David Handler - The sweet golden parachute

Mitch raised the doors and headed down the steep cement stairs, his arms loaded down with bread. It was damp and cold down there, and reeked of mold.

Eric gave him a hand-grabbing two big bags from Mitch’s truck and very nearly beating Mitch down the stairs with them. Eric moved at a faster pace than most people, and possessed phenomenal energy.

“Mitch, can I get your take on something? It’s kind of personal.”

“Sure, what’s up?” Mitch said as he stuffed the “bagels” in the freezer.

Eric squatted there on the steps, swallowing uncomfortably. “Have you noticed Danielle acting strange lately? Preoccupied, maybe?”

“She does seem a bit down.”

“Has she been paying special attention to anyone?”

“I don’t think I’m following you, Eric.” Mitch often didn’t. The trick was not minding.

“The truth is, I think she’s had it with me. But I wanted to make sure before I said anything to her.” Eric gazed at Mitch intently. Very intently. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

Now Mitch got it. Eric wanted to know if he and Danielle were involved. He hadn’t come out and said it, but the impression was quite clear. “Eric, I’d be very surprised if she’s seeing anyone else. She’s devoted to you.”

Eric nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively. “You think I’m being insanely jealous, don’t you? That shouldn’t come as a surprise, Mitch. Insanity runs in my family.” Eric jumped to his feet and said, “Sorry to bother you. I’m out of here.”

And he was. Jumped into his truck and sped off, leaving Mitch there to wonder what, if anything, was going on between the farmer and his wife.

When he was done down there, Mitch went up the outside stairs and lowered the Bilcos shut. Otherwise, squirrels would take up residence in the cellar. Then he grabbed the computer printouts from the front seat of his truck and went back inside. About two dozen people were gathered around the community tables, chatting as they had their soup. Seated at a table all by himself, hunched over his bowl, was Dorset’s Can Man.

The gaunt old Can Man rattled around town on an old bicycle with two supermarket grocery carts chained to its back end. Spoke to no one. Guzzled rum. Dressed in filthy old clothes. A few days earlier, Mitch had noticed him poring over the NBA box scores in the Hartford Courant while he slurped his soup. Apparently, the guy was a stat freak.

With the fantasy baseball draft fast approaching, Mitch thought he’d try to engage him. So he ambled over, sheaf of printouts in hand, and said, “I’ve got my eye on Mendoza. Let me know what you think of him, okay?”

In response, the old ascetic gazed up at Mitch with a look of sheer, eyepopping terror.

Never had Mitch inspired such fear in another human being. He felt as if he’d just turned into Freddy Krueger. “Or not,” he added hastily. “Entirely your choice.”

But he was too late. The old guy had already jumped to his feet, kicking over his chair, and fled the room, leaving his soup unfinished.

Chastened, Mitch helped Danielle bag up the Food Pantry donations and pass them out to the folks who were lined up waiting. In spite of her lack of sleep, Danielle worked tirelessly, the sleeves of her baggy sweater pushed up to her elbows. When they were done she helped herself to a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the urn and sat at one of the tables with it, chewing distractedly on the inside of her mouth. Danielle did seem preoccupied, Mitch observed. Behind those severe glasses, her eyes were crinkled with concern.

Mitch joined her. He and Danielle weren’t especially close, but they were both outsiders. It didn’t matter how long you lived in Dorset. Unless you were born and reared there, you were always an outsider. And outsiders gravitated toward each other. “Danielle, are you sure you’re okay?”

She made a face, as if she’d just smelled something bad. “It’s a hard time of year for us, Mitch. No cash coming in. We make our money at the green markets during growing season. Eric’s in New York City at Union Square two mornings a week, I do three more out here. Our customers are crazy for our organic produce and eggs. Our grassfed lamb, too. They can taste the difference, and they’re willing to pay for it.” Danielle paused, sighing wearily. “But the winters are hard. Sometimes, it all seems so impossible.”

“What you need is a good night’s sleep.”

“What we need is to get bigger. We need at least sixty more acres, Mitch. Twice as many sheep. We’re planting veggies when we should be investing in cheesemaking equipment. Sheep’s milk cheese is our only hope for the future,” she confessed, sipping her coffee. “Unfortunately, our credit line is maxed out, Poochie is famously tightfisted and Claudia is… well, Claudia. She has forty good acres of meadow out behind her cottage just sitting there. But will she let us use it? No, because that’s hers. Claudia hates everything about our farm. Our hairy, stinky sheep. Our noisy, stinky tractor. She’d like to see us go under. And at this rate we will. I just don’t know hhow much longer we can…” Danielle ducked her head, clutching the coffee cup in her chapped, workroughened hands. “Eric tries to act like everything is okay. Does his yoga every morning to perpetuate his calm. Tends his flock. But I can tell he’s upset about Poochie.”

“I hear she drove into Duck River Pond last night.”

“And didn’t think a thing of it. This morning, she acted like it was a big joke. All of which means more ammunition for Claudia.” Danielle’s eyes met Mitch’s briefly, then looked away. “Claudia has designs on the family purse strings. That greedy woman has driven poor Mark away with all of her scheming. Mark is a sweet and sensitive man. He has the soul of an artist. And now he’s sleeping on his office sofa and drinking too much and…” Danielle broke off, coloring slightly.

Mitch couldn’t help thinking Danielle seemed awfully upset about her brotherinlaw. Was she involved with him? Could Eric actually be on to something? “Has Eric talked to Claudia about Poochie?”

Danielle shook her head. “Eric detests confrontations. And everything with Claudia is a confrontation. If Eric sees her coming, he walks the other way. If she phones him, he won’t take the call. She doesn’t speak to me at all, you know. If I answer the phone she just says, ‘Is Eric there?’ I don’t exist. I never have, as far as she’s concerned. I’m just some trash her weird brother dragged home with him from college. Eric won’t stand up to her. He just says, ‘If it’s about money, then I don’t care.’ Well, I’m sorry, that’s no kind of an attitude. Not when it involves your own mother-and our whole future. Only I can’t say a word to him about it. He won’t listen. It’s very frightening.”

“Why frightening, Danielle?”

“Because Claudia is strong willed but at the same time very weak. She relies on her mother more than she cares to admit. If Claudia gets her way, she will be totally out of control. Very dangerous.”

“And will she get her way?”

“Mitch, I honestly don’t see how anyone can stop her.”

The Kershaws lived in the wooded hill country north of Uncas Lake off of Laurel Ridge, a key connector road between Nowhere and Nowhere Else. A mailbox by the side of the road marked the Kershaws’ property, as did the handlettered plywood signs that read KEEP OUT and NO DUMPING. Des had to take it slow up the steep rutted drive that climbed and twisted its way through bleak, scrubby woodland before it finally arrived at a clearing.

There was a squat log cabin here. Wood smoke rose from a stovepipe. A Doberman was chained to the porch, barking furiously at her arrival. A mudcaked blue Toyota pickup was parked out front next to a canary yellow Ford van that had D amp; S PAINTING written on its side.