The Survivor

He always made the second-day call himself, since the last thing a family in crisis needed to see the morning after was a new face. When a piece of jewelry or a watch was released, he’d take it home and scrub off the dried blood before delivering it. He’d be one call away, their guide through the rough terrain. So he started to say what he always said next-that he’d check in with them again tomorrow.

But then he remembered: For him there wouldn’t be a tomorrow.

He paused on the porch, looking back at Erica and Sean, feeling that nagging sense of remorse. His mind moved to his best friend’s body outlined against a brilliant blast of white. His failure of will in the car outside Charles’s mother’s house. That night in the house, his daughter trying to hide beneath the bed, his wife looking on, a bruise rising on her cheek. So much unfinished business. So much he still owed.

Since his diagnosis he’d done everything to spare Janie and Cielle any more trouble on his behalf. But maybe he owed them a final explanation before he punched out.

“He was just here last week,” Erica said. “Standing where you’re standing right now. He was tying his shoes, and the phone rang.…” She gestured toward the teak bench, at that row of sneakers, Aiden’s beat-up Chuck Taylors waiting, one on its side. “I went to answer. Could be important, you know. A nail appointment.” She gave a disgusted little laugh. “You know the worst part?”

Nate shook his head.

“I never got to say good-bye.”

Chapter 10

For the whole ride, Nate alternated his gaze from the road to his rearview, searching for dark Town Cars with illegally tinted windows. After parking he sat, double-checking that no one had followed him, but also, he realized, stalling. It took all the courage he could muster to head up the walk of the beloved Santa Monica house. A corner brick at the base of the porch had come loose, and he paused to shove it with his heel back into alignment. Owning a house was a war of attrition. Sap holes in the gutters, birds’ nests in the chimney, dry rot in the window frames. Tears of rust hung beneath the house numbers and he thought of the time he would have cleaned them with pride. He knocked, and a moment later the door swung open.

Pete looked out at him, doing his best to disguise his consternation. “Nate. Been a while.”

“Right. Okay if I come in?”

Pete looked unsure. “Hang on.” He leaned back. “Janie?”

A moment later there she was. She wore a flare-waisted Spanish gauze blouse, bright orange to pick up the flecks in her eyes. Not that Nate noticed. Her thin eyebrows lifted, disappearing beneath the bangs of her pixie cut. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you. And Cielle.”

She raised her left hand to push a wisp of hair off her forehead, and he saw with great chagrin that her ring finger sported a diamond the size of a bran muffin. “It’s been nine months, Nate. Nine months. Women make babies in that time. Not a visit. Not a phone call.”

“I know. I want to explain-”

“And it’s not like you came by to see her frequently before then.”

“That wasn’t just me. I would’ve loved nothing more than-”

At once there was a clutter of claws scraping floorboards, and then Casper was there, nosing through Pete and Janie, losing his mind at the sight of Nate. A hundred ten pounds of Rhodesian ridgeback backing up in celebration, wiggling, thick tail smacking legs and walls, turning to shove his hind end into the nearest set of knees. “Off,” Pete said. “Off. Down, Casper. Off. Casper-”

Nate said, “Sit.”

Casper sat.

Janie’s face was flushed, hiding the freckles. “Did you at least bring the divorce papers?”

“They’re at home. Signed.”

“Why didn’t you just bring them?”

“It’s been an eventful day. That’s why I want to talk to you.” He took a breath, unsure where to begin. “Did you see the news today?”

“No.”

“There was a robbery this morning. At Wilshire and Ninth.”

“I heard about it,” Janie said. “Radio.”

“I was sort of in the middle of it.”

Whatever she and Pete were expecting, it was not this. Janie’s expression softened with concern. The door creaked open, and Nate followed them in, Casper zigzagging underfoot like a patrol car slowing traffic. As they passed by the family room, Nate noted the new family portrait on the mantel-a trio, this time properly posed, with Pete replacing Nate. At the sight of the three glossy faces, he felt his last handhold at the cliff’s edge crumble.

In the kitchen Nate perched on one of the stools that, in another life, he’d found at a garage sale, then sanded and repainted. He ran a thumb across the grain of the wood. Everything like a detail from a remembered dream.

Janie said, “I’ll see if she’ll come down,” and headed upstairs.

Pete finished washing romaine leaves in the farmhouse sink, set them aside, and dried his hands on his Wharton School sweatshirt. Pete was a widower, an intrinsically decent guy, and a former neighbor whom Nate and Janie had known in passing. He had made a lot of money in commercial real estate, and when he’d moved in here a few months ago, he’d cut a check to finish off the mortgage, an act of generosity that Nate still resented. Nate might have been struggling with that bank note, but at least it had been his. Even when he and Janie had separated about three years ago, it had given him comfort to know he was keeping a roof over the head of his daughter and the woman he still wildly, ineffectually loved. Over Janie’s objections he’d sent 70 percent of each modest paycheck to her until she stopped cashing every other one to make sure he kept some money for himself. Pete’s arrival had dissolved the last sure way Nate had known to help his family. Since then he and Pete had harbored an affectionate dislike for each other. Back in the months after Pete’s wife passed, Nate remembered walking Casper by his house and seeing him inside, eating dinner alone at that big dining table, and no matter how much Nate wanted to hate him now for sleeping with his wife and raising his daughter, he just couldn’t bring himself to get there in full.

Nate sat on his former stool and fussed with the neat stack of mail before him. Brokerage statements, Vanity Fair, a Lexus service reminder-all the accoutrements of a robust, prosperous life. They had added a wine fridge beneath the microwave.

“One of the bricks on the porch is loose,” Nate announced to the silence.

Pete laid the romaine leaves side by side on a paper towel. “How am I supposed to reply, Nate? I say it’s no big deal, I’m insulting you. I say I’ll fix it, you’ll get pissed off since you think it’s still your porch.”

Nate wanted to say, It is still my porch. I rebuilt it with my own two hands. I leveled the form, poured the concrete base, used a toothpick to scrape the mortar from beneath my fingernails. Instead he said nothing. He had lost the right to have opinions here.

Pete distributed the romaine across three plates, setting fewer spears on the last. By way of explanation, he said uncomfortably, “We’re trying to help her with her weight.”

At a loss as to how to respond to that, Nate lined up the mail nervously and smacked the envelope edges straight on the marble slab. Two tickets fell out-Turandot at the Ahmanson Theatre. Nate lifted them to the yellow light. “Opera?”

“To celebrate our engagement. You saw the ring?”

“No,” Nate said, “I didn’t notice.”

Janie entered, and he looked hopefully past her, but no Cielle. His disappointed gaze returned to the tickets. She took note of his expression. “What?”

Nate’s mouth moved instinctively before he could stop it. “You hate opera,” he told her.

Janie halted by the stove. “Huh?”

Pete paused from chopping. “It was a surprise.”