Page 63 of Naked Coffee Guy

My hands remain clenched, but the admission gives me pause.

When I was young, before Lydia was born, my father’s mother used to live with us because she could no longer take care of herself. Even though she probably would have done better in a nursing home, my dad cleared out my mother’s craft room and set his mom up in there. At night, I’d hear Abuela pacing the house, unable to sleep, banging pots and pans in the kitchen while my dad pleaded with her to go to sleep.

Then there was the night my grandmother left the house.

We didn’t find out until morning—the latch my father had put out of her reach unclipped. He blamed my mother, but it could have been him. Hell, it could have been Abuela; she managed to get into more trouble than one old lady should be able to.

Lucky for all of us, our story had a happy ending. Late that evening, with dozens of people canvassing the neighborhood and posters everywhere, a McDonald's worker found her sitting in the restaurant, eating from an abandoned food tray.

My grandmother was moved into a nursing home by the next weekend, and by the next year, she’d passed away in her sleep.

I only have snippets of memories from before dementia took over. Afternoons when she’d let me roll the tortillas for dinner at her house. Overnight visits when she’d tell me fables and fairytales from memory. How she’d weave my long hair into beautiful double braids. The dresses she used to make me. How, even though she knew English, she only spoke to me in Spanish. How I couldn’t speak Spanish, but I understood her every word, and together we’d share conversations in our native tongues, and it made perfect sense.

But the memories are like ghosts, ones I have to strain to recall. The grandmother I remember most is the one who couldn’t be left alone. The one who forgot my name, and then my face, until she eventually forgot to speak at all.

I look at the newspaper, a younger picture of Benji on the front page under the “Slumlord” headline, his smiling mug next to my former home.

“How does dementia explain this,” I say to Mac, gesturing to the headline on the newspaper.

“Because Benji was not always this man.” He pinches the place between his eyebrows, taking a deep breath. Then he sits in a chair near the desk, gesturing for me to do the same. I hesitate, but eventually sink into the chair next to him.

“I didn’t know what was happening at first,” he says, “Benji was always so careful with his company. So careful with money. When he took me in, it wasn’t for any other reason but to help turn my life around. He gave me a house to live in, security, and real life skills. I learned to trust him with everything in me, something that did not come easy because everyone in my life had let me down. So when Benji started snatching up land and building all these properties, I trusted he knew what he was doing. When I discovered they had some serious issues beyond my skills, I trusted him when he said he had someone lined up to fix it. By the time I figured out that Benji had lost all his money and was up to his eyeballs in debt, it was too late. I never saw the early signs when I was under his wing, and I definitely didn’t notice when I was working on my own career.”

Mac’s eyes become moist, and it’s so out of character, I’m not sure what to do. I want to take his hand in mine, to comfort him, but I keep my hands folded in my lap.

“It got to the point that Benji owed more than his properties were worth, and the bank was ready to foreclose on his house and take his cars to make up for his debt. But Benji knew that once that happened, it would become front page news.”

Mac laughs, flicking the paper on his desk. “Ironic, huh?”

I don’t laugh with him.

“Look, I know you won’t understand this, but Benji was everything to me. He took me in when I had no one. I should have seen his deterioration, and it’s my biggest regret. When I finally figured out what was happening, I tried to step in and fix everything. But Benji is nothing if not proud, and he couldn’t admit he was losing his mind, or that he was in over his head. His so-called friends started to disappear. His businesses started falling apart. He tried to hold on to everything as long as he could, but when the bank started calling though, he knew he had to do something. To keep his name intact, he made me buy everything I could, and start selling them off. The Beale Street Apartments were last, and it took the lawsuit to make it happen.”

Mac looks at me then, taking a deep breath. “Maren, it was my decision to sell the properties, though my hands were tied about the speed at which everything took place. With the condition of those apartments, it had to be a demolition company. Only one company made an offer, and they required a 30-day close. We were out of time, and all I could think of was keeping Benji’s name clear.” He winces, rubbing the back of his head. “I know that sounds horrible, and believe me, I was thinking of all of you as I signed that paper. But I owe Benji my life, whether he’s a good man or not, and in that moment, that was what mattered the most.”

It’s not exactly a surprise. I know why he did it. But still, hearing the words makes every muscle in my body go tight. I start to get up, but he lays a hand on mine to stop me. I stay.

“I know I could have handled it so much better. I should have waited. But with the threat of a lawsuit—”

“You mean Molly,” I interrupt, taking my hand out from under his. He grimaces, then nods.

“It should never have gone that far.” He rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head.

“What, your benefactor getting sued?”

“No,” he says, looking at me, “That her kids were suffering. The oldest was starting to get nosebleeds, and they were all sick. Their doctor pinpointed it to black mold, and they started adding up all the issues with the apartment and got a lawyer.” He stops, picks up the paper and drops it. “I don’t need to recap it. I know you read the article. I paid her off under the stipulation that she move and not say anything as long as Benji was still breathing.”

I eye the newspaper, realizing the timing of all of this. “Was she the one who leaked the story?”

At this he shakes his head and he lowers his eyes.

“Was it…you?”

“It was the least I could do. I promised Benji I would take care of everything. But he’s gone, and the people he screwed over are still picking up the pieces.”

“The least you could do—”

“There’s more,” he says, cutting me off, “That was just the start. Benji left everything to Brock and me. I can’t do anything about Brock’s portion of the estate, but I can with mine, along with the money from the items I’ve been selling off.”