He knew he owed Joe Hart for the turnaround. Still, Preston told himself he had earned his success, achieved it with skill sets Hart did not possess, and that he had fulfilled his obligation to his rescuer. Besides, Joe was gone. And Preston had named his son after Joe. At what point was enough enough? He recognized he’d never be able to satisfy Marcia on this subject.
Enough of the Collectibles. His thoughts turned to P.J., but that only made him more somber. I finally have a son and he’s born deaf. He tried to look at the bright side. The boy could hear some sounds. And the pediatrician Preston sought for a second opinion had counseled a wait-and-see approach about P.J.’s hearing, feeling that he might gain hearing as he developed. That advice conflicted sharply with the collective opinion of the ear-nose-and-throat specialist, the audiologist, and P.J.’s original pediatrician, the team Marcia’s maternity doctor had marshaled for consultation. The trio of doctors had emphasized the value of early screening, and finding significant loss, wanted P.J. fitted with hearing aids in his first six weeks. They stressed the critical importance of stimulation to P.J.’s brain from various sounds, without which they argued the brain would not develop the necessary speech, language, and cognitive functions.
Preston desperately wanted his son to have the best medical advice and treatment possible. But he also believed the physicians he’d consulted and wanted to at least give his son the chance to develop his hearing. The conflict opened old emotional wounds between him and Marcia, and Marcia’s intensity combined with her confidence in the rightness of her position made Preston once again doubt that she viewed him as her equal, that she saw him as lacking the horsepower upstairs to fully understand. He sensed he was losing Marcia once again.
The second and third scotch didn’t mend matters at all, and Preston hadn’t even gotten to the third theater in his head—whether or not he had a daughter, and whether he should take the test to find out. He ordered a fourth scotch. Eddie complied.
Preston pushed back from the bar, looked at the tables behind him, and then glanced around the corner into the wood-paneled dining area.
“Would you like anything to eat, Mr. Wilson?”
“That’s a good idea, Eddie—all the way around. I’ll have a steak sandwich and some potato salad, please. I’ll be in there. Thank you.”
“Of course, Mr. Wilson.”
Drink in hand, Preston carefully lowered himself into his seat at the wooden table alongside the wood-paneled windows overlooking the majestic rising marble staircase and entrance to the grand room and elevators. He fidgeted with the silverware. He stole glances at his watch, his restless legs moving up and down more than usual.
Suddenly Preston pushed his chair back, rose, and charged out through the entranceway, past the bar and the billiard tables, through the doorway, and headed toward the phone booths. He chose one on the far left, entered, closed the door, pulled out his cell phone and called Marcia. He loved the Union League Club’s rule barring the use of cell phones anywhere but in those old-world booths, and even in his distressed state he respected it.
“Hi, honey,” he said when she answered. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Pres. Where are you? I tried to reach you at the office but they thought you were AWOL. Is everything all right?” They were adept at this evasive dance by now.
“I’m at the club. Everything’s fine. How’s P.J.?”
“Are you sure? P.J.’s adorable. He’s sleeping at the moment. Are you having a business lunch? You sound a little funny.”
“No, I had a—meeting earlier, and I just felt like grabbing a bite at the club alone.”
“Well, that sounds good. Maybe you could get some steam while you are there, and a massage. Did you have anything specific in mind when you called?”
“No, nothing specific. I just wanted to hear your voice. Lot on my mind to sort through.”
Preston could hear Marcia breathing, but not saying a word. His mind was racing. He wondered how much he should tell her. How much more did his wife really want to know?
“I went to see an attorney this morning . . . about . . . the phone call. I know this is an awful situation, Marcia. I’m trying to determine what to do.”
“What did the lawyer tell you to do?”
“He just gave me options.”
“Imagine that. And?”
“He can arrange a paternity test.” He latched onto the attorney’s precise language. “Ninety-nine percent accurate. At least.”
“You got yourself into this mess, Preston. For what it’s worth, it seems to me the first step is to take the test and find out how real all of this is. But it’s your decision. I doubt if any more scotches will help.”
He pondered that for a long moment.
“Just let me know if you’ll be home for dinner. And by the way, Tommy Greco called here looking for you.”
Marcia gave Preston Tommy’s number. He thanked her, thanked God for having her, returned to the dining room, devoured his lunch, and headed for the exercise room. Yes, a workout and a massage. That should help.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Refreshed, Preston went back to the phone booths and returned Tommy Greco’s call, feeling guilty that he had not spoken with him for several months.
“Hi, Tommy, what’s up?”
“I’m in New York and I wanna talk to you. It’s about me and Missy.”
The last time Preston had seen Tommy and Missy was at Joe’s funeral. Tommy had actually met Missy through Preston; Tommy had helped Missy work through a nasty situation with her abusive ex-husband.
Tommy, who grew up in the Italian-American community in Niagara Falls, New York, knew all about abuse from his own youth.
“How’s Missy doing?” Preston asked.
“She’s good. We got married.”
His mind in a cloud, Preston struggled to shift his thoughts from his own problems to find the right response. He vaguely remembered receiving an invitation; he assumed Marcia had covered for him.
“Hey, you there?” Tommy said. “Am I getting you in a interruption?”
Hearing Tommy’s voice and his manner of speaking jarred Preston back into focus. “No, you’re fine, Tommy. Sorry, a lot on my mind. Congratulations. Missy’s the best!”
Preston thought about his first meeting with Missy in Las Vegas, and how insightful and helpful she was with his own difficulties with Marcia.
“Where are you?” Preston asked. “Do you want to get together?”
“I had an important appointment. I’m downtown. Forlini’s, Baxter Street. Quit screwing around. You free or not?”
Preston could not help but smile. He could picture Tommy, the master of mixed metaphors, sitting in a restaurant, beefy, broad shoulders, tie loosened around his size twenty-inch neck, staring into Preston’s eyes. Tommy’s bluntness made Preston feel warm. Just what he needed.
“Be there in fifteen.” Preston heard Tommy hang up.
* * *
Preston entered through the door leading to the restaurant—not the bar—and found Tommy sitting alone at the end booth on the right side beneath an Italian painting. Tommy leaned forward, his five-four solid frame pushing against the table, and warmly crushed Preston’s hand with his own as Preston slid into the booth.
“Good to see you, Tommy. You’re looking great. How do you do it?”
“Genetikets,” Tommy replied.
“What?” Preston said.
“Y’know, family. And olive oil.”
Preston finally smiled as he figured it out. They ordered wine, talked for a while, and then looked at the menu.
“What would you like, Tommy?”
“Linguini and clams shells.”
Preston started to laugh but caught himself. Close enough. “I guess I’ll have the veal parmigiana.”
After talking with Tommy for more than an hour, and
downing two bottles of Chianti and a marvelous dinner, Preston felt the best he had all day. He told Tommy all about his stores, how he had assembled a remarkable sales team and hired a new vice president of finance, and how well the company was surviving under the circumstances. He talked about Marcia and told him about their son.
“Hey—that’s great. P.J. How d’ya like that? The ‘Joseph.’ That comin’ from where I’m thinkin’?” Tommy clapped his hands and then opened and lifted them, palms up.
“It is, in honor of Joe,” Preston said.
After the waiter cleared the main course, Tommy put his huge hands on the white tablecloth and looked into Preston’s eyes. “I’ve gotta important situation to ask you about,” he said.
“Sure. Go ahead, Tommy.”
“As I told ya, Missy and me got married in Vegas.”
“Where were you married?”
“I just told ya.”
“I mean, in a church or what?”
“The Wedding Chapel, ya know, not the Little White one. We went for the Viva Las Vegas. Real classy. Missy’s mother, Mrs. Scarlatti, came all the way from Lyons, New York, and some of Missy’s showgirl friends were there. My friend Frankie Vittarone from Chicago was my best man, and his guy, Jimmy, and a few of their friends were there, too. Oh, and Harry showed up and followed through.”
“How about your family, Tommy? Were they there?”
“They’ve never been there. The ones there were my family.”
Tommy had dropped out of high school and taken a job working at the Corner, a neighborhood bar where the patrons became his family and teachers, and the lessons learned were how to bet and fight, and the rules for survival. His de facto home was a far cry from the tourist image of Niagara Falls. Tommy had gone to Vegas to start a new life and become a better man.
Preston pictured the scene at the chapel in Las Vegas, those present, and how important they were to Tommy and Missy. Other than introducing Marcia to Tommy and Missy at dinner during a business trip to Las Vegas, and arranging for Missy to have an audition as a dancer at the MGM Grand, Preston had had no contact with either of them since Joe’s funeral, an omission Marcia had reminded him about frequently.
Preston thought about Harry. He still hadn’t even met the man.
“What did you mean about Harry showing up and following through?”
“We didn’t know Harry until Joe’s funeral. He didn’t say a lot, but I tell ya . . . he was close to Joe, and he’s a stand-up guy. That’s enough for me. Missy and me made a point of getting to know him. He’s something else. A photographer. Professional. A musician—plays the piano, plays that squeeze box thing. And he has a band. He calls it something funny. Oompah or somethin’. When he heard Missy and me were tying the knot, he offered to come out, take pictures, and bring his band to play at the reception. We couldn’t believe it. And he did, brought his guys with him, and it was outta this world.”
“That’s great,” Preston said. “Where did you guys go on your honeymoon?”
“That’s what I wanna talk to you about. We went to Elko—near the Ruby Mountains. Missy and I like it up there. She’s always been crazy about kids. Me, too. We decided to have a camp up there for kids. Ya know what I mean? Kids that have had it tough. Total naturalization. It’s in foreclosure, and I think we can get enough to buy it,” Tommy said.
He went on to describe Missy’s plan to open a dance studio for girls with special needs, and his plan to make sports available to boys and girls, including basketball, baseball, and soccer—and even an indoor-outdoor swimming pool.
Preston was surprised at the thought that Tommy and Missy would leave Las Vegas—but even more amazed that they would want to start a camp for children with special needs. Still, he could see that Tommy came alive talking about it. He tried to be careful.
“That’s quite an ambitious undertaking,” Preston said. “How much is this going to cost?”
“We think we can get a sixty-eight-acre ranch with a view of the mountains for just under a million. It needs a little work, you know, fixing up.”
“Where are you going to get the money?”
“We’re working on that now. Maybe the ponies’ll be good to me,” Tommy said. “I coulda got all the money I need from certain friends of mine. It woulda been easy, but, like I learned from Missy, sometimes it’s better to leave the strings off.”
Preston thought about when Missy got in trouble with her ex-husband, and how Tommy knew someone who made the problem go away. He could see the influence Missy was having on Tommy.
“Missy’s quite a woman,” Preston said. “She’s obviously been a big help.”
Tommy smiled, pulled out a cigar, and then mumbled something derisive about New York’s Mayor Bloomberg and put the cigar back in his breast pocket.
“Missy and me have been saving all we can. There are some legitimized organizations which are interested, and we will be hittin’ them up for donations. It’ll be tough. We can use all the help we can get.”
“If you want, my financial people can look over the land and the project. I have some talented staff on the real estate side. If your camp projects a positive cash flow, I may be interested in investing in it.”
“This is somethin’ Missy and me believe in. It don’t have to make money, just enough to keep it going. We both know what it’s like to be knocked around as a kid and, thanks to Joe, we know it’s okay to chase our dreams.”
Preston didn’t really know how to respond to that, fearful that Tommy and Missy were headed for financial disaster. His mind drifted back. Preston had found the day overwhelming—and his attempted escape to the club helpful but incomplete. Now, here he was talking with Tommy in Little Italy about a camp in Nevada for children with special needs.
Only then did Preston regain focus and remember to call Marcia—belatedly—to tell her of his surprise dinner partner. He excused himself and made the call. The fact that it was Tommy got him out of the doghouse, and he returned to the table promptly.
“What kind of improvements are you going to need, and what will that cost? I’m assuming the infrastructure—water, sewer, electricity, roads—are all in and the zoning is appropriate for what you want to do. Is that right?”
“Missy and I have penciled it. You own a lot of real estate. Been through this before. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, y’know, get the business angle. And, if you wanna, you could donate some money to the camp. Sort of start-up. Get a little vigorish.”
“I can have my people look at it,” Preston said. “Send the workup to Casey, my CFO.”
“What workup?”
“The information you have about the real estate, its cost, the improvements, how much will be financed, the terms, and the pro forma, P&L, and balance sheet for the camp, all that stuff.”
“I ain’t an accountant, but I got some go-to guys on the numbers. I’ll get it together.”
Tommy reached over the table and shook Preston’s hand again. “Thanks for looking into this. I appreciate it,” he said. “And I think it’s a special thing you got with your kid, P.J. Makes me think about Joe.” Tommy crossed himself. “You gotta be proud.”
Preston looked down at the table for a minute and then back up at Tommy. They finished off the wine and ordered dessert. But nothing could make the conflict Preston felt go away.
Finally, Preston blurted out, “P.J.’s hearing-impaired.”
“So?” Tommy said. “Kids need special attention. Besides, we all got something. He may turn out okay; you said he’s only one year old, right?”
Preston was surprised by Tommy’s reaction and wondered if he appreciated the full import of the problem. “Let me explain. They tested him at birth. They can do that now. He didn’t pass. But I agree with you. I talked to a pediatrician who told me his hearing may develop, but it’s too soon to know. Marcia’s pushing for having him fitt
ed with hearing aids now. Can you imagine that?”
“Yeah. I mean, if that’s what it takes. Important thing is let ’em know you love ’em.” Another hand clap and a big smile.
* * *
Preston awoke that Saturday morning with a slight headache. Over breakfast with Marcia, he described his previous day to her—from the visit to the lawyer’s office to his dinner with Tommy, leaving out nothing except Tommy’s feelings on the hearing-aids issue. Preston knew on some level he must be testing his wife’s patience, but he’d never held anything back.
He spent some time with P.J., but felt restless and a bit irritable. He tried watching television but soon became bored and decided to take a walk. Maybe that would help clear the fog that had settled over his head during the past forty-eight hours.
As he was leaving the lobby, the doorman handed him a Federal Express envelope. “Just signed for this, Mr. Wilson,” he said. “I was about to call and let you know. It must be important.”
One glance at the Marion, New York, address told him it was. He dialed Ben Forsyth’s cell number.
“Look, I’m sorry to bother you on the weekend,” he told the attorney, “but the package I mentioned is here already. I don’t want to open it and risk damage or contamination or anything—what should I do?”
“Here’s my home address. Bring it by, and I’ll take care of things from here.”
Preston at first felt a shock at how fast this was all moving, but he had to admire Beth’s determination and the integrity of her follow-through.
After taking a cab to Ben’s apartment and giving him the package, Preston decided to go to the Manhattan store, even though it was a Saturday, to take a look at how the sales team was operating and try to put this matter out of his head. He knew he would never have peace until it was determined, one way or the other, whether Katherine Kelly was, in fact, his daughter.
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