In the Land of Milk and Honey

by Nell E S Douglas

  “Do you think he’s a creeper?” Violet asked, suspicious.

  “He sure looks like one,” I added slowly. Maybe I was the pot calling the kettle black, but a semi-cloaked man hanging outside a schoolyard was a red flag in my book.

  “Let’s go,” she hissed, grabbing my arm.

  “What are you doing?” I asked urgently as she dragged me towards him.

  “Ridding the streets of crime,” she replied and then gasped. “His hand is in his pocket. I think he’s whacking it!”

  “We should call the cops and let them handle it,” I advised but followed her anyway, as she tiptoed closer. If I knew anything about Violet, I knew she wasn’t one to wait for the cavalry to show up, and I wouldn’t let her go it alone.

  “We can’t wait,” she said fiercely. “On my count, we jump. I’ll get his neck and you pin his arms.”

  We were only steps away from the man who was completely distracted as he checked his wristwatch, tapping his foot nervously.

  “Now!” Violet yelled—and it might as well have been ‘Sparta!’ I watched in slow motion as she lunged, wrapping her arms around his neck, clinging to his back like a monkey, kicking wildly.

  “What the fuck?!” the guy yelled, and I dropped my sunglasses.

  “You dirty rat bastard, kiddie porn—” she sneered, and I ran to pull her off.

  “Bree?” he gasped as he tried to pull the designer monkey off his back.

  “Violet! Violet, stop! It’s Zack!” I shouted. She froze on his neck.

  “Zack?’ she asked surprised.

  “Yes, it’s Zack, you lunatic! Now get the heck off me!” She hopped down and straightened herself.

  “Oops,” was all Violet said.

  “I’m so sorry, Zack, we thought you were a pervert,” I explained, perfectly rational, as I picked his hat up off the ground from where it’d fallen, returning it to his scalp of jet black stubble.

  He brushed it off. “Yeah, well I’m not,” he said angrily. “You two are nuts, you know that?”

  Then Violet and I looked at each other and burst out in laughter because we couldn’t argue the point. Zack was our closest childhood friend from Sweetwater, and therefore probably not surprised by our behavior. He was one third of the three Amigos. He’d moved out to New York shortly after Tristan was born, but we didn’t exactly pick up where we’d left off. I think being around my son was difficult for him—he was only a floater in our group now.

  “So, what exactly are you doing here?” Violet probed.

  He pushed his hands in his jacket pockets. “Probably the same thing as you.” My heart softened towards him and—before Violet could spit back a cutting response—I hugged him.

  “Alright, don’t get all sentimental on me now,” he said, but tightened the hug. “So, what was your plan after taking me down?” he asked amusedly as I released his neck.

  “We didn’t think it out past the ‘tackle the perv’ phase,” I said, looking to Violet.

  “Speak for yourself,” she sassed. “Phase two was hogtying you and dragging you behind a cab through Times Square.”

  “Guys, The kids are coming out,” I said.

  We sat down crisscross, up against the fence on the warm concrete—Violet and Zack at my sides. Most of the kids had trickled out when finally Tristan tumbled through the double doors. He was easy to find because, although he was one of the youngest enrolled, he was clearly one of the tallest, looking even more grown up wearing his little navy slacks and a crisp white polo shirt.

  I smiled, leaning my head against Zack’s shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around me in response. I can’t explain to you the swell that washed over me when I heard footsteps and saw Ian and Jill standing above Violet. We all looked at each with smiles that said ‘I understand’ and they silently folded down to the pavement and joined our group.

  “Where’s August?” Violet asked quietly.

  “Work,” Jill replied, not turning from the boy eating his sandwich in the yard. “He couldn’t get away.”

  No one had to say out loud that he would have been here, too, if he could. These faces were my family, my rock. They held me up and I did the same in return. In the city with more than eight million faces, notorious for its brusque demeanor and careless attitude, we’d found each other, collected one another as we passed through life because we were better together than we were apart.

  I watched the little butterscotch-haired boy sit alone as the other children ran to the swing sets and seesaws—and my heart ached for him. He was the sun in all of our orbits and the catalyst for all the good we’d made of ourselves in this life. Amazing, that one small boy could help us find our destinies. In that moment, he seemed no less significant than the tiny atom that sparked the universe billions years ago, or Adam’s rib; all three having in common that they couldn’t have known at the time of creation how priceless they would be.

  I wanted to run inside the schoolyard and tell the other children how great he was, or hug him and tell him it didn’t matter because he always had me. But I couldn’t fix everything. I couldn’t be everything. And as much as he’d given me, I needed to give him something back. As complete as my life was because of him, I couldn’t alone, make him whole. There was a void in his life, and in my mind; like a cigarette burn marring the finely woven fabric of our life journeys that needed to be mended and healed.

  Suddenly, I thought of the statue in the park.

  The monument standing proudly in the park with a whimsical girl standing triumphantly in the center—looking towards the sky—the sunlight radiating on the cast metal. I thought of sweet summer tea, rain-candied leather, the warm grain of the Heart Tree cut from Sweetwater’s park, the snifter atop our fridge, all shooting glints of…

  “Bourbon,” I said suddenly. They all turned to me.

  “His hair…it will be brown—dark bourbon,” I said quietly, studying my lap. Zack’s arm tightened around me as Violet leaned her head on my shoulder. I dared to look up, and Jill stared trancelike into the yard, eyes like wells; Ian held her hand, his expression tight, but his eyes shined, too.

  I didn’t know how or why I knew, or where the word came from, but I knew it was true. I was baffled by the color itself, because I wasn’t sure what it meant—but I felt certain I was on the right track.

  Suddenly, a dark-haired little girl approached Tristan at his table, whispering in his ear. He smiled big and bright and then ran after her until they got to the empty merry-go-round. She and a red-headed girl jumped on, and Tristan tried to hide his smile as he began to push.

  For a moment, I thought it might be the second best day of my life.

  ~o~

  That all changed when I picked Tristan up from school a few hours later. Ari met me on the stairway entrance with a disconcerted expression and ushered me into the dean’s office where Tristan sat red-faced—no longer crisply pressed.

  I ran to him, wrapping him in a hug. He’d been in a fight, they told me, although it didn’t sound like much of a fight in the traditional sense. They said Tristan pushed another boy down on the floor during an art session, unprovoked—but I just couldn’t believe that. Tristan cried and said he hadn’t started it, but he would say no more. When I asked him privately when we got home what had happened—and that I wouldn’t be mad, no matter what the truth was—he still refused to talk.

  I called August, and only August, who came over and sat with him for a while, counseling him on how to react in situations like that in the future. I slipped into the other room and made a phone call.

  “Hello?”

  “Jill.”

  “What’s up, Bree?” she asked, concerned.

  I swallowed back hard, drowning all the self-loathing I felt for what I was about to ask.

  “Tell me more about that company.”

  Chapter 4 - A Surreptitious Spark

  The week flew by in a flurry, not unlike all the others before it. Tristan returned to school without incident, and I hadn’t spoken
to Jill again regarding the matter we discussed Monday. On Friday afternoon I sat on my bed staring at the white box she’d dropped off labeled BioQuest Laboratories. Jill had picked up Tristan to spend the weekend with her while I accompanied August on his important business trip.

  She’d told me the box contained a swab kit for Tristan. She opted for the home swab out of discretion, which I suppose I should thank her for, but when she arrived she expected us to do it then and there. I told her I’d do it Monday when we returned.

  “Why not do it now and get it out of the way?”

  “I don’t want to rush it. We’ll contaminate it if we do it in a hurry.”

  She twisted her lips and nodded. “Fine. There’s a questionnaire in there as well. If there is anything else at all, any identifying factors you can think of, you need to include them,” she stated emphatically. I’d nodded and looked to make sure Tristan wasn’t within earshot.

  I’d been intentionally ambiguous on that point because I hadn’t decided what to do with the small details I did have. I contemplated it after our talk and decided it was best to let science do its part. It made my stomach turn to know I had agreed to this, but I had to finally accept that the few ‘small details’ I did have supported the idea of starting the search at the bottom. And I was aware of myself enough to understand my tirade to Ian was the guilt talking.

  As I stood in my walk-in closet picking outfits to pack for the trip, I stared up at the white moving box on the top shelf I had never un-taped. It contained stacks of black and white composition notebooks I’d used as journals since childhood. In that box there was one notebook in particular that held a single journal entry from five and half years ago, written in a manic script I hardly recognized as my own. It was the only information I had about a man who may be Tristan’s father. I discovered the entry by accident, and I barely endured reading it before packing it away in that box with the books from my childhood. It seemed no more real or helpful than my seven-year-old entry wishing Glinda the Good Witch would move to Sweetwater. So I put it away.

  August arrived to pick me up in his Hampton’s best: khakis and a linen shirt in light blue that brought out his eyes. I wore my gauzy white summer dress with a turquoise necklace. We made quite a pair.

  It was fun to play dress-up with August for his events. I had fewer reservations about dressing up, in general, than I did when younger. Clothes looked better on me now. I wasn’t exactly curvy—more like slimmer and toned thanks to keeping up with Tristan, but I filled out tops nicely. I was still a jeans and T-shirt girl, except the jeans were name brand instead of big mart clearance rack now, thanks to Violet. I figured Tristan deserved a mom who looked the part of a diligent mother, to a degree.

  We loaded up August’s silver Mercedes sedan and started the two-hour drive while he filled me in on his current corporate conundrum. At merely thirty-two, August was one of the best and brightest and had juggernauted through the corporate world since graduating from Wharton. He held the position of CFO for a few years now, but his company, Goldfarb & Fitch, had just been bought out by a very prestigious firm based overseas. I could sense the tension in his tone.

  “It won’t be like last year. This is the first time all the department heads of both companies will be in one room together. It’s supposed to help with the integration,” he explained, sounding unconvinced.

  “August, I’m sure it will be fine,” I assured, resting a hand on his forearm.

  “I know. It’s just more important than ever that I make the right impression. I hate to put pressure on you, but this company has old-fashioned leadership,” he paused, with a wry look. “It also has a reputation for taking over and gutting the old. My intuition tells me this is more than meets the eye.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this conference feels more like a cattle call to slaughter than a weekend getaway.”

  “You’re really worried, aren’t you?” I frowned. August seemed indispensable to me.

  “Yes and no. If they get rid of me, there are other opportunities for me, but I’ve invested a lot of myself in Fitch. Now I have employees to think of. If I go, they go, and a lot of the good people under me won’t have as easy a time getting work elsewhere,” he said, sounding like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

  “I know you’ll dazzle them,” I assured.

  “That’s the idea,” he smiled beatifically.

  Although New York was a forward-thinking place, the world of international high finance was less so. The titans helming these companies had wives who played tennis six days a week and children in Swiss boarding schools. They smoked cigars on yacht decks and great men like these, weren’t personally affected by little things like recessions. August had managed to keep his secret just that—a secret. He never lied, but he didn’t hesitate to give his colleagues the impression he lived like them and no one ever assumed differently. August’s world was still an old boys club, which is why I was here as his companion.

  I called Tristan once, and for the rest of the ride we channel surfed the radio. He let me have my way eventually, and we put it on the classic rock I grew up listening to. Before long, we pulled up at the sprawling Whitehaven Resort. It stood on a hill, surrounded by meticulously manicured landscaping.

  As we rounded the huge charcoal driveway and parked under the portico, I addressed August. “Game time, August.” I put on my sunglasses and smoothed my bronzed cheek. “Our mission, should you choose to accept it, is to schmooze the seersucker off these cricket-watching, one-percenters. No offense. Do you accept?”

  “None taken. It’s a two-man job, Bree, but, yes. I accept.” He chuckled.

  While August checked us in, I decided to wander a bit. The inside of the resort was equally beautiful with soaring high ceilings. It was all elegant cottage style with pale blues and butter yellows with clean whites and splashes of mint. On the second level, I found a complimentary coffee and tea set up, all silver, so I made a drink and leaned over the iron-railed balcony to watch August in the lobby below. He seemed to be in deep discussion with someone, so I people watched.

  There were a few Fitch people I recognized from last year milling about when a couple at the check-in desk caught my attention. Both tall and athletic, both in muted V-neck sweaters, and I grinned when I saw them wearing matching sunglasses. They looked like sterile WASP-y perfection. I turned my head when I thought his gaze traveled in my direction, but then the tall man picked up his briefcase and headed to the elevators in long quick strides, almost too fast, but the blonde woman walked beside him. She was keeping up.

  August and I finally got to our room and unpacked. It was more like an apartment than a hotel room, complete with living area and kitchenette.

  “One bed, August? Don’t you think you’re being presumptive?” I kidded.

  “The sofa’s a pull-out.” He blushed. “You take the bed. I have to meet with a few of my people to strategize for tomorrow. Are you okay getting dinner alone? There’s a nice restaurant in the hotel. Just charge it to the room.”

  “I don’t mind eating alone, but I’m not charging it to you.”

  “It’s the company’s tab and if this is my last weekend with them, I’m going out with a bang. Get the lobster.” He chuckled warmly, but the intensity of the situation hit me. His livelihood really was on the line.

  August left, and I called Jill to wish Tristan goodnight, and I melted when he told me he missed me and wished that I was home. I sulked until nearly 10:00 p.m. and finally headed downstairs for a late dinner. The resort’s restaurant was packed. I took a seat at a bar high-top, and I got a weird feeling I was being watched. When I dropped my menu to peek, I spotted a familiar face and buried my head.

  “Hello, Gabrielle,” he said, and with dread I laid down the menu, forcing a smile.

  “Hello, Morris.” Morris Wert lifted my hand for a kiss. I lamented the loss of personal space. Narrowly built with a bristly flesh-colored beard and oversized grin, Morr
is had pursued me vigorously last year—in spite of the fact that I was his boss’s guest. August said he was a mathematical genius, but the genius must’ve been buried very deep.

  “You are as lovely as I remember, mun cherrie amore-ay,” he flattered. Morris thought himself a worldly man who spoke flawless French. I knew from three years of study in rural public school French classes that it wasn’t the case. I admit, I enjoyed toying with him.

  “And you, Morris, vous avez les dents d’un lapin,” I replied. He smiled broadly, but I could see his mind worked furiously to translate.

  Giving up, he said, “You are so well spoken, my cherrie.” I grinned.

  “Ms. Valentine!” called a gravelly voice as a stout, red-faced man with a bulbous nose waddled forth.

  Genuinely, I said, “Mr. Fitch, so good to see you,” as he laid a furry hand on Morris’ shoulder. Angus Fitch was the CEO of the company, like his father before him, and the only person who ranked higher than August. He was a funny man in his late fifties. Also, a bit of a drunk.

  “Where’s August this fine evening?”

  “He had business to attend to,” I answered, smiling, observing him sway on his feet.

  He tsked. “What a shame. All work and no play makes a man dull. Besides, he should know better than to let you wander amongst the wolves,” he criticized, eyeing Morris who was looking more sheep than wolf. “Come join my table, dear girl.”

  “I wouldn’t want to impose—” I began.

  “Nonsense. Come, come,” he sang, extending me an elbow, which I accepted gratefully. August said we needed to hob-knob. With Mr. Fitch it could be described as hobbit-knobbing. At the very least, it would be entertaining. I resisted the urge to pet his lustrous bald spot.

  He lead me through the crowded bar to a large table in the corner that was filled with men conversing, having after-dinner drinks. We sat in the last available chairs.

  “August won’t be joining us, but this is his lady, Ms. Valentine,” he introduced, loudly, to no one in particular. A few faces turned and held up a glass or smiled, which I returned in kind.