3. Delilah
DELILAH
I smell smoke before I even reach the front door of my house.
The house is burning down.
I hurl myself inside in a panic. Inside. As in, I go into what I believe to be a house fire.
I am not smart right now. Between the longest workday ever and the traffic on the Belt Parkway, with everybody and their mother doing some extremely last-minute gift shopping, I’m fried from top to bottom.
But it’s not a fire. Well, not a fire like I was imagining.
Connor is at the kitchen sink with his sleeves shoved up past the elbow, feeding paper into a tidy little fire in the basin. He hears the door and turns the tap on. The fire dies with a hiss. By the time he turns around, he’s smiling like this is perfectly normal behavior.
“Hey, Dee.” He dries his hands on a dish towel. “You’re home early. I thought you said you were staying late tonight.”
“I did stay late. It’s almost seven.”
“Right.” He’s standing weirdly between me and whatever’s in the sink. “Right, no, of course.”
I try to peer around him. “What are you burning?”
“Year-end junk,” he blurts hastily. “Old tax stuff. I’ve been meaning to clear the office out and I finally found some time to get it done.”
“Oh, yeah?”
He nods. “Yeah. The accountant told me I could shred the whole box two years back and I never got around to it. No time like the present, am I right?”
An important fact about my husband is that he’s a hoarder. In ten years of marriage, Connor has never thrown anything away.
I put my bag down, hang my coat up, and walk over toward him, though I keep the island between us.
“Long day?” he says.
“Longest.” I roll one ankle and something in it pops. “Three hundred orders. I did nineteen dozen cookies before the sun came up.”
“You’re a machine.”
“No, I’m a blob.” I crane my neck to look at the sink again. “Kinda like how that looks, actually.”
The basin is full of gray paste. Whatever it was, it’s soup now. There’s a scorch ring on my stainless steel and a bonfire smell coming up out of the drain.
Again, he rushes to explain. “Gotta burn this stuff. You can’t put this kind of thing in recycling, you know? Identity theft is a huge thing now.” He tosses the towel in the trash. “Besides, do you know what a shredder costs?”
“Like thirty dollars.”
“For a good one? A cross-cut? Well, whatever. This is easier.” He laughs at nothing in particular. “Anyway, have you eaten? I can make you something.”
I yawn and shrug. “I’ll just heat up some leftovers.”
“No, no, seriously. You’ve been on your feet since the middle of the night. I’ve got this.”
Connor is not a bad man to live with in the day-to-day sense. He’s funny at parties. He remembers people’s kids’ names. But in ten years of marriage, he has cooked me dinner without a birthday or an apology attached to it, maybe... six times?
This isn’t how I imagined lucky number seven.
Vivian must’ve gotten to him. I’m not surprised. I’m sure she texted him right away.
fuck, the videos got uploaded on accident. but i think i deleted everything. dont freak out
I guess this is Connor’s version of not freaking out. Personally, I wouldn’t call “burn the evidence like the feds are kicking in my door” the same thing as “not freaking out,” but hey, to each their own.
It does beg the question: What exactly is he burning?
On TV, cheaters get exposed when a jilted wife finds lipstick on her husband’s collar and the whole house of cards comes tumbling down in forty-two minutes plus commercial breaks.
In real life, I’m not exactly working with an abundance of evidence here.
Yes, I have videos, but they’re not perfect. I don’t know much about divorce court. Is this enough to prove infidelity?
I just feel like I need more.
The fact that Connor seems to feel like there’s still stuff to hide makes me think that there is in fact plenty more to find.
Those are the thoughts swirling through my head as I watch him make his half-assed pasta dish, which he loves to brag about. Pasta alla Connor, he calls it. Such a cute, funny joke, am I right? Right? Right?!
I still can’t decide whether to laugh, cry, scream, or follow Connor’s lead and just start setting shit on fire.
“Your mother called earlier,” he says as he salts the water and starts to boil it. “She says you’re running the slideshow tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I offered.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“Somebody has to plug it in and press play.”
“No, I mean it.” He dumps the noodles into the water. “It’s a nice thing to do.”
“Sure, yeah. Dad’s not here to do it, so...” I shrug. “Next batter up.”
I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face. An actress, I am not. This stuff ain’t easy.
“What time do we need to be there?” he asks.
“Dinner’s at seven. I’m going out in the morning to set up the projector. Then I’ll come back at four with the rest of the stuff.”
“Three trips? Is that a good use of your time?”
I spread my hands wide. “It’s my mother. You know how she is.”
“Fair enough.” He turns the burner down. “You want a glass of wine?”
“I have to be up at four.”
“One glass won’t kill you.”
“Connor.”
“Okay, okay.” He puts the bottle back. “Oh, also, your mom asked if you’re bringing anything. She said Viv’s handling dessert and wanted to know your contribution.”
“She asked you that?”
“Well, she asked me to ask you.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course she did.”
“Go easy on her. She’s going to be a mess tomorrow,” he scolds lightly. “First Christmas without your dad.”
“I’m actually pretty aware of that.” I sound bitchy and instantly regret my tone of voice. As with Vivian’s visit this morning, I have to remind myself again to play it cool, don’t get dragged into old resentments.
Connor comes over and nudges me gently in the shoulder. “You okay about that?”
“Ask me tomorrow night.” Then, to change the subject, I mention, “Viv came by the shop this morning.”
He freezes, but only for a second. Guess he’s a better actor than me. Then he saunters ever-so-casually back over to poke at the boiling noodles. “Oh, yeah? How’s she doing?”
As if you don’t know.
“Same old Viv,” I say out loud. “Seems fine.”
“Good, good, good,” he mumbles distractedly. Through the thin fabric of his white t-shirt, I can see the mole underneath his shoulder blade. I cringe as the memory of the video rolls through my head again unprompted.
His hand on her hip, gold wedding band glinting.
The headboard.
My sister’s moan.
I shudder and excuse myself to the bathroom.
By the time I come back, Connor has the food plated and on the table. We eat in silence until he kicks me playfully under the table. “Someone’s quiet tonight.”
“Sorry. I’ve been up since midnight.”
“Jesus, Dee.” He sighs. “You work too hard.”
“That’s what everybody keeps telling me,” I say, “and yet, the show goes on.”
I make myself eat, even though I’m not hungry and I can still hear Vivian’s voice calling me fat. You can tell, a little, in your face. It’s probably the stress, honestly. Stress does that.
Yeah. So does your sister and your husband doing the nasty behind your back.
I’m finishing up the last bite when Connor’s phone starts ringing on the counter. He gets up and grabs it, frowns when he sees who’s calling, then slinks back into his office to talk.
I sit and wait. He doesn’t take too long.
“Sorry,” he says when he re-emerges. “You’re not going to believe this.” He’s stepping into his shoes as he talks to me and tucking his phone and keys into his pocket. “Tony’s car battery died.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Who’s Tony?”
“Tony. From my bowling league? He’s out in Gerritsen with no cables and AAA is quoting him four hours because nobody’s working on the holiday. I’ve got cables in the trunk, though, so I told him I’d do him a solid.”
“You want me to come?”
“Oh, please, c’mon now. You’ve been up since yesterday.” He comes close enough to bend down and kiss the top of my head. “Nah. Go to bed, Dee. No need to wait up for me.”
I sit in the chair and listen.
The garage door whines all the way up and all the way down. His car engine gets fainter, fainter, gone.
And then the house is mine.
I count an extra hundred seconds just to be safe, then I jump to my feet.
I put on dish gloves, step up to the sink, and go into the wet char with a spatula. I work a layer at a time, sifting through for anything usable. Most of it comes up as paste. Two pieces hold their shape for a second and then give up.
My phone lights up on the counter.
CONNOR: Might be a while. He needs a tow.
Poor Tony, I write back. Drive safe.
Then I go back into the sink. I try a few more promising pieces, but they all die just like the first couple. I’m starting to think of backup plans. How does one undo a fire? Could I lay out the somewhat whole bits on a sheet pan and dry them out in the oven?
Then, yahtzee.
I find a folded corner pressed flat against the side of the basin, where the water never reached.
First, I photograph it where it lies, wedged in the char, before I put a finger on it. Then I lift it out, flatten it on a paper towel, and photograph it again.
The top edge is burned to lace. What’s left of the letterhead says V HAVEN HOLDINGS, LLC, and the first word of that name is ash. There’s no address or date left on it. Two broken lines of boilerplate survive in the middle of it, and all that’s readable on them is PROMISSORY and the undersigned.
Underneath those is the signature line.
The signature on it is...
Mine.
What the hell?
But it is. Delilah A. Dorsey, with the big loop on the D, the dashed-off dot over the i, the little squiggle at the end. That’s my signature.
Right above a line that says BORROWER.
Problem is... I never signed this.
When I look closer, I see that it’s off in ways I’d never miss. Yes, the D loops, but it closes at a weird angle. Now that I’m squinting, I see the dash in the i is actually aimed in the wrong direction.
This is a forgery. A good one, but fake nonetheless.
Why was Connor burning a borrowing form with my forged signature on it?!
“I’ve been meaning to clear the office out.”
Sure you have, buddy. But the accountant isn’t the one who told you to do that, is he?
I get a freezer bag out of the drawer, the good kind with the double seal, and put the corner inside it. Then I photograph the bag as an extra precaution.
Then, once that’s done, I tuck it inside the zip pocket in my work bag.
But I’m not satisfied. I need more answers. So I strip off the dishwashing gloves and go to the next place in the house most likely to have them.
Connor’s office.
He said he was clearing it out, but there’s still plenty in here. Beneath the poster from last year’s poker tournament in Atlantic City, in which he won three hundred bucks back against a two-thousand-dollar entry fee, there’s a hulking filing cabinet.
I open the top drawer and start flicking through things. I’m reminded as I do so that he is definitely still a hoarder. I’m almost positive I’m gonna find his elementary school report cards any second now.
Until I come across an empty folder in the back.
It’s unlabeled, but I can just feel in the marrow of my bones that this is what held the stuff that’s now wet ash in the sink.
Dammit.
Onto his desk then. Top drawer is pens and chargers, second drawer is his cherished poker chip set, third drawer is empty.
Underneath the desk, behind it, nothing, nothing. I even lift up the mousepad, just to be sure.
But nothing appears that would make any sense of V Haven Holdings.
I probably shouldn’t be surprised. Connor isn’t stupid or careless. Not like Vivian is. He’d never leave something so incriminating out in the open. He certainly wouldn’t upload it to a shared album.
My phone pings with a new text.
CONNOR: Almost done here. Home soon.
Shit. Clock’s ticking.
I turn and go through the closet on my knees, hauling out a printer we replaced in 2022 and a box of his old college textbooks.
At the back, behind the winter coats, still encased in the dry cleaner’s plastic, is Connor’s black suit.
He wore it in February. I was in a black dress and pillbox hat. We stood together at the front of the church, holding hands, while he hugged Vivian with the other arm. “He was a good man,” he told her. “Nobody should go that young.”
I slept at Mom’s that night to make sure she was okay. Vivian sobbed that she needed to be alone and went home. Connor said he’d drop her off on his way back. I’d thought nothing of it at the time.
Acting on instinct, I pull it out of the plastic wrap.
It smells like the church a little. Or at least, I imagine it does.
My heart is thudding harder and harder as I go through the pockets. The breast pocket is empty, but the inside...
The inside has something.
I pull it out, a thin sheet of paper folded over.
It’s a hotel receipt. A bill for room service and a movie from the New York Marriott at the Brooklyn Bridge. Two steaks, two sides of fries, two ice creams.
The date is the day we buried my father.