The Ups and Downs of Being Dead (31 page)

Rachel sighed. “Let’s do it.”

Min scurried around the island and threw her arms around
Rachel. “I promise our son or daughter will grow up happy and well-adjusted.”

“A baby!?” Robert screeched. “They’re talking about having a
baby?”

“Yes,” Suzanne chuckled. “What did you think they were
planning?”

“Are they going to a clinic and page through photos for a
donor? Or do you think one of their gay man friends is going to do the honors?”

“Oh, stop it,” Suzanne scolded. “They love each other. You
might as well face it.”

“Look, you’re disappointed in how your daughter’s life is
turning out,” he said. “Allow me my own disappointments, okay?”

“You’re right,” Suzanne said. Then she stepped close and
snuggled up against his chest.

“What did I ever do to make Rachel hate men?” He asked. Then
he shoved a hand in Suzanne’s face. “Don’t answer that.”

Smiling up at him, she said, “Maybe this is why we met. To
help each other discover the good things about our daughters’ relationships.”

He snorted a little laugh. “Well you drew double duty.
‘Cause now you have to show me something positive about Robbie.”

* * *

According to Donald Briscoe’s agenda, the attorney had an
appointment with Robbie Thursday morning at the Fulton County jail. Robert and
Suzanne tagged along.

Briscoe looked like he was slumming it in his off-the-rack
taupe suit. Maybe it was his ‘prison suit’ that he wore when he met with
clients. The docket on his personal assistant’s desk had listed three other
defendants he was visiting.

The attorney kept his back ramrod straight as he strolled
down the long row of prison phone booths. With more aplomb than Robert would
have shown, Briscoe sat on the edge of a chair facing Robbie and quietly set
his briefcase on his knees. Obviously, the man did not want to touch any more
surfaces than absolutely necessary.

On the other side of the thick glass, Robbie sat in a bright
orange jumpsuit, his hair even more tangled than usual, his eyes drawn tight
from lack of sleep.

He snatched the phone off the receiver, then had to wait for
Briscoe to leisurely pick up his own phone.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked Briscoe.

“Believe it or not, Robbie, I have other clients,” Briscoe
said. “Clients who didn’t drop out of rehab or jump bond.”

“I don’t care about them. I want you to do what you do, and
get me out of here. This place is a shit hole. I don’t know who smells worse,
the blacks or the Mexicans. And they won’t let anyone even smoke in here. I’m
going nuts.”

“It’s not as simple as you think, Robbie. I’m trying to get
a judge to agree to send you back to rehab but so far—”

“Stop fucking around with this rehab bullshit. Just get my
trial date. Once they find out it was all Morgan’s fault, I’ll be through with
this crap.”

“You don’t get it, Robbie. Your fingerprints are on that
plastic bag, too. If you’re tried as an accessory, and the prosecution can
prove premeditation—”

Robbie quacked his fingers like a duck. “Blah, blah, blah. I
know you’re just saying that so you can jack up my costs. And I already told
you money is no object.”

“There has been an interesting development in your inheritance,”
Briscoe said. “You’ve been assuming that your mother’s portion of the estate
would be divided between you and your sister. But according to your father’s
stipulation, your mother’s inheritance reverts to his estate: in this case, the
Cryonics Center.”

Robbie came up out of his chair. “Are you kidding me? That
fucking bastard.”

“Is that true?” Suzanne asked Robert.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “But I didn’t think there’d be much
left. I figured Amanda would have it all spent by the time she was ninety years
old. If not, maybe I’d need it.”

Robbie really did kill the golden goose. If Amanda had
stayed alive, she surely would have spent some of her money on him. But with
her dead, all that money was gone.

Robbie’s attorney continued with the good news. “You already
forfeited the ninety thousand dollar bond I posted when you failed to appear in
court.”

“Oh, just shut the fuck up!” Robbie yelled. “And get me out
of here.”

Briscoe moved the telephone receiver away from his ear.

“Hey!” Robbie said.

The attorney looked like he’d had quite enough of Robbie,
but he listened anyway.

“I want you to say something to the mayor or whoever runs
this dump.”

“That would be the county sheriff,” Briscoe said stiffly.

“Yeah. You tell him the guards in this place suck. Some guy
walked past me yesterday and wiped shit on the back of my shirt. I know who it
was. But when I told the guard he just laughed. I want something done about
him.”

“That’s not a good idea, Robbie,” Briscoe said. “You don’t
want to draw any attention to yourself. Complaining about the guards will just
make matters worse.”

“Jesus, you’re such a pussy,” Robbie complained. “Rachel
said you were highly recommended, but I didn’t think it was for kissing ass—”

Briscoe hung up the phone and stood. Squaring his shoulders,
he walked away.

“Dear God,” Suzanne said. “Doesn’t Robbie understand how
serious all this is?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Can Mr. Briscoe drop Robbie as a client?”

“I don’t know, but he looks like he’s considering it.”

A guard roughly slapped a hand on Robbie’s shoulder and told
him to get up.

Robbie jerked his shoulder to shrug him away.

“Back off asshole,” he said. “I just talked to my attorney
about you morons. He’s going to report your negligence.”

“Is he now?” the guard said, a wide smile on his face.

“Yeah, motherfucker,” Robbie said. “I’ve got rights, you
know.”

* * *

The next day, while Robert and Suzanne waited at the gate
for their flight to Hawaii, a news report came on the overhead television.
During the night, Robbie had been in a scuffle, allegedly with another inmate.
According to standard procedure, he’d been taken from the county jail to Grady
Hospital in downtown Atlanta. Someone at the hospital had sneaked some pictures
of Robbie on their telephone and released them on the Internet.

One of Robbie’s eyes was swollen shut. He also had a fat
lip, but it didn’t look like his nose had been broken.

“Unbelievable,” Robert said, shaking his head. “Wonder what
Robbie thinks about his rights now.”

Robert and Suzanne did all the touristy things in Hawaii:
the helicopter ride over a volcano, island hopping, the luau on the beach,
surfing the Pacific. After two weeks, they moved on to Japan. Then Australia.

It was the middle of July when Robert finally brought up all
the travel.

“I’ve never enjoyed leisure time,” he told Suzanne. “My mind
was always on business; how to make connections, increase sales. It was all
about growth. I didn’t realize I was missing so much.”

“That makes me happy to hear you say that,” she said. “I was
afraid you weren’t enjoying yourself.”

So she had noticed. Now the delicate part came where he had
to express his feelings without hurting hers. He plunged into his rehearsed
speech.

“Do you know what I’ve enjoyed the most?” he said. “Being
with you. No matter where we are, or what we’re doing, you’re the factor that
makes it such a pleasure.”

“Oh, Robert. You’re so sweet.” She held her palm close to
his cheek. “But you are tired of traveling, aren’t you?”

“A little.”

“And I’ve been dragging you from pillar to post for weeks.
Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Because it hasn’t bothered me until lately.”

“So what shall we do?” she said. “Your choice.”

Why did she have to be so understanding? With Amanda, if
there had been a disagreement, they waited until the last straw, and then
blurted out their dissatisfaction in a heated argument. Or mumbled sarcastic
digs at each other under their breath.

And how was he going to explain what was really going on? He
decided to just come out with it.

“I miss work.”

There, he said it. Now Suzanne could jump all over him for
falling back into that same old rut. But she didn’t.

“I suppose you do,” she said. “I know men have a much harder
time with retirement. Although I suppose now that women have worked a whole
career, too, they’re probably having just as much trouble adjusting.”

“It’s hard to shut all that off.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Well—” Do or die time. “I thought about going back to
Atlanta. Maybe I could hang around Audrey’s a couple days a week. Just to be in
with all the action. I know I can’t do anything, but I just want to see what’s
happening.”

“Would we stay at a hotel?”

“I haven’t worked out any details. I wanted to see what you
thought first.”

She sat quietly, looking out the airplane window at the
ocean below. And Robert waited patiently—for a while. Then he had a thought.

“How about I sweeten the deal. We hang around Atlanta until
September when we’re supposed to meet Maggie and Joe in D.C. We’ll see if
they’re up for doing something with us. I’d just like to be back at Audrey’s by
the first of November so I can watch the company’s numbers through the
Christmas shopping season.”

More thinking. More waiting.

“Okay,” she finally said. “Here are my requests. I want a
house. Someplace nice with a porch or a deck where I can sit outside. And in
town, so I can ride the bus.”

“You got it.” Robert said enthusiastically. He never dreamed
it would be this simple.

“Hang on now,” she said. “That was my first request. You
might not like the next stipulation as much. And you have to promise to stick
by the agreement, or the deal is off.”

Was she going to say no travel? Would she limit the number
of days he could work?

“You can not,” she said shaking her finger, “under any
circumstances, get into anyone’s head at work. Not Rachel, not her personal
assistant, not even the custodian. You are absolutely not allowed to interfere
in how she is running that company.”

* * *

Finding a house wasn’t nearly as simple as they thought it
would be. Robert decided Buckhead would be the ideal location for Suzanne:
Phipps Plaza and Lenox Square nearby, theaters, restaurants, the bus on
Peachtree Street. They poured over listings at a prestigious real estate office
on Pharr Road, and then took off to find the perfect abode.

The first house they visited, a lovely Mediterranean ranch,
brought reality crashing home. It was completely devoid of furniture. The next
house had a few accent pieces for staging, but certainly didn’t feel like a
home.

“Okay, so a vacant house won’t work,” Robert said as he and
Suzanne rode the bus along Piedmont Road. “But we can’t just move into an
occupied house, can we?”

She bared her teeth in a grimace. “Sounds creepy, like
haunting someone.”

“Maybe we can find a single who travels a lot. A pilot, or a
salesman.”

Suzanne’s cheek crunched. “That will probably be an
apartment.”

“Not necessarily,” Robert argued.

“Oh!” She grabbed his arm. “Let’s get off!”

She was gone in a flash, running right through the traffic.
On the opposite side of the street, Suzanne stood in front of a banner
announcing the grand opening of a new subdivision.

“Ta-da!”

Robert read the sign. “Chelsea Crossing. Luxury homes in
Buckhead.” Then he craned his head up to examine the floating, red balloons
tethered to the banner.

“Not up there,” Suzanne said. “Here.”

She pointed to an oval in the corner of the banner with the
words: Model Open.

“Ah.” He went for the bluff: eyebrows up, smile, nod. But he
didn’t get it.

“Come on,” she said, leading him past the security gate and
into the first house on the right.

At the front door, she paused. “Okay, let’s try this again.
Ta-da!”

Then she stepped into a gorgeous model home. The builder had
spared no expense in furnishing the house to give it maximum appeal. Robert
admired a collage of mirrors hanging on a wall in the foyer that made the area
appear larger, and the muted gray paint that really made the white trim pop.

Suzanne hustled into the kitchen. Her moan sounded
suspiciously like the woman she had commandeered the night before at the Ritz.

“Ohhh, Robert. Isn’t this fabulous?”

The kitchen was decked out with the latest state-of-the-art
appliances: stainless steel doors on the sub-zero frig, a professional
six-burner stove, even a wine refrigerator under the counter. A bowl of fruit
on the island looked fresh. The decorator had even tastefully laid a towel over
a cutting board at just the right angle.

Across the counter was the family room, complete with a
panel TV over the fireplace. All the side tables had tasteful vases and floral
arrangements, the walls were adorned with pictures and artwork.

“Too bad I can’t operate the remote,” Robert said as he
wandered around the room.

The master bedroom drew another orgasmic response from
Suzanne.

“Look at that bed!” She fell back onto the brocade quilt,
writhing sensually across the rich fabric. Robert wondered if the agent on duty
ever invited her boyfriend over after hours. He’d love a little wrangle with
Suzanne on that bed.

Before he could take it all in, Suzanne was off to the
master bathroom.

“Come and look at this tub!” she called.

Stepping up next to her, Robert rested his chin on her
shoulder. “Looks like we found us a home.”

For all of its beauty, though, the house had some
drawbacks—like the strangers who came parading through at all hours. One day,
two women went from room to room, furiously jotting down notes and sneaking
pictures with their phones, obviously getting free decorating ideas. Another
time, a wife crammed a small, framed picture into her oversized purse, while
her husband watched. Mostly, it was couples, dreaming of what they wished they
could afford before settling on the reality of less.