“Probably,” I say, feeling some relief. The thought of Max and Becky hanging out in an unreachable den of sin makes my mouth taste bitter, but I’d rather know he’s with her than know nothing at all. “He probably just lost track of time. I bet he’ll be home in a few minutes.” Even as I say this, though, I’m not sure it’ll prove true. Chances are, Max is fine, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be moseying through the door for pie anytime soon.
I leave Ivy to help Marcy and Meredith serve hot cocoa. After passing a steaming drink to everyone at the table, I squish into an empty space, far from Oliver and his sticky toddler hands. Brett slides a tray of add-ins—mini marshmallows, crushed candy cane, cinnamon sticks, and orange twists among other tasty things—our way. I add a dollop of whipped cream and a few chocolate chips to my mug, then watch as Ivy sneaks a handful of mini marshmallows to her nephew, who appears to be on his way to a sugar overdose.
Across from me, Marcy’s helping Bill sip cocoa from a straw. She must be stressing about Max’s whereabouts, seeing as how her son’s propensity for responsible decision making has gone down the toilet.
God, I hope he shows up soon.
No one mentions his absence as the clock journeys toward seven and then beyond, but it becomes obvious that we’re waiting on him. The implicit question builds and hovers over the untouched desserts, thickening like tapioca.
When Oliver at last rubs his eyes and rests his chocolaty chin on the tabletop, Marcy stands, clasps her hands together, and says, “Goodness, Oli, I’m ready for a treat. Should I serve the desserts now?”
Oliver perks right up. “Tweat! Tweat, pwease!”
Zoe runs a hand over Oliver’s head. “I don’t know, kiddo. It’s getting late.”
“God, Zoe, lighten up,” Ivy says. “Let him have some pie.”
Zoe flings a glare at her sister. “Why don’t you stay out—”
Brett drops a hand onto Zoe’s shoulder and nods in Bill’s direction. She glances quickly, guiltily, at her father, then snaps her mouth shut.
“What?” Ivy needles. “Stay out of your perfect parenting?”
Zoe pulls in a breath, but Brett jumps up before she has a chance to retort. “I’ll help you with the plates, Marcy,” he says. He looks pointedly at his wife. “Zoe, why don’t you and Oli keep your dad company?”
As if Bill’s a charity case. This time last year, he would have told Ivy and Zoe to quit bickering while at the same time reviewing the standings of whatever football teams happened to be playing on TV, and passing my dad a beer. Now he stares with dismay at his daughters. Zoe, chagrined, picks up a turquoise crayon and begins filling in one of the shapes on Oliver’s coloring page. Ivy takes her phone out of her pocket and taps away at its screen.
Meredith nudges my dad. “Jake, tell Bill about the case you’re working on. The one with that broker out of Tacoma? The dilapidated hotel?”
When Bill was healthy, he and Dad never discussed work. They stuck to football and families, lagers and stouts, because the worlds of logging and law have very little overlap. I’m sure the last thing my dad feels like rehashing is some tedious hotel case, but Bill can’t help fill this silence that’s becoming stifling.
Their friendship’s so strained now, nothing like the easy camaraderie they used to share. The transformation makes me sad, and nostalgic for the past.
Once, on a cloudless day when Max and I were twelve—Dad and Meredith had just announced their engagement—we attempted to chalk a rendering of the solar system in the middle of the street. Bill, who’d been busy trimming his junipers, set his clippers aside so he could plop down on the pavement with us. He talked about rocket launches and moon walks as he rifled through our bucket of chalk, helping us pick out colors for the planets. My dad joined us when he got home from work, armed with a reference book and a tape measure for accuracy’s sake, and by the time the lamps came on, the street had become a galaxy, and all four of us were dusted head to toe in chalk. Marcy joked about hosing us off before letting us inside for Cokes.
Now Dad launches into a dry monologue about misconduct and faulty documentation that would have me yawning under different circumstances. I feel sorry for him, and Bill. I wonder if they miss chalk drawings in the street as much as I do.
Marcy and Brett are nearly done loading dessert plates with gluttonous portions of pie, cookies, torte, and tartlets when the doorbell chimes. Zoe rises, but sinks back onto the bench as Marcy darts out of the kitchen ahead of her. Beside me, Ivy’s gone stiff. We sit in silence, waiting.
Marcy’s saccharine voice carries into the kitchen. “Officer Tate!”
Officer Tate serves on the police force of the town adjacent to McAlder, so this visit shouldn’t be in any sort of professional capacity, but why else would he show up unannounced?
A cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck—Max.
He was hurt during a football game a few months ago, after being taken down by a tackle so violent it was startlingly audible from the grandstand. He made it off the field, arm dangling awkwardly, but the second he crossed the sideline, he hit his knees. I swear to God my heart stopped beating. It was all I could do to keep my butt on the cold aluminum bench, gripping Leah’s hand while coaches and trainers swarmed him. The injury turned out to be a stinger—a harmless but painful charge of electricity that shot through the nerves of his arm after the hit. They were brief but terrible, those moments I had to consider what life would be like if Max wasn’t okay.
He’s fine, I tell myself now. He has to be fine.
Officer Tate’s ramblings are indistinct, but I pick up a few key words: driving, beer, serious, illegal. The muted explanation carries on, peppered with fretful-sounding Yes, sirs and I understands from Marcy. The tension in the kitchen is almost unbearable; even Oliver—who was presented with dessert before the doorbell rang and has made a mess of pecan pie on the table—has fallen victim to the grave atmosphere.
“I should have taken him to the station, Marcy,” we hear Officer Tate say. “Frankly, I put my job at risk by bringing him here. He’s underage, which means zero tolerance. He could have hurt himself. He could have killed himself, or someone else.”
Zoe drops the crayon she’s been clutching, and Meredith makes a little choking sound. Bill’s face has drained of color, and my dad’s tugging on his hair. I feel dizzy, light-headed, a little sick, like I just stepped off a roller coaster.
“I know,” Marcy says, her voice wavering. Max screwed up big-time—irrevocably. I can’t even look at my dad, who predicted a mishap like this weeks ago.
“You’re lucky it was me who stopped him,” Officer Tate says, “not another officer who doesn’t understand your … situation.”
The foyer, the kitchen, the house … So, so quiet.
And then, haltingly, Dad says, “Bill?”
Bill’s rigid in his chair. His hands form fists so tight the tendons in his knuckles strain.
“I don’t want to intrude,” Dad murmurs, using the slower speech pattern we all fall into when addressing him now, “but do you want me to … Should I go out there?”