Food is the last thing on his mind. How can he think of eating with his mom in so much pain? But he hasn’t showered since Sunday morning, and he can barely stand the smell of himself. “Maybe I will.” Everett gets up from the chair and stands beside the bed. “I want to stock up on groceries and get the house ready for your homecoming, anyway.”
Mary grabs a fistful of blanket. “I have no idea what condition you’ll find the house in. I remember little about that night. But don’t worry about cleaning anything up. We can do all that later. Just get some rest. You look like you could use it.”
Everett kisses her forehead. He’s not going to argue with her. “I’ll check in with you later, Mom. Maybe I’ll come back later. I can bring you your favorite salad from Panera Bread.”
She cups his cheek. “Please, baby, don’t go to the trouble. All the medications I’m taking have zapped my appetite. Just be here in the morning to take me home.”
He pats her thigh beneath the blanket. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here first thing.”
They only live five miles from the hospital, but Everett drives it slowly, dreading what he’ll find at home. A rancid smell assaults his nose when he pushes open the front door. They took his father away, right? Everett takes tentative steps through the small entryway to the living room where the furniture is overturned, lampshades are askew, and picture frames are smashed on the floor. The beige rug sports a large rust-colored stain that he assumes is his mother’s blood. He sniffs his way to the kitchen and stops short in the doorway. The trash can is knocked over with trash strewn across the floor. Everett identifies an empty package of raw chicken breasts as the source of the godawful smell. Grabbing the broom from the pantry, he sweeps up the trash, bags it, and takes it outside to the supercan.
After unloading his truck, he removes his cell phone from under his mattress and plugs it into the charger. He cleans the kitchen and straightens the living room, rearranging the furniture to hide the blood stain. Stripping off his clothes, he leaves them in a heap on the bathroom floor and takes a long hot shower. He’s dressing in sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt when the doorbell rings. Stuffing his feet into his bedroom slippers, he hurries down the hall to the door.
A kid of about twenty—wearing jeans, a red jacket, and a backward baseball cap—thrusts a brass urn at him. “Delivery from Pearly Gates Funeral Home.”
Everett stares down at the urn, afraid to touch it. The kid is holding his father’s remains. He’s tempted to pay the guy his last hundred bucks to dispose of the ashes at the city dump, but he needs the money to buy groceries.
“Thank you,” Everett says finally, taking the urn from him.
“Here.” The kid removes an envelope from his back pocket and gives it to Everett.
Everett watches him walk down the sidewalk. Tripping on an uneven paver, he stumbles forward several feet, but he doesn’t fall. He jogs the rest of the way to the funeral home van and speeds off.
Closing the door, Everett takes the urn to the living room and places it on the mantel. Stepping back, he stares at the vessel that houses his father’s remains. He feels no sadness or remorse, only reassurance that his father can no longer hurt them.
Everett tears open the envelope and reads the invoice. They owe Pearly Gates Funeral Home five thousand dollars for burning his father’s body, something Everett would gladly have done for free.
He takes the invoice to his room and hides it in his backpack. He has no clue where he will get five thousand dollars, but he doesn’t want his mom to know about it, when she’s already so stressed out about the hospital bills.
He unplugs his fully charged phone and spends a few minutes installing updates. Since August twenty-nine, the night he split town, he’s received over two thousand unread text messages and over a hundred missed calls from friends. He deletes them all.
Checking his email, he discovers a message from Wade Newman with a contract and bank deposit request form attached. He’s stunned. Wade never mentioned an advance, but a windfall is just what he needs right now.
He goes down the hall to the spare bedroom Mary uses as her sewing room. Seated at her dinosaur desktop computer, he signs into his account and prints out the contract and bank forms. His eyes pop out of his head at the dollar amount printed in the advance section of the contract. Fifty thousand dollars. If he’s careful, he can pay his mom’s bills and make this money last a good long time. When a wave of relief rushes over him, he gets up and does a little victory dance around the sewing room. His problems are far from over, but his life just got a heck of a lot easier.
26
Presley
Promptly at seven o’clock on Wednesday night, with a bouquet of Katherine’s garden-grown flowers in hand, Presley rings the doorbell at 237 Hillside Drive. She neglected to exchange contact information with Emma or Rita at the party, and since she has no way of confirming their plans, she hopes they haven’t forgotten about dinner.
Emma, her hair still wet from the shower, swings the door open. “Come in!” The teenager wraps her fingers around Presley’s wrist and jerks her inside. “I hope you like lasagna. I wanted to make something super special for you, but I’ve been studying for a physics test tomorrow.”
“I love lasagna,” Presley says. “But I don’t want to keep you from studying. I can come back another time if tonight doesn’t work for you.”
“Don’t be silly. I have to eat dinner, and you’re already here. Besides, everything’s almost ready.” She
