Chapter Eleven
Sasha
The kids picked at Swedish meatball appetizers and birthday cake all afternoon and said they didn’t want dinner and went to
their rooms. So it was not the evening Sasha had in mind when she heard the doorbell and saw it was Tom’s father, Al, holding
a couple of bags of barbecue in the rain and peeking through the front glass to see if we were coming to answer the door.
He brings food over a couple nights a week most of the time in addition to his Saturday outings with Chloe—not every week, but as much as he can—and it’s sweet.
He hangs out with the kids and lets Chloe paint his nails with purple glitter, and Drew teaches him how to massacre the enemy on some video game Sasha can’t begin to remember the name of.
He usually lets her know before he shows up, but generally, he’s the kind of guy who does whatever the hell he wants, so you never know.
He has so much money that it’s a wonder he doesn’t have a driver take him wherever he needs to go and hold an umbrella over
his head as he makes his way up the walk. But not Al. He drives around in an old Cadillac and does tai chi and plays chess
in the park and smokes cigars with some of the other retirees and still finds time to micromanage Tom at the restaurant—or
at least that’s how Tom sees it.
Sasha was not expecting him tonight, and when Tom decided to go out for a couple of drinks with the other dads who wanted
to keep the football game buzz going a little longer and take advantage of the rare occasion their wives were allowing it,
Sasha was looking forward to slipping into her fuzzy robe and making a cup of tea and getting cozy on this rainy evening.
The last thing she wants is more food and the smell of old tobacco mixed with library books or whatever that scent is that
always lingers in Al’s clothes. As much as she loves him, it’s just not the mood right now.
Still, she sighs and opens the door. She arranges her features into something she hopes looks less disappointed than how she
feels before she greets him.
“Al, goodness. Come in, you’re getting soaked,” she manages.
He stomps the rain from his boots on the front mat and hands her the bags.
“Hiya, Sashi,” he says, unbuttoning his coat. He always calls her Sashi, and it doesn’t bother her coming from him.
“Hi, Tom’s out, hon. Sorry, I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”
“Eh, well. I was at the restaurant and some asshole never picked up their baby backs, so I thought I’d just swing by, leave it for the kids,” he says, following me into the dining room.
“They’re stuffed full of cake and soda, but I’ll join you,” she says, because she’s happy the kids are settled in, supposedly
finishing homework but probably playing video games, but she doesn’t feel like doing the helicopter thing right now, so she
pulls out a couple of plates and offers Al to sit.
They eat lukewarm ribs to the sound of heavy rain drumming on the roof and tapping at the windows around them.
“How’s the restaurant?” she asks.
“Eh,” he says. “The hostess started dating one of the line cooks, Mason, and then she caught him groping one of the waitresses
in the walk-in cooler—which one was it?” He looks at the ceiling as he tries to think. “I think we have three Caitlyns and
two Ashleys, so one of them anyway, and then they broke up so she stopped showing up to work and I had to be the hostess myself
all afternoon. I can see why everyone quits. It’s a thankless job. Pays shit and people are awful. Everyone wants a goddamn
booth. There are only so many booths, people! Don’t blame the hostess for that. What’s wrong with a nice two-topper? The chairs
are better to sit in anyway. Those booths wreck your back. Jeeza-lou.” He digs into a Styrofoam dish full of coleslaw, shaking
his head.
She giggles at this, because it’s ridiculous to think about Al wiping down menus and seating people at his own restaurant
when he could afford to buy the whole damn town if he wanted to. She doesn’t know why he does it except that he says it keeps
him young.
“There’s nothing wrong with a nice two-topper,” she says, then offers him a glass of wine, which he declines.
He leans back in his chair and looks around, and she feels a bit awkward, wondering how long she’ll have to make small talk and when Tom might be home because she’s exhausted but doesn’t want to be rude.
“I think Tom will be back pretty soon. He recorded the game if you wanna watch it,” she says.
“Oh, that’s okay, kiddo. I’ll get going, I just . . .” He pauses, and she can tell he wants to say something. It’s not like
Al to just show up or linger if Tom’s not around. Not that they don’t get along or have things to chat about—it’s just the
way things are, probably in most families. But there seems to be something else going on.
“You just what?” she says.
“Well, it’s not really my place, Sash, but your kiddo . . . he got suspended from school for a week, I think.”
“You think? What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I have been contacted?”
“I heard him at Blanc’s with his friend he always brings in there—the girl. I think he signed your name to the notice that
was sent home, and I think the school office has his girlfriend’s number on file instead of yours. Pretty slick, I know. I
don’t know how they pulled that off. I just—I’m not his grandpa, technically, but I still feel like I am, so I felt like I
needed to tell you.”
Sasha feels a prickle of heat climb up her back. She pushes her plate away and shakes her head in a moment of stunned silence,
because what the hell is really going on with Drew? How deep is he in whatever it is he’s gotten himself into?
“What did he do?” she asks.
“That I don’t know. I woulda said somethin’ to him directly. But I don’t know. I like the kid. I just wanted you to . . . not be in the dark is all,” he says, and then he stands and pushes his chair back. “That’s all.”
“Thanks, Al. I really appreciate that.”
“Yeah, I’m a snitch, but whaddya gonna do?” He shrugs on his coat and glances outside. “It’s a bitch out there,” he says,
changing the subject.
“Yeah. Sure you don’t wanna wait for Tom?”
“Eh.” He makes a dismissive gesture, and she realizes he came over to talk to her and probably knew Tom was out because they
text all the time. She doesn’t think she has to ask him not to mention this to Tom because he went out of his way to tell
her privately. Still, she stops him just before he exits.
“You don’t need to mention it to Tom. I’ll deal with it,” she says, and he nods and straightens his hat before bracing for
the falling rain and walking to his car.
She can’t have Tom know because she decides in that instant that she also can’t have Drew know she is privy to this information.
She won’t scream at him or ground him or take away his precious Xbox. That won’t help her find the truth. She plans to get
to the bottom of it in a more efficient way.
Her first thought is to track his phone and follow him, but whatever he’s involved with, whatever the hell he’s hiding, he
seems to be really good at it, and she thinks if she were hiding a secret or up to no good, she’d probably strategically leave
her phone behind or turn it off or something if she were smart. And Drew is very smart. She can’t believe she’s going to go
to these lengths to spy on him, but she has to know. She has to protect him. From himself and maybe from serious danger.
She won’t tell him that she knows he’s pretending to go to school every morning this week because certainly that’s what he’ll do if he’s already gone this far to make sure she doesn’t know.
She’ll just have to follow him. In the morning, she’ll call the school and find out what he did, but rather than confront him, she has a better idea.
She makes her cup of long-awaited cinnamon tea, climbs the stairs, flops onto the bed, and wishes she could just shut out
all the noise and sleep for a couple of days and wake up with everything back to normal, but instead, she takes a sip, places
her mug on the nightstand and looks up GPS trackers for cars. She is stunned by how easy it is. For twelve bucks on ,
she can buy a little gadget that syncs to her phone and shows her where Drew goes in real time. It will be delivered overnight—4–8
a.m. to be exact. Perfect.
Before she can sit and let her mind reel and go to all the terrible dark places it will wander to, wondering what’s to become
of her son, her phone pings. She reads the text.
They located Tia!