Chapter 20 Mack
Mack
Mack still had Mackenzie Ewing’s number in his phone.
He had every one of his tutor group’s details, and he could have called any one of those kids, could have asked any of those students what the hell they’d said that had the English Department so sure that Mack was a drug-pushing pedophile .
. . Or maybe it was what they hadn’t said.
Why hadn’t Mackenzie stuck up for him? Why hadn’t she told the department that Mack had done nothing wrong?
This limbo was the worst part. If only the Plain Dealer or the six o’clock news or the Associated Press had picked up the sorry story.
A major outlet would have brought shock and scandal in one big wave, and then Mack would know where he stood.
Maybe someone would have investigated a little and uncovered just how ridiculous and unfounded this whole thing was.
But now, with just an odd little mention of his impropriety in Cleveland Social, three mortifying posts on a website called Rate My Professors, and one probing phone call from a local paper in University Heights, the shame was trickling in like Chinese water torture.
That young teacher at Mabel’s pickup hadn’t smiled yesterday.
Betsy Wakefield from next door had ceased her insufferable good mornings—did that mean anything?
Chenise had sounded borderline belligerent when Mack suggested ravioli for the girls’ dinner last night, and was he being paranoid, or had he felt eyes on him at his second-favorite Starbucks?
(He didn’t dare visit the one on campus, so he went all the way to Lakewood instead. What the hell else did he have to do?)
The whole world had it in for him. Irene Weigand had really and truly handed over the baton, as she put it, and cut him and his mother loose.
Marilyn from Sandy Hollow had already sent Mack the bill for the month of November.
If they paid it, and Hailey really did get no bonus this year, then they—a college professor and a highly regarded attorney—would be broke by Christmas.
The hardwood floor specialists had more or less confirmed Hailey’s estimate for the damage caused by Gulliver’s tantrum, and the English Department had told Mack that they would contact him “in good time” when they were ready to proceed.
Which would be great—he looked forward to the chance to clear his name, if he didn’t die first of a heart attack brought on by stress.
Mack had given up running when he went to college, but now felt like as good a time as any to get back into it.
In high school he’d made the cross-country team, before golf had completely taken over, and with any luck being fit was like riding a bike.
He dug out an old pair of Adidas sneakers, the kind that were good for looking like an 1980s skater kid but not for actual jogging.
He would make do. He put on some shorts and his not-very-clean Duke T-shirt.
He sized up Gulliver and decided there was no way the little shit could keep up, so he left the dog in the kitchen, where he would pee again in protest, but what did it matter now?
The cold autumn air coming off the lake gave Mack the last bit of incentive he needed to plow through his inertia.
He focused on the scuff-scuff of his shoes on the pavement as his heart began to thump in his chest. He scuff-scuffed down the smooth road surface of Magpie Court gate to the main drag, which was uneven and badly patched in some places, and predictably had nothing on it but a few parked cars that belonged to groundskeepers and cleaners.
He stopped briefly to drop the incriminating issue of Cleveland Social into a public trash can.
(He had only barely scanned the article about himself, and he could only pray that Hailey would never see it.) Then his feet scuff-squished into the wet grass as he cut across the grounds of the Bratenahl Place towers.
He lost his depth perception for a minute as he turned his head to look up at Two Bratenahl Place.
It was weird to think that people were living stacked up like this in the middle of his suburban nightmare.
He’d always been fond of the apartment blocks in Lakewood, buzzing with life as people came and went.
They’d reassured him that he still lived in a big city, provided him with some of the flavor of the years he and Hailey had spent in New York while he did his PhD and she worked ninety hours a week for a firm nicknamed “the Death Star.” But in Bratenahl, tall buildings and people in close proximity felt wrong.
Part of the Bratenahl pitch was the privacy, and you paid a premium for all that distance from other humans, especially the not-rich ones.
Did anyone even live in those Bratenahl towers?
Some mysterious urban energy was missing here, some comradery .
. . not that Mack really knew. Neither he nor Hailey had ever even set foot—
As he made it to the lakefront path a sudden sting hit his left ankle, and then he kicked something with his shoe. A white blur went airborne off to his left side, and Mack heard a yelp as he stumbled and hit the ground.
“Colman!” a raspy voice called. “Colman, get back here!”
Mack saw driving loafers in the grass and baggy corduroy pants, then above them a face with a meticulously groomed mustache. It bent close to reach for a leash attached to a frouffy white dog of the kind Mack detested.
“He got away from me,” the man said. “Damn dog. Did you break anything?”
Mack got to his feet, shook out his legs. “No, I’m fine.”
“Don’t see many joggers out at this time of day.
That’s why we walk; Colman hates joggers.
You live in Magpie Court?” Mack saw that the dog had a brown patch on its side where it had connected with the sole of his foot, and also that there was blood trickling from his left ankle, turning his sock red.
The wound started to hurt as soon as he looked at it.
“I think he bit me,” Mack said.
The man gave a cursory glance at Mack’s ankle. “It’s not a bad one. Just a scratch. I think you caught his tooth when you fell.” He did not apologize. “I’ve seen you around—Two Magpie, right? On the corner. I’ve come across your wife a few times.”
“Uh, okay.” Mack couldn’t keep the irritation from his face; it was taking all of his self-control not to yell at this guy.
“They’re expensive, those new houses,” the man continued. “But nice inside, I’m told. Have to say I’m glad I bought my pile of bricks when I did. Been here quite a few years now.”
So he was going to rub real estate prices in Mack’s face. Mack was about to jog off, but he’d just realized that the guy was pointing toward the wall that surrounded the Eliot estate, one of the biggest properties in Bratenahl. No wonder the man was so entitled.
He was looking at Mack’s feet in disgust. “You shouldn’t be jogging in flat shoes like that, you know. Bad for the arches.”
“So is getting attacked by a dog.”
They both turned toward Colman, who was listening intently to the conversation.
“See? He doesn’t mind you now that you’re not running.
” The man nodded as if Mack had finally got the hang of something.
“Listen, I’m in the shoe business, or I was.
One of the first investors in Saucony. Made a fortune.
I’ve got running shoes coming out of my ears. Come and I’ll give you a pair.”
“Thanks,” Mack said, “but I’m okay. I’d better get going.” There was no urgency in his voice, though; his fit of good intention was over, and he was staring down the barrel of a long, depressing afternoon. His brain itched just thinking about it.
“I insist. Follow me. They’re great shoes, and by the looks of it you need them.”
Mack thought about suggesting that the man drop the shoes by his house, but the lure of the Eliot estate was too great.
He’d seen it from the lake a few times when he was out on the water, and the only word that could describe the house was colossal.
It was the same size as the Shoreby Club, bigger even; a handful of mansions had been built at the same time, but only this one was still a private residence.
Mack’s first thought was how excited Hailey would be when he told her he’d been in the place, and then he remembered she wasn’t speaking to him. He followed the man anyway.
“You been here about six months?” the guy said as Mack fell into step beside him, careful not to trip over his dog again.
“Yeah, thereabouts.”
“I watched them build that development, of course. Followed the sales. Always risky, investing in new construction.” He studied Mack carefully. “You’re Mack Evans, right?”
Mack nodded.
“And your wife, she’s Hailey Evans, the lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Saw a piece on her in Cleveland Social.”
“Oh right.” The thought of this guy thumbing through the magazine that had just shamed him made Mack’s heart sink, and to make matters worse, for about a hundred yards he thought this was a wasted trip; they’d reached the wall of the Eliot estate and turned away from the house, and now he was going to have to go back to some run-of-the-mill split-level in a far-flung corner of Bratenahl just to get a pair of running shoes he’d never use again for fear of bumping into this guy.
Then a gate appeared, almost totally obscured by ivy, the man punched in 00000 on a rusty keypad, and they stepped inside.
Immediately Mack thought, Golf course: the grass was greener than felt naturally possible, and the yard was huge and hilly.
He saw a fountain and a sundial and topiaries—none of the brown-patched bareness of the other big houses he could see from the street.
The overhang on the front of this house reminded him of the Breakers hotel; God, would it blow Hailey’s mind that this was right here on her doorstep.
“Sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. It’s Gerry, Gerry Baptista.”