“Who said gay? Did I say gay?”
Groan. “Come on. Let's have it.”
“Why is your bathroom pink?”
“Because the tile is pink, Uncle Jake. It was that way when I moved in.”
He picked up a magazine that was on the coffee table.
“Art & Antiques?”
Michael lapsed into Brooklynese. “You wanted I should get refined.”
“Not that fucking refined.”
“I'll run out and get Playboy.”
“That bathroom . . . why don't I send over some Italians? They'll rip it out and make you something nice.”
“I'll handle it, Uncle Jake.”
“You got a girlfriend? Someone special?”
“I'm working on it.”
“Michael . . .”
Megan had dropped one hand to his thigh. She kept the other on the wheel. He snapped out of it.
Her slip was just ahead. He released her and turned to get a stern line ready.
“No, no,” she said quickly. “You feel good where you are.”
“So do you. But aren't we going to dock?”
‘“Let's stay out a while longer.”
Michael wasn't sure what Megan had picked up on. Or why she wanted to stay out. Maybe girlfriends. Maybe marriage.
He shouted in his head, Hey, Megan. Want to get married? Raise a couple of nice warlocks? . . . Just kidding . . . Or what the hell. Maybe I'm not.
“Could you hear that?” he asked her.
“Hear what?”
“Nothing. I thought we ticked the bottom back there.”
“Michael?”
“Um?”
“Say some of it out loud.”
“You did hear me. Didn't you?”
“No. Not the way you think.”
Oh, well. Where was he?
Oh, yeah. Marriage.
First there was Uncle Jake, nagging that it was time. Then there was Bart Hobbs, that prick, going out of his way to make it happen. He wasn't sure how much of this he was inclined to tell Megan.
Hobbs, for some reason, had taken a sudden interest in him. Checking his work. Asking questions about him, particularly of the executive who had recruited him to Lehman-Stone. Michael wasn't concerned, especially. He assumed, in fact, that he was being considered for a promotion.
Early one evening, Hobbs called him into his office. As he entered, Hobbs covered up a blue vinyl folder that was on his desk. Michael recognized it as a personnel folder, presumably his own.
Hobbs stood and switched on that permanent half-smile of his. He extended a hand. Michael shook it.
He just wanted to chew the fat, he said. Get caught up on how things are going generally. Michael doubted that there was much he didn't know but he briefed him anyway. He could see, however, that Hobbs was not really listening. Whatever was actually on his mind, he was dancing around it. That was not unusual. Bart Hobbs, as a rule, was not one who would attack a subject head-on if he could help it. He did ask, however, what Michael found so uniquely fascinating about AdChem.
It seemed an odd question. It was not as if he had begged for the assignment. AdChem, however, was a huge, far-flung operation, it was minting money, and Michael was helping it to make even more. The work was interesting, even important, but he was hardly manic on the subject. Still, when your boss wants to hear enthusiasm, that's what you give him. He spoke of how rewarding it was to work with a company that did well while doing good.
“Excellent,” Hobbs said when he finished. “Keep up the good work, Michael.”
He offered his hand again. Fallon pumped it and turned to leave. Hobbs said “Hmmph.”
Michael stopped. “Was there something else, Mr. Hobbs?”
“Fallon.” Hobbs said the name as if to himself. He cocked his head. “Michael, did I hear somewhere that you're related to Big Jake Fallon?”
“He's my uncle. Do you know him?”
Hobbs shook his head quickly as if to say, ”A different set entirely, dear boy.” Aloud, he said, “He's quite a character, though, from what I've heard. Did your uncle . . . steer you into this, um, line of work?”
“Far from it. But he did say go where the money is.”
“Well, the old scoundrel was right.” Still the half-smile. “Ah, when I say scoundrel, I don't mean to impugn . . .”
”I know you don't, Mr. Hobbs.”
“Good job, Michael. Go enjoy your evening.”
A week later, Michael had a new assistant. It was Bronwyn. She had transferred in from the London office and she was absolutely breathtaking. By the end of another week, Michael knew that either of two things would happen. He would marry this girl or he would make a total ass of himself in the attempt.
Part of it was the voice. Everyone knew that he'd always been a sucker for an upper-class British accent. He had one himself when he came home from England but only until Jake said, “Nice accent, Michael. Goes with your pretty pink bathroom.”
Beyond the voice, she had those amazing violet eyes and a wonderfully open smile. And smart? Talented?
“Quite an accomplished young lady,” Hobbs had told him. “It seems that she'd trained since childhood to become a concert pianist. But when her parents lost two homes to the Lloyd's of London debacle, she decided she'd try her hand at making money instead. Headed straight for the London Exchange where she soon made a name for herself. That's where we found her.”
A part of him wondered whether it was really Uncle Jake who found her. That was silly, of course. It was just that Hobbs had suddenly brought up Jake's name and now, out of nowhere, here's the kind of woman who, except that she's a Brit, Uncle Jake would have bought for him if he could.
As an inflexible rule, Michael avoided relationships with female employees of the firm for all the usual reasons. He avoided them within the industry at large because such relationships tended to become exploitative or competitive very quickly. A good rule. But to hell with it. They were lovers before the second week was out. Bronwyn had already moved in with him.
Hobbs had mentioned that they'd had trouble finding an apartment for her and that she hated living in a hotel. Too many hookers coming and going, too many male guests hitting on her every time she takes a meal in the dining room. Michael had a spare bedroom; he asked her if she'd consider using it. She thought it over and said yes. He couldn't believe his luck. But, she insisted, it was to be strictly temporary. He had his own life and she would not dream of interfering with it. She'll be out like a shot at the first sign that she's a bother. Fair enough, he told her. Strictly temporary.
But that day, he rented a Steinway for her and ordered a new mattress for himself. By the end of the weekend, she was sharing it with him. Bronwyn, incidentally, thought the bathroom was just fine as it was.
Bronwyn.
It's Welsh. He looked it up.
It means “Fair breast.”
But he would gargle with Drano before he'd share that little tidbit with Moon or his Uncle Jake.
When Jake came by that night to meet her, it was Bronwyn who did most of the pumping. She wanted to hear all about his nephew. What was he like as a boy? How did someone raised in Manhattan grow up to be such a gentleman? His parents must have been very special people indeed.
Big Jake hit a few of the high spots and passed over the lows. Bronwyn seemed enthralled. She told him how lucky she felt to have been assigned to Michael. He's so very generous. Gives her every chance to learn by doing. Especially on the AdChem account. Splendid company. Forever breaking new ground through research.
Jake Fallon's eyes began to glaze over. Michael understood why. She seems great, Jake would have said, but anyone who gets that excited about a drug company needs to get out more. Michael tried to change the subject but Bronwyn was on a roll. She began rattling off figures, projections, earnings. She said the stock was still a good buy, especially longer term, and Uncle Jake would do well to consider it.
She went to his desk and returned with a copy of t
he new annual report, which she opened and handed to him.
“Ah, Bronwyn . . . ” Michael signaled time out. “He already has some.”
“Do you really?” she asked Jake Fallon.
”A few bucks' worth.” He smiled up at her. “But you tell it better than Mike did.”
Bronwyn blushed winningly. “Well, read up on it all the same. You'll see how clever you were to buy it.”
She sat watching him to see that he did. At this, Michael drew the line. He reached to take the brochure from him. His uncle raised a hand.
“Wait a second,” he said distantly.
“You're actually going to sit here and read that?”
Big Jake reached for a pen, then stopped himself. He folded the report in half and put it in his pocket. As he did so, he looked up at Michael. A curious stare. Those intelligent eyes. Looking right through him.
“What?” Michael asked.
Jake shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.” He looked at Bronwyn and smiled. “How about some more of that Chopin?”
There were times, such as that one, when Michael would wonder how well he really knew his uncle. He would not have bet a nickel that Big Jake Fallon would know Chopin when he heard it. But it was mostly the eyes. In that instant, Jake had changed into someone he hardly recognized. Perhaps he'd read something that reminded him of what his younger brother was into. Or that reminded him of why he didn't like drug companies. He would not return to the subject.
They walked him to the street where Bronwyn spotted a taxi and flagged it down. She offered her cheek to Uncíe Jake, then hugged him. He seemed his old self again. Jake climbed into the taxi. He blew them a kiss. It was the last time Michael saw him alive.
“You really loved him,” said Megan quietly.
She stroked the arm that he held across her chest.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“And Bronwyn.”
He hesitated, not sure quite how to answer.
It had nothing to do with telling Megan that he had loved another woman. Just as Megan had nothing to do with Bronwyn. It was more that what he felt for Uncle Jake and what he felt for Bronwyn did not seem to belong in the same conversation. Jake was one of a kind. So was Bronwyn in her way but who knows how long that would have lasted. People do break up. Jake, however, will be with him until the day he dies. And, if there's a heaven, for a long time after that.
“It wasn't the same,” was all he said.
A lot of the people he knew, growing up, going through school, had expressed a degree of envy over his relationship with Uncle Jake. They envied the respect, the trust, and maybe most of all, the fun. Some had none of that at home. For others, their own relationships with their fathers might have been perfectly healthy but there always seemed to be a constant low-level tension between them as one tried to steer and the other tried to take some time to browse.
God knows Uncle Jake did a lot of steering. But the path he would point you down was very wide. Plenty of room to browse. You wouldn't see much of him because he was always back there behind you. Unless you got too close to the edge or had one foot over. Then you'd suddenly notice him standing there. Not saying anything. Maybe not even looking at you. Maybe shooting the breeze with Moon, both of them strolling along in the same direction. And you'd say maybe I should pay some attention to what I'm doing here.
“Megan?” “Yes.”
“Fair is fair. I want to know what your folks were like.”
She said nothing.
“Do you ever see them? Do you miss them?”
His arm, where it crossed her heart, felt an odd extra beat. It might have meant yes. He didn't think so.
“Tell me about Bronwyn, Michael.”
”I have.”
He felt her muscles go tense. She was concentrating hard for some reason. ”I mean ... on the night she died. What happened that night?”
He let out a breath. “You read the papers.”
“Please. It would help me to . . .”
“Yeah, but it wouldn't help me. Let's leave it alone, okay?”
“If that's what you want.”
She didn't push it. And yet Michael knew . . . that she knew . . . that now he couldn't help but think about it. He was tempted to back away from her. Not touch her. Make it harder for her to listen if that was what she was trying to do. But he didn't. The ache seemed not as deep while he could feel the warmth of her body.
On that night, last November, the store was just closing. But the Korean counterman knew Michael by sight and had read about his Uncle Jake in the newspapers he sold. He let them in and told Michael høw sorry he was.
Bronwyn had drifted away, over to the magazine rack, where she picked up a copy of Newsweek and began idly browsing through it. They had that issue at home but Bronwyn, he assumed, had heard all the condolences she could handle.
Michael had moved toward her to say let's buy your pack and go, when he heard a voice mutter, “Your money. Give me your money.”
He turned toward the sound. He saw a man with a ski mask pulled crookedly over his face, an ugly sawed-off shotgun in his hands. He heard Bronwyn’s magazine fall to the floor. He glanced back. She was crouching, trying to make herself small, her eyes locked on that shotgun. She seemed more wary than frightened.
When Michael turned again—this was all in the space of a second—the man in the ski mask was looking straight at him. The shotgun was swinging in an arc toward his face. He wanted to dive over the counter, away from Bronwyn. That or lunge at Bronwyn, protect her with his body. He did neither. He stood frozen to the spot as he saw another blur of motion. Then flashes of light and a deafening echoing roar. All together. All in the same instant.
Blood and black wool sprayed from the ski mask. White flame spewed from the shotgun but the man who was holding it was already dead. The Korean had fired twice at point-blank range. The bullets expanded as they entered at his cheek, fragmented, and exploded upward. The man in the mask seemed to rise up on his toes, standing rigid. Then, as straight as a falling tree, he pitched forward on his face.
The Korean raced around the counter, ready to shoot again if the man who came to rob him moved. There was no need. He groped for the telephone. As he did so, he looked at Michael, then past him. A low wail came from his throat. Michael was afraid to turn but he did.
The rest would remain a jumble in his mind. Shouts and running feet, flashing lights and sirens. It seemed real one moment and a dream the next.
The blast had caught Bronwyn high in the chest. It was a terrible, bubbling wound. A mangled silver necklace had been driven into her flesh. And yet she was alive, floating in and out of shock. One hand reached for his face. Her eyes found his. They stared hard. He saw not fear or pain in them but disbelief. And then blame. She seemed to be asking why he had not protected her. Her fingernails raked his cheek. The hand fell away. He looked once more into her eyes. The light in them had faded. One had changed color.
He was sure of that now.
It was not his imagination nor was it some trick of the fluorescent lights. But he had not imagined that she died hating him.
He said all this to Megan. It was the first time he'd told anyone, not counting Dr. Greenberg. And except Moon. Moon had made him relive that whole afternoon and evening, what everyone said and did, who was where, practically minute by minute. The doctors were making him do the same thing himself, he said, to get his brain using all its cylinders again. It was good therapy, he said.
It wasn't for Fallon. But maybe telling Megan was. He must have said that as well because she told him she was glad that he did.
She squeezed his arm. “But now you wish you hadn't.”
“Will you cut that out?”
“Be honest, Michael.”
A sigh. ”I guess I wish you'd never seen those newspaper stories. I was trying to leave this in New York.”
“Maybe now you can. When we dock, I'll show you a way to do that.”
Megan
thought that Bronwyn must have worn cosmetic contact lenses. The tinted kind. One had simply slipped off under the impact of the blast. He didn't think so. He told her he'd never seen Bronwyn take them out, nor had he seen, among her toiletries, any of the paraphernalia that goes with wearing contacts.
Megan said that doesn't mean much necessarily. Women have their private vanities. She might have been wondering when and how to tell him that those striking eyes he fell for came from a color chart. After all, said Megan, a man who's had a hair replacement or has had a tattoo scraped off—such as one that says “Mary Beth Forever”—might not rush to volunteer that information either.
Mary Beth forever.
Had he mentioned that name out loud?
Cute, Megan. Very cute.
But her theory about contacts sounds reasonable enough, he thought. Except that her heart did a drum roll as she finished saying it. The same, come to think of it, as when she saw that shirt Bronwyn gave him.
The Shadow Box Page 20