Free Ark by Julian Tepper Page A

loaded.”
    And then, once again, the siblings were laughing. Doris got to her feet, went into the kitchen, and poured two vodka sodas. She handed her brother the drink, and they toasted to their eldest sister. What a worthless person. What a shit. But could Oliver imagine what Sondra would say if Doris asked her for money? She would probably sue her. For what?
    â€œFor making her feel bad!”
    â€œNo. No. The request afflicted her nerves. ‘Oh, Your Honor, I can’t work. I can’t sleep. I’m sure I have one of those stress disorders.’”
    â€œCan we kill her?”
    â€œWe could,” Oliver said. “But we won’t. Besides, she’s already dead in my book.”
    Oliver flew home to California. His wife, Sheila, put him right to work in the boutiques. Indeed, it was a lot for Sheila to do the inventory, advertise sales, keep an eye on the employees, make sure their books were current, and attend to payroll. Oliver told Sheila he was glad to help, even if it did mean waking up hours before he normally would and rushing off to the store on Third Street in Santa Monica to stand around and wonder what had happened to his life. The day after landing, while sorting through merchandise and making sure, as Sheila put it, the incompetence of their employees didn’t reflect on the price tags of any item, Oliver began to think about what his accountant had told him. After taxes, roughly six hundred thousand would remain of the nine hundred and ten thousand.
    But if I lend Dad half a million, and keep a hundred thousand for myself, and it takes more than a year for him to return the money, how will I support myself? A powerfully distracting subject—later that day, Sheila was going back through Oliver’s work and found three mispriced items.
    â€œI’m sorry, Sheila.”
    â€œI hire people to do this job, but you can’t pay them enough to care. You, I expect to get things right. These are your stores, too.”
    â€œI know. I know. I’m just jet lagged. I need a couple of days to readjust.”
    â€œWell, two people called in sick!”
    â€œI’m not complaining, Sheila.”
    â€œAnd I can’t be at both stores at once!”
    â€œI know. I’m sorry.”
    Sheila began inspecting the display case at the front, making sure everything was in its right place. She touched the stapler next to the register, inspected the mannequins in the window. Oliver had put them in their white tennis dresses first thing after opening this morning. How moronic he’d felt, suiting up those lifeless human parts while people cruised the mall and stared at him. Sheila was wearing one of the all-denim outfits that was typical of her, with the jean shorts and jean jacket, white high-tops, a red sweatband around the forehead, and black rubber bracelets on her arms. Her light eyes had a thrilled but deranged look. The blond, shoulder-length hair was fried from too many dye jobs. The boutique, like its sister-boutique in Manhattan Beach, was the size and design of a racquetball court. Racquetball was her sport. It suited her high-strung personality. She played every day. She picked up a racquet now, spinning it in her hand. She said, “Are you happy to be back?”
    â€œI am. It was difficult being home. Selling the apartment was very emotional. I spent so many years there.”
    â€œIt isn’t easy getting out of an old place.”
    â€œThe packing up.”
    â€œYes, it is hard. What did you do with your things?”
    Oliver pointed across the store at his wife, nodding. He was about to tell her he had given it all away. But then he thought better of it. He said, “I sold most of it to a doorman.”
    â€œThat’s good,” Sheila said.
    â€œThe rest I gave to charity.”
    â€œDid you keep the receipt for a tax write-off?”
    â€œYes. I’ve got it somewhere,” Oliver said.
    â€œI want to have a sale