The Concealers

by James J. Kaufman

  “No. I thought he was off his tree,” Katherine said with a laugh. “But I’m taking it seriously, because I respect him and there probably has been some holding back. It’s all about balance. I’m working on it.”

  Sol smiled and seemed to approve. He asked more questions about Katherine’s master’s program, probing in detail about her Medicare/Medicaid fraud project and how she’d gotten her sources to talk. They finished lunch, Sol paid the bill, and they returned to his office and took seats in the conference room.

  Katherine peppered Sol with her own nuanced questions about himself, his family, his newspaper days, the history of the Press, and his acquisition of it. Sol patiently answered each of her questions and told Katherine his own story, the stuff not in his biography, including what led up to his winning the Pulitzer Prize. He talked about his family, his upbringing first on Long Island and then in Palm Beach, Florida, about his wife, Rachel, and their two children, Sandra and John. Katherine took notes as fast as she could write.

  The more Sol talked, the deeper Katherine drilled. She wanted to know as much as she could about the Twin Forks Press and his relationship to it, its circulation, how many people were employed, what they did, and specifics about the relationship with the media group, economically, control-wise, and otherwise. She’d heard plenty of stories from graduates about the difficulty of finding a job in journalism that would provide sufficient pay and security and knew from her research the pressure the print medium was under. She was reassured to learn how large and well-staffed this weekly was—and well-funded.

  For his part, Sol inquired in equal depth about Katherine’s background, Marion, what it was like growing up there, what she did, who she did it with, what she liked, what she didn’t, how she felt about her undergraduate studies, and how she felt about living in New York City, having been raised in such a small village.

  “I’ve never been to Marion, New York,” he admitted, “although I am aware of it. Coincidentally, we have an East Marion on the North Fork, just a few miles away.”

  Their conversation continued, thorough on both sides, never missing a beat—at least until Sol noted, “In all of your discussion about your mother and grandfather, I don’t recall you saying anything about your father.”

  “I didn’t,” Katherine said. “That’s a complicated subject, Sol. Do you feel it’s necessary for me to go into it at this point?”

  After a considerable pause, Sol looked straight at Katherine. “No, I don’t,” he said. “You’ve been frank and open with me about your situation, what you want, and where you’d like to go. I appreciate your coming down here so quickly and spending this time with me. As I see it, investigative journalism is more than a business. It’s an insatiable, never-ending pursuit of the truth. That path can be arduous, and even painful, requiring at times, enormous discipline.”

  Katherine decided to simply listen and not say a word. She waited.

  “I’ve talked to and read e-mails from a number of candidates who have responded to my ad,” said Sol. “You told me on the telephone that you had the qualities and skill-sets I was looking for. I agree.”

  Katherine nodded modestly in thanks. Again she held her silence, her heart beating so loud in her ears that she was sure Sol could hear it across the table. So far, so good—he was saying the right things. She was in the middle of crossing her fingers, mentally, for a phone call back, when Sol Kaplowitz said the words she almost couldn’t believe she’d heard. “I’ll pay you three thousand a month and cover your moving and business expenses, Katherine. And I have an assignment in mind that should be just the challenge you’re looking for.”

  “That sounds interesting. And what about work hours?”

  “Long and unpredictable,” Sol said. “Why don’t you go back to New York, think about my offer, and let me know by Monday?”

  Katherine knew she’d done all the thinking she needed. “I’ll tell you what I’d like to do, Sol. I’d like to go back to my apartment, find a way to get out of my lease, pack my things, go to Marion—my Marion—spend a few days with my mother and grandfather, find an apartment I can afford, move to Southampton, get settled, enjoy Memorial Day, and the day after go to work for the Twin Forks Press. How do you feel about that?”

  Sol considered that for a long minute. Katherine had begun to wonder whether she’d said something wrong when, finally, he said, “We could use the help now, but three weeks isn’t a deal breaker. I can use that time to remodel a little. So, I feel good about that.” He came around his desk and gave Katherine a warm hug. “Really good. Welcome aboard. Let me know if you need help with anything and have a safe trip home.”

  “Thank you, Sol,” said Katherine. “I feel good about it, too.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Katherine sat at a choice table in the Gramercy Tavern devour- ing a delicious flatiron steak. She decided to splurge, still feeling the warmth and glow of her visit to Southampton, and the excitement of finally having a job—one she was truly excited about to boot. She called Susan to share the news and see if she might be able to ride with her to Marion, and maybe even to Southampton. Susan agreed to meet her along the way to Southampton, but suggested that Katherine should have time alone to visit with her mother and grandfather.

  She knew she should call her mother, but decided to wait until she had more information about getting out of her lease and finding an apartment, thinking that it would be easier to answer all the other questions her mom would ask. Katherine was working on her to-do list when she felt the buzz from her phone. A new e-mail had arrived from an unfamiliar but unmistakable source: Preswil21@gmail.com. This one she would save until she got home, not trusting her emotions in public.

  As she walked the five-plus blocks from East Twentieth Street across the Square, she tried to anticipate the content of the e-mail and what her response would be. Whatever the e-mail said, she knew she had to deal with it, and her mind focused on her core questions first: (1) Did Preston Wilson have the tests done, and if so, is he my father? (2) If he is, does he want to be my father now, after all these years? (3) If he does, what should I do and what do I want to do? (4) If he does, what should he do, and what does he want to do? (5) If he does not, what should I do, and what do I want to do?

  Katherine quickened her pace, and before she realized it, she was racing up the stairs to her apartment. She hadn’t managed to think through even the first scenario.

  She collapsed on the couch, exhaled, and opened the e-mail.

  Hello Katherine,

  I was hoping to call you, but your mother wasn’t comfortable giving me your phone number. She gave me your e-mail address instead, and suggested that I write to you. I know how strange, awkward, and horribly impersonal this must seem for you to be reading this.

  I learned from your mother, not long ago and to my complete surprise, that you are my daughter. I hope you will forgive me, but I had a paternity test done, and it confirmed what your mother told me.

  I can’t imagine what learning all this now must be like for you, and it breaks my heart to think about it. What I do know is that I want to meet you, get to know you, and love you, if you’re willing to let me do that. Since I have not had the chance to be your father before, I would like to make up for it now.

  Preston Wilson

  As Katherine closed the e-mail and turned off her phone, she felt hot tears on her cheeks. She got up and went to the bedroom, almost in a daze, and threw herself on her bed, where she cried more. At some point, she realized her tears might also be harbingers of joy.

  * * *

  “Hi, Mom. Am I getting you at a bad time?”

  “No . . . give me a minute . . . I can talk better in here,” Beth said. “I’m so glad you called. How are you? How’s it going?”

  “Actually, I have great news. I have a job!”

  “That’s wonderful.” Katherine was pleased to hear the excit
ement in her mother’s voice. “What, where? Tell me about it.”

  “I’m going to be a reporter for the Twin Forks Press, a small but prestigious weekly on Long Island, connected to the Northeast Print and Media Group. My salary is three times what the Mother Jones’ internship would pay, all my business expenses will be covered, I’ll have the freedom to pursue and report on my stories, and most of all, I really like Mr. Kaplowitz, the editor.”

  The phone went silent for a few beats, Katherine knowing her mother was trying to process all of this.

  “I’m so happy for you and proud. I knew you’d do it. You’re on your way. When do you start?”

  “As soon as I can wind up things here and find a place to live in Southampton. I asked Mr. Kaplowitz for a little time to visit home, too. I want to come spend some time with you and Grandpa, pack, and talk with Grandpa about buying a good used car. Then, I’m off to Southampton. Susan may join me, help me move in.”

  “You’re right, this is great news. Let me know when you’ll be here. I want to change my shift around so we can have some real time together. I love you, Katherine, and I’m very proud of you.” The noise from the garbage trucks and handlers on the street below distracted her and made it hard to concentrate.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Katherine said, “I love you, too, Mom. See you soon.” She’d held back telling her mother the other big news of the day. There’d be another time for sharing that, after she had time to think it through herself.

  The walls of her crowded apartment suddenly felt too confining for her mood.

  “Come on Hailey girl, let’s get some sunshine,” she called out. “Clear our heads.” Katherine got the leash, and together they bolted down the stairs. The world suddenly looked bigger and more colorful.

  At the square, she stopped at a park bench, smelling the fresh fruit and produce from the vendors’ displays, and expanded her to-do list to include all the people she had to see and talk with, and the new tasks she had to do. On her to-do list was a visit to her mentor, Professor Simpson. She wanted to tell him about the job in person, and to again thank him for all he had done and been to her.

  At the top of the list, though, and coloring every other thought, was the issue of how to respond to Mr. Wilson. That was the problem, really, she determined. It was Mr. Wilson. Apparently, he was indeed her father, but how should she approach meeting him? It was the scariest meeting she had ever contemplated, and perhaps the most important. What should she do or not do? What should she say or not say? She again played out the scenarios in her head.

  In the end, she realized there had to be two people on the stage of this drama. She would have to determine what to say and do depending on what her father said and did, and like any interview, she would gain more by listening than talking. But this wasn’t any interview for which she’d been trained. This was coming face-to-face with a ghost. This was meeting the phantom she had dreamed about all her life.

  Whether she liked it or not, the next line in the script was hers. Her father had taken the first step up a steep stairway with too many stairs to count. She had to respond. She wanted to respond. And she was scared to respond.

  Katherine thought about calling him at work, at the number she’d already looked up, but she couldn’t imagine what the telephone conversation would be like. She contemplated waiting until she heard from Angelo, but she decided that would hardly be fair to Preston. She decided to answer his e-mail and suggest a meeting. The last thing she wanted was a protracted discussion via e-mail. This had to be done in person. She had to hope he would understand that. Perhaps he was as nervous as she was. Or maybe he wasn’t nervous at all.

  Katherine had read his brief message over and over. Preston had written that he wanted to be her father, to meet her, to get to know her . . . and love her, if she was willing. But what did that mean? Certainly, she wanted to meet him, too, whether she was anxious or scared or whatever. She had to meet him. She also wanted to get to know him, and so she knew they were in agreement on that part. They would each have to see about the rest.

  She reached for her iPhone, hit Reply to Preston’s e-mail, and typed:

  Preston,

  Thank you for your e-mail. This must be difficult for you as well. I certainly want to meet you and get to know you. I’d rather not continue on e-mail, though. If anything is personal in my life, it is this. Where and when can we meet?

  Katherine

  She read and re-read her response. Satisfied, she hit Send.

  His response was as quick and satisfactory as she could’ve hoped.

  Hi, Katherine,

  Can you meet me 12:30 tomorrow afternoon at the 21 Club?

  Preston

  Katherine responded, “See you then.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Katherine walked down the stairs and into the 21 Club at 12:30 p.m., and knew as soon as she spotted him that the tall man with a full head of thick black hair and piercing blue eyes waiting in the front room to the left of the lounge was her father.

  “Hi, Katherine,” Preston said.

  At that moment the maître d’ walked up to them.

  “Mr. Wilson,” he said, with a nod to Katherine and a slight tip of the head, “ . . . as requested, Table Number Two awaits you. This way, please.” He led Katherine and Preston into the bar room and straight to a corner table for two. He positioned the table sufficiently to allow Katherine to slide into the sumptuous red leather seat to the right under two brass bells separated by a bronze sculpture of a bull and bear drinking from a bucket. Preston sat facing the entrance, with his back under the sculpture of a lone bear situated under a shelf adorned with a vase, and enclosed in a rich wood inset.

  The waiter approached the table and asked what they would like to drink. Katherine ordered sparkling mineral water, they agreed on Pellegrino, and Preston ordered a Chivas Regal 12 on the rocks.

  Katherine’s eyes scanned the iconic bar room, trying to absorb it all, beginning with the expansive bar itself, the model airplanes, assortment of helmets, a number of tractor-trailers, a Goodyear blimp, outboard motorboats, and other fascinating toys and models hanging from the ceiling, as well as the playful elegance of the entire room. Suddenly she remembered she was there as a guest, and the man who invited her, the one she’d just met, was . . . her father.

  “I get it . . . is this why your g-mail address is Preswil21?” Katherine asked with a smile, not knowing what else to say and hoping to excuse her lapse of attention and break the ice.

  “Yes,” Preston said. “My company sells a lot of high-end cars. This restaurant is good for business. Not just because it’s famous, but the food and wine and service are superb.”

  Katherine wondered whether she had offended him by suggesting the address was pretentious or at least too transparent. She thought she had done a good job at starting on the wrong foot, and she wondered if he could sense her embarrassment.

  “The restaurant is awesome,” she said. “What an amazing bar room. Why did you request this table in particular?”

  “You won’t believe it,” Preston said. “This is where Michael Douglas sat in a scene in Wall Street. Imagine, Gecko sat right where I’m sitting now.”

  Katherine could not figure out if Preston was trying to be funny or was sincere in his enthusiasm. She decided to just say, “Wow.” That didn’t help either.

  “Tell me about your car business,” Katherine said, while reaching in her handbag and taking out her pen and pad. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

  “Well . . . this is not an interview, is it?”

  Katherine hesitated and then put the pad and pen back in her handbag. “Sorry, old habits die hard. Do you mind if I record this conversation instead? Just kidding—sort of,” Katherine said in a shaky voice. “Please go on, I’m interested in your car business.”

  “I formed Wilson Holdings several yea
rs ago, principally to own and run automobile dealerships. We started out with the Mercedes franchise here in New York and as we grew that store, we expanded to Atlanta, San Francisco, Chicago, Charlotte, and Houston, and in many locations it served our purpose to buy the underlying real estate as well.”

  Katherine told Preston that she’d checked out his website and was impressed with the presentation and the variety of automobiles his companies offered for sale. Preston explained how it had been his good fortune to have secured at the onset high-end franchises such as Mercedes, Porsche, Audi, BMW, and Bentley, and the competitive advantage that they had provided over the years.

  He talked about the franchisors’ increasing requirements to improve the dealerships’ facilities and why his decision to embrace this effort was a big part of his success, the rest being an outstanding management team committed to discipline, excellence, and understanding their market and customer base.

  “You’re obviously a success. Has it always been easy going for you?”

  That was the first time Katherine saw Preston laugh, but she noticed the smile on his face did not include his eyes, and the sound of the laughter had a bit too much push. She wished she had been able to take notes.

  “No, it has not always been easy. The car business is cyclical, by its nature; there will be ups and downs. We got into trouble a couple of years ago or more, and we were facing bankruptcy. Our big-shot lawyers saw no way out, but fortunately, we found one lawyer who was able to turn it all around.”

  “How did that work?”

  “He understood the automobile business, the banking industry, and, most importantly, people. He saved my business. He was amazing.”