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“Simply put, even paranoids have enemies. In his mind he’s telling the truth, and I don’t believe him.”
She spins her car keys and laughs as we climb into her lime green Subaru. “Do you?”
Ruby got her master’s this year and just started with me at the clinic. She’s assisting while she waits for her licensing exam, sitting in with certain patients, and slowly building her practice.
“The Watergate conspiracy is a framework he uses to protect himself against unpleasant confrontations.”
“So you don’t believe him.”
“I don’t believe Mrs. Green is stealing yard ornaments and fitting them with government surveillance chips.” My eyes drift out the window.
We pass Mack’s garage with the closed sign still firmly in place. Mack left two years ago to stay with his sister in Delaware. She’d fallen ill and had no one to take care of her. He went and never came back.
Another ghost.
“I heard he died,” my friend says as if reading my mind.
“What?”
“Mack. My mom read about it in the newspaper. Last month or something. I meant to tell you.”
“Your mom is the only person in America who still reads the newspaper.” The houses grow larger as we approach my parents’ place. “Did it list his survivors?”
“Don’t know.” We’re quiet a moment, and I know she knows what I’m thinking. Besides the sister, Gray was Mack’s only relative as far as we know. “So Mrs. Green stole my Dachshund sculpture? That ole klepto better bring him back. I miss my wiener.”
She stops in the circle driveway of our enormous redbrick home with the massive white front entrance. Good thing it’s mostly brick to hide how badly it’s in need of repairs.
“Sounds to me like you get plenty of wiener.” I grab my case and purse.
“Jealous much? I’ve tried to get you in on the game, but you won’t play.”
“No thanks. See you in the morning.” I close the car door and step back as she zips out of the driveway, always going too fast for this neighborhood.
Walking slowly up the long side drive that leads to the back, I pause at the garage where the old Jaguar is covered in a thick canvass tarp. It hasn’t been driven in years. I’d sell it and buy something more practical, but I’m pretty sure that would be the final nail for my dad.
I leave my bag and coat on the hook at the back door and take the narrow hallway that leads into the gourmet kitchen. It opens to a large living area with dark wood floors and white, wainscoted walls. The furniture is neat and the pillows are fluffed on the window seat. The fireplace is dark and empty, and the large flat screen television is black. No sign of life down here.
When I was a little girl we had housekeepers, but my dad’s continued drinking and failure to return to work burned through all the money to pay them. Now it’s just him and me.
My job keeps us fed and clothed and the lights turned on, and I spot-clean on the weekends. It helps that he hardly leaves his room, and I’m a relatively neat person.
Climbing the wooden stairs, I tap lightly on the oversized door leading to his study. He sits in a leather armchair looking out a massive window over the field behind our home. Off to the left is the fence separating our land from the creek where we used to play. It’s the same one I sneaked away to when I met Gray for the first time, years ago.
“Hey, Dad, I’m home.” I walk slowly to where he sits, holding an empty highball glass in his hand.
The ice cubes are still formed, but the whiskey is gone.
“Hm?” He stirs, looking up at me. “Good evening, Andrea.”
His words are slurry, and I know he’s more than half way to drunk.
“Have you eaten today?” I take the glass from his hand and set it on the side table. His blond hair has turned silver, and his blue eyes are lined and world weary. He’s a shell of the person he was when I was a child. Or maybe everything just seemed bigger back then.
“I’m tired. I’m going to lie down.”
“Did you go to your meeting?” After I got my degree, I thought it would make him listen to me more about attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, going to counseling sessions, taking control of his life.
It didn’t.
