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He glowers and takes a vicious bite of a lemon macaron. Light yellow pieces of pastry crack and shower onto his shirt. Mom glowers as he brushes them to the floor. I restart.
“Uh. Well. Hayden is working to undermine me. Being away won’t affect my work, but he can ingratiate himself with the partners. And he’s already been golfing and sailing with Greenberg,” I end on a wail.
“What about your mentor—Rochelle, Rachel?” Mom can never remember her name.
“Rebecca’s handling Greenberg’s case, and Hayden and I are assisting. She’s great, Mom. Definitely on my side. But I’m not sure she can bring any of the other partners with her.
The light of battle shines out of Dad’s greenish eyes. “A bunch of old white men.”
I swallow an involuntary giggle as I look at him. The personification of older and white, although he has nothing else in common with the firm’s partners.
“It’s not the right place for you. Come work at Advancing the Common Good. Let your social conscience run free.”
What the… I know my parents wish I didn’t work for a big-deal Loop law firm. A perception I sold out their principles colors every conversation. Their disappointment I’m not being the social activist they brought me up to be pervades our whole relationship. Even lots of pro bono cases never seem enough. Years of weighty judgments press down on me.
All this subtext is one reason I don’t come home that often. I miss the free and easy days of my childhood when everything I did was golden. Before the wrong turns and bad choices, as Dad never tires of telling me.
I hold up a hand to forestall the offer I can see is bubbling on Dad’s lips. “Tempting, but I don’t think I want to work for my dad. Right now, my best option is to do stellar work and make myself indispensable.”
“So, what advice do you want, then?” Dad looks primed to give me his opinion, whether I still want it.
“I appreciate the advice you’ve already given me. I think talking it out has clarified what I need to do.” I struggle to my feet, planning to put my cup in the sink and take off.
“Where are you going?” Mom asks.
“Home. I need to pack. Thanks for the treats.”
“You’re not leaving for a few days. Stay for dinner. You’ll have plenty of time after that.” We jump at an explosive noise outside. Too loud for a car backfiring.
“Damn kids. Parents probably drove them over the border to buy fireworks.” Dad charges toward the front of the house.
Mom runs after him, mumbling, “A little early? It’s months until the Fourth of July.”
“They don’t care. Just like making noise and scaring the hell out of everyone.” Dad skids to a stop, if you can skid on carpeting. Growls. “What the fuck?”
Fireworks are not the problem. The haze in the air as we tumble into the living room clouds the picture window. The couch smolders yellow, the chemical reek of burning polyurethane foam signals the release of a toxic stew.
I peer through obscuring smoke. A movement catches my eye, and my mouth drops open. A flameproof suit lies discarded on the lawn and a bulky figure in overalls disappears into the neighbor’s backyard.
Dad herds us back to the porch and out the back. “Go outside. I’ll find the fire extinguisher.”
“Too late for that,” I pant, then grab his arm, pulling him out the door.
As we round the house and head for the street, he pulls away and dials 911, staying on with the operator. He mouths that police and fire departments have already been alerted and are about five minutes away. I run over to the SUV to check on Liam, and see the windshield in shards, Liam slumped over the steering wheel. Then I glance around in case Sam has doubled back and is lying in wait. My imagination in overdrive, I seem to hear laughter in the wind, but no sign of my persecutor. When I pull open the door, Liam has his hands over his ears, moaning.
“Liam.” He doesn’t respond. Shaking his arm, I yell, “Liam.” He jerks away, but the reaction seems to be from my pressure on his arm, not because he’s heard me. When I finally catch his eye, I point toward the house and, even though he’s shaky and unbalanced, he pulls himself out of the door. He tries to totter toward my parents, surrounded by neighbors, but ends up slumped against the truck. I can see flames shooting through the roof. We’ve moved into conflagration territory.
Mom is being comforted by a few of her neighborhood friends. She moans, trembling, arms wrapped tight around herself.
“Thank God everyone is okay. But I wish the damn explosive had blown up in his face..”
Startled, I stare at her. The venom is so unlike my kind, forgiving mother.
Turning her tear-streaked face to me, she scolds, “I told you Sam was bad news years ago. You wouldn’t listen.”
“I never thought he’d try to blow up the house,” I whine.Shit, I sound like a sulky teenager.
Liam, still shaky, leans against the car, putting his fingers against his ears, trying to clear them.
