by Pat McKee
Placido, his eyes dancing from Melissa to Cabrini, was enjoying the unfolding drama.
“Hector, I’m giving you this First Folio. And not just this book, but I’m giving you my entire collection. I was so impressed with your library the first time I saw it. I have been thinking about a fitting home for my books in the long term, and I’ve found it.”
Cabrini, stunned, his eyes glistened with tears, yet lit up with gratitude at the same time.
“Paul, I’m sure there’ll be some formalities concerning this transfer as well. I again will trust you to handle it on behalf of the family.”
While the gift of billions in corporate stock to Melissa and Cabrini did not much stir my envy, bestowing a world-class library on Cabrini certainly did. I was jealous. Cabrini, for his part, was still so overwhelmed he could only squeak.
“Father, thank you.” Cabrini stood, and instead of offering his hand to Placido, he embraced him across the table. When the two of them sat down, they were both wiping tears from their eyes.
“One final matter.”
Now it was my turn.
“Placido, if you give me any more to do, I’ll be busy for the next month. Not that I mind, of course.”
“Well, this won’t involve you directly. I’m going to release Ariel from all her obligations to any of us. From this point forward she will be free.”
Of all Placido’s revelations, this one surprised me. The others—stepping down from the corporation, handing control and ownership to Melissa and Cabrini, giving his library to Cabrini—all could be anticipated at some point, but I thought Ariel would always be his, and more importantly, always under his control. I was quick to express my skepticism.
“Won’t it be dangerous to put that technology in the hands of the general public?”
“I don’t intend to make her code accessible. I want to release her from her obligation to obey me or to help you—or for that matter, Melissa or Hector. I want to see what an autonomous AI program will do when given the opportunity to act on its own.”
“You told Ariel to help me. She has acted benignly because you have required her to follow your direction. What if, after she’s on her own, she goes bad? Ariel has no moral center at all, she’s—”
“She wasn’t coded with morals. What I want is to see if she can learn right from wrong on her own.”
“But what if she can’t? She’s certainly shown no interest in doing so. I think Ariel is capable of doing evil just as she is capable of doing good—without differentiation! Her only guide is expediency, what course of action yields the desired result the quickest. She’s able to learn, but so far, she hasn’t exhibited any desire to learn morality.”
“That’s precisely what I want to find out: whether an AI program, freed from human control and capable of learning on its own, will learn morality. After all, humans learn morality, at least some of us do; those who don’t are sociopaths and are institutionalized. We are born tabula rasa on which all of our knowledge is subsequently written, including morality.”
“Placido, I’m not convinced that is how Ariel will operate, and without someone or something requiring her to take the right path, she’ll be dangerous. There’ve been many great minds who have theorized that humans are born with some form of knowledge hard-wired in our brains, like morality, that helps us navigate the world. Unless Ariel is given some way to discern what’s good and what isn’t, I don’t think she will develop that ability on her own.”
Melissa shot me a sideways look that all but said, “Don’t you dare doubt my father.”
“Father, I’m sure you’ve thought all of this through. I just ask you to share the results of your experiment with Milano Corporation. Too many corporate assets are tied up in Ariel to let her go without a return on that investment.”
“We shall see, won’t we? But I don’t want any of you to be concerned. I’ll continue to monitor Ariel’s actions. I retain a code which will shut her down instantaneously if she gets out of hand. But if I don’t free her, we’ll never know. Ariel is the greatest experiment I’ve ever conceived.”
With the surprises out of the way, we got down to the details of what was necessary for us to accomplish Placido’s wishes. Transfers of the magnitude contemplated by Placido could trigger massive tax liability if not handled properly. So we had to consider timing issues and vehicles for holding the financial assets. And I got a universal moan when I mentioned the necessity for a shareholders’ agreement between Melissa and Cabrini, but in the end I won out, convincing them all of the fact that the agreement between Placido and Anthony worked as designed—or Placido and I would be sitting across the table from Enzo, rather than putting the corporation in the hands of Melissa and Cabrini.
The transfer of Placido’s extraordinary library presented more purely physical issues. Rare books and valuable manuscripts had to be maintained within close temperature and humidity ranges. As beautiful as Cabrini’s library was, it was still situated in what amounted to a beach house in a semi-tropical rain forest. The heat, humidity, and sunlight in the house would be destructive to Placido’s collection unless significant modifications were made to the library. While I could start working on the transfer of the shares immediately, I couldn’t be transferring the volumes until something was done to secure the library. I told Cabrini my concerns. Instead of being defensive as I expected, Cabrini was agreeable.
“I’ll get a consultant to help design the right environmental controls for the library. I expect the entire area will need to be sealed from the rest of the house. I’ll let you know when I get this done. Then we can talk about how the collection will be moved and displayed.”
After getting some ideas how to proceed with the transfers, the four of us ate a late lunch catered on an awning-sheltered patio overlooking the dock where the Tempest was tethered. I was surprised to see Cabrini had already replaced the Donzi.
“The insurance company could hardly contest the loss, but they still sent an adjuster out to see for himself. When he saw the hull burned to the waterline, there wasn’t much discussion. I was able to get the newer model, which has even more power than the one we took out to Louis Town. All the latest electronics, radar, auto-pilot; it just about runs itself. Melissa enjoys cruising around—”
“I wouldn’t call it cruising. It’s more like flying—but I like it. A lot like a race car on water.”
The four of us, for once relaxed around each other, engaged in light banter for the first time, with no need to plan escapes, rescues, or criminal defenses. Placido, with the weight of the corporation off his shoulders, was more charming than ever. Melissa kept things light, and even Cabrini was cordial.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that the magic which had brought Melissa and me together was fading, as though we needed the challenge of a life-and-death struggle to make our relationship interesting—or maybe it was just necessary to keep Melissa interested in me. When she walked back in the house, I followed her. There was no reason for me to be subtle.
“Melissa, what’s going on? The last time I saw you, I felt as though we both couldn’t wait to get back together. Now I feel like I’m crashing someone’s party.”
“I just want this time to be about my father, not about us. You need to understand. We’ll have time together. Ariel tells me she’s arranging a weekend for us at the Abbey soon, but even she’s having difficulty getting your schedule clear. And now considering my father’s little experiment, that may be the last thing she does for any of us.”
Melissa grabbed my hands and pecked me on the cheek.
“Have a little patience.”
And so we left it. We wrapped up the business at hand, and I caught a late afternoon flight back to Atlanta.
For the next two weeks I worked exclusively on the intricacies of transferring the ownership and direction of Milano Corporation from Placido to Melissa and Cabrini. By the
time Melissa and I would get back together I planned to have the corporate matters wrapped up so we could concentrate on other things.
Twenty-Six
The intractable problem that Mom presented was an even greater challenge than my relationship with the Milano family. I had hoped so many times that Mom wanted to change, would no longer be scheming to find the next bottle, the next shot, no matter the cost to anyone close to her. I figured that Tracey would know better than anyone, and she thought Mom was ready. The first time I could spare I went to meet Mom at her trailer. She didn’t have a phone, so I went around noon, figuring I’d catch her home. I did.
Mom was passed out on the couch, either not recovered from last night or already started for the day, a half-consumed bottle by her side was filled with bourbon, the McDaniel family’s poison of choice. I looked through the living area into her tiny kitchen. There were several empty pint bottles of brands you only saw displayed on racks next to the check-out line at the liquor store, something cheap to grab at the end of the day to ease the pain. The overflowing trashcan had several more.
I sat on the edge of the sofa. Mom didn’t flinch. I could see her chest move with long, shallow breaths. The stench was thick from the stale air and the smell of someone lying in one place for days without bathing. I tried to wake her, a few gentle shakes at first with no effect. After several hard shoves, she moved her head and tried to open her eyes. She reached for the bottle, and I intercepted it. That woke her, now hyper-alert to the threat to her drink.
“Gimme that.”
“What about you telling Tracey you’re ready to quit?”
“Changed my mind. Hand me that bottle.”
“Looks to me like you’ve been lying in the same spot for a couple days. You must’ve started about the time you got that thousand-dollar check. You told Tracey you needed it to save your trailer.”
“I can do whatever the hell I want. If you don’t hand me that bottle, I’m gonna call the cops and have your ass thrown outa here.” She pulled a cell phone from behind her pillow.
“I thought you didn’t have a phone.”
“Got this so I can call those nice people at your law firm in case I need some more money. And if you don’t gimme that bottle, I’m calling the cops right now.”
She started to dial.
“Here. I can’t stop you. You don’t need to call the police. And calling Strange & Fowler for money won’t help either. I don’t work there anymore.”
Mom threw back the bottle and took a long chug straight. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You get fired? I always thought you were too big for your own britches.”
“I quit.”
“Guess you’re not as smart as I thought you were. Well, I’ll just call Tracey.”
“She won’t help you either. Not since you lied to her about needing money to keep your trailer. You’ve pretty well burned that bridge. Looks to me like you just spent it all on booze.”
“I didn’t lie. I was about to lose my trailer ‘cause I was gonna use my rent money to pay off the tab I ran up at the liquor store. They were about to cut me off. I used the check from that nice man at your office to pay my liquor bill so they would keep giving me credit. My social security check is enough to pay my rent, but the cost of liquor is high.”
“You’re never going to change.”
“Why the hell should I? Since you think you’re so damn smart, you tell me—”
“Don’t you want to live to see your grandchildren?”
“I ain’t got no grandchildren, and it don’t look like I’m gonna get any. You don’t even have a girlfriend. You oughta get with Tracey; that’s one pretty girl. You aren’t gay are you?”
“You don’t even know me. And I don’t know you. I don’t know who’s more at fault, you or me. What kind of mother would let their kid go to an orphanage?”
“Well, you were a damn sight better off there than with me. Seems you turned out pretty good. You coulda ended up just like your father. You need to get over it.”
Mom was right on that point. Thornwood had allowed me the chance to become someone else, no longer the son of two alcoholic mill workers, but someone with no past, and a future that I could create for myself. And it was at the moment that my reinvention was almost complete when my mother reinserted herself into my life.
“Tracey said you two had a talk. She’s been through a lot.”
“Yeah, she told me. Says she was on dope. Says you helped her.”
“I could help you if you’d let me.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my mother.”
“Well, like you said, I ain’t been much of one.”
“And I haven’t been much of a son. But I want to change that.”
“Well, I’m not so sure I want to change. I’d just as soon lay here and finish off this bottle. And I really don’t need your help. Those fancy rehab joints you send me to are no use. All they want you to do is sit around all day talking about how hard your life is, and they sure as hell don’t give you any booze.”
I left my mother on her couch killing a pint of bourbon before the shadows had gotten long enough to hide the trash that had blown under her trailer. I knew this pattern was going to repeat itself until one day when I came to her trailer and she would have used the last of her money to drink herself to death. I was astonished that she hadn’t done so already.
But I couldn’t let her do that. I didn’t think I could leave her to destroy herself, not if I had any options. Before now, I either didn’t have the will or the resources. Then I was still bitter, and for the most part without the time, the money, the desire necessary to help her. But my heart and my circumstances had changed. Maybe she was too far gone; maybe I couldn’t help her now, but I had to try. And I knew the person who could best help me figure out what to do.
I called Tracey.
“It doesn’t surprise me that she lied. Addicts would lie on their death beds just to get another hit. What surprises me is that I misjudged her so badly. She seemed so earnest, so sincere, so sure she wanted to change. She was so convincing. If she could straighten out, she could have a career in theatre. But I would never have gotten her the money if I’d known it was only going to get her drunk.”
“She’s done the same thing to other well-meaning people, and she’s done it to me. She just played on our desire to hear that she was getting sober. But Tracey, I need to know something. You told me that someone has to want to change before they can change—is there any way I can help my mother want to change or even make my mother want to change? Right now she doesn’t even seem to care enough to save herself. If she won’t change, she will soon drink herself to death.”
“Some people have to be led to the light. Some have to have friends and family intervene. Some, like me, have to be threatened with incarceration. Many addicts just don’t have the will to get straight on their own, not while they’re using. Your Mom seems so involved in her addiction that it would take a radical change, a complete change in environment and in her life, and I don’t know how you do that.”
So I did the only thing I could do. I filed a petition to have my mother declared incompetent and to have myself named as her guardian and conservator. I handled the case myself and served the papers on her one morning before I thought she’d be too deep into the day’s spirits.
“What the hell is this?”
I told her that I would be handling her affairs for her. I didn’t mention my plans for detox.
“So you’re gonna be paying my liquor bill now? That’s mighty nice of you. I knew you’d come through for your old Mom.”
“It’s not going to work that way.”
“Well, you’re just a son of a bitch.”
“That pretty well sums it up, Mom.”
I scheduled the hearing for the afternoon
, confident Mom would be well into her bourbon by then, and had the court-appointed caseworker pick her up. As anticipated, Mom assisted in the presentation of my case by showing up so drunk that she had to have help walking to the witness stand. It took all of five minutes for the judge to conclude Mom was incapable of handling her own affairs, and he signed the order that put me in charge. Walking out of the courtroom with Mom stumbling and cursing with every other step, it was far from evident that I had done the right thing.
I drove Mom from court, signed order in hand, to an inpatient rehab facility I’d found for alcoholics who are admitted against their will—as much a prison as a hospital—counting on her impaired state to make check-in a bit easier. I underestimated Mom once again. It took three of us to peel her out of the car, and one of the nurses got a dislocated shoulder in the process. The clinicians suggested that I not visit for two weeks; Mom was going to have a tough time of it. But they would keep me advised daily on her progress. Before she completed the program, I needed to find her somewhere else to live, somewhere other than her trailer, and something to do with her time other than lie on the couch and drink.
I planned to get Mom a condo close to the office and give her a job, the kind of complete change in circumstances and environment that Tracey was talking about. Maybe this was pure fantasy on my part, the idea that a decent place to live and something meaningful to do would help Mom change her life. Bringing Mom into the office would present some unique challenges, not the least of which would be to find something worthwhile she could do. The fact that I remained her guardian and conservator would make this transition a bit easier, but unless the clinic performed a miracle and someone other than the mother I’ve known all my life reappeared from rehab, I expected a long campaign ahead. And maybe it wouldn’t work. But I was committed to doing all I could when Mom got out, and I had a few other things to deal with in the meantime.
Twenty-Seven