The Fourth Stall - Chris Rylander [47]
“Don’t come back, you drunken, lazy slob!”
“Yeah, don’t worry about that!” he said, and headed for the car.
She came to the doorway of the trailer. “You’re pathetic! Pathetic! Your son pays your bills, you useless piece of garbage! How embarrassing is that? No wonder your wife disappeared on you!” She slammed the door.
Vince and I both flinched.
The man just waved and kept walking toward the red sports car across the street. He got into the car and peeled away, spraying gravel and dust all over the lady’s lawn. Once he was out of sight, we ran back to my cabin’s backyard. After we caught our breath, we looked at each other.
“Guess it wasn’t the same car,” I said with a shrug.
“Nope,” Vince said. “Unless, unless that old fat dude is Staples. I mean, the legends of Staples have been around forever, so maybe he really is that old now?”
I didn’t think he was being serious. But it was possible. Maybe. Wouldn’t Fred have said something, though? I realized that he’d never told me just how old Staples was.
Vince saw me thinking it over and then he rolled his eyes.
“Hey, Mac, I was kidding. You don’t really think that was him, do you?” he said.
“I don’t know. I mean, it does seem a little suspicious, right?”
“I guess, Mac, but this isn’t a Charles Dickens novel,” Vince said.
“What?”
“I mean, this is real life. Sometimes weird things happen. Events don’t always have to connect perfectly or make sense. Like, the dude who was the fisherman at the beginning of the story doesn’t always need to come back and also show up as the cobbler in the middle and then eventually be revealed to be the main character’s long-lost uncle’s cousin’s former best friend’s roommate who just so happens to be currently married to the main character’s brother’s friend’s mailman. You know?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“What other explanation is there? I think we both know that guy couldn’t have been Staples. He was, like, forty. There’s no way,” Vince said.
“Yeah, that makes sense, but I’m almost sure that was the same car. What if . . . what if that was Staples’s dad?” I said.
Vince looked at me for a moment, like he was thinking hard about what I said. “Mac, that really could be it. So that would mean Staples is doing all of this to help pay some of his dad’s bills like that lady said.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“That would change everything, don’t you think?”
“Um, not really. Vince, I don’t really care why he needs the money—that doesn’t make it okay to cheat and swindle to get it.”
“Well, maybe that kind of a situation would make a kid do crazy stuff he normally wouldn’t do, right? I mean, how would you know what it’s like for him?” Vince said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Vince just shrugged and gave me a look of his that said I should know what he meant.
“What’s your problem lately, Vince? Look, I used to live in a trailer, too, remember? I know what it’s like to not have a lot of money.”
“Yeah, but do you still? Do you know what it’s like for your family to never have a lot of money?”
“Whatever, Vince.”
“Yeah, whatever is right,” Vince said.
And that was that.
We got back from the lake cabin on Sunday evening around six. After dropping Vince off, we drove home. Vince and I hadn’t talked a whole lot since that argument, and when we did, it was businesslike, as if we were doing it only because we had to. Really, I just didn’t get what was up with him lately. It was like he was blaming me that his family still doesn’t have a lot of money. As if I had anything to do with that. It’s not like my family is rich or anything. Sure we have a house now and go on more vacations than we used to, but we aren’t, like, driving around in luxury Italian sedans and telling the time with diamond-encrusted Rolex watches. I do feel a little bad that his family doesn’t have as much, but Vince himself has plenty. Our business buys him basically whatever he wants.
As we drove