The Milk Wagon Page 7

  “I think you were one of his smurfs.”

  Kathryn saw a smile creep on to Charlotte’s face and her defensive posture disappear. Kathryn had seen it before with other witnesses – Charlotte took the bait and believed she was off the hook. Kathryn knew Charlotte wasn’t a smurf when she asked the question, but she wanted to test the waters anyway. The response was predictable.

  “A smurf? You brought me in here because you thought I was a – a smurf?” Charlotte threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, my dear, you have wasted your time and my time.”

  “Have I?” Kathryn asked, acting confused and disappointed. “Do you think so?”

  “I do.”

  Kathryn leaned in close, just a few inches from Charlotte’s nose. “Now, listen here, Ms. Gutherz. Here’s what I think.”

  “Ew.” Charlotte recoiled a bit and turned her head to the side, leaving Kathryn staring at her earring.

  “I think you were taking payments on the side. I think you were taking dirty money and sticking it in your pocket or down your shirt, or wherever you think you could without anyone noticing. And you know what else? I think you know more than you have been letting on.”

  Charlotte grinned that same grin but said nothing. Kathryn pulled out a legal pad and pen and sat it next to Charlotte on the desk. “Here’s your chance to clear the air. It is a rare gift – one that could work out well for you if you cooperate. All I need you to do is write down every single doctor, every office, clinic or healthcare provider Tom Chrestman paid in exchange for prescriptions.”

  Charlotte leaned down in her seat and picked up her purse to leave.

  “Sit down,” Kathryn said, “and write.”

  “You have nothing on me,” Charlotte said. “If you think I have committed a crime, then you should arrest me. Otherwise, I’m out of here.”

  “Not so fast,” Ethan smiled and handed her a manila folder. “You may want to take a look at what’s inside, Ms. – is it Mrs. or Ms. Gutherz?”

  “I don’t see how that is any of your concern.” She opened it and eased back into the chair.

  “What you have there is a set of documents we retrieved from Tom Chrestman’s files, showing numerous payments to you totaling tens of thousands of dollars. Now what you told us earlier is that those payments represent your salaries and bonuses you earned, to use your words, fair and square.”

  Charlotte flipped through the pages and stopped about halfway through. Then her expression changed.

  “Ahh, I see you’ve found the tax documents,” Ethan said.

  Kat stood up and started pacing the floor.

  “You see, after your story didn’t totally check out, I did some further investigation on my own. Started with my friends at the IRS. Contrary to popular belief, they have some lovely people over there and were quite willing to provide me with your income tax filings for the last ten years.” The arrogance faded from Charlotte’s face. “It appears, through my cursory review of your documents that you have been, let’s say, less than forthcoming with your earnings.” Truth be told, Charlotte had indeed fudged a bit on her taxes, but according to the IRS folks, it could be rectified fairly easily with not much more than a negligible fine and a slap on the wrist. Charlotte didn’t realize it was nothing, however, and Kathryn kept on. “I can rectify this with a phone call, but whether or not I do is in your hands now. You help us; we help you.”

  “Ooh, can I jump in?” Ethan asked. “When you are considering whether or not you want to deal with us, keep in mind we will have to let the press know that yet another person may go to jail because of this compounding mess. Do you really want that out there?” Charlotte didn’t say anything. She kept flipping the pages in the manila folder, looking but no longer reading. “I mean, once the reporters get a hold of this, your name will be plastered all over the state. If history is any indication, that kind of exposure may not be good for you. Agree?”

  Charlotte closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, Kat nudged the pad her way. “Write.”

  She took the pen and twenty minutes later, she filled out a page and a half of names. She passed the pad back to Kathryn.

  “That’s it,” Charlotte said. “All of them. Can I please leave now?”

  Kat picked up the pad and read the list of names one by one. She flipped to page two and stopped eight lines down and circled one she hadn’t seen before.

  “Cool your jets, Ms. Gutherz. I’m going to let you go, but not yet.”

  Kathryn showed the name to Ethan and he nodded back. Then she sat right next to Charlotte and turned the two chairs so Charlotte had no choice but to face her.

  “Tell us what you know about Dr. Bradford Mayes.”

  Chapter 17

  The four of us had shared a very difficult – and very humiliating – moment at the Mayes house, and while I was a little worried when Nate didn’t show up for school on Monday, I was glad to be able to put off the inevitable – and hoped the extra day would put enough space behind us so that we wouldn’t have to talk about it all. But when he strolled up to my locker Tuesday morning, he had other plans.

  “What’s up, Matt?”

  “Same old, same old. Didn’t do my homework, as usual, so I hope Ms. Mander doesn’t call on me. Could be ugly.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” He stood there, waiting for an opening, and stared down toward his books. It looked like he had dressed on the way in. His shirttail hung out the back of his pants, and one of his shoelaces was coming undone. His face was pinched and squinty like he had been napping, and he rubbed his neck when he talked.

  “Look, man,” he said, “about Friday.” He stopped and let a group of kids pass before continuing. “I’m sorry y’all had to see that.”

  “No problem, Nate. No need to explain. You should see what goes down at my house sometimes.”

  His eyes, which hadn’t been focused on anything in particular, finally found mine, and I hoped he didn’t ask me to provide any personal details. Then his gaze drifted off again.

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with something like this with my dad,” he said. “In fact, crap like this happens all the time.”

  “Well –”

  “He’s a control freak. Do you know he makes me run two miles every morning before school? If I don’t run, I can’t drive. He takes the keys. But that’s not it. If I don’t do my homework by nine o’clock every night, I lose all privileges. Oh yeah, if I somehow forget to brush my teeth, I don’t eat the next meal. And God forbid, I don’t clean up my room.”

  Damn. “I’m sorry, man.” He wasn’t finished.

  “I used to think he would change, you know? Once I got older, I hoped we could find a connection or something. But he’s not interested. Not interested in talking, not interested in changing, and not interested in me. It’s actually gotten worse now that I’m in high school. It’s beyond embarrassing. I just wish he could be just a dad. Just once. Like everyone else’s.”

  I looked at Nate and thought about what to say next. I really didn’t want to air any of my family’s dirty laundry – and there was a lot of it – but he was carrying a lot on his shoulders, and this was not about me anymore. I had to set that free.

  “You’re not the only one who has problems with their parents, Nate. And while my dad has not put his thumb on me like yours has, I’ve got my own issues at home.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. My dad is a compulsive gambler. He has blown paycheck after paycheck – not to mention whatever piddling savings we had – at the dog track over in Mobile. When he goes, he may not come home for days, and when he does, he and my mom get in a knock-down, drag-out fight that cannot be silenced by pressing two pillows over my head. Trust me on that point – I have tried. In the last year alone, he has changed jobs twice, and now he’s humping it for minimum wage at an auto parts shop, but that wo
n’t last either. Unless something changes on the financial front, I doubt I’ll graduate from St. John’s. This year has been a pretty rough one, and if it wasn’t for my mother, our family would have long since been done.”

  I hadn’t meant to let that much spill out, but once I got on a roll, I couldn’t stop.

  “But – but you never act like anything is bothering you.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. Sometimes I have to force myself to act like I don’t care, but most of the time it’s because I made the decision when things started blowing up a few years ago to not let someone’s actions – even my dad’s – dictate how I live my life.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “True, but I don’t go it alone. I lean on my friends a lot – and I mean a lot. There is no value that can be put on what Mark and Hop mean to me. Of course, I have more history with them than with you, but you’re part of our group now, too, Nate. You know that, right?”

  I was glad I threw that second comment in there, because it was well-received. It was also true. In a relatively short period of time, Nate made it into the inner circle, and all indications were he would stay. The run-in with his dad might have actually made us tighter – a point I still needed to address.

  “The second thing, Nate, is you have to stay focused on what’s around the corner. In less than two years, we will be in college. College. Out of the house – for good, if we choose to be – and neither you nor I will have to deal with any more of this bullshit. That fact alone can be a lifeline. And if you can’t make it until then, there may come a day when you have to stand up to him. Let him know you’re a man. I did last year, and while it was ugly, my old man has backed off. You may be surprised at how things change if it comes to that.”

  “Sometimes I guess you do have to take a stand,” he said.

  “Indeed.”

  “No matter the implications.”

  “Well –”

  He pushed out his jaw until his bottom teeth caught his upper lip. “You certainly stood your ground at my house.”

  “Umm.” I believe Nate was off on this point. If memory served me, I hauled ass once the heat started to come down.

  “No, seriously. Did you see my dad’s face when you walked up to him? Don’t know that anyone’s ever done that before. He actually backed off.”

  “Well, Nate, maybe you saw it different from me, because –”

  “Dude, you had more balls than any of us.” He blinked away the thought and closed the book on the subject. “Now we’re almost late for Spanish. We don’t need to give Ms. Mander another excuse to jump you. Let’s go.” He slapped me on the shoulder and walked into the classroom.

  And that was it. He never mentioned it again, and neither did I. We acknowledged it; we recognized it impacted each of us in some way, and we moved on. Of course, it continued to nag at my brain. What if my advice had been wrong? Sure, taking a stand worked for me, but my dad was kind of weak when it came down to nutcutting – I knew he wouldn’t resort to violence, no matter how hot it got.

  With Nate’s dad, I wasn’t so sure.

  Chapter 18

  At lunch our crew sat together at our spot at the round table under the magnolia tree just on the other side of the library. It was unseasonably hot that October – even for Mississippi – and I was thankful for the shade the green leathery leaves was throwing off. A few days had passed since Nate and I had talked, and other than Nate still showing up to school looking like he was on a week long bender, things seemed back to normal – or as normal as they could be. Of course, during lunch, it was always hard to have a lull in the conversation with Mark and Hop present, and they were wound up way more than they should be – especially for a Thursday. During morning announcements, the Chief informed the school that this year’s homecoming theme was “Hooray for Hollywood,” and the two of them wouldn’t shut up about it. Truth is, no one cared much about the theme. We were more concerned about getting dates.

  Because St. John was smallish by most standards, and because the Chief and his stormtroopers did what they could to tamp down any school-sanctioned activities that could potentially become hotbeds for hand-holding, grazing, touching, grinding, or slow dancing – there was no prom. The school did allow a dance or two each semester, but those were monitored with a heavy hand by faculty members who, by default due to their nonexistent social life, had nothing else to do on a Friday night than watch a mix of hormones, sweat, and Halston Z14 jerk across the dance floor to “Freak-A-Zoid.”

  But we did have homecoming, and over time, it evolved from an after-the-game party, to a dance, to a dressy event, and eventually worked itself up to a tuxedo-and-shiny-gown occasion that loomed large on everyone’s social calendar. It took its current form so slowly the school never really saw it coming, and once it reached the point of an ersatz prom, no one took any efforts to dial it back down. Probably because homecoming often brought graduates back, which allowed the Diocese another unabashed opportunity to ask for more money from those chasing the cheese.

  Homecoming also seemed to loosen the chains on the domestic front, and for that one night, most parents seemed to pull back on the usual archaic curfews. Some of us got to stay out past midnight. Most seniors were even allowed to book hotel rooms with the understanding they may be subject to pop-ins by chaperones (although the adults usually were long gone before the clock rang twelve). Even my parents seemed to fall into line as I had been dropping hints since day one about my plans. I tested the water by suggesting that me, Mark and Hop would hang out at Jeff Haase’s room after the dance – and mom didn’t even blink. Of course, that was just a decoy because Haase was a super nerd and perennial parent favorite because he aced the ACT and played the French horn. Nice enough dude, but I did not intend to spend my one true night out playing Dungeons & Dragons and sipping on wine coolers served by a sweaty, if not buxom, fifteen-year-old girl wearing a Renaissance Fair outfit and a daisy chain.

  Even more important than scoring a late night out was finding the right date. I’m not much for most of the school-sanctioned functions, but homecoming was the exception. We could still personalize it a bit – get a velvet tux, put on some Vans, or have our dates wear dresses bordering on the obscene – so participation wasn’t a total sellout. And if attending this soiree made us Neanderthals even remotely interested, you can imagine the effect it had on the girls. They went all out, planning like it was a warm-up for a wedding. People started pairing up mentally the first day of school, trying to figure out first, second, and third options. No one wanted to go NDA – No Date Available – so the net for prospects was cast much wider than would be expected for a typical weekend. This entire homecoming discussion caught Nate off guard. He thought it was just another dance.

  “So, you don’t have a prom?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “What school doesn’t have prom?”

  “Ours.” Mark said. “Yours now.”

  “It’s formal? Like really formal?”

  “Yep,” I said. “Sucks. Picking gets slim the longer you wait.” I hesitated to offer him too much advice, or to prod him to act too quickly. The dance was in early November – just over a month away – and while I fully intended to ask Emily, the right opportunity had not presented itself. I felt some electricity every time we talked, but I couldn’t step out of the box long enough to objectively see if she felt the same way, and I was just insecure enough to run all of the what-could-go-wrong scenarios on a loop. I gave it some more consideration as I watched the eighth graders play a pickup game of soccer down on the football practice field.

  “You asked anybody yet?” Nate asked. He was running the metrics in his head as well.

  “Not yet.” I leaned back on the rail and turned back towards our group. “Keeping my eyes open, though. Had a productive encounter with Chrissy Pisarich last week, and I think she’d say yes, but I don’t thin
k I want to go with her.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. She’s good-looking, but she’s kind of out there.” An understatement.

  “Bad breath,” Hop said, not even looking over at us.

  “Snakes in her head.” Mark chimed in. “Rattlers.”

  “You should know, considering that prize you showed up with,” I said.

  “Hey, don’t knock her, man,” Mark said. “The weird ones are open to suggestion, if you know what I mean. And her name is Wendy, by the way.”

  “Wendy? Like the restaurant?” Hop said.

  “No, not like the restaurant.”

  “Hmm. I wouldn’t peg her as a Wendy.”

  “I don’t know what that even means, but as of this weekend, you can peg her as my date. I’m locked in.”

  We all looked his way, and Hop piped up. “Seriously? You are the man.”

  “I had to move,” Mark said. “It was time. She’s pretty cool, actually. Not only does she play the guitar, but I think I’m on the cusp of having unfettered access to all things above the waist. Hard to argue with that.” I couldn’t agree more. “What about you, Hop? Who are you going to trick into coming?”

  Hop started cleaning his glasses, and a slow grin spread from ear to ear.

  “Don’t tell me you have a date already, too.” I said.

  Hop nodded his head. “Tell the wenches to take a rain check. The Hopster is off the market.” For once, Hop led with the high fives.

  “With who?” Mark asked. “You never told us this.”

  “I never kiss and tell.”

  “Because you never kiss. Who is it?”

  “Let’s just say Kristin Bennett could no longer deny my charms.”

  To say Hop was not exactly a ladies’ man would be putting it lightly. Sure, Hop was able to get girls to talk to him, but he rarely leveraged his exchanges into anything more than a conversation. On the exceptional occasion when he did have a chance to snag on someone, it usually didn’t take because he was all hands and one-sided overgrinding, so this was a big deal for him. Not so much because he got a date (which should never be discounted); but instead because of who his date was. Hop developed an unrequited – and somewhat unhealthy – crush on Kristin Bennett sometime around second grade, and it never truly faded. We picked on him about it some, but we had to be careful because the scab could get raw pretty quick.