Chapter 44 #2
Mr. A opens the door before I can raise my hand to knock. As I feel each individual beat of my heart at the backs of my eyes he says, “We appreciate your making time for us so quickly.”
He sounds like he’s talking to a bank manager or maybe an insurance agent. I know I have to say something, but my brain seems offline. I cement the awful awkwardness by finally saying, “I’m happy to be here.”
Mrs. A looks up from the dining room table, where she’s setting down a plate of pink sugar wafer cookies.
Years ago, I told her Shannon gave them to me instead of a birthday cake one year.
Mrs. A thought that meant I preferred strawberry wafers to any sort of cake.
In reality, Shannon forgot my birthday, and when she remembered two weeks later, the only sweets in the apartment were stale cookies in the back of the cupboard, the ones nobody liked.
“Sit,” Mrs. A says. “Please.”
I sit. I take a cookie, because I have to be polite.
I’m a business executive who regularly runs meetings with millions of dollars at stake. I talk to Silicon Valley moguls. I shake hands with royalty. And I can’t remember how to start a single, civil conversation with the two people I love like parents.
But this isn’t the first time I’ve been tongue-tied in this house.
The day Mr. A picked me up at juvie, he sat me down at this table.
We didn’t even have pink cookies then. The three of us just stared at the bright daisy oilcloth, the silence stretching longer and longer until Mr. A finally said, “This is your home now. For as long as you need.”
I take a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” I finally say, at the exact moment Mrs. A says the same words. I gesture for her to go on.
She picks up a cookie and taps it against the plate, knocking off the pink dust at the edges. “I was… Evan and I were both angry, Cole. It felt like you lied to us when the one rule we’ve ever had in this house is always telling the truth.”
That’s the other thing Mr. A said the day I moved in. I could stay here forever, so long as I never lied.
But Mrs. A has never told her husband she hates the smell of the Easter lilies he brings her every year. And Mr. A doesn’t say he’d rather have crunchy peanut butter than smooth. Neither one of them admits they’d be happier skipping the interview segment on Jeopardy! every night.
Some lies make life work more smoothly.
But others simply corrupt. My hands work in my lap as I say, “You felt like I lied to you because I did. I’m sorry. And if I had everything to do over again, I promise I would make very different decisions.”
Mr. A gives me an encouraging smile. I’ve said exactly what he wanted to hear. But Mrs. A says, “We weren’t just angry, Cole. We felt…embarrassed. Like we should have figured out the truth. Should have somehow paid more attention.”
“You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about,” I say, with enough vehemence that they both sit back in their chairs.
“You know what my life was like with Shannon. She never made any distinction between truth and lies. She just said whatever worked best in the moment. And she made me an expert at that before I could ride a bike. That’s on me.
Not you. I’m a world-class liar, trained by the best. You should never be embarrassed because of that. ”
Mrs. A clears her throat. She turns her face away, pressing her index fingers beneath her eyes, so I know she’s trying to keep from crying.
Mr. A reaches over to pat her arm before he says, “It just feels strange, knowing we were offering you pot roast and meatloaf when you could eat at any three-star Michelin restaurant in the world. I taught you how to change the oil in your Camry, but you must keep a mechanic on call for your… What do you really drive? A Lamborghini?”
Despite feeling like a shitheel, I smile at the longing in his voice. “A Jaguar,” I say, because I owe them an honest answer. “Most of the time.”
I could get you a Lambo, I want to add, but I know that won’t make things better.
Instead, I say, “I’m still the kid who won at three-card monte before he was five.
I’m the boy who sat at the back of every class because I was new at my seventh school in seven years.
I’m the one who obsessed over spin rates for robot wheels and who spent every spare second coding video games.
” I take a deep breath, because I have to say the rest. “And I’m a billionaire who made my fortune hacking, black hat some of the time, white hat others. ”
Mrs. A finally reaches out to set her hand on mine.
She waits for me to meet her eyes before she says, “And you’re a good man who’s never hesitated to do a single thing around this house.
You helped with groceries and more, even though we never knew.
And you introduced us to your wife, despite the fact she could have spilled all your secrets. ”
Kate almost did spill my secrets… And I can never tell the Andersons how satisfying her punishment was for both of us. Honesty is one thing. There are some things parents don’t need to know.
Kate should be in Baltimore by now. I should be with her. I should be helping her face whatever new hell has broken out with the Canton Crew.
But I say, “Of all the lies I told, that one felt the worst. When Kate and I got married…” This isn’t the time to burden them with stories of Irish mobsters.
Instead, I say, “Both of you should have been there, but I was so wrapped up in the lie I was living… That’s another decision I wish I’d made differently. ”
Talking about Kate is making me twitchy. I need to make sure she’s safe. I need to know what’s happening with Tarasov—how far our feeds have reached, if the crowd caught up with him or cops or the bratva.
“I know that look,” Mrs. A says. “Let me guess. You have some multi-million-dollar business deal you need to close by midnight tonight.”
I shake my head. I won’t lie to them. But I say, “It’s complicated.”
Mr. A huffs gently. “It always is, son.”
Mrs. A squeezes my hand. “Sometimes complicated things have simple solutions when you work on them with family.”
My heart squeezes hard in my chest.
Everyone deserves this sort of love. This sort of acceptance. I think of all the thrown-away kids I’ve known in my life, the ones I schemed with in detention, the ones locked up in juvie. What could they have done if they’d had Mr. and Mrs. A in their lives?
The Anderson-Wolf Family Foundation.
The words come to me, as if someone is whispering in my ear. We could help kids find the things they’re good at. Match them with adults who care enough to teach. To mentor.
An evil voice immediately whispers at the base of my brain—I’m just looking for a way to drop a hundred million dollars. I’m searching for another business deduction to offset my looming tax bill.
Another voice says I’m once again trying to buy the Andersons. I’m dreaming up the largest grocery-store-coupon scam in the history of the world. I’m slipping a gigantic wad of cash into the oatmeal box.
A third voice says to wait. To think. To plan. I have time. Not all our healing has to happen today. The Andersons and I can explore this idea together. We can test it. See if it works out.
The same way they tested bringing a juvenile delinquent into their home thirteen long years ago.
Mrs. A insists, “Cole Plutus Wolf, I know that look on your face.”
“What look?” I try to seem innocent.
“You’re plotting something.’
“Plotting?”
“Planning,” Mr. A says, ever the peacekeeper.
“I’m not!” I protest. But then I remember I’m not lying to them anymore. “I am,” I say. “But I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do. I want more time to think about it.”
“That sounds like a very good idea,” Mrs. A says. She pushes back her chair. “Will we see you and Kate on Sunday?”
“There’s nothing in the world I want more,” I say. And that is absolutely the truth.
I stand to kiss her cheek. Mr. A reaches out to shake my hand. They both walk me to the door.
I’m already checking my phone for news about Tarasov as I cross the street to where Jacobson waits by the car.