“The dead were just like the living: they all wanted something they could never have.” - Charlie Jane Anders
“How well did you know Richard?” Manuel asked. We’d carried our to go cups of iced coffee (me) and green tea (him) out to the small enclosed patio behind Donuts and Brew, the family owned coffee shop just off campus. The place was almost always packed, but thanks to summer break and the notorious midday humidity, we had the place almost to ourselves.
We took our seats and set our cups down on one of the black metal tables beneath the chestnut oak near the back door and instantly wished we hadn’t. The table wobbled and tipped to one side sending the contents of our cups sloshing across its surface. “Dammit,” I exclaimed, snatching my cup out of the puddle and putting paper napkins down to soak up the mess.
“Allow me,” said Manuel, fishing in the briefcase he carried everywhere and producing a book of matches to slide under the table leg.
“You don’t smoke,” I said, watching him deftly deal with the wobble.
“No, but I occasionally spend time in clubs that cater to smokers and hand out free books of matches,” he replied, giving me a quizzical look. “Why so out of sorts? You’d think someone who’d just acquired 200+ acres of prime real estate in the Smoky Mountains would be more cheerful.”
We’d just come from Oscar Feldman’s office where I’d signed all the paperwork that made me both the trustee and legal beneficiary of the Light House property. “It’s just a big deal, that’s all,” I said.
“Indeed,” Manuel agreed. Aside from gray hairs at his temples, a slight paunch, and a new pair of wire-rimmed bifocals that made his eyes look enormous, he looked exactly as he always had - disarmingly handsome and kind. “But, as Mr. Feldman pointed out, you have a whole board of advisors to help with what I believe you called the legal mumbo jumbo.”
“Yeah, well that’s what it feels like,” I said.
“That’s what it is,” Manuel laughed. “And by the way, D felt exactly the same. He used to bitch all the time about bean counters and Uncle Sam. ‘The damn government has a lot of nerve demanding I pay taxes on land it stole,’” Manuel continued, doing a fair imitation of D’s raspy voice.
“He has…um he had a point, “ I said. “I looked up The Trail of Tears after he told me how his family got the land. It left me with a bad taste in my mouth and a lot less respect for our founding fathers.”
“Same,” Manuel nodded. “But what’s really going on with you?”
“That obvious, huh?” I shifted uneasily in my chair and tried to pinpoint the source of my bad mood. “I guess I’m worried everything will change.”
“It will and it already has,” Manuel said. “But from where I’m sitting you have a lot more options and a lot more control now over how your life will change.”
“Yes, I suppose.” I looked up and away from Manuel into the branches of the oak tree, feeling tears sting my eyes. I’d never been a particularly emotional person, and these frequent bouts of tears were disconcerting. But today’s tears weren’t due to sadness. “Honestly, Manuel,” I said, “I’m furious. The more I think about how it all went down the angrier I get.” I paused, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. “He didn’t tell me how bad it was. He didn’t tell me he needed help. He didn’t even give me the chance to say good-bye.”
“Yes,” Manuel said, “I felt the same.”
“Wait. What? I thought you were there.”
“No, he didn’t want me there.”
“Then how? How did you find out? Who told you? Please tell me he wasn’t alone.” The thought of D spending his last days with only Bentley to keep him company was unbearable.
“No, someone was with him. Someone took care of him. That’s why I asked how well you knew Richard.”
“I’m confused,” I said. “I never really knew Richard. We only met a few times. The first was when I went with them to adopt Bentley. The second when they invited me to dinner at their house here in town. He was already pretty sick so I never got to record his story.”
“That’s what I thought,” Manuel said. “So the reason I wanted to talk was to tell you Richard had a brother - a half brother named Evan.”
“It was Evan who was with D?”
“Yes. D and Richard hired him years ago to help around the Light House. They needed someone to live on the property, do routine maintenance, and prevent vandalism.” I nodded, taking it in. “It was also a way to help Evan stay sober. He was struggling.” This too was a familiar story. D had been the first to urge me to go to A.A.
“I get it,” I said. I didn’t like it but I got it. “So where is he now, this Evan?” I asked.
“Here, or he should be shortly,” Manuel said, looking at his watch.
“Wait, what?” I exclaimed, looking around the small patio area. “You might have told me, Manuel.”
“I’m telling you now,” Manuel said with an apologetic smile. “The two of you need to meet and get some things worked out. Besides, Evan’s the perfect person to take you to the Light House.”
“Agreed,” said a deep, male voice behind me.
I spun in my chair and saw a man covered in tattoos emerging from the back door of the coffee shop. He had the long, lanky look of a distance runner and was wearing baggy jeans and a sweat-stained, khaki tank. His black hair was shaved close to his head and there were black studs in both ears.
“Tattoo guy!” I said, recognizing him from A.A. meetings.
“Wait, you two know each other?” Manuel asked.
“Sort of,” Evan replied. “We’ve seen each other at meetings, that’s all. I suspected she might be the “Maddy” D told me about.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Manuel asked.
“Anonymity.”
“Oh right,” Manuel nodded. “Well then allow me to formally introduce you. Maddy Clark, please meet Evan Walker.”
Evan and I nodded but didn’t make eye contact. “What the hell was Manuel thinking?” I wondered to myself. “And did he really expect me to trust this guy?” Memories of meetings where I sat next to Tattoo guy sharing stories about my work came flooding back - how it felt to look into the eyes of someone dying of AIDS - how I ached for a beer after doing interviews.
I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I stared down at my hands, fighting the urge to leave. Instead, I did what AA and good therapy had taught me to do. I acknowledged and voiced what I was feeling. “What the actual fuck, Manuel,” I said, letting my voice fill with hurt and indignation. “Did you really think - correction do you really think - I’m so emotionally immature that you couldn’t trust me with this?”
“It’s not that, Maddy,” Manuel said.
“Then what is it?” I demanded, looking up to see genuine concern in Manuel’s eyes.
“It’s just that D thought…D said that it would be better if…”
“D is dead,” I said with emotionless conviction that told me I was finally starting to believe it. “And he apparently knew me well enough - believed in me enough - to trust me with this, this project of his. So let’s stop trying to protect me by withholding information, shall we?”
Across the table, Manuel nodded but said nothing. “And as for you,” I said, turning to Evan. “There’s no way in hell I’m going anywhere with you.”
“Wait, what?!” Evan said, the smug mask of self-confidence slipping from his face. “But D said you’d understand.”
“I repeat. D is dead.” I got to my feet and gave them both a hard stare. “Much as I’d like to ask him what he was thinking, I can’t, and I don’t trust you because I don’t know you. I’ve seen you at meetings for months but you’ve never said a word.”
“You don’t know that,” Evan said.
“True,” I acknowledged. “Maybe you share all the time at other meetings, just not at the ones I attend. You, on the other hand, know a lot about me because I share a lot. And now I learn that you were discussing me with D? That you were there when he died? That’s what is called an unfair advantage, Evan - an imbalance of power. And that’s no way to start a relationship. Now if you’ll excuse me.” I slung my backpack over my shoulder, slipped behind Manuel’s chair, and headed for the Donuts and Brew’s back door.
“Maddy, wait,” Manuel said. “We’re not done. We need to figure this out.”
“No, you need to figure this out,” I snapped. “There seems to be an assumption that I’ll just go along with whatever you’ve cooked up.”
“It’s not like that,” Manuel protested, looking genuinely dismayed and contrite.
“Look,” I said, reining in my anger. “I need some time to think about this - to decide what’s best for me and how I want to move forward. I’ll be in touch.”
Back at my apartment, I saw there were multiple messages waiting on my machine but ignored them. Instead, I turned the air conditioner’s thermostat down to 65, wrapped myself in my favorite quilt, and curled up with Zelda on the couch. “Why are people so damn complicated?” I asked as she curled against my belly and began to purr. “There’s so much to figure out!”
Several hours later, I woke from a long nap realizing that I had nothing whatsoever to figure out. As D had stated in his letter, and reiterated in the legal documents I'd just signed, the property was mine to do with as I pleased. Why he did what he did, what he hoped I’d do or not do with it were moot points. The decisions were up to me. On the other hand, I acknowledged, there was no way for me to know what I wanted to do until I’d visited the Light House and did some digging into Tattoo guy’s background.
“Okay then,” I said, feeling settled and sure of myself for the first time in days. “It’s time to call in the reinforcements.” I disentangled myself from the quilt, turned the thermostat back to 75, and fed Zelda. Then I picked up the phone and called the two people who knew me better than anyone else on the planet. “Operation Light House” was about to begin.
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