Disintegration

'That damned fire chief-'

'I'm sure you're aware anytime there's even the smallest doubt, we have to be a little more careful.' Jones leaned forward. 'Please don't take it personally, Jacob. Nobody's saying the fire was deliberately set. But the paperwork has to go through clean.'

Jacob's breath was rapid, the air in the room suddenly too thin. Blood rushed to his face. His side ached. He spoke through clenched teeth. 'My daughter died in that fire.'

Jones glanced at a framed family portrait that showed his own three daughters wearing curls, ribbons, and smiles. 'I appreciate the depth of your tragedy, Jacob. My Anne was on Mattie's soccer team, remember? I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through.'

Jones's steady tone was infuriating. Jacob slipped a trembling hand into his pocket, touched the cool metal flask. If only he could take a drink, he'd be able to handle this. 'I've talked with the fire chief. She said there were some loose ends but nothing that would lead her to call in the State Bureau of Investigation.'

'She still hasn't filed a final report and it's been nearly three months. I'm afraid I can't make any more disbursements until the official determination is made. Your wife received the short-term settlement to cover temporary living expenses, but that's all we can do right now. Believe me, as soon as I get the nod from corporate, I'll deliver the check to you personally.'

Jacob didn't tell Jones he'd only seen Renee once since his release from the hospital. That encounter had been an accident. He was at the bank withdrawing a hundred dollars from their joint savings account when the teller signaled the manager. Renee was in an upstairs office that overlooked the bank's lobby, talking to someone whose suit looked as crisp as new bills. She saw Jacob through the glass walls and mouthed his name, then ran for the office door and downstairs.

He ducked outside before she could catch him. The hedges and shrubs had become his ally, his natural environment, and he'd moved among them until he was several businesses away from the bank. She finally gave up the search. He waited until she finished her dealings and watched her drive away. Jacob had put that day's expenses, for liquor and a motel room, on his credit card instead of paying cash. Prior success had given him one clear benefit in his new life: he had a $50,000 limit on his platinum VISA.

'The house was valued at three quarters of a million,' Jacob said. 'A lot of custom woodwork. And contents were insured for another quarter million.'

'Please, Jacob. We go way back. Don't make this more difficult than it already is.'

'It's not difficult at all. You bury your kids and that's that. No more crying over spilled milk. Fold the tent and move on.'

'Jacob.'

Jacob pressed the bottoms of his fists against the top of Jones's polished desk. 'You shook my hand at those Chamber dinners, pushed through the paperwork so my developments were covered, cashed my premiums like clockwork. Now when I need you, you've turned into a goddamned machine.'

'Check your policy. No one's accusing you of negligence, but the fire could have had any number of causes, some that might not be covered. And, if you don't mind a little advice from a friend, clean up the drinking. That's not helping. If corporate sends in some investigators, that's the first thing they'll jump on.'

Jacob stood and reached for the ornately carved business card dispenser that had two brass pens protruding from it. He yanked one of the pens from its sheath and pointed it at Jones. 'See if I ever write you another goddamned check.'

Jones stood, too, six feet three and outweighing Jacob by fifty pounds. 'I knew your daddy, Jacob. A fine man. I see some of him in you. I watched you come along and get your foot in the door, and you were ready to really make something of yourself. You don't know how proud he was when he learned you wanted to take up the business. But it's getting lost in this mess you're making.'

Daddy. That was the last person Jacob wanted to think about. Daddy had been cut from solid Republican cloth, as sentimental as a brick. Jacob always wanted to be better than him in some way, whether it was spiritual or psychological, but instead had ended up competing with the old man's memory on the playing field of commerce, where the game always favored the unimaginative and the sociopathic. Whenever Jacob looked in the mirror, he saw some of the old bastard looking back at him.

And Joshua. Except Joshua was always smirking.

But he could muster no more rage, not at Daddy, not at Joshua, and not at Rayburn Jones. His heart, the last little bit that wasn't completely dead, was still full of Mattie. He cherished the pain and let it nourish him in the dark hollow of his soul. The pain was a furnace that consumed the alcohol and ambition and even the anger. The pain was his comfort, the suffering a twisted blessing that dragged him through the days, his closest companion.

He felt a hundred years old. He'd lost everything and only money could make it better. Only money could make the problem go away. 'Sorry, Ray. I just can't think straight anymore.'

Jones moved around the desk and put a hand on Jacob's shoulder. It was a condescending gesture, but was also Jacob's first human contact since leaving the hospital, not counting the bartender's touching his palm while returning change.

'Do yourself a favor, Jacob. Get some help. See somebody.' Jones looked through the office door to make sure none of the other agents were eavesdropping. 'It's hard as hell when you're a man. Nobody will let you cry, and you can't let yourself do it even when you're alone.'

'She was all I had left, Ray.' Jacob choked down a sob, knew he would sound like a blubbering drunk if he let himself slip and break.

Rayburn Jones patted him on the back, cool and manly. 'No. You've got Renee, and you've got the rest of your life. What would Mattie think if she saw you like this?'

Jacob rolled his eyes heavenward. In the blur of tears, the ceiling tiles could have been the thick, white cotton of holy clouds. But he couldn't see Mattie's face. If she were up there, she was just as far from him as ever.

She couldn't forgive him because she wasn't here anymore.

Anger drove the moistness from his eyes. 'Sorry I lost my temper, Ray. I know it's not your fault. You've got procedures to follow.'

Jones gave a grim smile. 'Hang in there. You've got some savings, don't you?'

'Yeah. Thanks, Ray. I'll check back soon.' Jacob wasn't going to tell him about the million-dollar policy on Mattie, eight hundred thousand of that for accidental death. The policy was made under Renee's name through another insurance agent. He didn't know if she'd filed the claim yet. The Wells financial philosophy had been to have all developments and properties appraised for as large an amount as possible, borrow as much against them as the banks allowed, and over-insure everything.

As Rayburn Jones had once told Jacob, you didn't buy insurance because you expected to collect. You certainly didn't bet the life of your loved ones. But in the final amortization of things, tragedy was just another wise investment. The safe play.

Insurance agents and undertakers took their pounds of flesh. The cops and firefighters and ambulance drivers cashed their paychecks whether you lived or died. Hospitals stayed open by overcharging those with major medical coverage, even the patients on deathbeds, so the poor could die alongside the rich. Churches collected the wages of sin, at least from those whose guilt compelled them to tithe. The system worked.

Jacob turned to leave, bracing himself for the exposed walk back through the main office. Before the fire, he had moved between those desks with his head high and shoulders square, a smile for the ladies and a handshake for the men. He had been a Wells, a Somebody, a pillar of the community. Now he was just another object of pity. They avoided each other's eyes.

And they didn't even know the worst of it. They hadn't seen him huddled in the Ivy Terrace laurel thicket, a sheet of construction plastic tied overhead for a roof, a bundle of blankets for a bed. He took his liquor a bottle at a time, so the litter hadn't piled up, but the Beanie Weenies, sardines, and Pop-Tarts had left their silver bones around him and wrecked his digestion. His view of the world was not from a panoramic ivory-tower turret, but rather a narrow gap in the waxy leaves that allowed him to watch his wife's apartment door.

It was not just a matter of perspective. It was point of view. He was at the wrong point.

Back under the sunshine of the parking lot, Jacob looked out at the vast green ridges that surrounded Kingsboro. The tops of houses were scattered among the slopes, and a few oversize displays of success rose above the tree line. He'd never blamed anyone for building up high, and the views allowed Realtors to demand outrageous