by K. M. Szpara
“Why don’t we talk about that in the car.” He holds the front door open for me.
I take a moment to glance back at Tom, who’s doing his best not to pay attention. I can’t catch his eye, but I see him shake his head ever so slightly, before turning back to his computer.
Suddenly, I want to do what Tom’s suggesting, to get away, to do anything but get in that car. But I can’t not go with my own father. We need to talk about Elisha. About my future. I’m his son; he’ll come around.
I follow Dad back out into the rain. His driver, a young person dressed in black, holds a black umbrella over our heads as they escort us through the rain into the black limousine. Feels like we’re going to a funeral.
After the driver closes the door behind us, Dad slides his fingers up the length of a control panel and the partition follows suit, giving us privacy. Then, he taps a side panel and it opens to reveal a crystal decanter of Macallan.
The tension in my body diffuses. Dad is ready for a serious talk, or he wouldn’t be breaking out the good stuff. I reach over and take the decanter while he removes two glasses and sets them on the tray. “Sixty-two year?” I don’t usually drink Scotch, don’t usually have the time, frame of mind, or anyone to enjoy it with the way he taught me to. I hand the bottle back to Dad and he pours for the both of us.
“Your mother gave me this for my birthday, along with the glasses—Lalique.”
He hands me one and I admire the crystal engraved with ABII. Middle names dilute the family name, Grandma said. Like ice in a sixty-two-year Scotch. The tinted windows of the limousine block most of the morning light, but still I hold the glass up, admire the rich cherry color and thick legs that run down the sides as I rotate it. “Beautiful.”
“Tastes even better,” Dad says, tilting his glass toward his nose.
I raise the glass, anticipating aromas of toffee and apple, vanilla and oak. The car jostles over a pothole and the glass bumps and splashes. Scotch burns my nostrils; I cough and thumb my tingling nose. Dad glances at me and smiles, holding his own glass out to calm its contents.
“Cheers,” he says with a nod.
The Macallan tastes of raisins and dried figs, oak and cigar leaves. Reminds me of the hotel where Elisha and I stayed. Of an autumn evening together, curled up on a plush couch with throw blankets and a good book. I want that for us so badly.
“Alex.” Dad cradles his glass. Sighs. Purses his lips when he looks at me. “Your mother and I are worried about you.”
I drop my eyes to the glass resting on my knee. Here comes the disappointment. I failed them—failed my namesake. The company. The Board. Not to mention Elisha. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be. You’re not liable; none of this is your fault.”
My skin tingles. This conversation is going down a road I don’t want to travel. Beyond the rain-dotted window, the concrete walls that surround the beltway have been replaced by an awning of trees and overgrown grass.
Dad takes a long, slow sip of his drink, sets it in a cup holder, and clasps his hands. “We have good reason to believe Elisha specifically targeted you, and refused Dociline, so that he could seduce you—”
“Seduce me?” What the fuck?
“—so that he could convince you to deem his contract fulfilled and send him home debt-free, with a healthy stipend.”
“That’s—” the opposite of what happened. I feel like we’ve crossed into an alternate universe. “Why would you even think that?”
“I know it’s difficult for you to see, from the inside. We care about you, Alex, your mother and I and many more people, and we’re concerned about what’s happened to you. We want to help you get better. And we want Elisha to pay for what he’s done.”
“He hasn’t ‘done’ anything. I’m the one who—”
“Don’t you find it suspicious that he would sign with a Bishop after what he alleges our product did to his mother? A brazen lie, but motive nonetheless.”
“Motive?” I can only repeat fragments of his assertions, the ideas too bizarre.
My father leans forward, holding eye contact, filling the space between us. “He manipulated and defrauded you.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” I say less to my father and more to myself.
“I know. He hurt you, Alex, but don’t worry.” He settles back in his seat, reaching for his tumbler. “Our attorneys are going to take care of this. We’ve filed a lawsuit against Elisha and his family for financial, emotional, and medical damages.”
Words escape me. How are the Wilders supposed to have hurt us financially? They have no money. And I am not the one who needs emotional and medical care. I should be paying for Elisha’s care.
“You need help, Alex. You need somewhere free from Elisha’s influence.”
“He didn’t influence—I’m the one who—” I dig my fingernails into the heel of my hand until I can feel the sting of the marks they’ll leave behind. Why did I get in the car? “You can’t do this.”
“It’s for your own good.” Dad looks down at his Scotch, tilts the glass back, and finishes it. “I’d hoped you’d understand. We love you, Alex, but it’s clear you’re no longer yourself.”
“Stop the car. I’m going home. Elisha’s actually hurting and he asked me to help him.”
We stare at each other. The car maintains its speed. “Elisha is no longer your concern.”
“He’s the only one I’m concerned about!”
“Clearly!” Dad gestures at my rumpled clothes. At pushed-up sleeves and dust-stained slacks. Sweat stains and wrinkles. “We were ready to trust you with the future, Alex, but you can’t take care of yourself, much less an entire company. We—” He takes a deliberate breath and smooths a hand down the front of his shirt. “We’ve assigned a conservator to manage your estate.”
“What? How—you’d need a judge to—”
But Dad knows plenty of judges. I’ve seen him entertaining them at Preakness, donating to their reelection campaigns, making sure they listened when Bishop Laboratories wanted to weigh in. Dad sighs, disappointment radiating from his posture.
“I was gone for a day and you had me declared incompetent?”
“Going forward, Dutch will approve your spending and allowance, in addition to his CFO duties. It’s only temporary.”
“Until what? Until I make the romantic decisions you want for me?”
“Until you’re better!” Dad raises his voice. “You can’t see how you’ve changed, Alex. You used to care about going to work. About your future. I know how hard you prepared for that first Board meeting, even though you weren’t quite ready, yet. Remember how eager you were to talk about your plans for Dociline with me, at Preakness. Lately, all you care about is Elisha—not about your work or your family.” He shakes his head. “I’ve informed the Board that you’ll be taking a leave of absence, for the foreseeable future.”
I fix my eyes on the floor and bite my tongue. If I speak, I’ll scream. My fingers wander to the door handle. I could pull it. Jump out of the car. Run back to the city—Elisha did it.
“That you’re considering jumping out of a speeding car proves my point.”
I clench my jaw, enforce my own silence.
Hours pass. My fingers grow stiff and cramped, holding the Scotch glass that I refuse to either bring to my lips or hand back to my father. I do not look at him, even when we turn onto a lush campus. In the distance, a brick mansion towers behind a wrought-iron fence with the words “Ellicott Hart” emblazoned in bronze.
I hear the driver put his window down and speak to someone in a guard booth, before the gate squeaks open and we pull through. This is the kind of fence that keeps people in. As soon as it closes behind us, I know I’m not leaving. I told Elisha I’d see him soon.
The car stops with such grace, I don’t notice until Dad opens his door. I can’t follow him. If I do, it’s as good as consenting to the story he’s concocted, a story in which I’m the victim.
&
nbsp; The driver opens my door. I don’t move.
“Alex, please.” Dad peers into the car. Behind him stand a row of people in suits and doctor’s coats. One holds a tablet.
The last few hours of pent-up anger uncoil when I finally acquiesce. Right foot, left foot. I look my father in the eye, then slam the monogrammed Lalique glass to the ground. It shatters; Macallan sixty-two year bleeds across the concrete.
50
ELISHA
The last time the cops came for me, they took my mother and burned their mark into my flesh. I wrap my right hand over the rose-gold cuff that’s hidden it for the past six months—not that I could ever forget.
“Just one?” Eugenia asks. She and Roger are walking toward us, from the end of the hall.
I step back when they arrive, making room for the people who got me in trouble every time I saw them. An hour in confinement for that card Eugenia slipped into my pocket without telling me. Alex’s hand urging me down into the dark. Javier’s force, my body bending to fit in the space. My legs and shoulders twinge with memories of pains and cramps. Of the cold, hard tiles against my cheek. The slotted grate pressing against my knees. The scent of my own urine.
“I deserve this,” I whisper, pressing my fingertips into my forehead. Squeezing my eyes shut.
“Elisha, are you okay?” I hear Dutch say. “Back up. Give him some room.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Onyx says.
Roger huffs, then says, “Why not? Make the sheriff wait.”
“What cop is going to wait outside until they’re ready?”
“Guys.” Eugenia’s voice ends the bickering. “Go keep an eye on her, while we wait for Elisha.”
I hear the two of them grumble at each other, as they walk away. I open my eyes on the palms of my hands. Doubt presses on my shoulders.
“Take your time, Elisha.” Dutch’s calming voice confuses me. Is this the man who promised Alex to take care of me or the man who watched while I licked his come off the floor? How can he be both? He seems caring, now, and feels more like Alex than anyone else here. His clothes, his demeanor, the way he carries himself.
“What if she takes me away?” I ask. “I don’t want to go.”
“We won’t let that happen, Elisha,” Eugenia says, though I know she can’t promise; she’s never protected me. Cops do whatever they want. I’ve seen it and I’ll never believe otherwise.
I say, “Okay,” anyway, because agreeing is easier, and hold my hand out to Dutch. “Will—” He wants me to ask. I can do this. “Will you walk with me?”
He glances at Eugenia before answering. “Yes, most of the way. The sheriff can’t see me here, or I could be exposed. The Bishops own the police, and I’m no good to Empower Maryland if the Second fires me for conspiring with the enemy.”
With an “Okay,” I take his hand. Allow myself to feel comforted by the one familiar person in this place. A person carrying Alex’s trust. While we walk, I imagine Alex’s trust holding my hand.
Downstairs, people crowd around the door. A tactic, Eugenia explains, to prevent the sheriff from slipping in or seeing inside. At some point, Dutch squeezes my hand, then lets go, disappears into the crowd, and Eugenia replaces him by my side.
“I’ll talk to her, for you,” she says.
“Okay.” I follow her, closely, through the crowd as it parts for us.
There, on the other side of the door, stands the sheriff. A uniformed, middle-aged woman, with enough bulk that she could haul me off with one hand. She leans against her brown car, reviewing the papers in her hand. When Eugenia and I step out into the daylight, she looks up as if we’re bothering her.
“Elisha Wilder?” Slowly, she walks over.
“Yes.” I scold myself as soon as I answer. If I were smarter, I’d have asked why, first. Alex would’ve asked why.
“This is for you.” The sheriff thrusts the papers into my hands.
Reflexively, I close my fingers around them, but I can’t focus long enough to read them. “What is this?”
“A summons, complaint, and request for trial,” she says. “You have thirty days to respond.”
I feel Eugenia reach over and lift the summons. She reads while I watch the sheriff leave. When her car roars to life, I release my held breath with such force that I stumble into Eugenia. I’m still here. The sheriff didn’t take me.
“Don’t worry,” Eugenia says. “We’ll represent you pro bono.”
I don’t know what that means—don’t know what any of this means. I wish Dutch had been able to stay. He would know. Eugenia asks too much, goes too fast. I don’t even know what she’s talking about. I should. Alex would want me to, even Dutch.
“Represent me?” I look over my shoulder as if one of them will be waiting there to answer. Instead, I meet Onyx’s eyes. He folds his arms, kicks at the gravel, looks between his shoes and me. He looks worried. Makes me feel even more nervous.
“Pro bono, for free.” Eugenia folds several pages over, exposing a document with the word “COMPLAINT” in bold black letters. Above, my name, my mother’s and father’s names. “Defendants.”
What do we need to defend ourselves from? Realization sears itself into my skin. “Are we being sued?”
“Yes.”
I trace my finger up the page farther. Stop. Suck in a sharp breath and read the names out loud. “‘Alexander Bishop the Second as Personal Representative for Alexander Bishop the Third. Alexander Bishop the Second o/b/o Bishop Laboratories. Plaintiffs.’” Words I don’t know and am afraid to ask the meaning off. “Plaintiffs,” I say to myself.
“That means the people who filed the complaint,” Eugenia says. “The ones who’re suing you.”
My fingers tremble. The words blur. Alex’s name is there, with the plaintiffs. “O/b/o?” I ask instead of what I want to, which is why Alex is suing me.
“On behalf of,” Eugenia says. “The Second is suing you on behalf of the Third and Bishop Labs.”
Alex is suing me. Why is Alex suing me? Why would he do this? He loves me. He told me so a few hours ago. Kissed me and said he would see me soon. Maybe it was all a lie—no, Alex doesn’t lie to me. But there are no rules anymore. We can lie to each other. Did I hurt him? What did I do?
“Elisha?” Gently, Eugenia presses her hand against my back, and presses me toward the front door of Empower Maryland. “Why don’t you go inside and I’ll ask someone from our legal team to go over this with you, so it’s less scary, okay? Onyx can take you to the meeting room. I know you’re not ready for this, but your trial could be an opportunity. With our help, you could make an impact.”
“Okay,” I say because it’s easy. Being my own person hurts too much. I need Alex. Want to make him happy—that makes me happy.
I close my eyes and breathe in, imagining the feel of his hand on my back, instead of Eugenia’s. Of his soft good boy, and even softer lips, pressed against my forehead. Why should an opportunity hurt so much?
* * *
I’m grateful when Onyx leads me inside, taking the burden of decision away. I follow him past the couches, up to the second floor, and through the computer stations. Everywhere we go, people stare. I don’t like when they stare. Never have.
I focus on the stack of papers in my hands, while we cross the metal bridge, into the second warehouse. It creaks and shifts under our feet and I can’t help but look at the two-story drop down and wonder what it would feel like to crash into the cement.
“This way,” Onyx says, nodding toward a row of offices. They’re only a step above the tiny bedroom stalls. Their walls are better finished, and rise on all four sides. The one he takes me to has a real door. Instead of a pullout couch, inside, a table and chairs.
A woman wearing a green pants suit stands when we enter. She extends a hand and says, “Nice to see you again, Elisha. I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Verónica. Vasquez,” she adds, as if I know enough people that a surname will make the difference. “We met while you were
on a run. In the old barn, in Prettyboy. I’m an attorney.”
“Right.” I remember, now. I remember scattering grains of rice that dug deep into my knees. Feel the pain shooting up through my legs and back. “Nice to see you again.”
She offers me a chair. Onyx sits with us, his elbows on the table as he leans nearer the stack of papers.
“I’m going to read this over,” Verónica explains, “and then we’ll go through it paragraph by paragraph, together. How does that sound?”
“Good, thank you.” The relief of being in an expert’s hands dissolves through me like ice dropped into hot tea.
I twirl the chain of my cuff around my finger, while she reads. Her face remains calm, head nodding every now and then, finger tracing a line, turning back a page to double- or cross-check—whatever it is attorneys do.
A hand clamps firmly down over my left wrist, stopping my fidgeting. Onyx catches my eye. Loosens his grip.
“Sorry,” I say, slowly letting the diamond chain disappear back into the band.
“Don’t be,” he says. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
Then why is he stopping me? What are the rules here? I don’t understand. But I don’t ask frivolous questions. I say, “Okay,” and clasp my fingers together to curb their temptation. Onyx’s hand slides back into his own space, but his eyes remain on my cuff.
“Okay, this is pretty simple,” Verónica says, finally looking up at me. “First, to ease your anxiety, let me assure you that Alex—your Alex—is not suing you. It’s his name on the document, but this isn’t his doing. It’s Lex Bishop’s, his father’s.”
“Okay.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch Onyx shaking his head. He and Verónica exchange a look.
“Elisha,” she says, “I know you’re not used to asking questions, but you’re going to have to, if you want to get through this trial. It’s going to hurt more if you don’t understand what’s happening. Plus, you’ll be able to help us provide you and your family a better defense if you can give us all the facts. You want that, right?”