“I know.”
Daphne blinked. Tippy was eerily calm.
“I know what’s in them. I’m going out and getting three of them, all for me, and then I’m going to find someplace to watch the game while I eat them by myself.”
Her nostrils were growing larger by the second, and her chin hung an inch above her clavicle.
“I don’t know when I’ll be home. Good night.”
Tippy grabbed his keys off the counter, walked so quietly to the door that she couldn’t hear footsteps, and left.
CHAPTER 19
BUTCH
“TIPPY? What are you doing here?”
Tippy held up a sack of fried chicken, grease seeping through the paper sack by the second. Butch couldn’t see the chicken, but he would know that smell anywhere.
“I brought chicken. It was going to be hot dogs, but now I know too much about them and I couldn’t bring myself to . . . so I just got fried chicken. Thought Ava might like that too.”
“Why? You don’t look good. What’s the matter?” Butch stepped aside and Tippy walked in.
Ava, who was on the couch drawing, jumped up. “Tippy!”
“Hi, Ava. Have you eaten? I bought you guys some fried chicken.”
Butch smiled, watching Ava’s eyes grow large. That’s exactly how he felt. Why had they been so stuck on pizza? Why hadn’t he thought of fried chicken once in a while?
“Ava, grab some paper plates!” Butch said, ushering Tippy toward the couch.
But Ava just stood there, arms by her sides, her attention off the chicken and on Butch.
“What?”
“You’re going to eat that?” Ava asked, one arm floppily gesturing toward the sack.
“Of course I’m going to eat it.”
“We’re not allowed to have fried chicken.” Now her arms were crossed.
Tippy glanced at Butch. “Oh, uh . . . sorry . . . ?”
“What are you talking about?” Butch asked. He didn’t like her tone.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t know what we’re talking about,” Tippy said.
“Mom didn’t let us have fried chicken,” Ava said. “She said it was bad for our health. Very bad. Mom told me that she made you give it up when you two got married and she saw your cholesterol numbers.”
Butch tried to halt the exasperated sigh that wanted to escape like a gale-force wind. “Look, Ava, Tippy was nice enough to bring this over. We’re not going to be rude. Besides, what’s the difference? We’ve been eating pizza every night.”
“Pizza is different. Mom let us have pizza. That’s because it has vegetables and cheese.” Her eyes narrowed like this was some kind of standoff.
Butch put his hands on his hips. “We’re having fried chicken and that’s the end of it.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. Her mouth pinched closed just like Jenny’s used to do when she was mad. “You’re breaking all of Mommy’s rules.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Mommy hated paper plates. She hated eating in front of the TV. And now you’re going to eat fried chicken?”
“I think Mommy would understand.”
“No! You’re doing everything wrong!”
“Ava . . .”
“You’re doing everything wrong because you’re mad at her for dying!”
“Ava, stop this right now.”
“Ever since she died, you’re breaking all the rules.” Tears streamed down her face, and her cheeks brightened with rage.
“You’re being irrational. Tippy just brought us dinner. What’s so bad about that?”
“I hate you!”
“Ava!”
“I’m not eating that. And neither should you.” Ava stomped down the hallway.
“Oh yeah? Well, I’m eating it! And yours, too! And you know what? I ate fried chicken every second Thursday of the month with the guys at the construction site. And your mom never knew about it. So how’s that?”
Ava’s bedroom door slammed.
Butch put his face in his hands, trying to keep from screaming even more ridiculous taunts at his eight-year-old.
“Dude, I’m sorry . . .” Tippy started for the door, clutching the bag of chicken.
“Tippy, no, please. Stay. It’s fine. It was really nice of you. Ava’s just having a moment. And to tell you the truth, I desperately need fried chicken. The thought of eating pizza again makes me want to barf.”
Tippy walked to the couch and set the bag down. Butch handed him a paper plate, which felt heavy with the weight of guilt. It was true—Jenny hated paper plates. She never allowed dinner in front of the TV. Butch wasn’t purposely being defiant. But he also didn’t know how to make lasagna. And he hated washing dishes. And he couldn’t carry a conversation with his daughter for an entire meal. So this was what it was.
“So . . . you just decided to bring us fried chicken?”
Tippy stared at the TV. “Daphne and I had a fight. I guess there’s something in the air tonight.”
“Oh, man. Sorry. Want to talk about it?”
Tippy shrugged. “I knew having a kid would be hard, you know? I watched you, my other friends. But I didn’t get that it was going to be hard before the kid ever got here.” His fingertips shone with grease as he scratched his temple. “And I’m consumed with guilt in the weirdest of ways. I told Daphne I was going to get hot dogs. I knew she was mad about that. So what do I do? I pass the hot dog stand and go get fried chicken. Now I’m the one acting weird.”
“What’s wrong with hot dogs?”
“Preservatives. Plus I was a jerk about it, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to enjoy them. But I’m telling you, Butch, Daphne is losing her mind. And I don’t think I can take it anymore. We fit so well together until now.” Tippy glanced at Butch. “I know you think I’m crazy, but next time you go by the office to drop off the books, just say the word baby and see what happens.”
Butch stared at the chicken on his plate, trying not to be haunted by Jenny’s explanation of how arteries begin clogging as early as childhood. “I wish I could say it gets better, but it doesn’t. Not really. But it turns out you’re going to love this kid and so it’s okay.” He looked up, trying to hold the tears at bay.
Tippy set his plate down. “Butch, I’m sorry. I’m such a moron. How could I talk to you about this? I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
“Just forget you saw that. You can talk to me.”
The two were quiet for a moment, with Butch hating that grief never bothered to knock—it just barged its way in anytime it wanted to.
“I was thinking of talking to Jenny’s sister,” Tippy said after a few minutes.
“Beth?”
“Yeah. They all scrapbook together. I thought maybe she could talk to Daphne, get her straightened out.”
“Uh, well . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t know if Beth is in a position to help.” Butch reached to the coffee table and picked up the business card Beth had dropped off an hour before Tippy arrived. “She gave me this,” he said, handing it to Tippy. “Said I should think about it, and then she rambled about omelets and time passing by and pizza. I don’t know. She didn’t seem like she was in a good place, although she claims that I’m the one who isn’t.”
Tippy held the card in the light. “‘Dr. Terry Reynolds, counselor.’” He laughed, grabbing a drumstick off his plate. “Really? She wants you to go see a counselor?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Are you?”
“What good is that going to do me? Jenny’s gone. That’s not going to change.”
Tippy was chewing on his chicken leg, still eyeing the card. He flipped it to its back, then to its front. “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
“What if I sent Daphne to this guy?”
Butch gave him the sideways glance of all sideways glances. “Tippy. Really. Surely you’ve learned the death knell to a marriage is suggesting the ot
her person needs help. I mean, what are you going to say? ‘Daphne, you’re whacked-out. Go get some help.’”
“I wouldn’t say ‘whacked-out.’ I’d use a way more clinical word, like psychotic.”
“Oh yeah. That would really work.”
Tippy still held the card as he finished the chicken, all the way to the bone. Butch did the same, listening for any signs that Ava had forgiven him and was coming out of her room. But the only sounds were the TV and Tippy licking his fingers, suddenly engrossed in the baking show that was on.
“I’ve got an idea,” Tippy said finally.
“That’s when things go really wrong.”
“Hear me out.” Tippy slapped the card down on the table. “We go see this guy.”
“You think Daphne will agree to it?”
“Not me and Daphne. You and me.”
“What?”
“Come on. It’ll be cheaper. We’ll split the difference. I don’t need a whole hour and neither do you. We can just pick this guy’s brain, you know? He can help us figure out how to fix the ladies in our lives.” He glanced toward the hallway.
“Ava doesn’t need fixing, Tippy. She’s just grieving.”
“Yeah, but do you know how to help her?”
Butch sighed. No, he didn’t. He figured time would help. But then again, he couldn’t have predicted a meltdown over fried chicken. “It would seem weird for both of us to go together.”
“Look, we’re in there, we’ve got each other’s backs, right? If anything weird starts happening, we bolt.”
“That’s the thing. I think we’re going to be the weird part.”
“I’m desperate, man. Somebody’s gotta help me figure out what to do with Daphne. She’s got to get herself together before this baby comes.”
Butch stared down at the greasy chicken thigh hovering over his lap. It had been so long since he’d smelled this much grease in one place. Maybe it was that brief euphoria that caused his common sense to lapse, but before he knew it, he’d agreed to accompany Tippy—only for “moral support.” Tippy would make all the arrangements.
When Tippy left, Butch went in to make things right with Ava, but he realized as he cracked her bedroom door open that she’d gone to bed without saying good night.
He walked to the living room and sat down. On his knees, where the paper plate had been minutes before, was a large, circular grease stain.
CHAPTER 20
CHARLES
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, Charles thought, the dinner had gone smoothly. Franklin Hollingsworth did not seem to be much of a talker. His wife, Kristyn, carried most of the conversation, though she would toss out a question for Franklin here and there. Franklin answered carefully, contemplating his words before he spoke. Charles took note of this. He liked how Franklin insisted on taking his time to answer. It gave him an air of authority, as if he knew everyone would simply sit and wait. Charles was a fast talker, he realized, jumping in to answer before a question was fully asked. It caused him to look too eager. This was to be the first thing he’d adjust.
They dined in a room that literally looked fit for a king, as if they’d risen to nobility on the drive over to the house. The walls were papered from top to bottom in scenes of days long gone. The flatware was silver. The china, bone white. Everything sparkled under a chandelier so massive that if it suddenly dropped, the people on the other side of the world might see it come out of the ground.
Charles enjoyed watching Helen here. She observed everything, from how the flowers were arranged to the intricate detail of the plates they used. Helen had decided against the diamond necklace at the last minute and now touched her pearls often—he knew what they reminded her of, and it was sometimes a good way to tell if she was feeling insecure. He noticed it mostly when she accompanied him to important business dinners or banquets or whatnot. As Kristyn, who looked two decades younger than Franklin Hollingsworth, described the process she and her husband went through to build their home, Helen momentarily stopped fiddling with the pearls.
That left Charles free to engage Franklin in conversation. As he thought of another topic to bring up, Charles became distracted by his own reflection on the shiny, buffed table at which they ate. The butler, or whatever he was, had just cleared the dessert plates and Charles saw himself. What he wouldn’t give to be able to have this kind of wealth and security, for himself, for Helen, for their kids. How many business dinners could he have around a table like this? How much wealth could be acquired by serving a future business partner the kind of meal they’d been served tonight?
Charles had noticed as they made their way through the five-course meal that Franklin seemed particularly uninterested in his food. He’d take a few bites of this and that, but mostly his dinner remained untouched. Charles thought he must eat like this every night. It was just like any other meal.
“Everything was so lovely,” Helen said, smiling at Kristyn. “The china is gorgeous. What kind is it?”
“It’s from the Royal Doulton collection.”
“Oh. I see.” Helen’s finger traced the rim of the plate. “I didn’t realize it was a brand name. We have some handcrafted china that looks a bit like this.”
Kristyn raised an eyebrow. “Yes, well, I didn’t feel the need to bring out the priceless china for this particular occasion.”
There was an awkward pause, Helen’s eyes growing with each passing second. It seemed she was about to strangle herself with her pearls, so Charles jumped in to fill the silence.
“You know, Mr. Hollingsworth, I was a bit surprised when you invited us over. It was quite an honor.”
“I invite many up-and-comers to my house,” Franklin said in a warbled voice that seemed too old for his age. “I’ve done my research on you. You have a brilliant mind.”
Charles felt like he’d just been infused with hope and glee.
“And I decided long ago that I should never feel threatened by young talents like yourself. Instead I should work together with them. Putting aside competitiveness often leads to remarkable achievements.” His finger was up, lecturing the air.
Charles nodded and smiled. “Oh, I agree. And I would be thrilled to work with you in any endeavor.”
“Good to know,” Franklin said, but his mind seemed to wander off again.
“Coffee?” Kristyn asked.
“I’d love some,” Helen said.
Franklin, though, rose. “Charles and I are going to the study. You ladies occupy yourselves with whatever women do after dinner.”
Kristyn’s eyes flickered with the slightest bit of hurt, but she maintained a proper smile. “I’m going to show Helen around the house,” she said.
Charles grinned as the ladies left. Helen glanced over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling like the chandelier under which she passed.
“This way,” Franklin said, leading the way out the opposite side of the dining room. Charles followed closely behind, noticing the slight hunch Franklin carried. He couldn’t have been over sixty. His hair was like a seashell, white and fanned out over his skull. He didn’t look all that aged in the face, except maybe his eyes, which appeared dull in even the most well-lit room.
Down a long hallway, dark even though it was lit, was Franklin’s office. Charles marveled as they entered. A variety of clocks hung on each stately wall. There were clocks on his desk, too. Charles took a mental note of the collection. That would be a good Christmas gift.
The office was enormous, sporting its own library off to one side and a grand view of the pool and the golf course beyond. Charles stepped toward the window and felt the breath leave him as he imagined himself here, in this office, in that pool, after a day on that golf course. As he turned, he glimpsed a racket sitting in the corner, rather lonely-looking.
Franklin sat in his chair. It creaked like it suffered from old age.
Charles made his way toward the chair opposite the desk. “Do you play racquetball, sir?”
“On occasion.” He folded his ha
nds over his belly and said nothing more.
“I love the game.” It had been years, actually, but he could brush up on it. “Maybe we could play sometime.” Charles widened his smile.
“That doesn’t seem real likely, now does it?”
“Well, um . . . I . . .”
“Have a seat, Charles.” Franklin’s tone had lost any hint of warmth.
Charles dutifully sat, his knees pressed together, his back straight, his hands clutching the tops of his slacks.
“I didn’t invite you here to be my friend. I have too many friends already.”
“Okay.” Charles felt like a small schoolboy at the principal’s office.
“Most of them are just waiting for me to die to see if they’re going to rank high enough to make the will.”
“I see . . .” Charles didn’t see, really. He couldn’t imagine where this conversation was leading. He searched Franklin’s face, his expression, his eyes, trying to figure out what he should say to the man.
Charles had come to admire Franklin Hollingsworth over the years, from a distance, of course. He was a legend around their town, their very own Warren Buffett. Charles had met him briefly at a few charity events and such. Although shorter than Charles, he always had a towering presence. Now, though, he looked shrunken in his leather chair, like it was eating him alive. And though he talked about friendship, there didn’t seem to be a lonelier man around.
Franklin glanced out the window behind him. The sun was setting now, casting long shadows past the golf flags at both of the two holes that could be seen from this window.
“Imagine that. Someone plays a couple of rounds of golf with me and has the gall to think they’ll share in my inheritance because of it.”
Alarm prickled Charles’s neck. “Sir, that wasn’t my—”
Franklin waved his hand in the air. “I know it wasn’t.” With a long sigh that seemed to deflate him even more, Franklin placed his hands on his desk and forced the shortest and saddest of smiles. “Let’s talk possibilities, Charles.”
“I would love to.” Charles’s own smile had some trouble getting out. He didn’t want to seem too eager. Too excited. Too greedy. Although the word was right—possibilities—the mood didn’t seem right.