Into the Fire(11)

Stifling a sob, she snatched up the notepad again. “There’s really not. I mean, who’s gonna know who to put on the guest list? And how many passed plates at the reception? And which suit … which suit of his…”

She dipped her face again into her tissue-wielding fist, her chin wrinkled above her knuckles, freckles pronounced on her blanched face. From the kitchen Max heard one of the high-schoolers—Terel or Ross—crack a joke and then the sound of muffled laughter. He wondered who else was in there.

He put his hand in his pocket, felt his fingertips brush against the folded DO NOT OPEN envelope. “Jill, I need to know if Grant … um, if he might have left any instructions for me.”

She froze, her features hardening. When she looked up, her eyes held such intense disdain that he flinched. “You mean like in a will?”

“No,” Max said. “No, that’s not what I mean at all.”

But she kept on. “As in, did he leave you anything? Not a good time to ask for money, Maxwell. I mean, the body’s not even cold.”

He wilted. “How could you think I’d…?”

“Because everyone is, Max. You should see them crawling out of the woodwork already.”

“I understand,” he said. “But I’m not.”

Michelle rushed forward. “Mom,” she said. “Stop it. Just stop it.”

But Jill ignored her, her glare boring through Max. “Then what are you asking for, Max? Why would Grant leave instructions for you?” And then, abruptly, her brow furled and she snapped to her feet. “Wait a minute. Is this something you got him into?”

“What?”

“Of course, that’s why you’re here. You needed his help, dragged him into something shady. You were always the fuckup, Max. What did you do?”

“No, Jill. Listen—” His voice had risen. Realizing he was arguing with a woman who’d been widowed for less than twenty-four hours, he clamped his mouth shut.

But she drove toward him, her face a mask of aggression. “How dare you. How dare you come here.”

Frustration rushed through his blood, congealing into anger. His next words were just taking shape when he caught sight of Michelle. She was standing behind her mother, eyes welling, the flanges of her nostrils red. Her sweater had come unclasped in the front, swaying open, revealing a soft gray T-shirt rounded over her belly. Her words came back to Max: Given everything, I know I’m super emotional.

She saw him notice her pregnant bulge, gave a soft smile, and clipped her sweater again over it.

“So tell me, Max,” Jill sneered. “Tell me the real story of why you’re here.”

He heard Grant’s voice, edged with worry: My wife’s not exactly a safe distance removed from me. Or my family. The thing with you is, no one will ever know. I mean, no one would ever think of you.

The minute Grant handed Max that envelope, he’d put a target on his head. And now Max had to choose whether he wanted to put Jill into the crosshairs with him. He looked at Michelle, still verging on tears, the slope of her stomach. He thought about the boys in the other room. This well-built house and all the life in it, such a contrast with his run-down apartment. There was so much more to wreck here.

“Forget it,” Max said. “You’re right. I’m an asshole. Sorry.”

She studied him a moment, her features slack with disgust. Then she tensed.

He couldn’t process what was happening in real time, not until she plowed into him, hammering at his chest with her fists, clawing at his face. “Get out! Right now! Get out of my house!”

He wrangled her arms as best he could. Michelle was shouting. The kitchen door swung open, and a stream of people poured through, both boys, all four uncles, a slew of cousins, his grandmother, the chef and the cleaning lady, and an assortment of well-heeled neighbors clutching plastic hors d’oeuvre plates.

Jill was twisting in Max’s grip now, cursing and sobbing, and he let her go and stepped back. Before she could launch herself at him again, Michelle wrapped her up from behind. “Stop it, Mom! Calm down. Max didn’t do anything. Just calm down.”

Jill finally stopped struggling. She shook her daughter off, snatched up her notepad, and strode out of sight down the rear hall.

All eyes shifted to Max. In the rear of the pack, he caught sight of his father, his rugged face flushed. He seemed to be caught off guard as much as Max was.

Max felt a familiar gravity pulling him toward a familiar hope—that his dad might step up and say something in his defense.

But Terry just looked ashamed. In his pained expression, Max saw a reflection of his own original sin. That he’d come into the world a disappointment and would be one so long as his father was alive to lay eyes on him. That had it not been for Max, his mother would be around, laughing and pretty, warming every room.

That he wasn’t worth the terrible cost that had been paid to create him.

Max was unable to find what words should come next. And unable to look away from his father. At last Terry broke off eye contact.

“Omigod,” Michelle said, cutting in on the muddle of Max’s thoughts. “You’re bleeding.”

His left cheek burned even over the heat that had risen beneath his face. He touched his fingertips to the spot, and they came away red. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m sorry.”