Grant McCrea - Dead Money

Curious to think of the childless few. Their simple lives.

What are you up to today, love? I asked.

Nothing.

It was endemic, this nothing thing. What are you doing? Nothing. What are you thinking? Nothing. What are you reading? Nothing.

Take all these nothings, I said, put them in a big brown bag. What have you got?

Nothing in a bag, she replied, deadpan.

I laughed so hard I dropped the milk.

Jesus Weinstein! said Kelly.

Jesus Weinstein? I asked, grabbing paper towels.

Yes?

What the heck is that?

Mr. Weinstein. He’s my Tech teacher.

I think I knew that. And?

Well, the other day in class he’s writing on the blackboard. He writes down a bunch of stuff. Circuit diagrams and stuff. And then he says-You know how his hair is red and sits on top of his head like roadkill?

I remember that. At least, I remember you telling me that.

Well, now it looks like bad-fitting roadkill.

Okay.

And he says, this is your Bible. It’s the Bible of electronics.

What? His hair?

If by ‘his hair’ you mean ‘the stuff he wrote on the blackboard.’

Ah.

So now we call him Jesus Weinstein.

I think I’m following you, I laughed.

And that’s what we call Jesus, too. Jesus Weinstein.

I guess that’s the part I don’t get.

If you don’t get it, I can’t explain it to you.

Okay.

I mean, why not?

Right.

We’ve got it. Why not use it?

Right. I’ll remember that, next time I write the tuition check.

Kelly laughed her sweet, infectious laugh.

Melissa appeared in the kitchen doorway. Rumpled. Bleary.

What’s all the laughing about?

Just joking around, Mom.

Melissa frowned, went to the fridge. Opened the door. Leaned over and peered in, as if shortsighted.

Which she wasn’t.

Where’s the milk? she asked, irritated. Most of it’s on the floor, said Kelly.

Melissa scowled at me. I still had the sopping paper towels in my hand.

I shrugged, like an embarrassed schoolboy.

You’re such a clumsy fool, she said.

Serious. Grave. A doctor giving her patient the bad news.

She was still beautiful.

I turned away and sighed.

Oh come off it, Mom, said Kelly, lightheartedly.

Did you walk the dog yet? was Melissa’s answer.

Not yet, Mom. I’m eating breakfast.

Good God. How many times have I told you he can’t wait for your dithering all morning? I’ll be picking up dog crap all day again. Always the same. Every bloody day.

The dog had been a mistake. Kelly was a cat person, like me. I’d had cats all my pre-Melissa life. Loved cats. Aloof, but intense. Relaxed, but ready to attack when necessary.

Just like me.

Sure.

When Kelly was small, she’d insisted on a pet. Of course, I’d said. Bad enough to be an only child. The least we could do was get her a companion. But Melissa was allergic to cats. A sign I should have heeded, long before.

So we had a choice: a hairless cat, or a dog. Kelly went for the dog. It was a bichon. Cute and cuddly. As close to a cat as we could find. Purebred, unfortunately. Cost me a cool fifteen hundred.

Kelly loved the dog. I tolerated it. Melissa hated the thing. Nobody walked it. It shat all over the house.

Melissa’s voice rose as the dog rant escalated. Her face turned hard. But she didn’t look at Kelly. It was as though she were alone. Talking to herself. Angry and alone.

I felt it in my teeth. My knees. My lower back. The pain. To see her like this now. Aging. Angry. Alien.

I’ll go buy milk, I said, and slunk out of the room. The corner store was not so far away. I’d take the damn dog. What did it cost me? Less than a confrontation would, for sure.

Day in, day out, the anger.

It hadn’t always been like this. I remembered other times. Law school days. The Blue Bar. Low ceiling. Pale blue walls. Odd lights in unexpected corners, throwing blue shadows. Bryan Ferry singing ‘Avalon.’ Cold and at the same time warm.

She had been brash, funny, fearless. Domineering. Beautiful, of course. But needy, underneath all that. And smart as hell.

I fell in love.

I thought that she did too. We lived life as the joke we arrogantly thought it was. We were smart enough to get away with it. For a while. We joked with Marco, the owner of the Blue Bar, in a pink dress, shining Day-Glo in the blue light. We exulted in our difference from the crowd. From our fellow students, fearful of failure. We both knew we’d never be the life of the party. But we’d make our own. Melissa, me and Marco. There were rarely any other customers in the place. The joint must have been a front for something, we’d speculated. We couldn’t figure out what, though. Marco seemed so innocent.

Then, in her apartment, she’d succumb. Tie me up, she’d say. Take me hard. Show me who’s a man. She’d wanted to be dominated. Submissive. At my mercy. Deliciously against the grain. It struck a chord in me. A deep, discordant chord, full of danger and promise. And yearning. The Tristan chord, it was, brought to life.

When it was over, we’d collapse into each other’s arms. We’d put on Bruckner’s Eighth. We’d kiss for hours, and hold each other tight. The power of our love seemed endless.

What had happened? Had I missed something? Had this Melissa always been there, this new Melissa, angry and vindictive, waiting to leap out, lash out and tear apart our dreams? I’d seen no sign of it, back then.

There were the pills, of course. The green ones, purple, orange, white. The vodka that washed them down. Stolichnaya from the freezer. But substances alone could not be all it was. It made no sense. It must always have been there. The anger. Hiding. Waiting. The pills and vodka only helped it show itself.

When I got to work the elevators were down. Firemen slogged about the lobby, heavy with rubber clothes, oxygen tanks, large axes. Bomb scare, someone said.

A sign from God. Fuck the Lockwood hearing. I’d call the court. Plead natural disaster. Unforeseen contingency. Death and destruction. Lower back pain.

I called the other side. Pled my case. They agreed to an adjournment. We called the judge’s clerk.

No problem, he said.

It worked.

I was free.

I figured I’d drop by FitzGibbon’s office. See what I could see.

I grabbed a cab to the Consolidated Can building.

The cab smelled of stale cigarettes, and distress.

I negotiated the three security checkpoints. I found myself on the thirty-third floor. FitzGibbon was in.

The salsa guy was there, sitting like a stiff in his usual spot.

Furniture. It comes in all shapes and sizes.

FitzGibbon was leaning back in his chair, feet on the desk. He had on a pair of what looked to be very expensive snakeskin boots. And a seersucker suit. I hadn’t seen one since New Orleans.

I told him about my talk with Jules.

FitzGibbon didn’t ask me how Jules was. He didn’t ask me whether there was anything he could do to help.

Instead he leaned forward, looked me in the eye, and said, Hey, as if the thought had just occurred to him, you don’t think he’s innocent, do you?

I tried not to look too surprised.

It’s not my job to make that judgment, I said.

He leaned back in his chair.

I admire that, he said. I really do.

Well, I said. I’m doing my job.

Mmm, he said, and looked off into the distance.

He leaned forward again. Gave me a long and searching look. Didn’t say a thing.

The guy was not normal.

Or maybe he was trying to get me rattled. Sizing me up. See how I handled it.

Either way, I decided not to push the envelope, yet. Probably not prudent. To alienate the firm’s biggest client, fishing for dirt.