“How do they seem to you?”
“Angry. Underneath it all, they’re pissed. I keep feeling the anger coming up inside me, too. It’s all I can do to keep a lid on it.”
“Why bother? Why not blow? The three of them certainly don’t hesitate.”
“I know, but if I flip my lid that’s only going to make matters worse. I’m trying to show ’em I’ve changed and then I find myself feeling like I always did. Like I want to smash lamps, throw a chair through a window, get stoned or drunk or something bad like that.”
“That must be a trial.”
“I’ll say. I mean, literally. All I can think about is maybe this is some kind of test of my faith.”
“Oh, it is not,” I said. “It may be a test of your patience, but not your faith in God.”
He shook his head, pressing his hands down between his knees. “Let’s talk about something else. This is making me so tense I could fart.”
I laughed and changed the subject. For a while we chatted about inconsequential matters. Hunched there in the front seat, I was reminded of the occasional dates I had in high school where the only hope of privacy was remaining closed away in some kid’s car. On chilly evenings, the front windshield would fog up even if all we did was talk. On warm nights like this, we’d sit with the windows rolled down, radio tuned to some rock and roll station. It was Elvis or the Beatles, clumsy moves and sexual tension. I don’t even remember now what we talked about, those lads and I. Probably nothing. Probably we drank purloined beer; smoked dope, and thought about the incredible majesty of life.
“So what else’s going on? Aside from interminable meetings?” I asked. Like a rough place on a fingernail, I couldn’t resist going back to it. Apparently, Guy couldn’t resist it either because we fell right into the subject again.
This time he smiled and his tone seemed lighter. “It’s nice to see the house. I found some letters of my mother’s and I read those today. She’s the only one I ever missed. The rest of ’em are a waste.”
“I don’t want to say I told you so, but I did predict this.”
“I know, I know. I thought we could just sit down like grownups and clean up some old business, but it doesn’t really happen like that. I mean, I keep wondering if there isn’t some kind of defect in me because everything I do just seems to come out wrong. Whatever I say seems off, you know? They look at me like I’m speaking in tongues and then I see them exchange these looks.”
“Oh, I know that one. Jack and Bennet are big on flicking looks back and forth.”
“That’s the easy part, but there’s worse.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t even know how to describe it. Something under the surface. Something slides right by and no one owns up to it, so then I start questioning my own thought process. Maybe I’m nuts and it’s not them after all.”
“Give me an example.”
“Like when I told ’em I’d like to give something to the church? I honestly don’t want the money for me. I mean that. But Jubilee Evangelical saved my life and I want to give something back. To me, that doesn’t seem so wrong. Does it seem wrong to you?”
“No, not at all.”
“So, I say that and all of a sudden we’re in the middle of a power play. Bennet’s saying how it really doesn’t seem fair. You know how he talks with that slightly pompous air of his. ‘Our family’s never been religious. Dad worked for the good of us all, not for the benefit of some church he never heard of.’ He says it all in this completely rational tone and pretty soon I wonder if what I want to do is right after all. Maybe they have a point and my values are screwed up.”
“Sure they have a point. They want you to relinquish all claim so they can divide up your portion among themselves. They know perfectly well you’re entitled to a quarter of his estate. What you do with your share is none of their business.”
“But how come I end up the magnet for all that rage?”
“Guy, stop. Don’t do that. That’s the third time you’ve said that. Don’t get into self-blame. The gamesmanship has obviously been going on for years. That’s got to be why you left in the first place, to get away from that stuff. I swear they were behaving the same way before you showed up.”
“You think I should leave?”
“Well, of course I do! I’ve said it all along. You shouldn’t take their abuse. I think you should get the hell out while you have the chance.”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘abuse.’ ”
“Because you’re used to it,” I said. “And don’t get sidetracked. Your brothers aren’t going to change. If anybody goes down for the count, it’s going to be you.”
“Maybe so,” he said. “I don’t know. I just feel like I have to stay since I’ve come this far. If I cut and run, we’re never going to find a way to work this through.”
“I can tell you’re not listening, but please, please, don’t agree to anything without talking to an attorney first.”
“Okay.”
“Promise me.”
“I will. I swear. Well, I gotta go before somebody figures out I’ve escaped.”
“Guy, you’re not sixteen. You’re forty-three years old. Sit here if you want. You can stay out all night. Big whoop-dee-do. You’re an adult.”
He laughed. “I feel like I’m sixteen. And you’re cute.”
He leaned over quickly and brushed my cheek with his lips. I could feel the soft scratch of his whiskers against my face and I caught a whiff of his aftershave.
He said, “Bye-bye and thanks.” Before I could respond, he was out of the car, shoulders hunched up against the wind as he moved to the gate. He turned and waved and then he was swallowed up by the dark.
I never saw him again.
THIRTEEN
Guy Malek was killed sometime Tuesday night, though I didn’t actually hear about it until Wednesday afternoon. I’d spent most of the day over at the courthouse sitting in on the trial of a man accused of embezzlement. I hadn’t been associated with the case-undercover cops had nailed him after seven months of hard work-but some years before, I’d done surveillance on him briefly at the request of his wife. She suspected he was cheating, but she wasn’t sure with whom. Turned out he was having an affair with her sister and she broke off relations with both. The man was dishonest to the core and I confess I found it entertaining to watch the legal system grind away at him. As often as I complain about the shortage of justice in this world, I find it infinitely satisfying when the process finally works as it should.
When I got back to the office after court adjourned, there was a message from Tasha waiting on my machine. I noticed, in passing, it was the Maleks’ number she’d left. I called, expecting to have Myrna pick up. Instead Tasha answered as if she’d been manning the phones. The minute I heard her, I realized how irritated I was that she’d gone out of town just as Guy arrived. If she’d been doing her job, she might have steered the family off their campaign of pressure and harassment.
Smart mouth that I am, I launched right in. “At long last,” I said, “it’s. about time you got back. All hell’s broken loose. Have you heard what’s going on? Well, obviously you have or you wouldn’t be there. Honestly, I adore Guy, but I can’t stand the rest of ’em-”
Tasha cut in, her voice flat. “Kinsey, that’s why I called. I cut my trip short and flew back from Utah this afternoon. Guy is dead.”
I was silent for a beat, trying to parse the sentence. I knew the subject . . . Guy . . . but the predicate . . . is dead . . . made no immediate sense. “You’re kidding. What happened? He can’t be dead. When I saw him on Monday he was fine.”
“He was murdered last night. Somebody smashed his skull with a blunt instrument. Christie found him in bed this morning when he didn’t come down for breakfast. The police took one look at the crime scene and got a warrant to search the premises. The house has been swarming with cops ever since. They haven’t found the murder weapon, but they suspect it’s here. They’re still combing the property.”
I kept getting hung up about two sentences back. “Somebody killed him in bed? While he slept?”
“It looks that way.”
“That’s disgusting. That’s awful. You can’t be serious.”