Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Alice Rose
The world grew colder when Mr. Brown died. That was obvious to me.
What I hadn’t realized, when I was cradling his head on that hard sidewalk and he’d shoved the little bag with his weekly Altoids-and-lottery-ticket purchase at me, was that my world was about to implode.
I’m not saying all this money doesn’t rock. Hypothetically, it could , I guess. But not at this particular moment, as I’m elbow-deep in my ripe kitchen trash, trying to bury three hundred tiny pieces of a note from Timmy Johnson.
I’d waited till three a.m. to check my mail, to avoid my neighbors. I’d turned the key, eased open the box, and…another flood of letters and cards, from strangers, acquaintances, and people who were my friends in high school before the bullying started and they’d backed off to save their own asses.
I tucked it all into the folded-up hem of my sweatshirt and shuffled back to my apartment.
The eighteenth card I opened was the worst. I literally gagged when I saw Timmy Johnson’s signature. “Just wanted to say congratulations,” he’d written. “We had some good times in high school, didn’t we?” Uh, no, Timmy, that night might’ve been fun for you—your sadistic friends certainly enjoyed the story later—but not for me. “Give me a call if you’d like to get together and catch up.”
Reading that shit must’ve burst some dam of rage and revulsion inside me. Growling and panting, I tore that sucker into tiny pieces and jammed them deep into the trash bag, under the slimy salad remnants now sticking to my elbow.
And isn’t this just a perfect metaphor for what my life has become: bits of terrible, mashed in with the regular unpleasant stuff?
No, that’s not right. I’m fortunate . Winning the lottery was lucky . I’m being ungrateful.
I ease my arms out of the stinky mess and wash my hands three times because I’d touched something he’d touched.
There’s still a sizeable pile of unread mail, but the next card is almost as bad. Another former classmate writing to say he’d heard about my winnings, always thought I was nice, etc., etc., and to look him up if I want to go out some time. Pretty sure he’s the one who drew the caricature of me as a cow with a huge swollen udder on the board in homeroom.
I mean, it’s not like I don’t have a fucking mirror. No guy my age has ever shown interest in me without having plans to do something rotten. I wasn’t as big then as I am now, but I was never the pretty, popular type. Eighty million dollars may make them forget what really happened, but the money hasn’t damaged my memory or made me stupid.
I can’t make myself read any more of this stuff. Can’t even make myself drop it into the trash. I’m also out of food, haven’t had dinner, and can’t stomach the idea of seeing anybody, not even a delivery driver, if there’s even anything available at this hour. So after checking all my locks again and pushing a chair up against the door, I crawl between the sheets on my lumpy old couch, starving, drift off to sleep…and promptly have my Jesus Christ Superstar nightmare for the sixth night in a row.
In the dream, I’m outside surrounded by people, some familiar, many not, and they’re all reaching out, trying to touch me, asking, begging for stuff. Like the crowds around Jesus in the movie, everybody wants something, and they turn loud and grabby and angry and scary when I don’t immediately respond. I try to get away but two of them seize my arm and tear it off. A third trips me and they push me down. They rip me to shreds and run off with the pieces, all except my eyes.
As always, I bolt upright, frantic, my heart thudding in the silence.
I can’t take another day in this place—or anywhere else in Indy—hiding from all the people who want a piece of me. The media’s pretty much given up, but hopeful-looking strangers still drift by out front and neighbors hang out in the hall, ready to pounce if I so much as crack open my door. I’m trapped.
The people at the firm I hired for accounting and legal advice had suggested I look into a bodyguard service. Riiight. Where the hell would I put a bodyguard in my studio apartment?
I guess they didn’t expect me to stay here. And it’s true, the building is dingy and leaky and smelly, but it’s familiar. Every other option I’ve considered—a hotel, a new apartment, a house, a cruise—involves doing things I have no experience with, dealing with a million new people in strange places, at a time when everybody looks at me with, like, hunger. Or jealousy, or anger. I’m alone. I don’t trust anyone now, and certainly not anybody who knows about the money.
But this place has become a prison. I’ve got to break out.
So. Four thirty in the morning and I’m tiptoeing around this old place for the last time, looking for things I care enough about to take with me. Not the cast-off furniture and worn-out kitchenware Mom scrounged before I was born. Not the clothing and shoes I can’t get the restaurant smell out of.
I shove my Important Papers folder, the Yeats poetry book Mr. Brown gave me, a toothbrush and comb, and my two photos of Mom into her old sewing bag with a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and all my underwear. No way am I leaving my undies behind for people to paw through. Then I creep out the back entrance to walk to the bus station, slipping a check and a “Fuck this dump, sell all my shit, I’m moving to Hawaii, Sincerely, Alice” note under the landlord’s door on my way out.
’Course, I’m not going to Hawaii. And I’m not going by Alice anymore. From now on I’ll be Rose. Always liked that part of my name better anyway. Roses don’t take any shit. Gotta be careful grabbing a Rose. Might get a handful of thorns.
A Rose wouldn’t let herself be all alone at age thirty-two because of something mean kids did when she was sixteen.
A Rose wouldn’t have spent the last two and a half weeks cowering in her apartment as people tried to get at her.
A Rose would bust herself out and go after whatever she wanted.
So a Rose climbs off a Greyhound bus four hours later, halfway between Indianapolis and St. Louis, after spying a pockmarked Honda in a used car lot. She dusts off her driver’s license, changes direction to fool any would-be followers, and heads vaguely southeast, without a single soul giving her a second look.
I’ll call my Hail Damage Special Lillian. Rose and Lillian sound like gutsy characters from a classic buddy movie, and I’m ready for an adventure. And a buddy.
She smells like dust and fake pine but Lillian has a valiant heart. Barely pausing at the interstate entrance ramp yield sign, she bursts into traffic with a squeal of tires and a tiny fishtail and begins to build speed. She’s just a little four-cylinder, so it takes a bit to catch up to the car in front of us, but we’ve done it! The Alice part of me reacquaints herself with oxygen, breathing deeper than I have in weeks, and we settle in to flow with the traffic until I’ve got some reason to stop.
Goals:
Find a hideout for a while, maybe near the ocean. I’ve always wanted to see an ocean.
Find a new home where nobody knows about this goddamn money. Is ungratefulness a sin?
Decide what to do with all this goddamn money.
Buy a bigger Cuss Jar.
***
Angus
When the burst of pain and the urge to maim and destroy passes, I set aside the hammer, fetch the ice pack from my cooler, and stand in the Wheelers’ front yard holding it to my smashed thumb.
That’s what I get for breaking Rule Number One of working with tools that can do a body harm: Never, ever think about your other job, especially if it involves helping troubled veterans with all the shit they’ve been dealt.
I’d been hammering down a replacement porch board, my mind on my newest client. Young army vet, recently discharged, wrestling hypervigilance, insomnia, rage, depression. “Man, I fucking hate people who think life is just fine, who don’t realize the world’s full of shit people doing shit things and you can’t let down your guard for a single goddamn minute,” he’d said in our second session.
Sounded just like me when I got out.
Made me realize how far I’ve come. Made me wonder if I might be ready for a life with more than just work in it. Question is, have I earned more?
Life would be a lot easier if there was a big scoreboard in the sky to let you know how much good you’d put into the world versus how much you’d sucked out of it. How the hell am I supposed to know how many therapy clients I need to help to make up for killing my marriage, watching the light in a good woman’s eyes die out day by day? Or how my pitiful counseling efforts stack up against the worry I’ve caused—worry that carved years off the lives of the two best people I know?
I must’ve been feeling too cocky after surviving another set of winter holidays and Valentine’s, that three-month stretch of frigid hell designed to really rub in aloneness.
Used to love holidays. Grandma’d fill the house with every lonely, hungry person she could find. My buddy Lenny was always there. Some of the other kids with screwed-up families. Neighbors, single people, anybody down on their luck. No telling who’d show up. Grandma’d load ’em up with good feelings and good food. Anybody shy, she’d hand ’em a paring knife and some potatoes to peel. Talk their ear off, making up crazy stories about me or Grandpa. Have them howling with laughter inside of five minutes. Grandpa and I’d be on our way through the kitchen to get more chairs, and he’d give Grandma a wink so quick you’d think you imagined it.
Been four years since Grandpa died. Two since Grandma followed, and now I pretty much hate holidays.
I miss ’em.
And sometimes I miss being married. Having somebody to belong to. Miss the part of me that was husband material.
Couple of weeks ago on Valentine’s night, I cooked up a pot of chili for my clients and friends who had nowhere else they wanted to go. We played cards and ping-pong. Talked trash, watched sports. Normal and happy as we could manage. Afterward, I bagged up our garbage and took it to the bear-proof bin in the cold backyard. Night leached the colors out of everything. Reminded me no one was waiting for me inside. The weeds rattling against the fence looked as desolate as I felt. But I’d made it through another wasteland of holidays, dammit, and dragged some other guys with me. That seemed important.
The next weekend, I let Lenny talk me into going out to hear his band play. I sat with James’s and Rashad’s wives, watching the Blue Shoes work their magic on the crowd at Lindon’s. Tisha and Shay started in with their matchmaking bullshit. I shut them down quick, like always, but I guess they got me wishing.
So a minute ago, I was hammering that porch board, batshit-hopeful thoughts flapping around in my head, feeling like I might be close to ready for…something.
Then a car backfired out on the highway and I brought that hammer straight down on my thumb. That’s what I get for hoping.
I flex my injured hand. Big blood blister, some swelling, but nothing’s broken.
That blister’s the universe’s big loud no to my unspoken question about whether I’ve built enough karma or grace or whatever to start looking for something for myself. Message received, universe.
It’s coming down awful hard for March. Been sleeting and snowing all morning, especially the past couple hours. Thick white flakes. I eye the Wheelers’ house. Next job is to climb up and replace rotted trim around the dormers.
Nope. Not in this weather.
I toss the ice pack back in the cooler. Gather up my tools, dry ’em off, load up the van. I’ll get carryout and take the afternoon off for once. Watch Die Hard again. Maybe even take a nap. I scrape my windshield and head for home.
At the stoplight just inside the Welcome to Galway, NC sign, a little Honda is sideways in a plowed heap of icy snow. Tires spin, slinging dirty slush as the driver tries to get unstuck. Nothing happens. The engine whines and the wheels spin faster. Still no traction.
I pull over, put on my flashers, and climb out. The driver lowers her window as I come near. I’m surprised she can see over the steering wheel, she’s so short. Thought at first she was a kid, but close up she looks maybe thirty. Messy brown hair, big brown eyes, zero makeup. Kinda cute.
“Need some help?” I add a few more points to the karma board.
She leans out her window to look me up and down. Waves her hand at the driving lane. “Yeah, could you just, like, pick the car up and set it down over there, please?”
Alright, so not cute. Thinks she’s funny. Thinks I haven’t already heard every giant, lumberjack, yeti, Hulk joke in the world.
I point to her trunk. “Lemme get in position. When I nod, give it gas real gentle.” Can’t help but notice the pockmarked roof and trunk lid as I walk around the car. “Geez, poor li’l thing.” I don’t expect her to hear me.
She does. Snaps, “Hey! Lillian’s sensitive about her complexion.”
O-kaaay. I brace my hands well above her temporary plate. God forbid I goose poor Lillian. I give the signal and push.
She eases the car out of the snow and into the lane. Squeals, “Oh, man, thank you so much!” Totally different tone than before.
I head back to the van. “No problem.” Wave without turning around.
I’m dripping ice, looking forward to cranking up the heat. Almost to my driver’s door when something small and hard smashes into the back of my skull. “What the—” I spin around, slip on the ice, and almost go down.
The Honda driver’s eyes are huge, her hands up over her mouth. “Oh shit! I’m so sorry! Thank-you Snickers.”
What’d she call me?
She points at my feet. “Thank-you Snickers.”
There’s a candy bar in the slush. Brown Eyes beaned me with it.
Just help the lady , my scoreboard had whispered. Have a few laughs. It’ll be fun. No, that last bit might’ve been Bruce Willis. Yippee-ki-yay.
I rub my head and fish the candy out of the mess. Couple of cars maneuver slowly around us as I open my door and drop the Snickers into my trash bag.
“Sorry! Thank you! Really!” She’s waving both hands now, silly grin on her face.
I shake my head. Climb in. Raise my hand, willing her to move on.
Instead she hollers, “Hey, is there a motel around here? I think I should get off the road.”
Got that right. “B and B, two blocks up.” Sabina’ll take pity on her being out in this mess if she’s not full up. I slam my door. Enough conversation.
Hell of an arm, but the woman’s a menace.
Glad she’s just passing through.