s been easing up on the four-letter words lately, sometimes getting through an entire conversation without one.

“Why, Samantha? Why the fuck should I?” He gives me his fake-charming smile. “I get to say it. You guys get to
do
it. The way I figure it, you come out ahead.”

“Knock it off, Tim. This isn’t Samantha’s fault. What’s going on with Clay Tucker?” Jase leans his hip against the side of the counter, crossing his arms.

“I dunno. I mean, I’m not one to criticize manipulative bastards, being one myself and all. But this guy…new levels. And your mom, Samantha…right there with him.” Tim rubs his forehead.

“What do you mean?” I say at the same time Mr. Garrett asks, “You going back there to work tonight?” He must have come into the room without any of us hearing.

Tim shakes his head, but a flush climbs up his neck. He’s never been late before, not here.

“Good, then. You’ll stay on after closing and finish that inventory of the stockroom you started the other day.”

Tim nods, swallowing. Mr. Garrett puts a hand on his shoulder. “Never again, Timothy. Ya hear?” He walks off down the
hall to his office, his broad shoulders looking a little slumped.

Jase pulls a package of Trident gum out of his jeans pocket and offers it to Tim. “So go on.”

“So old Clay…” Tim takes six sticks of gum, half the package. Jase raises his eyebrows but says nothing. “He’s freaking everywhere. You lift a rock in this campaign and he crawls out from under it. Grace has this entire staff and Clay’s in charge of fuckin’ all of it. He says something and everybody jumps. Even me. The guy never sleeps. Even that little dude, your mom’s suck-up campaign manager, Malcolm, is looking bushed, but Clay’s going along like the friggin’ Energizer Bunny of Connecticut politics. He’s even got this babe…this hot brunette from Ben Christopher’s office…being like a double agent for him. She shows up every morning to give him the goods on what Christopher’s doing. So Grace can get a jump on it, show it up, look better.”

Realization smacks me hard, but I barely have time to process because Tim keeps going.

“He’s all about the photo ops too. Yesterday it was some poor bastard who lost both legs in Afghanistan coming stateside. Clay was on the spot, makin’ sure Gracie got a half-page spread in the
Stony Bay Bugle
kissing him hello.” Tim jams his hands into his pockets, pacing around the room as he talks. “Then we go to some day-care center where he gets Grace’s photo taken with six cute blond kids piled around her. He practically shoved this girl with one of those big red birthmarks on her face outta the way. I mean, he’s good at what he does. It’s amazing watching him work. But somehow, frickin’ scary too. And your Mom…she just says nothin’, Samantha. She snaps
to attention like
she’s
working for
him
. What the fuck’s up with that?”

It’s not as though I haven’t thought all these things. But when Tim says them, I feel defensive. Besides, who is Tim to talk?

“Look,” I say. “It may seem like he’s the boss, but Mom would never back off completely like that. She loves this job and she’s totally committed to winning and this is a tough race…” I trail off.
I sound like her.

“Yeah, and she’s ahead in all our internal polling. Even with the margin of error. Close, but ahead. But of course, that’s not enough for Clay. Clay has to hedge his bets. Clay has to have his little November surprise in the works, so he makes abso-friggin’-lutely sure that not only does she win, but her opponent fucking loses. Big. Not just the race. His whole career.”

Jase is absently sliding the palm of his left hand up and down my side, while still pulling plastic packs of nails out of the cardboard box. “And he’s doing this by…?”

“Digging up dirt that doesn’t matter. Making sure it matters. And sticks.”

We both stare at Tim.

“Ben Christopher, who’s running against Grace? He has two DUIs,” he says. “The first was from thirty years ago, high school. The second was twenty-six years ago. He did his service, paid his fines. I see the dude in meetings. He’s
seriously
decent. He’s done everything he can to make up for it. But old Clay’s already got it lined up to make sure you can never keep your past in the past. He knows from his little pet spy that
the Christopher campaign is shitting bricks about it coming out. And he’s gonna have old Gracie do a rally with some asshole there who’s going to let it all slip. Three days before the election.”

“Where are you in all this?” Jase asks.

Tim looks at us pleadingly. “I don’t
know
. Clay Tucker thinks I walk on water. For some reason, every damn thing I do impresses this jerk-off. Today he complimented me on how I collated papers, for Christ’s sake. No one has
ever
been this impressed with me. Not even when I was faking my ass off. I’m not now. I’m actually good at this crap. Plus, I need the recommendation.” His voice rises a few octaves. “‘The hardware store is all very well, Timothy, but it’s your campaign experience, and what the state senator says about you that’ll go a long way toward repairing the damage you’ve done yourself.’”

“Your mom?” I ask.

“Natch. There’s not a person on the planet who would say as many nice things about me as Clay Tucker. And of course, my luck, he has to ruin a good man along the way.”

At this point the store gets a sudden run of customers. A hassled-looking woman with her teenage daughter chooses paint chips. An elderly woman wants a leaf blower that doesn’t take any muscle to run. A clueless-looking bearded guy tells Tim he wants “One of those things you fix stuff with, like on TV.” After five minutes of Tim offering him everything from spackle to a DustBuster to a Ginzu knife, Jase finally figures out it’s a tool kit. The guy trots off, looking satisfied.

“So, what are you going to do?” I ask.

“Hell, hell, hell,” Tim responds, reaching for his shirt pocket
where his cigarettes still reside, then letting his hand drop away, empty. No smoking in the building. He closes his eyes, looking as though someone’s pounding a nail through his temple, then opens them and looks no better. He smacks his fist against the counter, sending a plastic container of pens jumping. “I just can’t make myself quit. I’ve screwed up so much already. This will look like more of the same…even though it’s not.” He bends forward over the cash register, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. Is he
crying
?

“You could tell him what you think of his tactics,” Jase points out. “Tell him they’re wrong.”

“Like he’ll care. I hate this. I hate knowing the right thing to do and not having the balls to do it. This sucks. This is payback, isn’t it? You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve done, the tests I’ve cheated on, the rules I’ve broken, the times I’ve fucked up, the people I’ve screwed over.”

“Oh knock it off already, man, with the ‘nobody knows the horrors I’ve seen’ routine. It’s getting really old,” Jase snaps.

I take a deep breath like I’m going to say something—what, I have no idea—but he continues before I can. “It’s not like you murdered newborns and drank their blood. You screwed up at prep school. Don’t overrate yourself.”

Tim’s eyebrows have shot to his hairline. Neither Tim nor I have ever seen Jase lose his temper.

“It’s not the moral dilemma of the century.” Jase runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s not whether to develop the atom bomb. It’s just whether you’re going to do a decent thing or keep doing shitty things. So choose. Just stop
whining
about it.”