Page 69 of The New Year's Party
She had that slipup this morning about the night I left her “in charge.”
Does my darling husband somehow countthatas evidence? If so, he’s delusional. Our daughter may be precocious, but no jury will accept the testimony of a girl who was only five years old at the time...AndI could say that I suspect Will was coaching her. That’s a good idea.
It’s strange to imagine myself lying in front of a jury. But when I put my hand on that Bible, what I’ll swear to tell won’t be the outer truth, but the inner truth. Truth has so many dimensions, doesn’t it? The outer truth may be that I burned the restaurant down. But the inner truth is that I was preserving our family’s resources, both financial and emotional, against an outer threat. I was under duress—my hand was forced. And just like confessions under torture don’t count, what I did that night can’t count, because Will wasthreateningme with this nightmare investment...
If only Mackenzie hadn’tsaidanything. She was the wild card when I was planning everything—I just didn’t expect the wild card to come into play five years later. She had nightmares a lot back then, so my main concern when I was planning it all was what if she woke up with a bad dream and went to get Will? He might wake up in spite of the heavy dose of sleeping pills I was going to put in his chocolate lavacake. Then he’d notice I was gone, and the car was gone, and... game over.
Of course, burning Rock the Clock down wasn’t my first option. I tried to reason with Will first. Use logic. Isn’t that how men’s brains are supposed to work? I gave Will the stats on restaurants, down to the very zip code. I reminded him how many times Phelps had flaked. And then what does Will do but write a check for fifteen thousand dollars without even double-checking with me? I felt so helpless, because even though Will stood up there on our wedding day and made vows to me, he was more committed to his horrible friends. It was basically adultery. He was cheating on me by putting them first.
Fine. If he was going to pour our money into a sinkhole, I’d just have to plug up that hole.There’slogic.
Ted seemed like a good option. He was a criminal, so he’d do anything for money, right? And we’d gotten along pretty well at a few of the New Year’s parties, but he was also kind of detached from the group, which was ideal. Then he laughed in my face, and I realized pretty quickly I was going to have to do it myself.
No one would imagine a woman four weeks postpartum would drive three hours with her newborn to set some greasy rags on fire while her baby snoozed in the car seat three blocks away. But no one would imagine how desperate I felt to cut ties with the people who were determined to drag me and Will down with them. My mom spent her entire life trying to keep ahead of my alcoholic dad. Trying to outsmart his stealing, his lies, his pathetic weakness. I couldn’t let Will become that person who was always frittering away our resources, the person I was always having to outsmart. But if I didn’t act, that’s exactly what he would become.
It was easy to get in. Phelps and his dad both worked at Rock the Clock as teens, and Phelps joked numerous timesabout how old Eddie still hadn’t changed the location of his spare key, taped to the inside of the old coal chute.
I let myself in. Replaced the batteries in the two smoke detectors with dead ones. Then I turned a single burner on low, with a dirty pan over it like Eddie had just forgotten it there. Finally, I fed one of the dishrags to the blue flame. Just the corner. I watched it blaze up. The whole kitchen was disgusting, covered in decades of grease. It was primed for a fire anyway. Then I said a prayer, locked up, returned the key, and drove away. Baby Tessa slept like an angel the whole way home. Would it burn all the way down? I had no idea, but I didn’t have the luxury to wait. As I crawled back into bed next to Will just before dawn, rubbing my chilly feet together, I reminded God it was in his hands now.
I didn’t know Eddie lived above the restaurant. I did feel bad the next morning, hearing the news that there had been a death. I never intended to cause any collateral damage, much less take a human life. But he was also seventy years old, and dying of smoke inhalation is supposed to be a painless way to go. At the end of the day, God knew I didn’t mean to do that, that my intentions had been pure, to protect my family. That’s whatIwas responsible for, so I took that guilt and said,Nottoday, Satan.
A feeble beep nearly sends me out of my skin again. “Argh,” I growl, stomping over to the dartboard and slamming it as hard as I can with my palm. It makes a long electronic sigh and goes quiet.
When Phelps returned the fifteen thousand in the mail, I got the check, because I always open the mail. I opened a secret account and put the check in there. I didn’t steal it or use it for myself—I used it for groceries, or to make extra payments on the mortgage. Even to get Will a nice cashmere sweater for Christmas. I never outright lied about it. Every now and then, I’d just say, “Have you seen a checkfrom Phelps?” because if Will would just get the courage to confront Phelps, their friendship would hopefully fall apart in the ensuing argument.
But Will wouldn’t man up and confront Phelps.
He preferred to “let it go.” I even shouted, “This isn’tFrozen, Will!” and he dared look back at me and say, “It’s love.”
Which just sends me, even thinking about it now. Nuh-uh. Nope. Love doesnotlet people get away with things like that! Love confronts. Lovechallenges. Lovechangespeople.
The rattling of a knob sends me into a panic again. I locked the door behind me, but...
“Hello?” says a tentative voice.
“Leave me alone!” I shout, backing away toward the TV. I’m not putting up with a single accusation more from these—
“Sorry to bother you...”
Oh. It’s just Allie. Picking her way down the stairs in bare feet, balancing a little tray in her hand.
“I thought I locked it,” I say, crossing my arms over my torso.
“Hairpin,” she says apologetically. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, and... I brought Jell-O shots?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Oh, I know! Phelps told me. I made some nonalcoholic ones. It’s a great recipe. I can share it with you, if you want. Do you have AirDrop on your phone? It’s all over Pinterest too.”
It’s hard to process Jell-O shots and Pinterest as everything that just happened is still crashing over me, again and again. But Allie has walked right over to the couch in front of the TV and is lining up four paper cups all in a row on the coffee table.
“I can’t believe what happened up there,” says Allie.
Her tone is neutral, and I can’t tell if she’s on my side or against me. I walk toward her slowly. A Jell-O shot actually does sound kind of good right now. Actually, her bringingthese down for me, and having made them especially according to my preferences, might be the nicest thing anyone has done for me in a long time.
“I can’t either,” I say cautiously.
“I felt so bad for you. Like, I’m pretty sure Doug is high right now? You know? The dynamics here are so messed up.”
