Museum pieces, Jack thinks.
'Say hello to Mr. Wade,' Mother tells them.
They mumble a hello and Jack feels embarrassed that they even have to say hello to a stranger on the same day their mother dies. All he can think of to say is, 'I brought Leo. He's fine.'
The kids start to smile and then stop.
Jack adds, 'He's outside.'
They don't move.
Not a muscle, not an inch.
And it isn't Daddy's hands on their shoulders. Jack sees. It's Grandma's eyes.
They are Doing What's Expected, Jack thinks.
Except it isn't what I'd expect. I'd expect them to go tearing out that door to go hug and kiss and make a big deal over that little dog.
But they're as still as statues.
'We're having tea,' Mrs. Valeshin says. 'Tea for the adults, lemonade for the children.'
She gets up and comes back a minute later with a tray. A pitcher of iced tea, another of lemonade, and five glasses. She sets the tray on the coffee table, pours the glasses, and sits back down.
Natalie and Michael sit next to Jack on the sofa. He notices that they're doing the same thing he's doing, sitting on the very edge of the cushion, their butts barely touching the fabric.
Looking straight ahead.
The tea is sweet, Jack notices. Strong and sugary.
And they all sit in silence. Like it's some sort of weird summer sacrament, Jack thinks. The First Sip, or something.
Until Mrs. Valeshin says, 'I'm raising your rent, Daz.'
Like it's some wonderful joke.
'Oh, Mother.'
'Well,' she says, 'why should the insurance company get off lightly? Right, Mr. Wade?'
'We pay what we owe, Mrs. Valeshin.'
'And what company are you with?'
'California Fire and Life.'
'Perhaps I should consider switching to you,' she says. 'I'm with Chubb now.'
'They're a fine company,' Jack says.
He imagines trying to adjust a claim in this house and decides he'd rather spoon a can of Drano down his throat.
Then Michael spills his lemonade.
Lifts the glass and just misses his mouth, and the lemonade goes down his shirt, his shorts, and onto the sofa. Nicky yells, 'Michael!' and the boy drops his glass on the carpet.
Pandemonium.
Cool Nicky loses it.
Totally.
He screams at Michael, You stupid boy! Michael sits there, paralyzed, in a pool of lemonade, while Natalie laughs hysterically. Shut up! Nicky screeches at her. Raises his hand and the girl stops laughing.
Mother yells, Resolve! and it takes Jack a second to realize she's talking about carpet cleaner, not some moral exhortation, then she and Nicky hustle into the kitchen. Yelling at each other like the house is on fire. Jack thinks, then feels bad because it's a poor choice of words.
Michael gets up, walks to one of the wingback chairs, bends straight over at the waist and starts to sob.
Jack doesn't know what the hell to do, then he sets down his papers and goes to the boy.
Jack picks him and holds him.
Michael sobs against his chest and holds him tight.
'Next time?' Jack says to him. 'Ask for grape juice.'
Natalie looks up at Jack and says, 'Daddy says Mommy is all… burned… up.'
In a singsong voice.
All burned up.
23
Hector Ruiz has done this a couple of dozen times, so it's no big deal.
Another day at the office.
He's driving an Aerostar van with six people in the back, following Martin up the Grand Avenue entrance ramp onto the 110. He checks his rearview mirror. Octavio's right behind him — smack where he's supposed to be — in a shit-brown '89 Skylark, which is good because Octavio is the crucial dude in this gig.
Octavio fucks up, it could get ugly.
But Octavio, he don't fuck up.
Octavio is a player.
So is Jimmy Dansky, who for an Anglo anyway is pretty trustworthy. Dansky's cruising — or better be, anyway, in the right-hand lane on the 110 South — in a black '95 Camaro, and Dansky is one terrific driver, which is a happy thing because the timing on this is tricky.
Hector checks his speedometer and eases it down to thirty.
Sees Martin kick up his Toyota Corolla to hit the highway.
Just as Dansky's Camaro swerves right, into the entrance lane.
Dansky hits the horn.
Martin slams on the brakes.
Hector stands on his own brakes, cranks the wheel to the right, and just nicks Martin's right rear bumper.
Looks into his rearview and here comes Octavio.
Brakes squealing.
And BAM.
Octavio's so good, man.
Octavio is the only dude Hector ever wants to make his play with, man, because Octavio makes this sound like the big bang but only hits them at about ten miles per hour. Octavio leaves skid marks like an F-16 landing on a flight deck but the impact is like, minimal.
Like, I've been kissed harder.
The two cars look like shit, though. This is because Hector and Octavio smacked the bumpers up pretty good in the garage before putting them back on the cars. Matched the paint jobs and everything, but then again, they're pros.
Hector hollers into the back, 'It's showtime!'
Hector slides out of the car, starts screaming in Spanish at Octavio, who's screaming back. Six dudes from Sinaloa in the back of the Aerostar moaning, Oh my neck, Oh my back, Oh my neck.
Doctor will diagnose soft tissue injuries and treat them for months. Refer them to physical therapy, man, and bill for ultrasound and massage and chiropractic sessions and all that shit that never happens except on paper.
Hector yells at Octavio, 'You better be insured, man!'
'I'm insured!' Octavio yells back.
'Who's your insurance company?!'
Octavio whips out his insurance card.
Like American Express, only better, because you don't have to pay the bill.
'California Fire and Life!' Octavio yells.
Just like they've done it a couple of dozen times before.
Just another day at the office.
