Disintegration Part 11

Renee stared at Donald, whose eyes were watery and narrow. "He'll come through. He's a Wells."

"I know, 'A Wells never fails,' but--"

He glanced at the door again, went silently past Renee and closed it. Then he faced her, wearing what she imagined was the same grave expression he used when pleading for a zoning variance before a munic.i.p.al planning board. "I've been worried about him. Ever since Christine died, maybe even before that, he was taking too many chances, overreaching and gambling. The real estate market's way too soft for the moves he was making, especially in commercial development. I don't know how much he told you, but when he went into his funk after Christine died, the company nearly collapsed."

All she had done, all the sacrifices she'd made, were for Jacob Wells and their future together. This wasn't the plan. She'd been bailing a leaky boat and hadn't known it. As with the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic, there hadn't been enough life preservers to go around.

"It's not that bad," she said. "We were doing fine. There was plenty of money."

"Borrowed money. He was getting big loans to buy up land and inflating the values on all the appraisals. It's fairly common practice, but it's like juggling live hand grenades. One or two you can handle, but five or six and one's bound to go off sooner or later."

"How much does he owe?"

"A million three."

She looked at the aquarium. A large fish with an extravagant top fin darted toward the ceramic sunken s.h.i.+p, chasing away a school of blue and silver fish. The soft bubbling of the aerator and the hum of the fluorescent lights were the only sounds in the room.

"You didn't know," Donald said.

She fought an urge to go to the shelves and arrange the loose papers into neat stacks. Donald put a hand out as if he were going to touch her shoulder then changed his mind.

"I'm sorry," he said. "About Mattie. About your house. n.o.body deserves such bad luck."

She wished she had a better confessor. A Catholic priest hidden away in a dark booth, or a shrink whose breath smelled of exotic beer and goat cheese. But she was going to shatter right there in front of Mr. Smooth himself, an acquaintance, someone who knew only the wrong half of the story.

"He put too much pressure on himself," Renee said. "Jacob always wanted to make his father proud. Part of him wants to outdo Warren Wells, but in this town he never had a chance."

She'd brought him here. She'd seen through his street-poet act at college and she'd known all about his wealth before the second date, though she pretended otherwise. The Wells family turmoil aroused little interest, and she was happy to let him enjoy his secrecy. She cared about the future, not the past. But she'd a.s.sumed the past involved silly prom dates and inattentive parents, not intensive therapy for a dissociative disorder.

"You want to sit down?" Donald waved toward the brown sofa.

Renee couldn't bear the thought of sitting where Donald and Staci might have wallowed in vapid pa.s.sion. "What about last year? How bad was it?"

He held his finger and thumb about an inch apart. "I was this close to looking for some more investors to save our a.s.ses. But Jacob wouldn't hear of it. Said we'd get a break, something would come through soon."

"And it did."

"Like I said, the insurance from the fire--hey, I'm sorry, I'm an insensitive b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I didn't mean it that way."

"I'm getting over it," she said. Donald had never lost a child. He wouldn't know that you never got over it.

"The million can get us through the short run, but he's taken too many chances. G.o.d, I can't believe he didn't tell you all this."

"That Wells pride. He wouldn't borrow a water hose if his pants were on fire."

"Personally, I was ready to declare bankruptcy, start over in something with a future, like maybe pharmaceutical sales. But Jake just kept telling me the market would turn and we'd be okay, we just needed to hold out until we got a break."

"And he got a big insurance payoff just in the nick of time."

"That's why I asked if you'd made the deposit. I figured you'd at least have the check for the house. And, knowing Jake's business habits, I'll bet he had the family insured to the eyeb.a.l.l.s."

"Mattie's only been dead three months." The fish turned into bright blurred streaks in her vision.

"The Christine money?"

None of his business. "That was my baby girl, Donald."

"Sure, but the living have got to keep living, right? That's what Old Man Wells said and Jacob's got so much of that blood in him, I forget he's human sometimes. I figured he'd be throwing himself into his work, getting the ball rolling again. Dealing with it his way."

"His way. What the h.e.l.l do you know about 'his way'?"

"Don't shoot the messenger, Renee. You can't bring Mattie and Christine back no matter how much you hate me. Right now you ought to be worried about bringing Jake back."

She wanted to slap Donald, take out her anger and frustration. But Donald was right. Jacob was the real target, as elusive as any prey, his survival instinct intact. Her bait of the marriage counselor hadn't worked.

The electronic rattle of the phone interrupted them. Jeffrey's voice came over the intercom: "Mr. Meekins, line three. It sounds like Mr. Wells. He asked for Mrs. Wells."

How had he known she was there? Was he watching her?

"h.e.l.lo?" Donald cradled the phone between his head and shoulder and nodded to Renee. "Listen, Jake, where are you? Things are going to h.e.l.l in a handbasket here--"

He held up his hand as if warding off a tirade from the other end of the line. "Okay, here she is. But I need to talk to you after you're done with her."

Renee took the phone from Donald and squeezed it against her ear as if by force of pressure she could bring Jacob to her. "Jake?"

"Yeah."

"Where are you?"

"The place I said I'd never go."

"Come see me."

"I already did."

"What's wrong?"

Jacob's phrasing was strange, slightly slurred, his voice made thin by the compression of the phone line. Just like the phone call about the package. "Well, let me add it up," he said. "You cremated my daughter while I was drugged to h.e.l.l in a hospital bed. You moved out and set up your own little nest before I had a chance to make things right. And now you're conspiring with my business partner while I'm here trying to pull everything together."

Her rib cage muscles clamped tight around her heart. "Jake?"

"I saw the way he looked at you. Like a wolf at a pork chop. And you--well, we know how you are."

Donald hovered close, wiggling his finger as if he wanted to listen. Renee raised her elbow to keep him away.

"We need to talk." Her throat was tight, as if someone had shoved a large, dry stone down her windpipe.

"There ain't nothing left to talk about."

"We've got to fix this. I know you're hurting over Mattie, but so am I. We need each other. That's the only way we can make it. And I know about--"

"All you need is Donnie Boy."

The tears broke forth, hot as blood on her cheeks. "Jake, you're talking crazy."

She immediately regretted using that word. Dr. Rheinsfeldt had explained that dissociative conditions came in several forms, and Jacob had exhibited some of the milder symptoms. Fugue states and amnesia didn't sound so mild to Renee, but at least he hadn't lost his ident.i.ty or descended into any of the other horrible conditions Rheinsfeldt had described.

Donald retreated to the aquarium, his expression revealing his distaste for Renee's emotional outburst. If he only knew what his partner was saying about him, the tanning-bed brown of his skin might have flushed to red.

"Listen," came the voice from the end of the line. "Don't waste your breath lying. I don't care what you do no more. But I need you to do something."

"Please, Jake. You need help."

"Oh, yeah. Right. A round of skull sessions. Fixed me up good the last time, didn't they?"

"It's not just for you, honey. For us."

"There ain't no 'us.' There's just you and me and him."

"You're drifting like you did after Christine died."

"Except there's one major difference... Mattie's dead, too."

"The doctor said drinking is risky in your condition."

"I'm sober as a f.u.c.kin' Republican judge."

"Tell me where you are," she said. "I'll be right there."

"I'll bet you would. Because you're probably playing Donald, too. I reckon he got a million or two laying around."

"Jacob, seriously." She didn't know how she was still breathing. Some animal part of her brain had taken over her functioning. All she felt was the numb weight of the phone and the grief grinding her soul into ethereal sausage. Sometime during the last blurred minute, Donald had slipped out of the room.

Even though she could have screamed, she whispered instead. "Listen. You know you're not yourself. When Christine died--"

"When Christine f.u.c.king died. Stop pretending."

"It was a hard time for us, Jake. Mattie, too."

"The problem with Mattie was she was too much like you."

"You--" She pulled the phone away from her head, clamped it in her fist and looked for a corner in which to hurl this insanity from her life.

But she was compelled to listen again. The line carried only shallow static for fifteen seconds.

"You want to know the deal?" he said.

"Yeah," she whispered. At least Donald had the decency to close the door behind him. Now she could slip to her knees on the floor, let the tears crawl down without restraint. It took all her willpower to remind herself Jacob was ill. She would have to endure, that's all.

"Okay. Here's what I want you to do. You got the money?"

She nodded to no one. "I've got the money."

"Good. I want you to bring it to the cemetery."

There was only one cemetery in their lives. Heavenly Meadows, where Christine was buried. "Why there?"

"Family reunion, honeybunches."

Honeybunches. Jacob had only called her that once before. Years ago, during that hot August night Mattie was conceived in violent pa.s.sion. He was cracking and she wasn't sure she had enough band-aids this time around. She summoned enough air to respond. "When?"

"Thursday morning. And no doctors or police."

"Please, Jake--"

"And tell Donnie Boy to go f.u.c.k himself. Unless you want to help him with that."

"Can't you see what's happening to you?"

"Sure, honeybunches. Like you said, I'm not myself. See you Thursday."

Before she could warn him to stay away from the Wells farm, the soft click came that cut her off from the man she loved.

Renee was finished crying by the time Donald returned. She promised to be strong, for Jacob and the memories of her children, and for the G.o.d who had promised blessings for those who kept the faith. But some rewards were only paid upon pain of death.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"Sure, honeybunches. Like you said, I'm not myself. See you Thursday." Joshua hung up the phone and turned to face Jacob. "d.a.m.n. It was real hard to keep the Tennessee out of my voice. How did you get such a sissy accent?"

"I like what you've done to the place," Jacob said.

"Mom always did have great taste in ugly. She and old Queen Victoria had a lot in common. In fact, if it wasn't for us being born, I'd have sworn she never got laid in her life. Can I ask you something, brother to brother?"

Jacob rubbed the itching skin of his cheek, still raw from healing. "I could never keep a secret from you."

"How do you get through it?"

"Get through what?"

"Your d.a.m.ned kids. How do you deal with it when they die? I mean, ain't it supposed to ruin your life, make you blame G.o.d and all that s.h.i.+t?"

"You get by." Jacob squirmed in the uncomfortable chair.