Shiloh squealed—she really was embarrassed, no matter what she said. She was embarrassed, she was ecstatic. “Okay, stop! Stop! I love it too much!”
“‘Shilo, when I was young—’”
Seventy-Four
He’d wanted his family to get here on their own—to see that this was the best way forward for Mom.
But they were all too self-involved and living too close to the edge. Desperate people weren’t generous. Or considerate.
Angel was the most reasonable of them, even though she had the most to lose. She was living in Cary’s mom’s house with her three kids—the youngest was a little older than Gus, the oldest was probably eight.
Angel was still with the kids’ dad, but he only seemed to surface once in a while. Cary was half concerned that he was going to surface with a gun. Jackie’s husband had already threatened to kick Cary’s ass.“You can try,”Cary had shouted at him,“but that won’t pay the mortgage!”(They’d been standing in their own front yard; Cary wasn’t breaking his promise to Gloria.)
Nothingwas going to pay the mortgage.
Cary’s mom couldn’t afford it without his help. That had become clear as soon as she gave him access to her bank account. She could lose the house to the bank or she could sell it.
That was it. That was the final word.
Cary was getting the house ready to sell.
Today he was packing up his mom’s clothes. She already had all the clothes that fit her and that she liked the best at her new apartment, but he’d promised to let her sort through the rest of them.
Jackie had taken the dogs—after Cary had threatened to call the Humane Society. Cary was the mean old man. He was the landlord. He was the hard line.
It was hot in his mom’s bedroom. Even with the window unit.
There was a dumpster in the driveway, and Cary had spent the weekthrowing out everything he found in the house that was still in a plastic thrift shop bag or a box.
“Some of that stuff is worth something!”Angel had stood on the porch and yelled at him.“She has an eye for antiques!”
“Angel, it all smells like dogs and cigarettes.”
“Not the ceramics!”
Jackie and Don had eventually shown up, pissed off and probably drunk, and climbed into the dumpster to save things. Cary let them.
None of his own stuff was in the house. Not in a way he could find. His room in the basement had flooded a few years ago. Fortunately he’d taken his ROTC medals and his yearbooks with him when he got his first apartment. His saber was long gone. One of his stepbrothers had probably killed someone with it.
Cary had promised his mom that he’d set aside the family photos and all of her jewelry—the plastic necklaces and glass earrings.
She wanted her crocheted afghans and her coffee cups. And a drawer full of things that had belonged to Cary’s dad—an engraved spike that he got when he retired from the railroad. A Zippo lighter. A cuff link.
Angel had a pile of things in her bedroom that she wanted to take for herself and another pile for Cary’s mom. She kept calling his mom to see if she wanted something that Cary was about to throw away. His mom always said yes.
Angel’s kids sat in the living room watching TV while Cary emptied the house. (While their mom squirreled things away. While their grandmother crawled around a dumpster, and their great-grandmother watchedJudge Judy,five miles away with the shades drawn.)
Cary sat down on his mom’s bed and held his head. He was exhausted. He was filthy. He had seven days of leave left, and even if he got this house cleaned out, he wasn’t sure how he was going to manage putting it on the market.
His mom’s mattress was shot. He could feel the springs. He should carry it right out to the dumpster—he was going to.
He didn’t bother stripping the bed. He shoved the mattress off theframe. Maneuvered it up. Out the bedroom door. It was too big for Cary to lift by himself. He had to push and drag it. It got stuck on the staircase. He was going to have to force it. He squeezed between the mattress and the wall, trying to feel where it was caught.
“Cary?” Angel called out. “Someone’s here for you.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s me!” Shiloh shouted.
