Free Rolling in the Deep by Rebecca Rogers Maher Page B

Dad’s family is pretty minimal. He was an only child of a single mom, and she died before I was born.
    I push the vegetables around in the pan with a wooden spoon and try to imagine what Dad would think of all this. I knew him mostly as a photograph on Mom’s bedroom wall, through the stories she’d tell about him. He was a good, stable person, she always said. She loved his Brooklyn-Italian accent. He made her laugh. Twenty years after his death, she still couldn’t talk about him for more than a few minutes without crying. It never occurred to her to remarry.
    I’ve wondered over the years what he would make of his sons. I have his smile, people have told me. I have what Mom claims is a genetic devotion to Italian food. But I have no idea what it would have been like to have a dad to throw a ball around with, to talk about things with. It was always Tony who played that role for me, even though he was only five years older.
    I wish he were here with me now, or that I were back in Queens, where people knew me. Where at least one person would understand the bat-shit madness of the last few days.
    Although, honestly, that one person would not be my brother. It would be Holly. And I can’t talk to her.
    Ironic that the phone’s ringing off the hook and the one person I most want to talk to won’t return my calls.
    I throw some fresh thyme and peppercorns into the pan, add water, and cover it up. Then I pick up my cell.
    There are dozens of missed calls and voicemails I haven’t listened to.
    Texts, too. One from a coworker at Cogmans that I almost don’t bother to look at. I quit yesterday. My night job at the restaurant I kept, on the off chance that I find the balls to apply to the Culinary. But Cogmans? One of the local stations caught on to the fact that Holly and I worked there together, and the place has been mobbed with news vans. Practically everyone we worked with has been interviewed on TV. I hated the job anyway, except for Holly, and now that it’s a three-ring circus, I’m done.
    I read the text.
    Ray! Come get yr last paycheck. Brk rm, noon. Ltr, Chris.
    Weird. They can’t mail it? I text Chris back to ask but he insists that I come in and pick it up. Which I don’t mind, actually. I’ll go certifiably nuts if I stay alone in this apartment all day. I finish the stock, let it cool, and throw it in the freezer. Then I shrug on a jacket and head out to my truck.
    As I’m pulling out of my street, a network news van pulls in and heads toward my house. I send a silent prayer of thanks to Chris for busting me out just in time, but when I arrive at Cogmans it’s even worse. I see the cluster of antennas and portable satellite dishes as soon as I turn into the parking lot. Luckily there’s employee parking and a private staff entrance in the back. I ease around the building, throw a baseball cap on my head, and duck inside through the back door.
    It leads straight into the warehouse, which is quiet this time of day since most of the staff is on the floor helping customers. The only person I can see is Timmy, the day manager, sneaking a cigarette near one of the loading docks.
    He spots me, and inclines his chin in greeting, lifting the cigarette.
    “Guess you’re not gonna narc on me about this anymore, are you? Now that you’re out of here and all.”
    I take off my cap and run a hand over my hair. “Wouldn’t anyway. How you doing, Tim?”
    “Can’t complain. Who’d listen if I did?” He takes a deep drag.
    He looks smaller, which I guess is no surprise. He doesn’t have any power over me anymore, and we both know it. It’s diminished him in both our eyes.
    “Chris said I should come and, you know, get my last check.”
    He shrugs. “They got something for you and Holly in the break room. A cake or some shit. Act shocked.”
    “Yeah?” I stand there like an idiot for a minute and watch him smoke. “You want to, uh, join, or…”
    He lifts a hand dismissively. “Nah. You go. More cake