Sit on the first bench to the right and wait. Put money on bench next to you.
She did as she was told, moving as quickly as she could down the steps, careful not to trip. The last thing she needed was that kind of attention.
Once she was finally seated, she tried to compose herself, watching the water spill lazily over the fountain’s edge. She’d had to get the additional ten thousand dollars from the safe, wrapping the full amount in a plastic deli bag secured with rubber bands before tucking it into the Metropolitan Opera tote that was now resting under her hand. She wanted that bag back, though it probably wasn’t worth dying for, even as a matter of principle.
She focused on the water again, tumbling. Their life would eventually tumble forward past this, too. As if it had never happened. Gretchen could make that decision. So much of truth was a choice. What we chose to see, how we decided to interpret events. Relationships were not objective facts and figures. It was for each person to keep their own accounting, to decide which costs were the right ones to bear.
Gretchen was startled by a rush of motion next to her. When she looked down, the tote bag was gone, and a tall, bald man in a khaki-colored jacket and jeans was striding away. Not running, but walking swiftly.
She jumped up to follow—she wasn’t even sure why. She wanted him to have the money. But he’d already disappeared into the fading light anyway, out of view down a path, maybe, or into the crowd of wandering tourists. Gone, for sure, and along with him any hope of closure.
—
It took hours for Gretchen to calm down after she got home. Forever to fall asleep after she was in bed hours later. When she finally did, it felt like two seconds later that she startled awake. There was someone in her room.
“What—who is that?” she shouted, scrambling back against the headboard, tugging the sheet up like a shield.The men.But she had just paid them! She blinked, hoping it was the leftover fragment of a dream, but the person was still there. “Get out of my house!”
“Mom!” Becks’s voice. “Sorry, sorry. It’s me, sorry…”
He stepped forward, then wobbled.
“Becks, are you drunk? What are you even—? You’re supposed to be back at school.”
It had taken some convincing to get him into an Uber to Penn Station. But he’d eventually agreed. Elizabeth, on the other hand, had refused to go back to the Community.
“Nah. Not drunk. Only a couple of beers with Luke.” But when he dropped down onto the bed next to her, he almost slid off.
Luke was a friend of Becks’s from Riverdale. He was taking a semester “off” from Duke, though the rumor was he’d failed out and was living downtown with a bunch of “street artists” or some nonsense. No one wanted to inquire too deeply with his parents. He’d always been Gretchen’s least favorite—which was saying something, given some of the people Elizabeth had associated with over the years. Luke was a troublemaker, plain and simple, had been ever since elementary school. Purposefully destructive.
Gretchen pressed her lips closed. What would be the point of scolding Becks? He was obviously upset about Richard, and everyone processed upset differently. Maybe Becks couldn’t process it at all. He was still so young on top of being, well, sensitive.
“Why is the room moving side to side?” he asked, gripping the comforter with his fists.
“Come on,” Gretchen said, getting out of bed. She placed her hands on her son’s shoulders and tugged. “Let’s get you to your room.”
Becks seemed to rally as he made his way down the hall, hugging the wall for support. “Why does Dad do this?”
Do this—there was no getting around the phrasing. Present tense, ongoing.
“Shh,” she soothed. “Enough of that, Becks.”
He was drunk and talking—that was all. Look at how he was wrestling with the doorknob.
“What?” he asked in a loud, childish whisper. “Dad’s injail.Remember? He can’t hear me.”
“I remember, yes.” Becks was drunk, so drunk. Ridiculous for her to be taking any of what he was saying to heart.
“I know, I know. You like a sandy head.”
“What?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “A sandy head?”
“No, no.” Becks had finally managed to open the door, but remained frozen on the threshold. She wondered if he was more than drunk. Maybe he was also high. Gretchen was woefully inexperienced in such matters, despite Elizabeth’s shenanigans. “Head in sand. That’s what Elizabeth says. You like your headinthe sand.”
Becks launched himself toward his bed, flopping down face-first. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into the pillows. “I’m sorry about everything. But I just…”
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Gretchen said as she tugged off one huge shoe, then another. But he had already started to snore.
—
