“It's just me. Welcome back,” replied my father waiting for me to approach the study. “Your mother's still at Braxton closing on the final admissions list for the prospective class.”
“How's the jolly retiree doing?” I asked walking down the hall toward him.
“I'm not retired, yet,” my father said with a sneer. “I finished writing my speech for the party tomorrow evening. Interested in an early preview?”
Saying no would make me a bad son. Eleanor and I had promised one another at Christmas we'd try harder. I really want to be a bad son today. “Sure, it must be exciting. You've had a bountiful career, Dad. It's undoubtedly the perfect example of oratory excellence.” He always loved when I stretched my vocabulary skills to align with his own. I shuddered thinking about the spelling bees of long ago.
“Yes, I do believe it is.” My father squinted his eyes and scratched at his chin. No doubt he was judging my borderline unkempt appearance. I'd forgotten to shave and took that classic nose-dive on the ground. Sue me. Sometimes I preferred the messy look. Apparently, so did that airport barista!
I walked to his desk studying the extra frown lines forming around his lips. “Everything okay, Dad? You look a little peaked.”
“Yes… a few things on my mind. Nothing to trouble you with, Kellan.” He nodded and shook my hand—standard male Ayrwick greeting. At six feet, my father stood only three inches taller than me, but the dominant Ayrwick genes made him look gargantuan in comparison. Lanky and wiry, he'd not worked out a day in his life, but he also never needed to. His metabolism was more active than a thoroughbred, and he ate only the healthiest of foods. I was lucky enough to inherit the recessive Danby genes, but more on those cruel legacies another time.
“I'm a good listener, Dad. Tell me what's going on.” I felt his bony hand pull away and watched his body settle into the worn, mustard-yellow leather chair in front of the bookcase. It was probably the only thing of his my mother hadn't yet replaced, and that was purely because he'd threaten divorce if she tried. “It's been a while since we've talked.”
My father stared out the window. I waited for his right eyebrow to twitch signaling the onslaught of a battle, but the high arch never came. “We're having some problems at Braxton with a blogster trying to cause trouble. A bunch of articles or post-its, whatever you call them these days… trash is what I'd like to say.” He closed his eyes and leaned back into the chair. “This isn't the way I pictured my last few weeks before retirement.”
I stifled a laugh hoping not to put another decisive wedge between us. He'd opened up a little more than usual, and it didn't matter if he used the wrong terms when trying to explain whatever fake news propaganda was developing at Braxton. “What's the blogger saying?”
“Someone has an ax to grind about the way I've been supporting certain parts of the college. He claims I'm favoring the athletics department by giving them more money this term,” he replied.
My father crossed his legs and cupped his hands together. His navy-blue corduroys and brown loafers seemed out of place, but maybe he was taking retirement seriously. I'd only ever seen him in suits and the occasional pair of Dockers and a short-sleeve polo when he'd meet friends at the country club for a round of golf. I sincerely hope it didn't mean he'd be wearing jeans anytime soon. The shock of suddenly-embraced normalcy might put me in an early grave before that doomed airplane.
“Is the blogger going after you specifically or Braxton administration in general?”
My father quickly typed a few words on the iPad's keypad and handed the device to me. “That's the third message in two weeks. The links for the rest are at the bottom.”
It's unlike my father to worry about this type of nonsense, but maybe he'd become more sensitive about people's opinions as he grew older. It seemed the opposite of what I thought ordinarily happened as one aged. Nana D was the first to spill whatever was on her mind or laugh when others said anything negative about her. She almost delighted in their criticisms of her behavior. I can't wait to get old and say anything I want the way she does!
I scrolled through the recent post. What alarmed me the most was why it seemed directed explicitly at my father.
Wesley Ayrwick, in his archaic and selfish ways, has struck another blow in eradicating the true purpose for Braxton's existence in this world. His continued support for a failing athletics department while neglecting the proper education of our beloved college's student population has made it impossible for me to stand down. A recent six-figure donation was carelessly handed over to Grey Sports Complex for improving the technology infrastructure of the athletic facility, re-turfing the baseball field, and securing a more modern bus for the players when traveling to opposing teams. At the same time, the communications, humanities, and music departments suffer with minimal software programs, deteriorating equipment, and lack of modern venue spaces for live performances. When asked about the decision to split the anonymous donation ninety percent to ten percent in favor of the athletics teams, President Ayrwick claimed they'd been waiting longer and were in danger of not being able to compete in the upcoming sports season. This is the third occurrence of his favoritism in the last two months which clearly explains why the petition to remove Ayrwick from office sooner than the end of this semester is gaining momentum. Let's hope we can say goodbye to this crooked figurehead before Braxton's ship has sailed too far adrift from its proper course. Retirement must already be on the old coot's brain, or perhaps he's just one of the worst presidents we've ever had. My fondest wish is for Wesley Ayrwick's memory to be buried and long forgotten by the end of this term.
“What do you make of it?” asked my father. The hesitancy in his voice almost made me choke.
A quick perusal of the earlier posts revealed similar sentiments fixed on my father for some perceived sense of unfair balance with the generous donations bestowed upon Braxton. The last line read like a death threat, but that might be my imagination running wild since learning the alarming truth about the Castigliano side of my family. “Who's the anonymous donor? Are you responsible for choosing where to allocate the funds?”
My father wrinkled his nose and raised his eyebrow. “No, you know better than that. When it's anonymous, even I'm not supposed to know. Sometimes the benefactor has a specific request on where to distribute the money. I can offer my insight and suggestions, but the Board of Trustees and its budget committee ultimately have the decision where the funds go.”
“I just meant you probably have some influence,” I replied. My father looked annoyed he didn't have my unconditional support right away. “Should it have gone to the athletics department?” I stepped into the hallway to drop off my keys and wallet on a nearby bench.
“Yes. While I agree the purpose of a college education is to prepare you for life in the real world, to study and learn a trade or a skill, it's also about developing interpersonal relationships and opening your eyes and mind to more than amassing facts.” He crossed to the window shaking his head back and forth clearly distracted by something. “Sports build camaraderie, teamwork, and friendships. It provides opportunities for the college and the town to unite together in support of their students. It eventually leads to a stronger foundation and future for everyone involved.”
I couldn't argue with his logic and found myself pondering the past as I kicked off my shoes in the hall. “You've put that rather well. I believe you, Dad. Not to change topics, but I had a question for you about Abby Monroe. She mentioned attending…”
I don't think he heard me as the door to his study slammed shut before I finished speaking. I'd been home for ten minutes and already stuck my foot in my mouth. Between our off-the-charts intelligence and arrogant, stubborn streaks, neither of us could back down enough to develop any sort of normal relationship. I don't think I'll ever learn how to bond with the indomitable Wesley Ayrwick. At least I could count on my quick wit and devilishly handsome face to make things seem better!
I dragged the luggage to my
old bedroom which my mother had refused to change under some foolish notion I might move back home one day. Did she really think a thirty-two-year-old would want to sleep in a room still wallpapered with Jurassic Park and Terminator paraphernalia? Before settling down for the night to digest some of the show materials Derek had sent, I headed downstairs to scurry up a light meal. The incident in the study left me little desire to eat dinner with my parents that evening. I'd just turned the corner when I heard my father's voice speaking on the house phone.
“Yes, I read the latest post. I'm aware of our predicament, but we've already discussed this. Terminating an employee is not an option right now,” my father said.
It seemed the posts were causing all sorts of troubles, but my father previously acted like he didn't know who was behind the blog.
“I understand, but I've no intention of revealing this secret. I'm only keeping quiet because of the benefit it's had on Braxton. If the truth is discovered, we'll figure out the best solution. For now, I can handle a little hot water. You need to calm down,” my father said.
It clearly sounded like the blogger was telling the truth about underhanded chicanery. Was my father involved in a potentially illegal or unethical situation at Braxton?
“You should've thought about it before taking such a foolish approach to… now wait a minute… no, you listen to me… don't threaten me, or it'll be the last thing you do,” my father said angrily.
When he hung up the phone, I ducked into the kitchen. Between the elusive Abby Monroe's connections to Braxton, the ruthless blogger publicly denouncing my father, and the hostile call I'd just overheard, this weekend might turn out more eventful than expected.
Chapter 2
When I stirred on Saturday morning, my mouth was pasty, the room was dark, and a low-rattling noise emanated from the far corner. I sat straight up in bed, smacked my head into a wood beam, and freaked out that overnight I'd gone blind and a possum had snuck into the walls. I soon determined the obnoxious sound was the hissing of the radiators delivering much-needed warmth to the room.
Once the initial shock of my surroundings wore off, I stretched my back grunting at the crunch in my lower spine from sleeping on the firmest mattress known to man. Between jet lag from the red-eye and the time difference, I'd dozed off early but woken up several times throughout the night. I checked my phone only to learn it was almost noon already. That's also when I saw a message from my father chastising me for not bringing Emma home. Based on the timestamp, it'd come in the previous night shortly after I'd overheard his phone call. Did he know I'd been listening outside his office?
Wesley Ayrwick was not a frequent complainer, and if he did elect to vent, it was only on important topics. The last time I'd pressed him for thoughts on something vital, he revealed how much he'd disliked my wife, Francesca. This occurred when I'd asked for his help to plan her funeral after she was hit by a drunk driver in West Hollywood just over two years ago. Francesca and I had left her parents' house on Thanksgiving in separate cars as she'd been staying with them while I was working on an out-of-town film project. I will always be thankful Francesca's mother, Cecilia Castigliano, strapped Emma into my car's safety seat that night. Thinking about the alternative scenario consistently brought me to tears. I'm not anywhere ready to talk about losing my wife at such a young age, nor being a single parent, so let's allow that to sleep for a bit longer.
After brushing my teeth, I called to check on Emma, but she was swimming in the neighbor's pool. Her grandparents would contact me as soon as she returned home. I'd only been away for twenty-four hours, yet it felt as if part of me was lost whenever we were apart. The connection felt fuzzy, almost as though the distance prevented me from truly knowing whether my six-year-old daughter was okay. I don't know what I'd do without her and would give up a lot of desserts to swing her in my arms right now. Or watch her dance to some silly cartoon on her iPad. My heart melts whenever I see the natural, pure innocence of her smile.
Before summoning the courage to start the day, I tossed on some clothes to brew a pot of coffee. Walking around the house in only my snug black boxer briefs wasn't an option. Although, if there were any neighbors, it would've been quite the show. I descended the staircase two steps at a time, trotted into the kitchen, and found my mother preparing lunch. I still needed to ferret out the detailed agenda for tonight's retirement party.
“How's the best mother in the world doing?” I gave her a big hug, the way only a son can remind his momma she's loved. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was pinned back with the jade butterfly clip Eleanor had given her for Christmas, and her face looked like she'd started putting makeup on one side but had forgotten the other half. I'd bet money on today's slipshod appearance being the result of something Nana D had done.
“Oh, Kellan! I wanted to come home early last night, but… the rehearsal for the party… talking to the planner about the seating chart… a near disaster. Do you know she had Nana D sitting next to Councilman Stanton at a table in the back row? I told that planner ten times if I told her once Marcus would be making an important speech and needed to sit at the main table with your father. Nana D can't be anywhere near him based on their last public argument when she called him a…”
I had to interrupt before my mother prattled on for hours. “Got it. Makes total sense. You did the right thing, but I thought Nana D declined your invitation to the party?” I suddenly remembered reading a text before falling asleep where Nana D indicated she'd rather spend an afternoon with her mouth crammed full of lemon wedges, her fingers pricked by a thousand tiny needles, and her feet glued inside a bumblebee's nest than attend another Braxton event for my father. “And what's with the crazy portrait-of-a-lady-with-two-faces look?” I cocked my head to the side, reached for the fruit bowl at the end of the island, and stepped a few inches away certain she'd swat at me for that comment.
My mother, somewhere in her mid-fifties, had feverishly obsessed over her appearance for as long as I could remember. Despite my father telling her she's beautiful, or how he has to prevent all his friends from trying to hit on her, she found ways to put herself down whenever possible. Even when my father explained how all his golf buddies called him a cradle robber because of my parents' ten-year age gap, she still went on a two-week hunt around the world for the latest wrinkle prevention products and anti-aging miracle cures.
“Whaaat? That woman is gonna be the death of me. She called while I was putting on my face and wanted to know if your father had changed his mind about retiring. She'd heard some rumor about what he was really up to, then asked who wrote the scathing blog post. Any idea what she's talking about?” She ducked into the half-bath and applied a colorful powder to her right eyelid.
“We'll chat when you're done. Beauty first,” I replied to change the topic and began to make a sandwich. “So, Nana D's not going? That's gonna make this party a whole lot less interesting.”
My mother's lack of awareness surrounding the blog posts surprised me. She'd read everything about Braxton she could get her hands on—it was important to know what's being written about her college to be prepared for any questions prospective or current students might ask. Then again, she could be craftily testing me to see what I knew and wasn't telling her. Often the little charade of trickery we all played in the Ayrwick family got rather complicated—somewhere between a game of Who's on First? and Russian Roulette.
My mother smacked her lips together like a blowfish. “What'd you say, Kellan?”
“Nothing, I'm glad to be home.” Eleanor would have to agree that I'm being such a good son.
She smiled and retreated into the bathroom while I devoured the sandwich. When she reappeared, her face was all fixed up. Eleanor better watch herself, or people might ask questions at the party like who's the older sister between the pair of them. Maybe I'll even start that rumor. It'd been a while since I got Eleanor with a good zinger.
“What's the plan for tonight?” I choked out while swallowin
g the last bit of my sandwich.
“We'll be there to greet early arrivals for the cocktail hour starting at five o'clock. Your father will be presented with a service award, and a few folks will make speeches between six and seven. Dinner will be served between seven and eight. Everyone can mingle afterward for an hour before it ends.” She paused to collect her breath, then popped a strawberry in her mouth. “I need to take this sandwich to your father. Please try to arrive early as I know he wants to introduce you to people.”
“Eleanor and I plan to arrive exactly at five. Cross one less worry off your list.” I had to instruct her sometimes, or she'd fret over the littlest things. “We'll be on our best behavior.”
My mother kissed my cheek before ascending the stairs to deliver my father's lunch. “I'll always worry about my children. Even Gabriel despite not hearing from him for five years. Hugs and kisses!”
As she exited, I caught my reflection in the window and rolled my eyes at the lipstick marks left behind. If I survived the night, I'd exact revenge on Nana D for avoiding it all. I sent her a text to remind her she'd promised to bake me a cherry pie for brunch tomorrow. There was no better dessert, especially the way Nana D prepared them with the cherries on top and the crust only on the bottom. She'd attach little pastry donuts on the side so we could pull them off and dip them into the cherry filling. Mmm, it was delicious. Don't get me started on pie.
Nana D: Arrive by 10. Have fun without me tonight. Please piss off your father for me.
Wow, she had it in for him. I returned to my bedroom and dove back into the show bible sitting on the night table. The next page was Abby's email to Derek from a week earlier. It read:
I'm so glad you selected me to provide the research on Dark Reality's next season. I received the contract and will send a signed copy back next week. When do we get to meet again? I had so much fun having cocktails with you last month. You're adorable in that recent picture you sent from Tahiti.
Academic Curveball Page 2