The Accident

Betsy had been working in the accounting department of a local GM dealer that had closed its doors. She’d found a part-time job at a furniture store in Bridgeport, but had to be bringing in half of what she used to, if that.

The salary I paid Doug had remained constant through all this, but at best, he had to be treading water. More likely, he was drowning. While the construction and renovation business had slowed, I had, up to now, resisted cutting the pay of anyone who worked for me. At least those on staff, like Doug, Sally, Ken Wang, and our kid from north of the border, Stewart.

The Pinders had a wood-sided two-story off Roses Mill Road, near Indian Lake. Both their cars-Doug’s decade-old Toyota pickup with a cargo cover and Betsy’s leased Infiniti-were in the drive when I pulled up out front.

I could hear loud voices inside as I raised my hand to rap on the front door. I held it there a moment and listened, and while I could determine the mood inside that house-“ugly” was the word that came to mind-I couldn’t make out any actual conversation.

I rapped hard, knowing I might not be heard over the commotion.

The shouting stopped almost immediately, like a switch had been flipped. A moment later, Doug opened the door. His face was red and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. He smiled and pushed open the aluminum screen.

“Hey! Whoa! Will you look who’s here! Hey, Bets, it’s Glenny!”

From upstairs somewhere, “Hi, Glen!” Cheerful, like they hadn’t been tearing into each other five seconds earlier.

“Hi, Betsy,” I called out.

“Can I get you a beer?” Doug asked, leading me into the kitchen.

“No, that’s-”

“Come on, have a beer.”

“Sure,” I said. “Why not.”

As I came into the kitchen my eye caught a pile of unopened envelopes sitting by the phone. They all looked like bills. There were bank and credit card logos in the upper left corners of several of them.

“What’ll it be?” Doug asked, reaching into the fridge.

“Whatever you’ve got is fine.”

He took out two cans of Coors, handed me one, and popped his. He extended it toward me so we could clink cans. “To the weekend,” he said. “Whoever invented the weekend, there’s a guy whose hand I’d like to shake.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

“Good of you to drop by. This is terrific. You want to watch a game or something? There must be something on. I haven’t even looked. Gotta be some golf, at least. Some people, they don’t like watching golf, think it’s too slow, but I like it, you know? So long as you got enough people playing, camera can go hole to hole, so you don’t waste a whole lot of time watching people walk up the fairway.”

“I can’t stay long,” I said. “I’ve got groceries in the car. Some stuff that has to go into the fridge.”

“You could put it in ours for the time being,” Doug offered enthusiastically. “Want me to go out and get them? It’s no problem.”

“No. Look, Doug, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Shit, there a problem at one of the sites?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Doug’s face went dark. “Goddamn, Glen, you’re not laying me off, are you?”

“Hell, no,” I said.

A nervous smile crossed his lips. “Well, that’s a relief. Christ, you gave me a start there.”

Betsy popped into the kitchen, came over and kissed my cheek.

“How’s my big strong man?” she said, but in her heels, she was nearly as tall as I was.

“Bets,” I said.

Betsy was a tiny thing, barely an inch over five feet, but often wore killer heels to compensate. With them, she wore a super-short black skirt, tight white blouse, and jacket. She had a handbag hooked over her elbow, the word PRADA emblazoned on the side. I figured she got it the night Ann Slocum used our house to hawk her fake designer bags. If I were Doug, I wouldn’t feel good, my wife heading out of the house looking like, if not quite a hooker, at least like someone who was on the prowl.

“How long you gonna be?” Doug asked her.

“I’ll be back when I’m back,” she said.

“Just don’t…” Doug’s voice trailed off. Then, “Just take it easy.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t do anything crazy,” she said. She flashed me a smile. “Doug thinks I’m a shopaholic.” She shook her head. “An alcoholic, maybe. ” She laughed and then, just as quickly, adopted a look of horror. “Oh my God, Glen, I’m so sorry I said that!”

“It’s okay.”

“I just didn’t think.” She reached out and touched my arm.

“That’s your whole problem,” Doug said.

“Fuck you,” she said to him, her tone no different than as if she’d blessed him after a sneeze. Her hand still on my arm, she asked, “How you holding up, anyway? How’s poor Kelly?”

“We’re managing.”

She gave my arm a squeeze. “If we had a dollar for every time I put my foot in my mouth, we’d be living at the Hilton. Give that little girl of yours a hug from me. I gotta go.”

“Glenny and me are gonna chill out a bit,” Doug said, even though I thought I’d made it clear I didn’t have a lot of time. I was relieved Betsy was leaving. I didn’t want to say the things I had to say to Doug in front of his wife.