The Kind Worth Killing (11 page)

That summer was the first one after my parents' divorce was final. My mother was manic, obsessing over rumors that David was already engaged again, and frantically putting together a show for a New York gallery. I spoke with my father on the phone twice; he invited me to visit him in London, but I declined, happy to spend a summer in Connecticut, reading. Monk's was blessedly empty of houseguests. My benign aunt was around for all of August but my mother had elected for a moocher-free summer, as she put it. I didn't hear from Eric, but even if he had wanted to, he had no way to contact me. As far as I knew, he didn't know where I lived, or my mother's unlisted phone number.

For my housing request my sophomore year at Mather, I had applied for a single, despite Jessica's protests that we made perfect roomies. In August I got a letter from the housing department that I had been given a quad with three roommates, a trio of girls I didn't know. Either I was stuck with three other students who were antisocial enough that they all requested a single for their second year of college, or they were three friends who had put in for a triple. The good news was that the room was in Robinson Hall, the oldest dorm on campus, a brick tower that fronted the quad. All of the four-bedroom dorm rooms had built-in window seats, and a few had working fireplaces.

I arrived late in the evening on move-in day. My three new roommates were clearly a trio of close-knit friends, and had decorated the
common room in posters from David Lynch films and the Smiths. I recognized them from freshman year but didn't know them personally. They all had pitch-black hair and pale complexions: Goth versions of prep-school girls. To me, they looked like Winona Ryder from three different films. The most radical had spiked hair and wore only black, like Winona from
Beetlejuice
. The other two were preppier: Winona from
Reality Bites
(bobbed hair swept off the forehead) and Winona from
Mermaids
(cardigans, pearls, and bangs, maybe ironic, maybe not).

I don't know how the Three Winonas viewed me that September night, as I arrived in Capri pants and a collared linen shirt, but, despite their dark lipstick and double-pierced ears, they were friendly, offering to turn down Joy Division as I unpacked. I had just accepted a glass of wine from
Mermaids
Winona when there was a rap at the door. It was Eric Washburn. I was so surprised that for a brief moment I thought he must be there for one of my new roommates. But he was there for me. He was wearing cargo shorts and an oxford shirt and smelled of cigarettes and whiskey. I went with him back to the Manor and straight up to his room. He told me how he'd thought of me all summer, how he'd tried desperately to find out where I lived. He even told me that he was sure he loved me. And, like a fool, I believed him.

Brad and I had started off by drinking beers, then had switched at some point to Jameson and gingers. We were sitting at a high-backed booth at Cooley's, one of the few year-round bars in the Kennewick Beach area. The menus boasted that they'd been open since 1957. No one would doubt the truth of this claim. The back of the bar was cluttered with grimy knickknacks, delivered by a thousand liquor reps throughout the years. Schlitz wall sconces. A Genny Light mirror. A Spuds Mackenzie light-up dog. I was happy with the switch to Jameson and ginger—it made it easier for me to get myself a pure ginger ale when it was my turn to get the drinks.

After finding Brad at the house site getting ready to leave, I had been the one to suggest we get a beer. He happily accepted, offered me a ride, and took me the couple miles to Cooley's at Kennewick Beach. It was just after five when we arrived, and we were the first customers. The bartender, a college-age girl in tight black jeans and purple tank top, said, “Hi, Braggett,” when we walked in.

“What did she call you?” I asked after we'd slid into a middle booth.

“Braggett. It's my nickname around here. Brad plus Daggett. High school thing. First round's on me, boss.” He slid back out of the booth and toward the bar. I didn't know exactly what it was I was hoping to get from Brad by drinking with him, but Lily had asked me to gather information, so that was what I was doing. The more I knew about him the better off I would be.

For the first hour of the evening, Brad and I talked about the progress on the house. He struck me as he'd always struck me—80 percent consummate professional and 20 percent bullshitter, like the car salesman who honestly steers you away from the leather upholstery, but still manages to sell you the expensive navigation system. We drank Heinekens, and as we talked, I watched him closely. He was a serious drinker, consistently polishing off a bottle of beer in three long sips. And while he was still handsome, some wear and tear was starting to show. There were dark patches of sun damage on his tanned face, and the beginnings of a rosy drinker's hue on both cheeks. Despite his muscular frame, there was a softness beginning under his chin that was only partly disguised by his salt-and-pepper goatee. His best feature was his dark brown eyes, and a full head of black hair that was going gray at the temples.

After talking about the house through several beers, I said, “I hope Miranda hasn't been driving you too crazy. She's very particular about what she wants.”

“That's a good thing. The worst clients are the ones who keep changing their minds. No, Mrs. Severson's been great.” Brad slid a Marlboro Red out of the pack that had been sitting on the table since we'd sat down. He tapped the filter a few times against the varnished wood, then asked if I'd mind if he stepped outside to smoke.

While he was gone, I took a look at my phone, which had been vibrating silently off and on in my pocket for the past twenty minutes. Miranda had sent me a succession of texts, culminating in:
SERIOUSLY
,
WHERE THE F ARE U
? I texted her back that I was having a few drinks with Brad and would be back to the hotel shortly. I told her to feel free
to get dinner without me. She texted back
OK
, then a few seconds later
XOXOXO
.

I spun around in my booth and looked out through Cooley's front windows toward where Brad was standing, blowing smoke into the now-dark evening. From the angle of his head, it looked as though he were staring at his phone as well, possibly typing into it. Maybe he was texting my wife as well. A moment of rage flared up in me, but I reminded myself that I was on a fact-finding mission. The war had begun with this slightest of skirmishes, and the more Brad drank, the more chance I had of discovering his weak points. I went to the bathroom, bringing my three-quarters-f beer, and dumped most of it down the sink, in an attempt to keep relatively sober.

When Brad returned, the subject of Miranda did not come up again. He started to ask me questions about my work, and my life in general, and when he learned that I'd gone to Harvard he began questioning me on what I knew about their hockey program, and how many Beanpot tournaments I'd been to. Despite not caring, I had actually been to a couple of hockey games with my sophomore-year roommate, a sports-obsessed English major who went on to become a successful magazine editor. From hockey, we moved on to the previous year's Red Sox season, a subject I knew a little more about. I told him how I shared a block of season tickets in one of the luxury boxes, and I promised to take him to a game the following year. After switching to Jamesons, and feeling that I had exhausted my limited repertoire of sports conversation, I asked him about his divorce.

“I have two great kids,” he said, after removing another cigarette from his hard pack and tapping it down on the table. “And a fucking ballbuster of an ex-wife.”

“Does she have the kids?”

“Except for every other weekend. Look, I'll say this for her, and it's all I'll say, but she's a good mom, and the kids are better off with her. But if the marriage hadn't ended when it did, I was going to kill her, or she was going to kill me, and that's all there is to it. It was fucking
nonstop.
Brad,
where the fuck are you? Come home early and fix the toilet,
Brad
.
Brad,
when are you going to take me and the kids to Florida again.
Brad,
doesn't it bother you to work on all these beautiful homes while your wife and kids live in a shithouse. Nonstop. It's a good thing I didn't own a goddamn gun.” He grinned. His teeth were slightly yellowed from the nicotine.

“You know what I'm talking about, brother,” he continued. “Or maybe you don't. What's the dirt on Miranda?”

“No dirt. We're like newlyweds. All's well in paradise.”

“Oh, fuck,” he said in a loud voice. “I'll bet it is,” he said. He had begun to slur.
I'll bet it ish
. Then he presented me his fist from across the table, and I bumped it, awkwardly, grinning back at him. How had he suddenly become so drunk? Even though we'd been drinking steadily for about two hours, Brad had seemed sober five minutes earlier.

“No, Miranda's great,” I said.

“No shit,” Brad said. “I mean, don't get me wrong, you're not a bad-looking guy or anything, but how did you score a wife like that?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Yeah, luck and a few million dollars.” As soon as he had said it, his face fell with regret. I didn't have a chance to respond because he instantly put a hand, palm up, toward me, and said, “Aw, man. That was uncalled for. I didn't mean that the way it came out.”

“It's okay,” I said.

“No, it's not okay. Totally uncalled for. I'm an asshole, and I've had too much to drink. Sorry, man. She's lucky to have you. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the money.”

I smiled. “No, I'm sure it has
something
to do with the money. I can live with that.”

“No, man. I don't know Miranda well at all, but she doesn't care about that stuff. I can tell.” Brad seemed to be ramping up for a long apologetic monologue, so I was pleased when a heavily made-up blonde slid into the booth next to him and bumped him on the hip.

“Hey, Braggett,” she said, then extended a hand toward me. I gripped her limp fingers in what was technically a handshake as she said, “Hi, Braggett's friend. I'm Polly. I'm sure you've heard nothing at all about me.”

“Pol,” Brad said. “Meet Ted Severson. He's the one building the new house out on Micmac.”

“No shit.” Polly smiled at me. Even with the clownlike makeup you could tell that she was pretty, and had probably once been beautiful. Natural blond hair, blue eyes, and large breasts that she was showing off in a V-neck shirt and cardigan sweater. The portion of her chest that was visible was deeply tanned and freckled. “Brad told me all about that house. It's gonna be beautiful, I hear.”

“That's the plan,” I said.

“Well, boys, I was going to intrude on your manly little bonding session, but now that I see you're talking business, I have lost interest.”

“Have a drink,” I said.

“Thanks, anyway. I'll let you two talk.”

She slid out of the booth, leaving behind a hefty waft of perfume.

“Girlfriend?” I asked Brad.

“In eighth grade maybe,” Brad said and laughed, showing a lot of his teeth. “But now that she's here I wouldn't mind taking off. I live right around the corner. You got another drink in you, then I'll take you home?”

“Sure,” I said, although the last thing I wanted was another drink, and the next-to-last thing I wanted was to get in a vehicle with a drunken Brad behind the wheel. But this was a chance to see where Brad lived, and I couldn't pass that up.

The night had turned cold, but the mist had lifted and a multitude of stars wheeled in the sky. Even though Brad's rental cottages were about three hundred yards away, he drove me in his truck, parking erratically in front of the first of about a dozen boxy cottages that formed a semicircle across the road from the beach. A hand-painted sign said
CRESCENT COTTAGES
, then a phone number.

“Miranda told me you own these,” I said as he unlocked the dark cottage. All of them were dark, illuminated only by a streetlamp, and by the bright night sky.

“My parents own them but I run them. We're out of season now but they do good in the summertime.”

He flipped on a tall floor lamp as we walked through the front door. It was nicer inside than I expected but also bleaker, just a few pieces of utilitarian furniture, the walls painted white and mostly empty. The one item that marked it as Brad's home and not a rental was an enormous TV on a stand that looked out of place in the relatively small living room. I thought it would smell of cigarettes inside but it didn't.

Brad went straight to the fridge in the alcove kitchen, and I shut the flimsy front door behind me. I heard two caps popping off bottles, and he returned and handed me a cold Heineken. We sat on the beige couch. Brad slumped a little, his legs spread wide. The beer bottle looked small in his big tanned hands.

“How long have you lived here?” I said, just to say something.

“'Bout a year. It's a temporary situation.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I can see that. I mean, you wouldn't want to live here too long.”

As soon as I said it, I felt a little bad, and I watched a hateful flicker darken Brad's face that he quickly replaced with a thoughtful frown. “Like I said, only temporary. Till the old ship comes in.”

I said nothing back and we lapsed into a silence. I looked around, noticing that the stack of fishing magazines on the coffee table were squarely lined up with the corner of the table. On top of the magazines was the remote control, also squarely lined up. On the side table closest to me was a framed picture of a boy and a girl, taken on a boat. Both kids, who looked to be about twelve and ten, wore orange life vests.

I picked up the picture. “These your kids?”