49. McCarthy
MCCARTHY
This is an average number.
Salinger wasn’t joking when he locked me in here.
As I showered on the terrace after being released from prison—because Whitman was insistent that I had lice and scabies—Salinger had my door taken off the hinges and replaced with a metal prison door with bars and a food slot and everything.
“What if there’s a fire?” I yell through the bars.
“Well, you’re not getting down from the window-cleaning hooks because I took your gear,” he snarls back.
I kick at the door.
Salinger slams his hand on it near my head. “I have your laptop, too, so don’t try shit.”
“This is so fucked up,” I holler after him as he waits for the elevator to get called. “What, you’re going to keep me here forever? There’s a board meeting on Thursday.”
“Yeah, so?”
“You can’t give my company to Faulkner, that little shit.” I bang on the metal door. “Hey!”
Salinger steps on the elevator, the doors closing as he gives me the finger.
Damn it.
My terrace faces Glacier Lake. We’re a bit far north to have a view of the bay, but if I stand at the upstairs guest-bathroom window, I can see a sliver of it out through the skyscrapers.
Jenna’s out there.
They found the motorcycle parked at the pier. She’s probably at home, with her mom and her great-grandmother, the women gathered around her feeding her nettle tea and vegan scones and soothing her broken heart.
I rest my chin on the sill of the small window, try to convince myself this is for the best. Everyone I love gets churned into the earth, after all. They always get hurt.
Too bad I’m a selfish bastard and I still want her, even if it ruins her, even if it ruins me.
Selfish doesn’t cut it. I’m fucking evil.
And I like it that way.
I’ve earned the right to be, haven’t I?
“I’m not letting Salinger give my company to Faulkner. He can forget that. RDC is all I have left, and I won’t let him take it.” I say this aloud like anyone is listening.
It’s a habit I picked up from Truman hanging around so much, the little dog following me around constantly. I’d turn a corner and see him randomly staring at me from eye height when he climbed on a book case.
I can hear the jingling of dog tags faint in the house.
I stiffen for a moment.
I’m losing it. I’ve been locked up for only ten hours, and I’m already losing it.
“I knew I never should have gotten a dog.”
I can’t stop the memories flooding back as I take the stairs down to my study to prepare for a war against Salinger. He’s just like our father; he’s not going to back down. Neither am I. No one takes what’s mine. I built that company from spite and rage and poured what was left of my soul into it.
I’ll watch Jenna from afar, turn into another of her crazed stalker exes. Except that I never asked her to marry me.
There’s the acrid scent of unwashed hemp shirt and sage when I walk through the living room to grab an energy drink for the long night. The steel prison door is unlocked and half open.
“McCarthy.” Zephyr rises elegantly like a yogi out of the lotus position he’s sitting in on the slate floor, beads in his graying red beard tinkling as he smiles sanguinely at me. “Blessed be.” He presses his hands together and gives me a low bow.
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
“I come bearing gifts.”
On my kitchen counter is a terra-cotta pot with little bubbles of something seeping out slowly under the lid, a bag of flour that looks like it has rocks in it, a jar filled with honeycomb, and a pile of enormous zucchini stacked like logs.
“What the—”
“We’ve had a bumper crop. You should divest from your defense company and invest in low-impact farming.”
“Hard pass.”
He holds out his hands to me, palms up.
“Thanks for the gifts.”
I turn to the door then back. He’s still standing there, eyes half closed, hands outstretched to me.
“Did Jenna—never mind. I mean, did Jenna ask you to come? Does she know about this?”
“She welcomed the zucchini to their new home.”
“I just… Can you tell her that I might be, I guess, I’m sorry?
If you see her. She’s with you, right?” I ask anxiously.
“She’s not sleeping outside somewhere? She’s okay?
I mean, despite me, she’s okay? Can you tell her I didn’t mean to—well, I meant to, but I didn’t mean to hurt her.
I miss her, I guess, okay? Can you just tell her? ”
“Come.” His hands, brown from the sun, dirt worked into the creases of his palms, beckon to me.
“She’s here?” My heart jumps up in my throat. I hesitate then let him take both my hands. Anything for her.
The universe has a rhythm, and it always finds a way to bring kindred spirits back together.
He takes both of my hands, leading me to the terrace, walking backward, his grubby, bare feet all over my carpet. If he weren’t Jenna’s current stepfather and she didn’t seem like she half cared about him or didn’t hate him at least, I’d throw him out just for tracking dirt all over my carpet.
I’m going to have to deep clean. This is revolting.
It’s warm out on the terrace. The sun breaks through the last of the cloud cover. I can smell the salty, briny sea air blowing in, chasing the last of the rain east, back to the destroyed compound, to the rest of my brothers .
Maybe I should go to the East Coast and visit. Maybe I could take Jenna.
“You know, you never did meet my sisters…” I look out over the terrace, searching for her. “Jenna? I thought…” I turn back to the old hippie. “I thought she was out here. What—”
“Look.” He gestures.
Near the plant bed I’d had installed for Truman, there’s a brown-and-white dog sniffing a patch of creeping thyme. He raises his head, sniffing the warm breeze, and turns toward me. The dog is old, the brown-and-white fur speckled with gray, his muzzle silver, his eyes cloudy.
Zephyr grabs my arm as I sink down.
He’s a weird-looking dog, goofy looking, his legs too short, his body too big. He shuffles over, tail whapping slowly, with heavy, thudding lopes, until his big, dopey head is right in my outstretched hands, cautiously sniffing.
“Buddy?” My voice hitches like I’m a kid again and we’re going to go out hunting lizards in the desert.
“This isn’t…” I look up at Zephyr, who’s beaming down at me with a peaceful smile.
“We found him at a senior rescue-dog farm. He seems to enjoy a roll around in the grass, but there’s always senior dogs that need a place to stay, and anyway, Jenna thought he belonged with you. I’m sure you can arrange country field trips for him.”
“I can’t—”
I run my hands over his ears then cup his big head while he wags and whines, snuffling my hands and licking my wrists tentatively .
“He was a puppy when I lost him.” My throat is clogged up. “I’m sorry, boy. I’m really sorry. I tried. I know you don’t remember me.”
The dog wags his tail slowly as he presses his nose to my palms.
“I think he’s confused. He doesn’t know who I am. You should take him back,” I plead to Zephyr.
His eyes crinkle. “Of course he remembers you.” He rests his hand on my head. “You’re his best friend.”
Suddenly the dog’s ears perk up. Buddy shoves his sturdy body up against me, then he’s yipping happily like he’s a puppy again and licking my face, his whole body vibrating, trying to knock me down on my back like he did when I was smaller.
He licks the tears off my cheeks, my eyelids, as he sprawls on top of me on the warm wooden deck of the terrace.
“I can’t believe you found him.” I half laugh. “I can’t believe—I never thought I’d see him again, you know?”
I sit up, Buddy trying to crawl in my shirt, licking my ear and woofing the barks I thought I’d never hear again.
“How?” I choke out.
“Jenna.” Zephyr beams. “She showed me the photo of you two, asked me to put out feelers in the senior-dog charity circuit. I’ve gotten heavily involved lately.”
“Anything,” I tell him solemnly. “I’ll give you all anything. I don’t care how much money you want. I’ll write you a ten-million-dollar check. I don’t care. Just, thank you ,” I say helplessly. “Thank you. You have no idea what this… Thank you.”
“Oh, we don’t like to take much big money, only small donations.
Money corrupts. If you want to buy some dog food, great, but even better are volunteer hours.
There are always bowls to be cleaned. I volunteer with inmate rehabilitation.
” He raises on the balls of his feet. “And a little Pacific wren told me that someone has community service hours he needs to complete.”
“Of course,” I say, cupping the dog’s big head. “I’ll be there.”
“Jenna did ask for one thing, though.”
“Anything.”
I can’t look at him, too absorbed in my dog, my dog , in front of me, who is so excited that he won’t stand still long enough for me to get a good look at him, wanting to play like we’ve never been apart.
“She’s posting this to Instagram, I believe,” Zephyr says. “Move in, you two. Smile for the camera.”
I can’t really manage it, afraid if I give in to the overwhelming happiness and relief that I’ll wake up and realize it was just a dream. I just stare at the camera in his hands as he snaps some shots.
“When are your volunteering hours?” I squeeze Buddy. I can’t bear to leave him, not when I’ve just finally gotten him back.
“No time like the present, and they’re dog friendly!”