CHAPTER 11 STRANGERS COME TO CALL #2
My dad stands and runs his hands over the top of his head. “I know how difficult it is. I know that more than anyone but they could put us all at risk. I can’t believe they’d put us in jeopardy this way.”
Mom gently puts her hand on my dad’s shoulder. “Is it really so hard to believe? You said it yourself; we understand more than most.”
All of this over some trocars and eye caps? That’s what my dad’s trip was for. I thought they were arguing about what happened to me and my mom at Kate’s but this is something else. It sounds business related.
“What about Meka,” my dad says. “Is she—”
“She’s okay,” my mom says. “For now.”
“I have to go,” my dad says. “I have to make sure everything is still intact or there is going to be a serious problem. Especially after what happened the other night.” He sighs heavily.
“Are you sure this is all connected?” my mom asks.
“It has to be,” Dad says.
He sounds afraid and I’m not sure what that means. Are we in some kind of financial trouble? People die every day so it’s not like there’s a shortage of business. I step back into the stairwell and the board creaks under my weight.
“Shit.”
“Meka?” my mom calls.
I’m halfway to the bottom of the stairs when I hear footsteps emerging from my parents’ room. I hit the first-floor landing running, and race back to the couch. I dive-bomb into the corner and pull out my phone just as my mom emerges from the back stairwell.
“You guys okay?” I ask, trying not to reveal that my heart is backflipping in my chest. “I thought you were arguing.”
“Arguing?” my mom asks. “No. Just having a discussion. Not a discussion you heard any parts of, right?”
“Huh?” I know I sound like the worst liar on the planet. “I can’t tell what you’re saying from down here.”
“What about from the back staircase?” she asks.
“Not from there either,” I say.
“Yeah, okay,” she says, a knowing smirk on her lips. “Grown folks business, Meka.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
The doorbell rings and I bolt off the couch to answer it, avoiding my mom’s pointed gaze. I yank open the front door to find Gerald, our regular delivery guy. He shoves a clipboard at me.
“You know the drill,” Gerald says. “Signatures on the yellow and the pink copies. Where’s your mother? How’s she doin’?”
I sign for the delivery and hand the clipboard back to him.
“She’s in the living room,” I say. “She’s fine.
She and my dad are great.” Gerald never asks about my dad but always seems interested in my mom.
I always have to remind him that if he looks at her in a way she doesn’t like, I’ll happily add him to the list of guests in the freezer.
“Hey, Gerald,” my mom says as she appears in the hall behind me. “How’s it goin’?”
“Better now that I’ve seen your gorgeous smiling face,” Gerald replies. “I’ve been delivering to you for what? Ten years now? You’ve got the same gorgeous face as you did the first time I saw you.”
Gerald is pushing sixty and has a tuft of hair growing out of his left nostril. He’s not bald but it’d probably be a better look than the squirrel-pelt toupee he insists on wearing every time he shows up here. If it’s one thing dudes like him have, it’s the audacity.
“You’re too kind, Gerald,” Mom says.
Gerald practically skips back to his truck and my mom laughs as my dad rejoins us in the front entryway. When Gerald hauls in three boxes of Smithfield’s and some other smaller packages, he spots my dad and literally scowls.
“Gerald,” Dad says.
“Mr. Redwood,” Gerald replies in a weirdly formal tone.
My dad bites back a smile, then disappears into the kitchen without another word.
“How’s your wife?” my mom asks as Gerald nudges the boxes off his hand truck.
I whip my head around. “You have a wife?”
Gerald looks at me quizzically. “Unfortunately.”
I’m literally struck silent. This man acts like my mom is the rising sun and the whole time he has a wife?
And . . . ?who would want to marry him? I have too many questions and because I don’t really care about Gerald’s feelings, I’m about to put every one of them to him but my mom puts her hand on my arm.
“See you next time,” my mom says.
Gerald gives her a little nod and goes on his way.
“Man, he’s annoying,” I say.
My mom chuckles to herself and eyes the boxes of supplies. “Will you put this stuff away for me?” she asks.
“Only if you promise me that I can knock Gerald out if he ever makes you uncomfortable,” I say.
Mom rolls her eyes and laughs. “Fine. But don’t kill him. I don’t wanna have to see that man naked on a prep table for any reason.”
The thought of it makes me want to throw up so I try to push that horrifying image out of my head and get to work putting away the supplies as my mom starts dinner.
I take the smaller packages downstairs and put them away.
Mom’s got some new shades of eyeshadows and a few new lipsticks.
I stack up three new cans of Lanol Care, a hydrating spray that works really well on dead skin, and a new brush set.
In the front entryway I grab a box of Smithfield’s and haul it through the house and out the back door.
I sit the box in the snow and unlock the supply shed.
Inside, I rearrange the shelf, tossing a few empty boxes out and making room for the new shipment.
I make a mental note of how much we have, and while I still think the numbers are lower than they should be, neither Mom or Dad brought it back up.
I run back to the house to grab the other boxes as my dad is heading out the front door.
As he pulls it open he almost runs into a group of people standing on the porch. I hadn’t even heard the bell.
“Jonathan,” one of the men says.
My dad says nothing but when he glances back at me, the look on his face is unmistakable . . . it is fear.
“Dad?” I call out.
“If we could have a moment of your time,” another man says.
There are three of them and they’re all similarly dressed—dark pants, button shirts, long dark overcoats. I think it’s some of the same people who came to the door during dinner that night before Noah . . . before Noah died . . . but I can’t be sure.
“What do you want from me?” Dad asks.
It’s a strange thing to ask a prospective client. They want funeral services. That’s the only thing that it could be.
“A choice needs to be made,” one of the men says.
My dad’s posture stiffens and he grips the doorknob with his right hand.
“The incident in front of St. Paul’s—” one of the men begins.
“Not here,” Dad says, cutting the other man off. “Let me get my things.”
“Jonathan,” Mom’s voice rings out as she steps into the hall. “Who—” She stops abruptly and turns and steps back into the kitchen. “We’re having guests for dinner?” she calls in a sickly sweet tone. “I can make extra.”
“No,” Dad says firmly. “I’m going out. I’ll be back before dinner’s done.”
“Everything okay?” I ask, eyeing the people on the porch.
He hesitates for a moment. “Yes.”
It’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.
“Love you,” I say as I hoist up another box.
“Love you,” he says. “Do me a favor and take care of your mother.”
I start to laugh but he doesn’t even crack a smile. Without another word, he leaves with the visitors and I hear a car rev its engine, then take off.