The Millionaires (35 page)

“Oh, so now she’s working against us?” I ask.

“All I’m saying is, she’s got some random clothes and a dozen modern art, neoplastic rip-off paintings. Where’s the rest of
her life? Her furniture, her CD collection—after all this time, you’re telling me she doesn’t have her own TV?”

“I’m not saying she doesn’t have her quirks—but that’s what happens when you’re dealing with an artist…”

Right there, he’s ready to lose it. “Do me a favor—don’t call her an artist. Putting tracing paper on an old Mondrian does
not an artist make. Besides, have you even looked at her fingernails? That girl hasn’t painted a day in her life.”

“Oh, and suddenly you’re the authority on all things artistic? It’s called washing your hands, Charlie—it’s an amazing concept.
And you’re just mad because she’s out-Charlie-ing you at your own game.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You saw how she lives… the fact that she’s happy with the bare essentials… that she doesn’t need to be in the race…. Starting
to sound familiar? Rhymes with barley….Even when she came after us—she doesn’t get mad—she just kinda looks through you—like
she’s not afraid of anything.”

“Ax murderers also aren’t afraid of anything.”

“Can you please give it a rest?” I beg as we turn onto our block. “You’re the one always saying I have no sense of adventure.
Would you rather I date someone like Beth?”

“
Date?
You’re not
dating
Gillian… you’re not even courting her. You’re just two people in an extreme situation who happen to be standing next to each
other. It’s like falling in love on a teen tour—but without the James Taylor songs.”

“You can make all the fun you want, but we both know you hate it when anyone challenges your role as Mr. Nonconformity. It’s
the same reason you never join a band—you feel threatened anytime you spot some competition.”

“Oh, now I get it—is that what you think this is? A competition? You can have her, Ollie. She’s all yours. But just so you
know, it’s not about competition anymore—it’s about one thing: divide and conquer. That’s what she’s gonna do.”

“How can you say that?”

Checking the block one last time, he scrambles across the street, pushes open the cheap metal gate, and races through the
courtyard that leads to our apartment. We’re both silent until I turn the key and let us inside. The bug spray smell hits
first. “It’s still better than staying at Gillian’s,” Charlie says, taking his own whiff.

“You don’t even know her,” I challenge.

“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a vibe,” Charlie shoots back, kicking his shoes off and undressing for bed.

“Oh, pardon me—I didn’t realize you were in the midst of channeling your inner Buddha—you’re like one of those water-divining
rods when it comes to people’s vibes.”

“You’re saying I’m not?”

“All I’m saying is I’m not the one who
lent
his favorite amp to a complete stranger, and then watched it get traded to some crappy pawn shop in Staten Island.”

“First of all, it was old and I needed a new one anyway. B) I’ve got one Grand Canyon–sized proper noun for you: Ernie. Della.
Costa.”

“Ernie Dellacosta?” I ask. “Mom’s old boyfriend?”

“For an interminable seven and a half months,” Charlie adds. “Remember what happened the first time mom brought him to meet
us? He was respectful and nice and he even successfully bought my love by bringing us Chicken Delight for dinner. But the
instant I snatched that chicken bucket out of his hands, I hated him. I hated his comb-over… I hated his fake designer shoes…
and the entire time they dated, I hated that man like poison. And y’know what? I was right.”

Shoving my way next to him at the sink, I cup my hands and soak my face. There’s a quick skirmish over space, but Charlie
dodges around me and storms back to the futon. Chasing behind him, I add, “Well, if you want to remember the rest of reality—while
you were strumming your guitar—”

“It’s a bass.”

“Whatever—while you were strumming your bass and living in Fantasyland, Ernie Dellacosta was also the guy who got me that
job at Moe Ginsburg during my freshman year. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have had the money to stay at NYU.”

“Y’know, I forgot all about that sales job. You’re right—he really was an inspiration to us all,” he says with an extra scoop
of sarcasm.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Oh, no—don’t play your passive-aggressive headgames with me. Say what you’re thinking.”

Charlie stays quiet, which means he’s holding something back. “Just drop it,” he eventually says.

“Drop it? But you’re so close to making your all-important point. C’mon, Charlie, we’re all eating pins and needles—you obviously
brought Dellacosta up for a reason—so what’s your problem? That I sucked up to him so he’d help me get a job? That I laughed
uncontrollably at his dumb-ass jokes? That I acted like everyone else in working-class America and busted my ass so I could
someday stop worrying about debt collectors calling the house and harassing me for the last forty dollars in my bank account?
Tell me what’s got your socks all wet?”

“
You do!
You and your self-obsessed, woe-is-me-and-my-poor-lifestyle whine-fest!” Charlie explodes. “This isn’t about you, Oliver—and
if you ever stopped to realize that, you might actually notice the things that’re going on under your own damn roof!”

“What’re you talking about?”

“The guy was an asshole, Ollie. A complete asshole. Doesn’t that make you wonder why mom dated him for so long?”

“What’re you saying?”

“Did you know she was terrified you’d lose your job? Or that she hated him after month two, but was worried that without the
paycheck you wouldn’t make it through the semester? You can bury your past under all the résumé paper you want, but back home,
she was the one putting up with the abuse.”

I stop, completely lost. “W-Whattya mean abuse?” I ask.

“Uh-oh, someone’s using his old Brooklyn accent…”

“What abuse, Charlie? He hit her?”

“She never said it, but I heard their arguments—you know how thin our walls are.”

“That’s not the question,” I insist. “Did you ever see him hit her?”

For once, Charlie doesn’t fight back. “I walked in, and they were in the kitchen,” he begins. “She was crying; he was using
a tone that was more heated than anything you’d want directed at your mother. He spun around to see if I’d back off. I told
him if he didn’t get out, I’d use his larynx as my own personal jump rope. Mom started crying even harder, but she didn’t
stop him from leaving. We never saw him again. And that was your buddy Mr. Dellacosta.”

Teetering in place, I feel like my chest’s about to shatter. My chin quivers and I look at Charlie like I’ve never seen him
before. All this time, I thought I had the hard part. All this time, I had it wrong. “Charlie, I didn’t know…”

“Don’t say it,” he warns, in no mood to listen. Hopping into bed, he turns away and pulls the mangy fuzzy blanket we found
in the closet up over his head. The cigarette smell on the fuzz has to be worse than the bug spray, but for Charlie, it’s
clearly a lot better than dealing with me. “Just remember what I said about Gillian,” he calls out as he disappears under
the covers. “Divide and conquer—that’s always how it works.”

I
can’t sleep. I’m not good at it. Even when we were little—when Charlie and I used to take turns telling each other horror
stories about Old Man Kelly and the creepy people who lived in our building—Charlie was always the first one snoring. It’s
no different tonight.

Staring up at the jagged black fissure in our popcorn-stucco ceiling, I still hear the echoes of my mom crying. And Dellacosta
leaving. Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me? Still wrestling with the answer, I listen to the rise and fall of Charlie’s labored
breathing. When he was sick, it was much worse—a wet hacking wheeze that used to have me watching over him like a human heart
monitor. It’s a sound that’ll forever haunt—like the sound of my mom’s sobs—but as I turn over and face Charlie—as the minutes
tick by and his breathing falls into its steady rhythm, I try to take comfort in the feeling that we’re finally getting a
break. Between the photos and the nondisclosure agreement and the leads at Five Points Capital, there’s actually a pinhole
at the end of the tunnel. And then, out of nowhere, it’s stolen away by a slight tapping against the front window.

I bolt up in bed.

The tapping stops. I don’t move. And then it starts again. The persistent rap of a knuckle hitting glass.

“Charlie, get up,” I whisper.

He doesn’t budge.

“
Oliver,
” a voice comes from outside.

I jump out of bed, struggling to be silent. If I yell, they’ll know we’re awake. I reach back to pull the covers off my brother—

“
Oliver, are you there?
” the voice asks.

Spinning around, I let go of the blanket. That’s not just any voice…

“
Oliver, it’s me.
”

… that’s a voice I know. Racing to the door, I ram my eye toward the peephole, just to be safe.

“
Open up
…”

I twist and unclick the locks. Cracking the door open, I peek outside.

“I’m sorry—did I wake you?” Gillian asks with a soft grin. As always, she can’t stand still. She stuffs her hands in her back
pockets, then shifts her weight from one foot, to the other, then back again. Swaying like a folk singer.

“What’re you doing here?” I whisper.

“I don’t know… I just kept thinking about the remote… and the photos and… and there’s no way I was falling asleep, so I figured—”
She cuts herself off and takes a fast glance down at my boxers. I blush; she laughs. “Listen, I know you have your own reasons,
but I appreciate what you’re doing with my dad. He’d… he’d thank you for it.”

My face only gets redder.

“I’m serious,” she says.

“I know you are.”

Enjoying the moment, she adds, “When’s your birthday?”

“What?”

“What’re you, an Aries or Leo? Melville and Hitchcock were Leos, but…” She pauses, absorbing my reaction. “You’re an Aries,
aren’t you?”

“How can you—? How’d you know?”

“C’mon, Stiffy, it’s spray-painted on your forehead—the perfection posture, the scolding dad tone when you talk to your brother,
even the spotless white boxers…”

“These boxers are brand-new.”

“They definitely are,” she says, staring down at them. Once again, I blush and she laughs. “C’mon,” she adds. “Put on some
clothes—I’ll let you buy me some cheap coffee.”

Over her shoulder, I check the empty street. Even at this hour, it’s not smart to be strolling in public. “How ’bout a raincheck?”

Slinking back, she looks like a hurt puppy.

“It doesn’t mean you have to go, though…” I offer.

She stops and quickly turns back. “So you want me to stay?”

It’s a tease and we both know it. Charlie would tell me to shut the door. But that would just leave me lying awake in the
dark. “All I’m saying is, I have to be careful.”

“Oh, because of the… I didn’t even think…” She stumbles in the sweetest way possible. It’s one of those moments that no one
could fake. “Of course I want you to be careful. In fact…” A playful smile lights her face.

“What?”

“Grab some sneakers,” she says, already beaming. “I’ve got an idea.”

“To go out? I don’t think that’s—”

“Trust me, handsome-pants, this is gonna be one you thank me for. No one’ll even know we’re there.”

She says something else, but I’m still munching on
handsome.
“Are you sure it’s safe?”

“I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t,” she says, suddenly serious. “Especially when we’re in it together.”

That’s the shove that puts me over the mountain. If she wanted to hurt us, Gallo and DeSanctis would’ve been here hours ago.
Instead, we had a whole day of peace. From here on in, the longer she stays with us, the more she puts herself at risk. She
doesn’t care. She wants the truth about her dad. So do we. I leave a quick note for my brother, then look back at him to make
sure he’s still asleep.

“Don’t worry,” Gillian says. “He’ll never know you’re gone.”

* * * *

Racing down the dock, I have to hand it to her. In a town that prides itself on being seen, she’s found the one cool place
where no one’s watching.

“Abandoned enough for you?” she asks as our shoes clunk along the wooden planks of the Miami Beach Marina. All around us,
the docks are dead silent. Back on shore, there’s a security guard making his nightly rounds, but a friendly wave from Gillian
keeps him at bay.

“You come out here often?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t you?” she replies as she hits the brakes.

I’m not sure what she means—that is, until she points down to the small, weather-scorched, white fishing boat that’s bobbing
up and down against the dock. Barely big enough to seat six, it’s got frayed Miami Dolphins seat cushions and a windshield
with a crooked crack down the center. With a flick of her foot, Gillian kicks her sandals down into the boat.