by Julia Kent
“If I were just a chauffeur, sir, I would agree. But I am your security detail as well, and I would be remiss in my duties if I left you alone while compromised.” Gerald pulled out his best commanding voice, planning on the spot, figuring out all the moving parts as they rolled out so he could find a way to make sure the old man was going to be okay.
“Excuse me?” The belligerent tone was fading, though McCormick’s demeanor was stiff.
“It’s a matter of corporate integrity, sir.” Thinking on his feet, Gerald decided the best approach was to appeal to the man’s sense of pride and his business acumen. “Anterdec needs you. I work for Anterdec. I would hate to have to face the board of directors in the future to explain why I left one of their most valuable assets ill and alone.”
“Their most valuable asset,” McCormick corrected him with another harumph.
“Of course.”
“Andrew may be CEO now, but I built this company from the ground up. I sacrificed and deferred.” He paused, taking in a slow, deep breath. “I gave everything to my company.”
“And your results are admirable.”
McCormick watched him, eyes narrowing, as he breathed slowly and thoroughly, clearly working on managing whatever physical state made him so pale, so angry.
“Yes. They are.”
“And a man of your stature should have someone here to help take care of any matters that might require assistance, like phone calls, rescheduling, errands...”
“That person is you.”
“Sir, I have a two p.m. appointment. I have to leave by half past one.” He looked at the clock. 11:15. “Should I call Becky?”
“Becky?” McCormick’s eyes flew open. He looked like someone shot him in the chest. “Hell, no.” Rumor had it the old man had been sleeping with his executive admin for a few years, and Gerald had wondered.
Confirmation comes in the strangest moments.
“Then who?”
While McCormick closed his eyes and refused to answer, Gerald realized he had the answer.
Pam.
When you work for wealthy people long enough, you learn an important lesson: time really is money. Make yourself valuable enough, and you can get away with murder. Being irreplaceable is a form of job security, because for the wealthy, the transition of training someone new to handle their quirks was more painful than almost any employee behavior.
He took a calculated risk and sent a quick text to Pam Warrick. Her daughter Amanda, Andrew McCormick’s fiancée, had given him the number a long time ago when he’d been tasked with picking up Pam. Gerald liked her. Quiet, smart, easy to talk to, and humble.
The opposite of what he expected in a friend of James McCormick, but the world had a way of continually surprising Gerald.
So did people.
Bzzz.
Be there in thirty, she typed back.
Gerald’s shoulders loosened with relief. He’d rather incur McCormick’s wrath at reaching out to Pam without permission than deal with the guilt of knowing he’d been ill and alone.
“Gerald,” McCormick said, his voice gaining strength. “Get me home. The Back Bay.”
“Can you handle the drive, sir?” Not that driving him to his house in the suburbs would be any easier.
He let out a shaky breath. “I’ll manage.”
Twenty minutes later, Gerald was parked in front of McCormick’s brownstone, a stand-alone building with a private garden. The estate in Weston was for entertainment and show. Most of McCormick’s time was spent here, in the five-bedroom, three-bath home with an English courtyard garden maintained by two master gardeners.
Unfortunately, the building involved stairs.
Stairs that loomed large in Gerald’s eyes. He could carry the guy easily, but McCormick would never, ever agree to that.
Not, at least, while conscious.
“I’m fine,” McCormick protested, as if reading Gerald’s mind. “Just winded.”
It took a while, but the guy made it into the large front room of the first story and settled into a comfortable leather wingback chair.
Gerald sprang to action. Unable to get ginger beer in time, he resorted to making lemon tea for James McCormick, delivering it just as the front buzzer rang.
Busted.
And yet, McCormick just looked at him and said, “Get the door.”
He did.
Pam Warrick stood there, purse on her arm, tiny teacup Chihuahua named Spritzy peeking his head out.
“Ma’am.”
“Call me Pam, Gerald.”
“Hello, Pam. He doesn’t know I texted you,” Gerald admitted in a soft voice.
“He texted me three minutes after you did, Gerald. Your secret is safe.”
Without meaning to, he smiled.
“You look so different when you grin!” Pam exclaimed, walking with great care as she made her way to McCormick’s living room. Gerald was surprised. She seemed to know her way around.
“Pam? Is that you?”
At the sound of McCormick’s voice, Spritzy leaped from the purse on Pam’s arm and scampered across the marble floor, onto the Persian rug, and clambered up McCormick’s leg.
“There you are,” he muttered. “Best medicine any man could have.” Cracking one eye open, James McCormick looked at Pam.
“You should have texted me sooner, James,” she chided, walking to him, planting a sweet kiss on the crown of his ash-colored head.
“I’m fine. I just needed some doggie love.”
Pam quirked an eyebrow at Gerald.
Who shook his head.
She nodded. Message received.
“What went wrong?”
“Stupid doctors,” McCormick grumbled. “Fools. Something about my labs. Blah blah blah kidney problem, so they halted treatment. Said I could try again in a few weeks.” He harumphed again, sounding like a walrus with strep throat.
“But the cancer?”
“It’s holding steady. No growth. This is just maintenance.” He waved a lazy hand.
The audible sound of relief from Pam made Gerald pay more attention to the dynamic between the two of them. People-watching wasn’t a habit.
It was a job requirement.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nausea,” James McCormick finally confessed. “And fatigue. You know how tiring running a Fortune 500 company can be.”
Pam gave him a look Gerald couldn’t discern. “The doctors gave you something for the nausea, I assume.”
“Yes. Didn’t help.”
“That I understand. Medicines that don’t work.” Gerald knew that Pam suffered from fibromyalgia. He’d helped her to walk up her porch stairs before.
“I wish the damn doctors could find a way to make this go away.”
Pam’s eyes darted to Gerald, then James. She leaned over and whispered in the old man’s ear.
He jerked so quickly that Spritzy leaped off his lap and skittered to the ground, nervous.
“Pamela! I cannot believe you would suggest such a thing.”
Her cheeks pinked.
Gerald started to slowly move toward the kitchen. Apparently, he’d underestimated their relationship. He had no desire to be around when they went to the bedroom and—
“You mean,” James McCormick asked stiffly, not making eye contact with Pam, “you want me to inhale The Reefer?”
James McCormick’s expression made it clear that Pam might as well have just asked him to vote for Bernie Sanders.
If the man had been wearing a set of pearls, he’d be clutching them.
And Gerald was off. Way off.
Thank God.
“Haven’t you—haven’t you ever tried it, James?” Pam asked.
He didn’t answer the question. “If I want to escape, a bottle of whisky does the job.”
“Marijuana is considerably superior to alcohol, James, as a nausea treatment,” Pam began. She pulled her flowery-print skirt under her knees and sat on the couch across from him, smiling.
“The endocannabinoid system is a—”
“It’s for hippies,” McCormick shot back.
“Then call me a hippie,” Pam said dryly.
McCormick reeled back with shock, then groaned, touching his forehead as if in pain. “You? You’re a pothead?”
Pam’s giggle was infectious. Gerald had to force himself not to react.
“I’m a human being with a painful medical condition, and once in a while, I use an ancient herb prized for its pain relief and anti-nausea properties to get some relief.”
“Pam, you are rationalizing.”
“And you’re stalling.” She picked up her phone and tapped. “I have a medical marijuana card, but there aren’t any dispensaries in the state yet. I have a friend who can deliver some.”
“You’re going to send a drug dealer here? To my home? Absolutely not!”
“She isn’t a drug dealer. She just dabbles.”
“I know you think that what you’re doing is helpful,” James said, wincing. “But—” A fine sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead.
“I texted her before I even came, James. She’s a few minutes away.”
“I can’t believe this,” he gasped. “I’m fine.”
“You are a stubborn mule. Fine is the last word I would use to describe you.”
“When did you become such a nag? You sound like my wife.” But his voice was filled with mirth. Amusement. A sense of being pleased that someone was doting on him.
Pam’s eyes widened at his words. “Someone needs to remind you that you matter.”
“Of course I matter!”
“Then let people help you.”
“Breaking federal law is not my idea of help, Pam.”
Ding!
The doorbell.
Without being asked, Gerald rose and went to the door, finding an all-too-familiar face peeking through the beveled glass.
“Mrs. Jacoby,” he said as she entered the house head first, craning her neck to take in James McCormick’s mini-mansion.
She let out a low whistle.
“I’ve never seen this place. Only his home in Weston. The other half lives like this in downtown Boston, huh?” She gave Gerald a hug. He wasn’t a hugger, but duty called. Marie Jacoby was one of the more fascinating people he worked with. She was a walking contradiction. Smart but ditzy. Demanding but deferential. Cunning but obvious.
In spite of all that, he liked her.
But he wasn’t sure why.
“I wonder what this place is worth,” she whispered.
“I assume you’re here to meet with Mr. McCormick,” he said, cutting her off.
“Yes. I have his—” She cleared her throat and wiggled her eyebrows.
He decided to have some fun.
“His what?”
“His medicine.”
“The doctor didn’t prescribe any,” Gerald shot back.
“Dr. MJ certainly did.”
“Dr. MJ?”
“You know. Dr. Feelgood.”
Gerald wasn’t about to point out that she was misappropriating that music culture reference.
“What kind of doctor is this Dr. Feelgood?”
“The kind that makes you feel all right.”
He closed his eyes and groaned. When he opened them, she was grinning at him.
“Are you single, Gerald? Because I have a daughter.”
“You have three, ma’am.”
“One is married!”
“Yes, ma’am. Well aware.”
“But two aren’t.”
He stayed silent.
She frowned. “Are you gay?”
“No.”
“Available?”
He hesitated just long enough to make her perk up.
“Oooo, you have a wife? Girlfriend?”
“No.” He had to answer honestly.
“Then—”
“Marie!” Pam called from the other room. Spritzy jangled across the marble floor, dog tags making a rhythm. He reached Marie, licked her ankle, and looked up expectantly.
Pick me up, that little dog face said.
Marie looked at her shoes, laces riding up the top of her foot.
“Thank God you’re not Chuckles,” she muttered as she walked into the living room, carrying the dog. Pam waved.
James McCormick groaned.
“Her? She is your drug dealer? This just went from immoral to unbelievable.” Spritzy flung himself out of Marie’s arms into James McCormick’s lap.
“That’s me!” Marie chirped.
“Is this a sting operation?” He looked at Gerald. “You are my security team. Why aren’t you helping here? They’re cajoling me into imbibing illegal substances!”
“Would you like me to throw them out?”
Spritzy began licking James’ face.
“The dog is clearly assaulting you,” Pam added dryly.
Marie squinted at James. “What century were you born in? C’mon, James. It’s a little weed. We’re not asking you to eat a live goat on television.”
“But marijuana is illegal!” He pronounced the word with a harsh H sound.
“So is insider trading,” Marie shot back.
He paled.
“If it’ll make you feel better, let’s do a little doobie. Can’t hurt,” Marie cajoled. She and Pam shared a conspirators’ look. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small baggie. “Here’s the good stuff. You ready to roll?”
“Roll?”
A small packet appeared in her hand. “Roll. Rolling papers. Get it?”
“This is not happening in my home,” James groaned.
“You’ve never, ever smoked marijuana?” Marie asked, giving him a look that said, I know otherwise.
He closed his eyes.
“Not in thirty-plus years.”
“You mean not since you got high with me in my loft.”
He snorted. “Loft? You call a rat-infested warehouse I owned your loft?” Gerald knew the two had dated decades ago, but this was new information.
“Yes.”
“You are delusional.”
“Not yet, but three hits and I will be.”
“What does your husband think about this? He lets you do illegal recreational drugs with wanton abandon?”
Marie halted mid-roll. “Let? Did you just say let?” She cackled, deeply amused. “First of all, no man needs to let me do anything.” She licked the edge of the paper, continuing to speak. “And second, who do you think gave me the rolling papers?”
Gerald just watched. It was his job. Some days were boring.
And then there were days like this.
He’d done his fair share of toking, so he wasn’t judging. Marie rolled a fattie and pulled out a hot-pink lighter. The snick of the flint making the flame took him back to a time when a few hits off a bowl were the only solace he and his fellow soldiers had.
It wasn’t his go-to for escape, though.
Sculpting was.
His hands itched to get into the studio, back at home, and just throw himself into a sensory world where he made his way through curve and angle, bump and swell, through the tenuous connection between mind’s eye and tactile pressure.
Instead, he busied himself by walking into the kitchen and starting a pot of coffee. While James McCormick didn’t have the stomach for it, he knew the two women loved their cup o’ joe.
“I know how to take a toke of the devil’s weed, Marie,” he heard McCormick bluster, followed by the natter-chatter of Marie prattling on about proper inhalation technique.
“It’s about the ratio of THC to CBD,” Pam said. “It needs to be right.”
Whoooooo.
The unmistakable sound of a deep inhale through bud, stems, leaves and seeds filled the air.
And then a strong scent followed. But it was odd. Huh. Must be skunk weed.
As the coffee gurgled, Gerald checked the time. 12:40 p.m. He had to leave by 1:30 to get to his two o’clock appointment at Suzanne’s law firm.
/> Suzanne.
Inheritance.
Artifact. Harrison Kulli. The words took shape in his mind, gaining texture and topology, form and spirit. He integrated with the shape, becoming an extension of whatever he touched, finding freedom in sculpture.
Only through making the shape of something he created in the connection between mind and eye could he find his own boundaries.
The coffee nearly finished, the machine’s noise was diminishing, though Gerald had been able to hear each toke they’d taken. He poured coffee into a thermal carafe, arranged cups on a tray, pulled cream from the refrigerator and grabbed a sugar bowl and spoons.
“Are there any downsides to huffing the wacky tobbacky?” James asked after exhaling his third hit, just as Gerald walked in with the coffee.
Pam frowned. “Other than short-term memory issues, the only negative research I’m aware of involves erectile dysfunction.” She smiled at him and insisted on pouring.
James McCormick’s eyes bugged out of his head.
“Pam,” he gasped. “You could have mentioned that before I inhaled!” He looked down at his crotch, worried.
“What kind of music do you have on your stereo, James?” Marie asked, poking around the large floor-to-ceiling oak cabinets.
“The good kind.” Gerald could sense a shift in his tone, a lessening of tension. Pam looked at McCormick, her hand on Spritzy’s head, her eyes evaluative.
Marie pressed a button.
The Carpenters came on. The opening chords to the song “Just Like Me” filled the room.
“EWWWWWWW,” Pam and Marie called out in unison.
Marie pushed a button.
Barry Manilow’s “Can’t Smile Without You” started.
Pam and Marie turned on the old man, both of them frowning.
“Seriously, James?” Pam asked, as if he’d personally offended her.
“What?” he asked groggily, opening his eyes slowly. “Pammy, you look good when you’re angry.” He licked his palm and reached for Spirtzy, slicking back a shock of hair that stuck up.
“Please tell me you have some kind of music other than easy listening,” Marie moaned.
Pam pressed a button on the complex stereo. It looked like the control panel for a 747. Gerald hadn’t seen a stereo set-up like that since he’d visited a Vietnam vet’s house for a BBQ and gotten a lecture on all the electronics he’d brought back from Japan in 1973.
“So help me God, if ‘Girl from Ipanema’ comes on, I’ll—”