Tommy’s in the car, wearing his PJs under his winter coat.
“Why are you crying, Uncle Chuck?” he says from the backseat. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing at all,” I say to him, and then to Portia, “I’m so sorry.”
“I forgive you,” Tommy says as Portia drives us home without saying anything at all.
I throw my clothes and coat into the laundry and immediately shower the sweat off me, making sure to get the dirt out from under my fingernails.
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyes look bad, guilty—like I know how fucked my behavior tonight was and believe I should be punished.
“Never again,” I say to my reflection. “Never again.”
Once she has Tommy back in bed, Portia makes tea and I tell her the extended version of everything that happened earlier in the evening, my voice shaking the whole time.
When I finish, I say, “Does my kicking Randall Street in the stomach make me a bad person? I’m supposed to be an elementary teacher at a Catholic school where we’re all about nonviolence. I have a picture of Mother Teresa hanging in my classroom. What’s happening to me?”
“You didn’t shoot up when you had a chance, and I’m proud of you for that,” Portia says, which makes me feel a little better, until she starts shaking her head and poking my chest hard with her index finger, tapping out the syllables of her words. “But you risked our future tonight, and I’m pissed as hell about that part. What if the cops find Randall dead? What about fingerprints? You could end up in jail! You think I want to bring Tommy to speak with his uncle through glass?”
The doorbell rings.
Portia and I look at each other. It’s almost two in the morning.
It rings again.
“This isn’t good,” Portia says.
I walk down the steps and find Officer Jon Rivers standing in front of our apartment.
“Can I come in?” he says.
“Is that necessary?”
“Afraid so.”
“Okay, then,” I say, and then follow him up the stairs.
“To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure, Jon?” Portia says, acting for me. She’s transformed her face and now looks remarkably composed. “Can I fix you some tea?”
“No need,” Jon says. “I’ll get straight to the point. What follows is confidential. Between us only. Understood?”
We both nod.
Jon continues. “Just wanted to let you know that we arrested Randall Street tonight and took him to the hospital. We received a call from an old woman who reported a break-in across the street from her. When we investigated, we found the front door wide open, so we entered. The back door had been kicked in as well. Randall was incoherent and high on junk and pills and alcohol and what-have-you in a bedroom upstairs, so I don’t think he’ll be able to answer any of our questions with credibility. He was pretty beat up. Looked like someone stole his gear, because we found no needles. Bags of heroin were in clear view, so we searched the house and discovered quite a bit more. Off the record, it’s the most I’ve ever seen in one place. That’s a lot of heroin that won’t go into the arms of people like Danielle. The majority of it was behind the insulation in the attic—again off the record. The old lady across the street has been telling us that Randall was dealing for months, but we didn’t have anything strong to go on until tonight. A few people on the force suspected that you, Chuck, might have gone there looking for revenge. But I told them we were at the Manor together this evening. They talked to Lisa, who confirmed that, and said you stayed to chat with her for a few hours before Portia picked you up a little after midnight. I assume you’ve been here ever since. If you can confirm that, Portia, I’ll be on my way.”
“That’s what happened, Jon. Exactly,” Portia says. “Cross my heart.”
“Lisa said you had Tommy in the car with you,” Jon says to Portia. “Can the boy confirm the same story?”
“He was half asleep,” Portia says. “But yes.”
“Okay then. Randall was so high, I doubt he’ll remember anything. Given his connection to your sister’s overdose, I thought you’d like to know immediately what was going on,” Jon says and then squeezes my shoulder. “Maybe you’ll rest a little easier tonight. That’s the purpose of this visit. And to let you know the official story.”
“Thanks, Jon,” I say.
Once Jon is gone, Portia hugs me fiercely. “That’s the last time you go rogue on me, right? I’m giving you one pass because your sister died. Just one and only one.”
“I swear to God, Portia. I swear to God,” I say as I hug her back with equal ferocity, both of us trembling.
The next morning Tommy asks if he was in a car the night before, and we tell him he must have been dreaming, which he believes without asking further questions.
Kirk Avery calls me back later that day. “I saw you tried to reach me last night. I was out on a friend’s boat overnight fishing, and I forgot my phone charger. Ran out of juice. Of all the nights for you to call. Please tell me you weren’t jonesing. I’d never forgive myself.”
I think about the needle stuck in the tree—my shooting a perfectly good heroin hit into the night air—and I finally know for certain that I will never ever use again.
“I’m fine,” I tell Kirk. “Catch anything?”
“Oh, thank god,” he says, and then goes on to tell me about the “big one” that got away, like it always does.
And I wonder how many lies it takes to make the world go around.
CHAPTER 31
It’s late May when Portia finally calls her husband to begin the divorce proceedings. Apparently he’s now engaged to the young woman Portia caught him screwing a year or so before. He also says that he has sold his pornography business, conquered his sex addiction problem, and now wants to take his life in a radically different direction. He’s had a lawyer draw up the divorce papers, and without Portia even asking, he offers her what I consider an obscene amount of money if she will only fly to Florida immediately so that he and his new “love” can begin to move on with “the next phase of their lives.” And then he invites us—Portia, Tommy, and me—to Tampa Bay as his guests, all expenses paid. All Portia needs to do is sign the papers in person. Ken’s even agreed to pay for any lawyer she names to review everything on her behalf.
I’m shocked.
“It doesn’t seem right,” Portia tells me in our kitchen while she is overwatering yet another spider plant. She’s killed three already this year. “I keep feeling like I’m walking into a trap. This is not the man I know.”
“If he wants to move on so much,” I say, “why wouldn’t he have tried to contact you before?”
“Oh, he has,” she says.
“What?”
“Ken’s been calling my cell once a day for months now, leaving these pathetic messages, practically begging for me to ‘give him closure.’ His lawyers have sent legal notices to my mother’s home too.”
“And you’ve been ignoring it all?”
“Yep. Fuck him. This will be on my terms.”
“Why haven’t you told me about this before?”
“You never asked,” she says. “And I didn’t want to make it weird for you.”
It’s true that I’ve avoided asking about her husband, maybe because I didn’t want to push her, or maybe I hoped that she was taking care of the divorce quietly and would just surprise me one day with the news, giving it to me like a present.
When it’s clear I’m not going to say anything else, Portia says, “I don’t have much experience getting divorced, you know. I knew it would mean going back to Florida and seeing him again, and I didn’t want to do that until I was ready, okay? This isn’t an easy thing for me.”
“Listen,” I say, “who cares why he’s being so generous? I’m thrilled. Let’s go. The sooner you get divorced,
the sooner we can get married.”
“Should I take his money?”
“Isn’t it your money too? You were married.”
“I don’t know that I want money made from misogynistic porn, especially since the girls were never fairly compensated.”
I think about how she’s been spending Ken’s “misogynistic porn” money for the past year and wonder what the difference is now, but I don’t say anything about that. Portia seems conflicted, and I just want her with me. Period.
“I’m behind you regardless of what you decide about the money,” I say. The truth is, I have very mixed feelings about how much Ken Humes has already funded my life.
“I can’t believe he’s going to marry Khaleesi.”
“Khaleesi?” I say.
“His new little whore. She’s about twelve years old.”
“Why do you care who he’s with?” I say, before I can stop myself.
“You’re okay with men in their forties dating twelve-year-olds?”
“She’s not actually twelve.”
“Oh, she’s probably twenty by now.”
“Okay, gross. But you’re going to be free and clear of him soon, right? And then we can move on.”
We take Tommy out of school, and I beg the Crab to let me use my three annual sick days. Because I have perfect attendance and the Crab wants me to marry Portia so that Rocksford Catholic Elementary’s first-grade teacher is officially a family man, Mother Catherine reluctantly agrees, but bargains for me to do some upcoming curriculum work for free in exchange for the time off.
And then we’re at the Philadelphia airport, which blows Tommy’s mind, because he’s never flown before. I’ve only traveled by air a handful of times in my life, but Portia is a veteran, negotiating everything with confidence and ease.
“Why don’t we have to wait in the long lines like everyone else?” Tommy asks.
“Because we’re flying first class, mister,” she tells Tommy. “We fly in the front of the plane, where there is more room, and the flight attendants will be a lot nicer to us. Also, we get to board and exit the plane first. And there are snacks!”
“Why do we get those things?”
“Because we paid more money than everyone else.”
“Why?” Tommy says.
“Because my first husband is treating, and also because we’re worth it. You know, I never flew on a plane until I was in my mid-twenties. So you’re already ahead of where I was when I was your age. You’re living the high life.”
Tommy takes in the security scan with wide eyes, and then he gleefully examines every part of the airport, but he loves looking at the planes the most.
He’s not scared at all when we take off. He gazes out his window with a huge smile on his face as clouds pass by like no big deal.
I must admit, I could get used to first class.
The flight attendants call me Mr. Bass and treat me like I’m the president.
There’s a car with tinted windows waiting for us in Tampa Bay, like we’re movie stars, and it takes us directly to Ken Humes’s mansion. That’s exactly what it is too, a mansion. A huge white home with palm trees growing on the front lawn and white columns.
Columns.
“You used to live here?” Tommy asks.
“Unfortunately,” Portia says.
“Why would you ever leave?” Tommy says, and I’m thinking the same thing. I’ve never even been inside a house this nice, and I will never ever own one, no matter how hard I work and how much I save. I could teach for two hundred years and still not be able to put a down payment on this sort of place, let alone afford the mortgage. Hell, I’d never be able to afford the electric bill.
When Ken and Julie answer the door, they are dressed in expensive-looking casual clothes—he’s in boat shoes, khakis, and one of those Cuban-looking cigar maker’s shirts, and she’s wearing this sheer white dress and gold sandals. I can feel Portia bristling and worry that her claws might come out before we even enter.
“Welcome, friends,” Ken says.
“Yes, welcome,” Julie echoes.
The age difference between them is striking, although it’s clear that Ken is the type of man everyone is attracted to. Money and looks. Must be nice.
I can see the muscles in Portia’s body tensing.
“Hello, young man!” Ken says to Tommy.
“Yo,” Tommy says, doing his best Rocky.
“Come inside,” Julie says, and then we are sitting on a huge L-shaped white couch that is softer and more comfortable than anything I have ever slept in, let alone sat on.
“Can I offer anyone any juice, water, seltzer?” Julie says.
“How about some wine?” Portia says.
Julie and Ken look at each other, smile, and then Ken says, “We don’t drink alcohol here.”
“What?” Portia says. “The hell you don’t. You have a fully stocked wine cellar collectively worth more than most men make in ten years.”
I can’t help thinking that I am most men.
“I’ll have juice,” Tommy says.
“What kind?” Julie says. “We have carrot, kiwi, pineapple, coconut-lime, and pomegranate.”
Tommy makes wide eyes at me because he’s never had any of those, and Portia says, “We’ll all have the pineapple.”
“Excellent!” Julie says and then heads for the kitchen.
“You seriously don’t drink anymore?” Portia says to Ken.
“My drinking and smoking days are behind me,” he says.
“You don’t smoke cigars either?”
“Well, someone ruined my supply—destroyed my humidor too.”
“I’m not sorry,” Portia says. “What did you do with the wine collection?”
“Donated it. To the church. They had an auction.”
“St. Mark’s?” Portia says.
“There’s a new priest there. Father Martin. He and I have become good friends. He’s my spiritual adviser. He’s been counseling me on that addiction problem I had.” He raises his hand to his mouth so Tommy won’t see, mouths Sex addiction to me, and then says, “Best to be honest about it with other adults. Honesty is the path to freedom.” To Portia he says, “I’ve been working on myself. I’m serious this time. Julie and I have been working together. When you pointed my own gun at me”—Ken glances over at Tommy here—“and how you left, well, it had a profound impact. It changed my life.”
Julie returns with a silver tray and five highball glasses filled with pineapple juice. “Father Martin calls Ken King David. Says God’s called him to a new life. He says I am Ken’s Bathsheba—that our pairing came of sin, but that we will redeem ourselves. So we will serve in the fields of the Lord. Here, have some juice.”
Tommy is staring hard at his sneakers.
I can tell Portia is baffled.
This is beyond weird for me.
So we all take a glass and sip.
“So you’re a religious man now?” I ask, when the silence gets uncomfortable.
“In some ways, I always was, but that’s exactly what this is all about,” Ken says. “Atoning for our sins. We want to make sure your family is taken care of, finalize the divorce, marry ourselves, and then Julie and I are headed for Honduras, where we will do missionary work. We’re going to build a school for kids who don’t have one. Father Martin set the whole thing up. We’re funding it, but we’re actually going to help build it too.”
“You’re going to build a school? You—Ken Humes?” Portia says. “Have you even held a hammer in your hand before?”
“I know it sounds crazy, right?” Ken says, and there is no ill will in his voice. He really does seem to be a man at peace. “But Portia, the me you knew—that was the old me. I’m trying to be the new me now.”
Julie takes Ken’s hand in hers and holds it on her
lap like a small puppy.
“God is all-powerful,” Ken says. “And He has provided us with a mission—”
“Bullshit,” Portia says. “You are a disgusting pig who exploited young women”—she points to Julie—“continues to exploit young women for your own gain so that—”
“I am not being exploited,” Julie says. “Quite the contrary. You haven’t been here for the past year. Ken has made radical changes in his life. The amount of charity he’s already done would—”
“It’s okay, Julie.” Ken pats her hand. “Portia has a right to feel angry—she experienced the old Ken, who was all that she says he was. I’m sorry I was the old Ken when you were with me, Portia. I am truly sorry. But I am no longer that man.”
“This is infuriating!” Portia says. “You were hideous to me. You cheated on me multiple times and insisted on making the basest, most sexist films, no matter how many times I talked about making films for women too. But there was no money in that, right? It was easier to exploit teenage girls who were looking for attention. Oh, how you belittled my ambitions—systematically made sure I always felt dumb and worthless. And now you ‘find God’ and think you can wash your soul clean with money—don’t you see why that would infuriate everyone who intimately knew the ‘old Ken’?”
He nods. “I do. But if you did not stand with me on the road to Damascus when God struck me down and forced me to see what I had not seen before, how could you—”
“You are not St. Fucking Paul, Ken!” Portia yells.
Tommy moves a little closer to me.
“No, I’m not,” Ken says. “I am just a man who has a choice. And I am choosing to build a school for children who have no school. I am choosing to take care of you financially. And I am choosing to marry the woman who inspired my transformation.”
Julie squeezes Ken’s hand, and they gaze into each other’s eyes lovingly.
“This is really bullshit,” Portia says. “Such a fucking joke.”
Julie glances over at Tommy and whispers, “The child.”
“Oh, please. The last time I saw you, you were humping my husband in my own bed.”
“Okay,” I finally say. “Maybe Tommy and I will take a walk outside.”