We're in Trouble (10 page)

Danny told Kim, Tom made me promise. I have to take care of Colin now.

And she finally understood. Oh God, she said.

I need you to come over. Please.

Umm, Kim said, and he could hear her fumbling, probably trying to find her little cat's-eye glasses. You're at their
house
?

Yeah.

He heard her light a cigarette. She'd been trying to quit. But then Danny had been trying not to drink so much these days either.

Okay, she said. Okay. Let me throw on some clothes.

Do you remember how to get—

Jesus. A car crash? What
happened
?

No one knows. They crossed the center line somehow. Hit a semi head-on.

Were they drinking?

He wanted to be angry—what sort of question was that? But Tom and Brynn had been driving home from a dinner out. They'd both probably had wine. Danny had asked the police what happened, and no one had said anything about booze.

I don't know, he said. Probably not.

Kim asked, Is Colin awake?

Not yet.

What are you going to tell him?

Look, he said, starting to cry for real. Just come over, okay?

Yeah. It—yeah. I'm leaving right now.

Okay. I love you.

He said it just as he heard her hang up the phone.

Then he let go; he spent a good gut-wracking fifteen minutes sitting on the floor, all around him little bits of cereal and—he could see under the microwave cart—two red blocks, some Lincoln Logs. He couldn't remember ever crying like this, except maybe when he used to get stoned and lonely in college. But not—never over people dying, never in
grief.
He shoved his hands in his mouth. Anything to keep those awful noises in.

Anything to keep Colin from waking up.

T
OM HAD PUT
the question to Danny back when Colin was still an infant. They'd even joked about it.

You must really hate that kid, Danny had said, if I'm the best godfather you can come up with.

Tom smirked and turned their steaks over on the barbecue, then stood back, one hand in the pocket of his baggy shorts, belly jutting. Up until the last year he'd kept himself trim, but his stomach had swollen in the same span of time as Brynn's. Danny saw something different in Tom's stance, too: a looseness—a satisfaction, maybe. He'd had a son: his great accomplishment, the one he'd always wanted.

Tom said, deadpan, I don't have any other options, really. He drank a swallow of beer and looked across the yard at the
back patio, where Brynn sat on a wooden chair, lifting her rusty hair from her neck and saying, I know, I know, into the phone. Colin was invisible next to her, somewhere inside a bassinette she rocked with her foot.

Tom said, Mom and Dad are in Africa—and, let's face it, they're not an option. Walt's got four of his own. It's all Brynn's mother can do to take care of her dad—and her sister's a fucking mess. Something happens to us, I want someone to take care of Colin who could actually do it.

You must know something I don't.

As a matter of fact, Tom said grinning, I do.

They had been like this since third grade. From the first moments of their friendship Tom had been steadfast, certain, optimistic; Danny had been troubled, foot-dragging, complicated. Danny had always found their friendship—that they fit together—cosmically mysterious. They were both smart and talented people, but Tom had a grand path to follow, and Danny—Danny just followed Tom. And his life had been happier because of it. He could make a long list of things he might never have done, without Tom telling him he ought to quit his bitching and give them a shot.
Ask her out, you coward. Go hack to guitar practice, you're good at it. What are you worrying about? I have to stand in front of everyone and dance a waltz, and all you have to do is tell two or three shitty jokes.
And he couldn't think of a week in the last ten years when he hadn't spent at least one day with Tom, and now with Tom and Brynn—who was, face it, Tom, if Tom were a beautiful woman. That had been the gist of his best man's toast, anyway.

In days of old, Danny told Tom, the purpose of a godfather was really to provide spiritual instruction.

Well, yeah, that too. Tom poked a steak. But if a child's parents were slaughtered by, like, the Visigoths, then the godfather was still bound to take over. I'm not so concerned what you tell the kid about God—

Maybe you ought to be.

Danny, come on. This isn't supposed to put you on the damn roof.

I know, Danny said. I'm honored, all right?

You're a pal, Tom said. He glanced at Brynn in her chair and gave her a thumbs-up. Brynn waved her hands over her head, like a cheerleader with pom-poms, then pointed to the phone and made a face.

God, Danny said. I need another beer.

Wait till you have your own kid. You'll want your bases covered, too.

I swear upon my honor, Danny said, that unless the both of you die in a freak accident, I will never have children. You hear me?

Tom opened the cooler and took out two beers. What honor?

Really. I swear it. The only child I could ever have is yours.

Well, Tom said, we only ever want the best for you.

Months later, when Colin was almost one, Tom and Brynn took Danny into Tom's study. Brynn had Colin on her hip; he goggled at Danny, drooling around a fistful of Danny's keys.

We finished all the paperwork, Tom said.

What paperwork?

You know. The in-the-event-of-our-untimely-passage paperwork. It's in here.

Tom opened a drawer in his antique rolltop desk and took out a metal lockbox the dimensions of a sheet of legal paper,
and maybe three inches deep. He said, All my emergency paperwork is in here. The key's taped inside the drawer. Okay? Just in case.

Good God, Danny said. You people are unbelievable.

Brynn said, I promise: on Colin's eighteenth birthday we'll have a big Danny's-off-the-hook party.

Colin squirmed, so she set him down. He immediately crawled off into the hall; Tom chased after him.

Brynn put her arm around Danny's waist. Thanks for doing this, she said.

Danny nearly jumped; Brynn was a hugger, but that didn't mean he wasn't alarmed by it—by her—even after three years.

Hey, he said. It's no big deal.

Sure it is. She kissed his cheek, then rubbed lipstick off the spot she'd kissed. Don't worry about it, okay? We're not going anywhere.

Danny's cheek grew hot. Listen, you're—you're okay with this? With me doing this?

She laughed. Why wouldn't I be?

I don't know. Because I'm a mess, maybe? Like I can't even balance my checkbook?

Brynn gave him a look, then patted his shoulder. We talked it over, she said. You're a good person.

Danny groaned and glanced out into the hallway, where Tom lay on his back, lifting Colin up and down above his chest like a weightlifter with a heavy bar.

Brynn said, You're like a brother to Tom. That means a lot in my book. And you can play beautiful music. You're nice to girls. You worry. Bad people don't worry.

Hitler worried about lots of stuff.

Be serious. I just have this feeling about you. We both do. You'd do fine, if.

Danny wished he had a drink. Well, he said, just make sure we never find out, okay? I couldn't do this without you guys.

Do what? Colin? She frowned, gave him that look again.

Jesus, Danny said. Anything.

W
HEN HE WAS DONE
crying Danny sat propped against the kitchen wall, trying to keep himself in the drained state of calm that had settled over him when he finally caught his breath. Trying not to think about how Kim had turned a fifteen-minute trip into one a half-hour long and counting.

And here was a distraction: The metal lockbox in the study. The key, taped inside the drawer.

He stood up, wincing. Remembering the lockbox reminded him of the twenty or thirty problems that had been flashing in front of him all night, ever since the police had called. The ones he had to think about sooner or later: a whole fucking avalanche of problems.

He poured himself another shot.

For instance. The band had gigs this weekend that would have to be canceled. He'd have to take a hiatus for a while—there was no way around it. A couple of guitarists in town might be able to play his parts; the other guys could make those calls, but they'd need to start right away. Like tomorrow; they had a gig at the coffee shop on Thursday—

The coffee shop! True Brew—Brynn's business, Danny's job. It was due to open at six; the morning crew showed up at five, in just—Danny checked his watch as he walked into the living room—three and a half hours.

Brynn had started up the shop last year, in an empty storefront a few blocks away from the house. It could have been a lark. Tom made enough money to support the family on his own, but Brynn had a business degree and was not, generally, the kind of woman to half-ass anything she did. And so the shop had been a big success almost from the moment it opened, with Brynn as owner and store manager, pulling twelve-hour days in split shifts, taking care of Colin when day care and Tom weren't able to. Her only questionable move in the whole process had been hiring Danny as her assistant manager.

No. He was being pathetic. The deal had worked out for both of them. Danny had thought Brynn was joking when she first suggested it; his only experience (aside from drinking obscene amounts of coffee; he played bluegrass, and it helped to be a little wired) was running a register, which he had done at video stores, record stores, bookstores. He'd majored in music, for Christ's sake; he had no skills.

But when she explained the details he could see the pride in her face—Danny got a job that suited him, with gig nights off, and Brynn got extra help she could stand. She told him she'd even sign up the band to play Thursday nights.

(
Jesus
, he'd said, stunned.
Sure, Brynnie.

She smiled and called into the study,
Hey, Tom—Danny just told me I could boss him around.

Tom leaned into the living room and said,
Then I'd say both of you got exactly what you wanted.
)

Brynn had always worked the morning shifts; Tom took Colin to day care on his way in to work. Danny closed. When Kim showed up—and when the fuck was that going to be, anyway?—he'd have to send her over to True Brew with a
sign. The shop would have to stay closed, for what—a week? He and Brynn were the only managers. Danny would have to promote one of the kids. But who'd take the place over for good? Maybe one of Brynn's family—

Brynn's family.
Tom's
family. He was such a fucking idiot.

The police had found Danny's number in Tom's wallet, and called him into the morgue, after he told them the families were all in other cities or countries.
I suppose I
am
family
, he'd said. Now he had to call the real people: Brynn's mother, who was in Colorado Springs, caring for Brynn's father—he'd suffered a bad stroke two years ago. And Tom's parents, who were on missionary work in Sierra Leone. He didn't even know
how
to reach them. Even Tom only talked to them a couple of times a year. And then there was Brynn's sister in Pittsburgh, and Tom's brother Walt in Denver . . .

Danny's heart was beating top fast. He took a swallow of whiskey. He'd make the calls in the morning. No one could do anything till then anyway. And he was in no shape to be on the phone, not for a while yet.

Everyone would come to Columbus for the funeral—God, the funeral. At least someone else would be in charge of that. He tried to imagine all those people, crying. Telling them he was Colin's guardian now. Showing them whatever magic papers Tom had in the study. Seeing the worry in a hundred different faces.

Maybe he could just stay home with the boy. You couldn't take a three-year-old to his parents' funeral, could you?

He ought to call his own parents, too. His mother would come and stay for as long as he asked, would give him advice. Walt would, too. He had a girl a little older than Colin. Maybe
he could bring her out, give Colin a playmate for a while. Walt was a decent guy. He'd do whatever he could.

Everyone would help him. This was a little kid—no one would turn away from Colin.

Even Kim. Maybe.

In truth Danny had no idea what Kim was going to do with all of this. She wasn't prone to dealing rationally with anything, let alone a crisis. She was only twenty-four, for God's sake; she'd quit as many jobs as he had, in ten years' less time. Just a month ago he'd loaned her a thousand dollars to bail her out on a credit card. He tried to see her bouncing Colin on her hip, like Brynn did. Even in his imagination she looked horrified.

He checked his watch again. Forty-five minutes had gone by since they had hung up. His mind couldn't stop racing—he saw Kim calling a lover. Driving to Alaska as fast as her little Mazda would take her. Bleeding to death in the median of 1–270.

He had to think of something else. It was time to quit fucking around and open the lockbox.

The study was off the same hallway as Colin's room. Danny paused at the entrance, listening; he could just barely make out Colin's little whistling breaths through the cracked door. Danny still had his shoes on; now he slipped them off and walked carefully to the study in his damp socks.

The study had always been Tom's sanctum. He had a kind of fetish for Corleone-type rooms, for mahogany furniture, for green-shaded lamps and fountain pens.
This is where I feel most like a lawyer
, Tom had always said. Now the study felt, to Danny, exactly like a funeral home: too still, too dark.

He turned on the desk lamp and then walked to the antique rolltop in the corner. Inside he found the metal lockbox, and the key taped inside the top drawer, just as Tom had shown him.

Inside the lockbox was a stack of sealed manila envelopes, each labeled in Tom's neat hand.
Auto Titles. True Brew. Mortgage. Birth Certs.
And then, at the bottom:
In the event of the deaths of Tom Schultz and Brynn Matthews.