Page 2 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Francis drops my suitcases in the foyer and strikes a pose. He looks ridiculous. His hips are thrust out; he’s making rock’n’roll horns with both hands.

“You’re looking at a rock star, Emily.” He beams proudly, breaking into a furious air guitar solo. “The one and onlytruerock star ever born in Point Lookout!”

The solo ends when the ‘rock star’ kicks over his amplifier. Or at least Ithinkit was supposed to be his amplifier: in the real world, Point Lookout’s one and only true rock star just kicked over one of my suitcases.

“Uh-huh,” I say, nonplussed. Which one was my laptop in, again? “So, what happened? Did Metallica fire… what’s his name? Axl Rose?”

“No! It’s even better, Emily! This is it! This is my chance, my big break!” My half-brother’s hands show signs of heading into another air guitar rampage.

“C’mon, kiddo, spit it out!” I say, moving to protect my other suitcase.

“I,” Francis says with a grand flourish, “am going on tour with Robert Ferry!” My ‘little’ brother picks me up, spinning me around gleefully. “This is it, Emily! This is the chance I’ve been waiting for my whole life!”

“Okay, okay, rock star!” I laugh, struggling halfheartedly to break free. “Put me down. I’m dizzy!” Francis lets me loose and I take a step back. “Your whole life? You only picked up a guitar… what, two years ago? Three? Before that you wanted to be an actor. And before that, you wanted to be the next Baryshnikov.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Dump all over my dreams,” he mock-pouts. He’s so excited that the gleeful grin quickly breaks through again.

“So tell me about it! What- how- I mean, Francis, you’re going on tour with one of the biggest names in classic rock. How did you manage this?”

“It’s Nick,” he says. “Have you met Nick yet? Mom’s new boyfriend?” He waits for me to shake my head. “Well, not so new really, but of course you haven’t met him.Theyonly met after you went back north for the fall semester. Nick’s got a lot of connections, and she met him in a networking group. They hit it off right away, and he started managing things for her and then one thing led to another…” Francis shrugs. “I’m just glad she’s happy again, after, y’know. After Dad.”

“I can’t wait to meet him,” I say. And it’s even the truth: I really do want to meet this Nick person. Wealthy widow, eager new ‘networking’ contact? I’m sure they did hit it off right away, but I’ll hold my tongue on that for the moment. Fortunately, my little brother misses the extra layer of meaning.

“Well, you’re shit outta luck on that one, Em,” Francis explains as he hoists my suitcases again, leading me toward my old bedroom. “Nick headed for California yesterday to work on the venue contracts for a couple of the tour dates with Robert and his agent, and they’re meeting with some people in LA today and tomorrow. Mom and I are meeting him in Mexico City next week, and that’s where the tour starts…”

I tune out Francis’s ramblings as we ascend the stairs up to my room.

The last time I climbed these stairs, the wall was lined with artwork. My mother had been an gifted amateur with watercolors, and my father had an eye for contemporary paintings. This had been his showcase. Everything was replaced by pictures in frames, now. Francis on stage. Francis with his mother. Margaret and a handsome gray-haired man. Nick, presumably.

Where had all the paintings gone? My mother’s work only had sentimental value of course, but some of my father’s picks had been worth real money. What had Margaret done with them?

She’d sold them, of course. Sold what she could and then… what? Trashed the rest?

At least my bedroom hasn’t changed at all, except for a huge pile of mail on my desk. And the dust. Oh, God, the dust: when I pull back the heavy curtains to let in the still-bright midwinter sun, the months of accumulated dust leave golden streaks through the still air.

My half-brother sits on the bed, still talking.

“So, after Mexico City, we’re going to San Diego, then LA. Then Fresno, Sacramento, and then—get this, sis—we’re going to play the Coliseum in Oakland!” Francis’s geography teachers wouldn’t be able to recognize him now, the way he’s ticking off cities and states on his tour itinerary.

I zone out a little while he goes on and on. What’s in that stack of mail? Most of it’s probably junk.

Yep. Black Friday sales fliers and solar panel deals go into the recycle file but—what’s this? An envelope from the county assessor’s office. No,threeenvelopes.

With a sinking feeling, I rip open the first envelope. I don’t even need to unfold the letter to know what it’s about.

Margaret hasn’t been paying the property taxes. They haven’t been paid since Dad died. We’re two years in arrears.

Fifty thousand dollars.

Well, forty-nine thousand, seven hundred and six dollars. And sixty-three cents. But it’s duenow.

I’m well past simply being angry now. I’m enraged.

That woman has been living rent-free in my mother’s home, spending my family’s money, and she hasn’t even had the decency to pay the taxes!

But, no: it’s not my mother’s home, not anymore. The house is in my name, and these tax bills have my name on them.

“Are you okay?” Francis asks. “You’re white as a ghost.”

---