Chapter 19 - Conclusion #2
Helen sighed deeply. “Let’s see, it went something like: I can see no reason to endorse her as a Technician considering she didn’t complete the training.
When a situation arose outside of her comfort level, instead of embracing the challenge, she opted to depart.
Furthermore, or consequently, she failed to complete the training with me virtually and pretty much told me to piss off. She fails as a technician.”
Azrael didn’t want to be impressed, but she was. “You said that, almost verbatim. Is there something I need to know?”
“About what?”
“Is she fit to remain as a Technician?”
“As my other half said, that is your job, not mine,” Helen said. “She is who you think she is, but I wouldn’t invite her over for tea. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t invite any of them to my home, outside of the one that was here. The other half invited him, but I like him, so, it’s all good.”
“You don’t like the others?”
“I don’t like people in general.”
Azrael wanted to probe deeper but was uncertain what to ask that wouldn’t prevent Cranberry from shutting down.
The training program was a first and an unusual process, but she and Jesús had agreed it was best to form a bit of cohesion for the team and allow Cranberry a look inside the processes of how other Technicians set up their workspaces.
Azrael said, “This training program was a first. Bad Apple assessed your ability to reason and make organized decisions. The Lemon analyzed your ability to follow directions, and stick to a plan of action. Passion Fruit tested you on doing the tough jobs, calculating risk, and getting your hands dirty.”
“And the Sour Grapes?”
“She was test of loyalty,” Azreal added. “We know who she is, we know the situation, and we know how she is. The questions is, once you learned, even though you may not care for her as a person, did she earn the loyalty of silence from you as a team member, whom she feels she can trust?”
“That’s the correct word, trust,” Helen said.
“I was inside each of their homes. I knew when they woke up, what time they went to bed, and even if they evacuated their bowels with a book or just their cell phones. I ate at their tables and slept under their roofs. The trust instilled in me with what I learned about each of them goes to my grave.”
“Are you telling me that if I asked you straight out what happened at the house with Donovan and Sour Grapes that made you leave, you would not give me an honest answer?”
Again, Helen sighed, “I will always give you an honest answer. What happened in that homes is I learned and leaned into my skill. Not only can I see auras, but I can see people, and I saw them. I saw Tiffany Morrow, not the anthropologist, the lady with letters behind her name or the college professor. I saw her. In my eyes, just like that Donovan dick, they saw a reflection of themselves and didn’t like it.
The whole scenario felt wrong in my gut; therefore, I removed myself from being around two people who made me feel uncomfortable. ”
“Is your gut ever wrong?”
“The two times I didn’t trust it, one left me barren, and the other got me snatched by a psycho who called me his Chocolate Queen,” Helen said. “I have learned not to question myself anymore. If it feels wrong, then it is wrong.”
“Okay, and this weekend, you are going to visit your cousin Cherry and meet the new baby?”
“She is my sister, by the same father,” Helen said. “Perhaps.”
Helen looked around the space she used for crafting. It was a wonderful space where she could think and sort through matters. In the morning, she would go to the post office and drop off the invites for the start of an official new life with Mustang.
“Boss, one last thing,” Helen said.
“State your need.”
“The boy, Oscar. Mustang has agreed to make him our foal after the honeymoon of course,” she said. “Can we get an assist on some documentation? I don’t want to be beholden to the Archangel.”
“I thought you said you weren’t planning on having any kids,” Azrael said. “Are you getting the urge to be a mother?”
“Hell, no,” she chuffed. “I’m Aunt Helen to the boy. I’m Aunt Helen to Lemon’s brood as well as Apple and Cherry’s. No need to change the nomenclature at this late grazing in the pasture. Cranberry out.”
She ended the call and looked around the room.
Her gut was telling her not to go to Louisville this weekend.
A quick call to check on Cherry led to a fifteen-minute conversation on the tenderness of her nipples, the weird smell from her coochie, and her desire to ride Michael Neary until one of them drooled.
Helen ended that call as well, coming from her crafting room holding the brochure to the Missouri Quilt Company.
“Jay,” she said, “can you possibly take off a couple of days? Maybe Friday and Monday or Monday and Tuesday?”
“I can check. What’s up?” he asked, watching her with mild curiosity.
“You gave me this for Christmas,” she said, holding up the brochure and gift card.
“Let’s do this instead. We haven’t had a Helen and Jay outing in a minute, so maybe this weekend can be about us.
A simple lunch at a place on the way, a nice dinner, find a hotel with some serious amenities, that kind of thing. ”
“I like the way you think,” he said. “You don’t want to see the baby and Naomi?”
“What I want, or rather what I need, is some us time. A new adventure, buy some fabric, maybe find the tulle, lace, or organza to make my veil. Heck, I might get lucky and find some embroidered cranberries to go around it so I don’t have to do it.”
“Don’t know what any of that is, but I will check the schedule and see what we can make happen,” he said. “Sounds like an interesting weekend.”
“We can also shop for wine,” she said, smiling at him.
“Yeah, I like you a lot, Helen Neary,” he said, smiling at her as well.
“Last night, you were talking about how much you loved me,” she said, bobbing her head at him, “or was that because I was spoon-feeding you cobbler?”
“The cobbler, baby. It was all about that cobbler,” he said, laughing. “Hey, do we need to schedule a trip to New York for wedding dress shopping?”
“Why? I already bagged you; no need to drop a mint on a dress I will only wear once,” she said. “No, I will go to Luxe Redux or Marie Gabriel and find a gown.”
“Off the rack?”
She looked down at her feet. “Jay, most wedding gowns show off cleavage or boost the bosom kind of thing. I have to find one that does the opposite to hide my scars.”
“Or you can wear whatever the hell you like, show off the scars as a testament to how badass you are,” Jay said. “We don’t place limitations on sexiness.”
“Yeah, you’re just trying to get me to make you another pie,” Helen said, laughing.
“Or you can feed me a hearty helping of that pie,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
She frowned at him. “Did you just refer to my vagina as a food source?”
“I feel satisfied every time I get a serving, so fuck yeah,” he said, laughing.
“What am I going to do with you, Jay Neary?”
“Love me until our lives play out in grand fashion, ending with a conclusion that no one will ever believe,” he said. “That will be enough for me.”
“It is enough for me as well,” she responded.
*****
FOUR DAYS LATER- CHICAGO
The week was shit. Profits were down because of that damned Cranberry.
The warehouses weren’t producing slush money, and his kids were getting on his damned nerves.
Every time they looked at him, they were asking for money, wanting to spend money, and none of them were earning any. He was sick of it.
“Michael, there is an envelope here for you,” his wife called out.
He didn’t get mail. All he got was bills, people requesting donations, and other bullshit propaganda from companies trying to get into his pockets. The blue envelope didn’t seem unusual. Caution made him open it slowly, to pull out what looked like a wedding invitation.
He read it once.
He read it again.
He read it for a third time.
Inside was also a note written in plain script.
THIS WAS IT. HE WAS retiring. In the morning, he’d call his financial manager to begin putting things into place. The Cranberry was coming through on her end, and he needed to keep his word.
“Kids! Get in here,” he shouted into the house. Three spoiled, overbearing, and worthless children raised inside his two-parent home arrived, looking bored. His wife also showed up.
He took a deep breath. “I’m retiring. I’m selling this house and buying something smaller, maybe in Florida or Coastal Carolina. You all need to get jobs and start finding somewhere to live. You’ve got six months.”
“Michael, what are you talking about?” his wife asked.
“And you, in the morning, all of your credit cards will be cut off except the one to buy groceries,” he said, suddenly feeling lighter. “The freeloading is over. I’m going to take it easy. Six months. That’s your timeline.”
His eldest Michael Jr asked, “What about the club?”
“I’m selling that shit too,” Kurtzwilde said with a smile. “Yeah, this feels fucking amazing.”
He picked up his phone and called his financial manager; he saw no need to wait until morning.
“Levi, this Michael Kurtzwilde. I need to see you in the morning. I’m retiring.
Liquidating. Cut off all the credit cards for these kids, my wife included, except the one she uses for household expenses.
Check the leases on the vehicles for the kids; get rid of everything I don’t need.
Yep, all of it. I’m selling off the properties to pay off all the bills.
When I leave Chicago, I want to be debt free. Let’s move.”
The meltdown ensued as they tried to argue, reason, and plead. He was doing it for their own good. They needed to become better people, and so did he. This would be the start or the conclusion of a life lived poorly. Either way, going forward, he would be better.