Window of Guilt (17 page)

Son,
is it?
“Now I beg to differ,” Ryan snarled. “Your son acts the fool with the female employees. If sexual harassment doesn’t bring him down, his illegal dealings will.”

“What illegal dealings?” Brad Hamilton Sr. futilely shouted as the door slammed shut.

*

Ryan strode down the hallway, past surreptitious glances of filing clerks and lukewarm smiles of former colleagues. He grimaced at the worker-ant mentality he’d endured within this maze of cubicles. Scenes from
Superman
clawed their way into his consciousness, forcing him to contemplate the sickening possibility that much of his life had mimicked Clark Kent. So engrossed in thought was he that he initially failed to feel the thump on his shoulder.

He spun around to find Brad Hamilton Jr. glaring in his face. “Where do you get off upsetting my father like that?” the manager demanded.

Furtive whispers emanated from the copy machine area. “Lay off, Brad,” said Ryan. “Upsetting your father wasn’t my intention.”

Brad steered him into an empty break room. “Why’d you come back, scumbag?”

Ryan laughed. “I’m a scumbag?”

“Leaving Great Harvest in the lurch? That sure spells scumbag to me.”

“What about you, Brad? Buying my silence with ‘unemployment’ checks?”

Brad’s face transformed from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. “You must be dreaming, man. I wouldn’t send you money if you were on your deathbed,” he said, advancing on the shorter man.

Ryan’s heart beat like an airplane propeller, yet he stood his ground. “I have kept silent. Even suffered a heart attack over the ethics of that silence.”

“Standing joke around here was you wouldn’t take a day off to attend your own funeral.”

“I’m still paying off the ten grand deductible following my surgery.”

“I get it. You’re trying to blackmail me for ten big ones, otherwise you’ll blab.”

“Super idea, Brad, but not why I’m here.”

“Of course not, because a wimp like you shivers at the slightest confrontation.”

“There’s a colossal difference between banging your head into a wall and smashing it into an iron post.”

“Say it in English, little man,” said Brad, an intimidating note in his voice.

“You know why I left Great Harvest, Brad?” asked Ryan, attempting to breathe in and out slowly to calm his fluttering nerves.

“Sure. You didn’t have the chutzpah to handle the nuances of the job. I thought Jews were supposed to be natural money hoarders. You’re a black sheep to the Israelites, Atkins.”

“Get with the twenty-first century, Brad. It’s not politically correct to stereotype people according to race and religion.”

“Out of my face,” said Brad, waving him off. “I gotta get back to making a living.”

“Not until I get some answers.”

“Excuse me,” came a squeaky voice through a crack in the door. “I just need to grab a yogurt from the fridge.”

“We’re busy,” Brad yelled through the door. Then he grasped Ryan’s neck. “Let it go before you become tangled in your own web, Atkins.”

Ryan twisted away from the bigger man. “Your threats don’t work on me anymore, Brad. I will ferret out the truth.”

“By the time I’m done with you, the truth ain’t gonna be able to cover your medical bills,” Brad threatened.

“Doing the right thing forces you to have balls, Brad, but you’ve ridden those of your papa too long to remember.”

“Get your ass out of here before I sue you for slander!” Brad yelled. Ryan picked up his briefcase and headed for the door. “Did you know Todd Gray moved to Australia to get the heart transplant he required?”

“You’re scaling a steel beamed building with no safety net, Atkins.”

Ryan was considering a clever retort when he heard a rap on the
door.

“Everything all right in there?” came a hoarse voice.

“Get back to work,” Brad yelled through the door. Then he turned back towards Ryan. “You try to ruin my reputation or that of my family and I’ll take you down, Atkins.”

“Have a nice day,” Ryan called over his shoulder.

Brad yanked open the door. “Smart-ass!” He was just in time to see Ryan toying with a miniature tape recorder as he left the building. Like that would hold up in court.

Pounding his fist on a metal cabinet, the insurance supervisor spoke into his cell phone. A few seconds later, he closed the phone, a satisfied expression on his face.

21

Ryan fidgeted with the radio as he stared out the front window of their minivan. Then he checked his watch. He and Laurie were supposed to be at the bank in five minutes. This was one time they couldn’t be late.

He was relieved to see his wife appear in their driveway. She’d fastened her curly hair at the nape of her neck with a tortoise shell barrette. A matching choker hung from her ivory neck. The accouterments meshed perfectly with the tight-fitting, chocolate suede jacket and slacks. Laurie was even wearing heels, which attested to her recognition of this meeting’s importance.

Not many husbands would acknowledge their wives’ fashion knowledge at such a detailed level. Ryan was a fashion connoisseur, thanks to working in his dad’s Michigan Avenue clothing liquidation outlet during college. At that time, the business student had rebelled against straightening racks of women’s shoes and hanging endless quantities of designer clothing acquired dirt cheap at “going out of business” boutique sales. Yet his sense of chic had proved beneficial during his dating years when he was able to compliment one mom’s silk button down blouse and another mom’s tailored pants suit. He hadn’t scored any fashion points with Laurie’s mom, though. Like Laurie, her favorite attire had been workman jeans and a ratty old t-shirt. After her divorce, Laurie’s mom had split to Phoenix where casual dress was an art form in itself.

His wife bounced into the passenger seat and pecked him on the cheek. “Let’s do it!”

Ryan fired the ignition. “You don’t want to be late when you’re asking for money.”

“Sorry. I couldn’t figure out what to wear.” As Laurie chattered on about one thing or another, he pondered the three little words she’d spoken upon entering the car. Ten years ago, those three tiny words promised all the pleasures of the universe as their intertwined bodies celebrated their passion.

In the years immediately following Rory’s birth, those three words symbolized stolen moments of renewing their love. But in the last few years, resentment over money issues had poisoned their emotional reservoir. Stealing a glance at his wife as she shuffled through their business papers, it dawned on him that this morning’s “Let’s do it” held none of its original intent.

Ryan kept his eyes on the road. “You know what to tell them, right?”

“I’m going to request a line of credit be tied to our Lincoln Park house to consolidate our credit card bills.”

“You’ll mention the credit cards were steep because of my hospital bills.”

Laurie rolled her eyes. “You were in perfect health before your heart attack so we elected to pay a small monthly health insurance premium in return for a ten-thousand-dollar deductible.”

“And everything went to hell after my heart attack, with my prescription drug co-pays.”

“You know, I still don’t get why you won’t talk to the banker yourself.”

“You handle our checkbook, you know what to say.”

“Great excuse,” Laurie said congenially.

Ryan sighed. “Just handle this one thing for me, alright?”

“No problem,” she said cheerfully. “Talking about checkbooks, how about adding your unemployment checks to the caboodle instead of paying your bills from a separate account?”

Ryan thought fast. “This way I can keep track of what’s coming in and not have to burden you.”

“But I still receive both monthly bank statements,” she protested.

Fortunately for him, the bank no longer attached copies of canceled checks to their bank statements. “Let’s just concentrate on the task at hand, okay?”

His wife leaned towards him, as if to pursue the subject. Then unexpectedly kissed his cheek instead. “No problem.”

“You’re extra chipper this morning,” said Ryan.

“I’m ‘chipper’ because Mitzy’s bringing her detective friend on board to investigate the dead boy’s disappearance.”

Stay cool, Ryan told himself. “There’s no proof the kid was ever on our property,” he said lightly.

“What about the napkin I found listing both our Chicago and Wisconsin addresses?”

“We’ve been over this a thousand times. Odds are it fell out of Shakia’s purse or a moving carton.” Ryan deftly changed the subject. “How’s the new renter search going?”

“I placed an ad in the local paper.”

Ryan pulled her close, then tilted her face up to his. “My panic attack was a wake-up call to go with the flow. Anyway, who am I to argue? You’re paying for those rent-loss months out of the money from your father’s estate.”

Laurie snuggled into his arms. “Does your wakeup call mean you’ll be sharing all your worries with me from now on?”

“Uh huh.” His chest muscles felt tight.

Ryan pulled the minivan into a tree-lined parking lot surrounding a three-level bank building and Laurie jumped out of the car. “Wish me luck.”

Ryan gave his wife a thumbs-up. He watched her stride up the walkway and swing open the glass door. If he didn’t suit up and tell his wife the truth about Todd Gray, as well as his untimely exit from Great Harvest, his marriage would soon be in ruins.

*

Enveloped by friendly chatter, Laurie slipped into the chair facing her husband. Raising a glass of
Carmel
wine, she smiled at her husband across the dining room table. “I want to thank Ryan for inviting all of you to share my special night.”

“Mazel Tov, Laurie,” said Shirley Maven. “It’s a special blessing your good news falls on Shabbat.”

“Let’s get those candles lit and do the Kiddush before you start toasting the whole universe,” Harry kidded.

“You deserve it, honey,” said Ryan, his eyes twinkling as he hit the light switch. Then he flicked it on again. “Any men still need a yarmulke?”

“Our heads are all covered before the Lord, son,” said Norman. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Just checking,” said Ryan, once again dimming the lights.

A sudden hush filled the darkened room as Laurie struck a match, then lit the two twelve-inch white candles before her. Her palms hovering over the candlelight, she pronounced the ancient words of blessing. “
Baruch [or Barukh] atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech [or melekh] ha-olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav, v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Shabbat
.” A choral amen echoes around the table.

“Um, could you explain what those words mean in English?” asked Maggie.

“Blessed is the Lord, our God, who commands us to kindle the lights of the Sabbath,”
Rory said.

Everyone raised their wine glasses as Ryan raised an ornate silver Kiddush cup. “
Baruch [or Barukh] atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech [or melekh] ha-olam, borei p'ri ha-gafen.
”

“Blessed are you, oh Lord our God, who commands us to drink the fruit of the vine,”
Norman Atkins chimed in.

Once again, the room echoed with “Amen” as everybody took a sip of wine.

“This wine’s way sweet,” Frankie whispered to the host.

“Just be glad you don’t have to drink it every holiday,” Ryan joked in a stage whisper.

“Doesn’t seem to stop you from drinking all four glasses on Pesach,” Norman observed.

“Paysack?” asked Ryan’s personal trainer.

“Passover,” said Laurie. “Now we’ll do the blessing over the challah. Then we’re ready to scarf down the meal Mitzy and her mom prepared for us.”

“You didn’t need to go to all that trouble,” protested Ryan.

“Couldn’t have Laurie preparing a Shabbat dinner for all of us when we’re supposed to be celebrating with her,” said Harry.

“You’re going to love the Matzo Ball soup, dahlings,” Shirley
joked.

Ryan handed the challah basket to the bearded man sitting next to him. “Would you lead the Chamotzi, Maury?”

“I’d be honored,” said the former Camp Briarwood director, removing the decorative covering from the challah. He tore off a handful of egg twist bread, then distributed a small piece to each person.

“Did you wash your hands?” Rory called out.

The room shook with laughter.

“Sure did,” said Maury. “
Baruch [or Barukh] atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech [or melekh] ha-olam, ha-motzi lechem min ha-aretz.
Amen
.”

“Okay, I think I got it,” said Maggie. “
Thanks, God, for giving us this bread to eat.”

“Are you Jewish, too?” asked Rory.

“This kid’s a real crack up,” said Norman, chuckling along with the others.

Shirley Maven signaled for her daughter to join her in the kitchen, protesting when Laurie attempted to rise from her chair. “Share your good news with your friends, sweetie. Mitzy and I will bring out the soup, salad, and gefilte fish.”