A Harvest of Thorns

by Corban Addison

  Vance nodded, trying to defuse the tension. “I get it. I really do. You have my blessing to bolster compliance. If you need more money, I’ll get it for you. But right now we just don’t have leverage in the market to rethink our sourcing practices preemptively.”

  “And if someone files a lawsuit?” Cameron persisted.

  Vance smiled magnanimously. “Then you can say ‘I told you so.’ And we’ll do what we always do—confront it head-on and find a way to survive.”

  Cameron weighed his options and placed his final card on the table. “I have an obligation to advise the independent directors,” he said, feeling the gravity of the words as he spoke them.

  Vance sat back against the bench and cast his gaze upward at the clouds. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Take it to the board. They should have the last word.”

  Cameron searched his friend’s face for a sign of exasperation but saw none. To his amazement, Vance held up his beer bottle. “You know, I think this calls for a toast. We’ve been working side by side for five years, and this is the first time you’ve gone over my head. I bet that’s a record in the Fortune 50. I’ve never been prouder to have you with me.”

  Cameron accepted the olive branch because it was the only way forward. But he couldn’t deny what he felt in his heart. A rift had opened up between them. Vance hadn’t just dismissed the women of Millennium. He had trampled on their graves.

  He touched Vance’s bottle with his own and said, “Cheers.” But he knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. One way or another, he would find a way to make things right.

  CHAPTER SIX

  PRESTO TOWER, CARTER AUDITORIUM

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  JUNE 13, 2014

  10:51 A.M.

  The Hank Carter Memorial Auditorium was at capacity and brimming with investor energy—a thousand bodies in a thousand seats in terraced rows. Vance Lawson strutted across the stage in front of a forty-foot wall of curved glass, a lavalier microphone over his ear, delivering his annual State of the Company speech with assistance from a state-of-the-art sound system and a colossal fifteen-by-twenty-five-foot screen. Cameron was in the second row with the rest of the C-suite. His seat was closest to the center aisle, the most privileged location. It was Vance’s doing—one of his attempts to mend what had happened between them on the sailboat, then what had happened in the boardroom five days later.

  It was a fait accompli. Cameron had seen it coming as soon as he walked through the door and glimpsed the faces of the directors arrayed around the table. Their minds were already made up. The ringleaders, as he had suspected, were Lester Grant and Jim Dunavan, both veterans of Wall Street, both hard-boiled acolytes of Milton Friedman, both millionaires many times over. The senior-most member of the board, Grant was seventy-two and the erstwhile CEO of Laffin-Stone, America’s fourth-largest investment bank. Dunavan was his unofficial wingman and president of the Philomel Group, a hedge fund managing seventy billion dollars in assets.

  They countermanded the meeting almost immediately, giving Cameron only five minutes to outline his proposal before lodging their objections. Their talking points sounded like dictums from Rebecca Sinclair’s playbook. At times, they almost parroted the sourcing VP, confirming Cameron’s hunch that they had strategized with her.

  “In retail, cost is drag,” Grant emphasized, his pale forehead wrinkling beneath wispy hair brushed back in unruly curls. “Our sourcing people shave off fractions here and there, but they add up to big savings. We give our customers more than they think they should be able to get for the price. That’s magic you don’t mess with.”

  Then Dunavan chimed in. “The supply chain is an ecosystem that exists in delicate balance. Interference anywhere can disrupt the system everywhere. It’s the butterfly effect. I have tremendous respect for you, Cameron. But the job of compliance is to keep Presto on the right side of the law, not to play God with the market. Leave that to the damn regulators.”

  Of the eight independent directors, only one—Paula DeMille, a fifty-year-old executive from the tech sector—defended Cameron against the Grant-Dunavan juggernaut. She spoke about corporate citizenship and the need to balance investor returns with the rights of stakeholders in the global community, noting the growing public demand for businesses to protect workers and the environment in the absence of regulation. But her arguments were drowned out by the naysayers. Even Blake Conrad, who usually ratified Cameron’s advice on principle, took exception to meddling with the status quo. He articulated his concerns judiciously, but among the remaining directors his judgment was damning.

  “I hate to sound cliché, Cameron, but if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Fix the Red List. Fix the auditors. Fix communications between sourcing and compliance. All of that makes sense from an institutional standpoint and as a shield against liability. But this is no time to tinker with the profit center of the company. It’s like you’re asking us to do heart surgery when diet and exercise would work just as well. I’m with Lester and Jim on this one. I can’t agree with it.”

  At that point, Cameron’s only refuge was a bit of gallows humor. “Are there any other metaphorical pearls you’d like to share before you scuttle my proposal?”

  Of those at the table, only Paula smiled.

  In the auditorium, Cameron turned his attention back to the stage and watched as Vance clicked to the last slide—the Presto logo against a white background. “At McKinsey,” the chief executive was saying, “I watched companies soar and companies crash. From those experiences, I learned the four pillars of success—a clear-eyed vision of the marketplace, a smart and versatile management team, an ethos that puts customers first, and a strategic plan for long-term growth. Challenges come and go. But if a house is built on a sure foundation, it will stand firm. Presto is that kind of house. The state of our company has never been stronger.”

  When the shareholders erupted in applause, Cameron joined them, but inside he was seething. By all appearances, Presto was back on its feet. Sales and stock were up, investor confidence hadn’t been higher since the 2008 crash, and the new website was actually starting to compete with Amazon. But Cameron knew the rebound was tainted, the bonny news stained with blood. Perhaps Vance could walk away from the plight of Sonia Hassan; perhaps the board could justify its inaction with aphorisms. But Cameron couldn’t. He’d barely slept since the sailing trip. Each night he had lain awake listening to the sounds of the marina and hatching delirious plots to force Presto’s hand, all of which were either illegal or insane. He had done everything in his power, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing had changed.

  His iPhone vibrated. He retrieved it from his pants pocket as Vance was leaving the stage, waving and shaking hands. When Cameron saw the text message, he felt a pang of dread. It was from his father.

  “Please call ASAP.”

  He turned to Kristin Raymond and raised his voice over the din. “I have something I need to deal with. It’s a family matter.”

  Kristin nodded and spoke into his ear. “I’ll let Vance know.”

  Cameron walked quickly up the aisle, ducking his head and hoping none of the investors noticed him. Outside the auditorium was a reception area lined with windows. He walked toward one of them and placed the call. “Dad,” he said when his father picked up, “what’s going on?”

  “It’s your mother,” Ben replied, his tone darker than Cameron had ever heard it. “She’s taken a turn. You need to come home.”

  It took Cameron three hours to get to Logan Airport and another thirty minutes to reach his parents’ house in Cambridge. He spent the trip in a state of barely suppressed agitation. He hadn’t felt so destabilized since the days after Olivia’s death. The helplessness unsettled him the most. He had spent his life perfecting the art of control—of himself and his surroundings. Control was a function of wisdom and skill and connections and favors, all woven together into a web of self-knowledge and self-protection. All risks were calculated, some bypassed, others taken bu
t hedged. No path was pursued without a viable alternative. These were the rules he had followed in all aspects of his life, except one—love. It was his undoing.

  The taxi left him on the driveway outside the house. He stood there for an unconscious moment, gazing up at the window of his old bedroom, his heart like a sluice gate letting in a flood of memories—his father in the study, glasses perched on his nose, a book in hand, lost in a world of rhetoric that afforded little space for children; his sisters playing together in the yard, always gleeful, never alone; his mother like a benevolent spirit moving through the rooms, keeping things tidy and hearts tended, speaking with grace, helping him find his place. He was there among them as a child, as an adolescent, as a young man, but he was also separate from them, the son who feared his father more than respected him, a third wheel with his sisters, the boy who took shelter with his mother until his mind made sense of the world.

  He approached the door in a daze, pressing the latch and finding it unlocked. The house was quiet when he stepped into the foyer. Both of his sisters were still in transit. He set his bag down in the living room and laid his coat and tie over the back of the couch. After rolling up his sleeves, he climbed the stairs, counting the creaks as he had when he was young. He looked at the pictures on the wall—family portraits from Cape Cod that marked the progression of time. His mother was at the center of all of them. He couldn’t imagine the world without her.

  His father met him at the top of the steps, his eyes leaden, his handshake limp. In the seven months since Thanksgiving, Ben had aged years. Cameron followed him into the master bedroom, its shades drawn but its curtains tied back, allowing in diffuse light. When he saw the frail figure on the bed, only her face visible among blankets and pillows, his heart came apart in shards, like a glass ornament fallen from the hand. He knelt beside her and saw that her eyes were open. His mother turned toward him, her smile a lark in passing.

  “Cameron,” she whispered. “It’s good to see you.”

  He couldn’t believe how fast she had deteriorated. Only eight days ago she had drifted off during their Thursday call, dropping the phone and leaving him with a dial tone. Ben took her to see Dr. Radcliffe right away, and the oncologist ordered an MRI along with a bone marrow biopsy and blood tests. The results were dismal. Her tumors had doubled in size; her platelet, hemoglobin, and red cell counts had dropped precipitously; her lungs were collapsing, her liver failing; her marrow was all but destroyed. Dr. Radcliffe offered her the option of further chemotherapy, but Iris declined. Instead, Ben took her home and informed Cameron and his sisters that it wouldn’t be long. Still, Cameron hadn’t expected the summons so soon.

  He touched his mother’s face and blinked back tears. He didn’t know what to say. She had always been stronger than him, like the ground beneath his feet, as solid as anything in creation. To see her like this, her face so gaunt, her skin so sallow, her eyes dim and sunken in, her hairless head covered by a wool cap, was to see a shadow, a person departing.

  “It’s good to see you too,” he said at last. The words felt hollow on his lips, but he spoke them anyway because they were true.

  “Come closer,” she said. “I have something to tell you.”

  He leaned toward her, angling his head so his ear was inches from her mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, and his stomach clenched. “I’m sorry for all the ways that life has hurt you. But I believe that goodness is waiting for you, if only you’ll reach out and take it. Trust your heart, Cameron. I trust it. Trust . . .”

  Her voice trailed off and her eyes closed. He worried for an instant that she was gone, but then he saw her nostrils flare and knew she was asleep. He stood up and found his father in the hall, talking in low tones with a hospice nurse, an old book in his hands.

  “She’s sleeping,” Cameron said, wiping a tear from his cheek.

  The nurse nodded compassionately. “It’ll probably be a few hours before she’s cognizant again. Are you hungry? I’ll make you something to eat.”

  He felt his stomach rumble. He’d eaten nothing for lunch. But he didn’t want to leave his mother’s side. “I’m all right. I’m going to sit with her for a while.”

  “I’ll bring you something just in case,” the nurse said kindly, descending the stairs.

  He stood awkwardly in front of his father, the years of misunderstanding like a chasm between them. There was a time long ago when he would have craved Ben’s support—a hand on the shoulder, a tender word, an encouraging smile. But his father never offered any of these things, and Cameron stopped wishing. He was about to turn away when Ben reached out and handed him the old book.

  “She asked me to give you this,” he said. “I’m not sure why.”

  Cameron took the volume and ran his fingers over the tattered cover. “What is it?”

  “Something from the past. About the man I’m named after.”

  In a flash of memory, Cameron recalled his mother’s words at Thanksgiving. I have Cornelius’s diary. He wrote it all down, Esther’s entire story, but he kept it secret, and all of his heirs kept it secret . . . I’d like you to read it sometime.

  “I have work to do,” Ben said. “I’ll be in the study if you need me.”

  Cameron watched his father trundle down the steps, leaning heavily against the railing. In spite of himself, he felt empathy for the man. He knew what it was like to lose the best person in his life—like the world had come after him with a meat cleaver, hacked open his chest, and cut off a piece of his heart, just enough to make him bleed, little by little, for the rest of his days.

  He took the old book into his mother’s bedroom and sat down on an armchair by the bay window. One of Olivia’s cats—Bella—appeared at his feet and eyed him curiously, then climbed into his lap and began to purr. He stroked her fur and scratched her behind the ears, just as he had done in the evenings at their old apartment in DC, a glass of wine in hand and Olivia across the room with Grayson, reading a magazine.

  In time he opened the book and saw the handwriting of a bygone age. Cornelius had inscribed his full name inside the cover, along with a place—Beacon Hill, Boston—and a date—September 1867. Beneath that, he had written, “Herein lies the story of Esther Marshall Alexander, beloved wife and mother, now resting with her ancestors, awaiting the Resurrection. A eulogy and a lament.”

  Cameron read the opening pages, expecting the brittle prose of a barrister, but instead he found the soul of a man laid bare in letters. Esther had come to Cornelius as an escaped slave. But her ordeal went far beyond the indignities of servitude. The daughter of a Mississippi house girl and her master, a cotton planter, she grew up in the big house, was tutored by her mistress, and learned to read the Bible and mend clothing. When she was thirteen, the planter’s crop suffered a blight, and he sold a dozen slaves to pay his debts. Esther was the first on the block in Vicksburg. Because she was beautiful and virginal and a mulatto, she fetched a high price. A trader bought her, bound her neck in a coffle, and marched her and twenty others to the slave market in Atlanta, stopping only when he had the urge to sleep or fornicate. Every night for weeks on end he raped Esther, sometimes in the woods, sometimes in a field, sometimes in an abandoned barn. He called her a “fancy girl” and promised to find her a master who would enjoy her “very superior qualifications.”

  In Atlanta, he sold her to a Georgia plantation owner named John Henry Fletcher. From the day she stepped foot on Fletcher’s property, he treated her as a sex slave. Over thirteen years, she bore him three children, all of whom he sold as soon as they were weaned. Then the war came, and General Sherman captured Atlanta. When the news arrived, Esther fled in the night to the Union lines and lived in a contraband camp until Sherman marched on Savannah. Esther went with the army, reading Scripture to the wounded and mending uniforms. In Savannah, she stowed away on a Boston-bound ship with other escaped slaves. She met Cornelius at the African Meeting House in Beacon Hill, and he fell for her over the objectio
ns of his family, all prominent members of the free black community. They married in the last days of 1865, shortly after the Thirteenth Amendment was ratified.

  Cameron glanced at his watch and realized that an hour had passed. His mother was still asleep in the bed, a sandwich brought by the nurse untouched on the windowsill. He scarfed it down and returned to the story. What came next astonished him. Cornelius devoted only two pages to his marriage to Esther and the birth of their son, Jeremiah, which Esther didn’t survive. Instead, Cornelius recounted the journey he had taken with the Freedman’s Bureau through the byways of the Old South, to the plantation of John Henry Fletcher, then to the chaotic streets of postwar DC where Fletcher had taken refuge, and finally into a courtroom and before a judge who heard Cornelius’s suit for reparations. In that courtroom, Cornelius had made the argument that the freedom now guaranteed by the Constitution was not compensation enough for the long years of Esther’s toil and abuse. The only way the scales of justice could be balanced was if Fletcher was forced to pay. The judge, however, kicked out the case, allowing Fletcher and his family to maintain their comfortable living in the capital and sending Cornelius back to Boston with a wound to his conscience that never healed.

  By the time Cameron finished the diary, he realized that Cornelius’s “lament” was not about the death of his wife, but rather about the America that he loved and loathed at the same time, a country that had liberated his brethren from their chains only to abandon them in poverty, make amends with their former captors, and allow the centuries of their bondage to remain unrecompensed. The last paragraph Cornelius wrote left Cameron with the haunting feeling that his great-great-great-grandfather had known, in some mysterious way, that this day would come, that one of his heirs would read his words in a place of doubt and anger and grief and need a little nudge to take a step that could change things.

  Cameron set the book aside and tented his hands beneath his chin. He recalled Kent Salazar’s words in Malaysia: What you need is a vaccine. At the time, he doubted such a thing was possible. But now his mind had changed.