Thomas Cook - Red Leaves

"You can stay clear of him," Leo said in that paternal way of his. "And make sure Keith does, too."

"All right," I said.

"Warren, too."

"Warren?" I asked, surprised. "Why would he have anything against Warren?"

"Because Keith doesn't have a car," Leo told me. "So Vince figures it had to be the two of them."

"Why would he think that?"

"We're not dealing with reason here, Eric," Leo reminded me. "We're talking about a distraught father. So just tell everyone in your family to stay clear of Vince. And if any of you happen to run into him, like at the post office, something like that, just keep to yourself, and get out of sight as soon as possible."

There was a brief pause, then Leo spoke again, his voice now unexpectedly gentle. "Are you all right, Eric?"

A wave of deep melancholy washed over me; my life, my once-comfortable life, was fraught with danger and confusion, along with a terrible mixture of anger and pain. "How could I be all right, Leo?" I asked. "Everyone in town thinks Keith killed Amy Giordano. Some anonymous caller tells the cops that there's something wrong' with me or Meredith or Keith. And now I hear Vince has gone nuts and that none of us can go anywhere without fear of running into him. It's a prison, Leo. That's where we all are right now. We're in prison."

Again there was a pause, after which, Leo said, "Eric, I want you to listen very carefully to me. In all likelihood, Keith is not going to be arrested. That's good news, and you should be happy about it. And if some nut calls the hotline? Big deal. And as far as Vince Giordano is concerned, all you have to do is stay away from him."

"Okay," I muttered. What was the point of saying more?

"Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"Yeah," I said. "Thanks for calling Leo."

Leo was clearly reluctant to hang up. "Good news, remember?" he said, addressing a schoolboy in need of a change of attitude.

"Good news, yes," I said, though only because I knew it was what he wanted to hear. "Good news," I repeated, then smiled as if for a hidden camera in my shop, planted by Leo, so that even at that moment he could see my face, appreciate the smile.

My working day came to an end a few hours later, but I didn't want to go home. Meredith had told me that she'd be working late at the college, and I knew that Keith would be secreted in his room. And so I called Warren, hoping he could join me for a beer, but there was no answer.

That left only my father, and so I went to him.

He was sitting inside, by the fire, curled in a wheelchair, his emaciated frame wrapped in a dark red blanket. In his youth, he'd gone all winter without once putting on an overcoat, but now even a slight late-September touch of fall chilled him.

"It's not Thursday," he said as I came up the stairs.

I sat down in the wicker chair beside him. "I just felt like dropping in," I told him.

He stared into the flames. "Warren talk to you?"

"Yeah."

"That why you're here?"

I shook my head.

"I figured he'd go whining to you, try to get me to change my mind, let him come over again."

"No, he didn't do that," I said. "He told me you had an argument, that you said you didn't want to see him again, but he wasn't whining about it."

My father's eyes narrowed hatefully. "Should have done it long ago," he said coldly. "Worthless."

"Worthless," I repeated. "That's what you said about Mom."

He peered about absently, like a man in a museum full of artifacts he had no interest in.

"Speaking of which," I said. "You lied to me, Dad."

He closed his eyes wearily, clearly preparing himself for yet another series of false accusations.

"You said you didn't take out an insurance policy on Mom," I continued. "I found it in your papers. It was for two hundred thousand dollars." When this had no visible effect on my father, I added, "Why did you lie to me about this, Dad?"

His gaze slid over to me. "I didn't."

A wave of anger swept over me, fueled by exasperation. My father was doing the same thing Keith had done a week before.

"Dad, I found an application for a life insurance policy," I snapped.

"An application is not a policy, Eric," my father scoffed. "You should know that."

"Are you denying there was ever such a policy?" I demanded. "Is that what you're doing?"

A dry laugh broke from him. "Eric, you asked me if I took out a policy on your mother. I said I didn't. Which is the truth."

"Once again, Dad, are you saying there was no life insurance policy on Mom's life?"

"As a matter of fact, Eric, I'm not saying that at all."

"So there was one?"

"Yes."

"For two hundred thousand dollars?"

"That was the amount," my father said. "But does that mean I took the policy out?"

"Who else would?"

"Your mother, Eric," my father said flatly. "Your mother took it out."

"On herself?"

"Yes." His eyes glistened slightly, though I couldn't be sure if the glistening came from some well of lost emotion, or if it were only an illusion, merely a play of light. "She took it out without telling me," he added. "She had a ... friend. He helped her do it."

"A friend?"

"Yes," my father answered. "You met him. A family friend." His smile was more a sneer. "Good friend of your mother. Always coming around the house. Glad to be of help, that was Jason."

"Jason," I said. "Benefield?"

"So, you've heard about him?"

"Warren mentioned him," I explained.

"Of course," my father said with an odd, downward jerk at the corners of his mouth. "Anyway, he's still alive. You can ask him. He'll tell you I had nothing to do with that policy. And for your added information, I wasn't the beneficiary of it, either."

I couldn't tell if this was a bluff, but I suspected that it was, and moved to expose it. "Where did the money go?" I asked.

"What money?"

"The money that was due after Mom died."

"There was never any money, Eric," my father said. "Not a penny."

"Why not?"

He hesitated, and in that interval, I imagined all the worthless get-rich-quick schemes into which he had probably poured the money, a bottomless pit of failed businesses and bad investments.

"The company denied the claim," he said finally.

He squirmed uncomfortably, and I knew he was trying to get off the hook. So I bore in.

"Why did the company deny the claim?" I asked.

"Ask them yourself," my father shot back.

"I'm asking you," I said hotly.

My father turned away from me.

"Tell me, goddamn it!"

His eyes shot over to me. "Insurance companies don't pay," he said, "when it's a suicide."

"Suicide?" I whispered unbelievingly. "You're telling me that Mom intended to run off that bridge? That's ridiculous."

My father's glare was pure challenge. "Then why wasn't she wearing a seat belt, Eric? She always insisted on wearing one, remember? She made all of you wear them. So why, on that particular day, when she went off that bridge, did she not have hers on?"

He read the look in my eyes.

"You don't believe me, do you?" he asked.

"No, I don't."

"Then look at the police report. It was all right there—the whole story: How fast she was going. The way the car went straight into the guardrail—everything. Including the fact that she wasn't wearing a seat belt." He shook his head. "There were witnesses, too. People who saw what she did." A contemptuous laugh broke from him. "Couldn't even pull off a simple suicide scheme without fucking it up."

"Don't lie to me, Dad," I warned. "Not about this."

"Go look at the fucking report, if you don't believe me," my father snarled. "There's a copy in my files. You've been digging around in them anyway, right? Dig some more."

I couldn't let him go unchallenged. "Speaking of your files," I said. "I found a letter from Aunt Emma. She blames Mom for spending you into bankruptcy."