“I remember that day,” Richard said.
Carol slumped sheepishly down into the seat, trying to look like a scared law student. Her voice cracked. “No, Mr. Stuart. It was love for her.”
Richard laughed. Anyone else might think his wife was being mean, but he knew this was her being playful. Teasing him was as close as she’d get to trying to make things all right after the fight from last night.
“And then you had to point to me. You couldn’t have left it in the abstract, could you? I was so embarrassed.”
“You loved it.”
“Maybe a little.”
The train stopped and another ten or so people climbed into the car. There was no more room to sit. The train started up again, the computerized conductor voice saying something Richard couldn’t understand.
“Took the dean to get me back into that class,” Richard said.
“And Stuart called on you every week for the rest of the semester.”
“Now that, I learned in Constitutional Law, was cruel and unusual punishment. Torture.”
“You learned Civil Procedure better than anyone else in that class.”
“Except you.”
She smiled. She still had her student award for Civil Procedure hanging in her office at home.
“Aren’t you glad you didn’t quit?”
They’d spent the first semester trying to understand what the law professors were saying, but they’d spent the second semester arguing about their future. He was determined to pursue his dream of writing the great American novel, and she was determined to stop him from quitting. She’d been more determined.
Richard knew he had to be careful how he answered this question, or their whole morning would fall apart. “What?” he said, motioning with his hands like a king over his kingdom, “and give up all this?”
Carol shook her head and went back to her contract, but she smiled.
Good, things were good again. He hated how any time they talked about their son these days, it ended up in a fight. How could two people who wanted the exact same thing—what was best for their son—be on opposite sides of the argument?
Carol’s tablet chimed and a window appeared saying there was a call from Hunter. She rejected the call and went back to the contract.
“What’s he calling for?” Richard asked. The second he spoke, he realized he’d made a mistake.
“Hunter can’t call me?”
So much for the peaceful morning.
“It could be about Christopher. It just seems weird to reject the call.”
“So, now I’m wrong to not talk to him?” Carol asked. “You need to make up your mind.”
“You’re always telling me that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
CHAPTER FOUR
When the train stopped at Grand Central, Richard and Carol, along with everyone else in the car, hurried out. It was too early for the worst of the crowds, but people still made leaving the subway car and getting somewhere else a sort of competition. A few people waited on the platform to transfer to another train, but most herded themselves toward the stairs.
They passed by the four men in the Jamaican band, setting up their drums and preparing for their day’s labor. This would probably be the band’s last day at this stop. People were getting used to their music and feeling better about passing by without dropping any money in the drum case. Plus, televisions placed strategically throughout the subway kept everyone occupied. Why listen to a live band when you could watch one on T.V.?
Richard and Carol made their way up the stairs, winding through two or three tiled hallways. Digital posters covered the subway walls: Wicked still pulled in the crowds on Broadway, clips of the new Batman movie flashed across the poster screens, and ads for supposedly more powerful sprays to kill cockroaches invited the subway commuters to remember one of the many things they were trying to forget. Richard shook his head—they’d shipped ten people to Mars but they still couldn’t get rid of cockroaches. They walked by several shops, still closed, and exited through the south doors not far from Park Avenue. They stopped there and gave each other a quick kiss. Richard watched as Carol started the two-block trek to the skyscraper that held Weatherford and Williams high above the rest of the world. The firm took up eight floors, and had other offices in Boston, D.C., Chicago, Atlanta, Dallas, Mobile, San Francisco, L.A., and a few other places Richard couldn’t remember. As an associate, Carol played a major role in one of the most lucrative cases in the firm’s history—the Druson case—and won it nearly single-handedly. She brought in millions for the firm and became the youngest attorney in New York to be advanced to partner.
Richard turned back into Grand Central and entered the main foyer, stopping for a minute to take in the sight. He loved this expansive room—its impressive height and width, its attention to detail, its determination to stay the same. He checked his watch against the clock over the information booth in the middle of the room. As always, his watch was a few minutes behind. More than once he’d told Carol he liked his watch a few minutes behind to remind him there were more important things in life than being a “slave to time.” She’d given up trying to get him to reset it.
He scanned the constellations painted on the high ceiling overhead, like a sailor checking his bearings, hoping to find out where he was, wishing to know where he was going.
A large man from behind bumped into him, but Richard stood still, looking at the ceiling. When he looked down and started walking, he tried not to notice the homeless people sleeping along the floor. There seemed to be some sort of trouble in the corner. One subway police officer was talking to an old man wearing a tattered army jacket, aiming her club at him. Richard walked faster, but not fast enough to avoid hearing the moans from the old man after he’d been hit.
“How you doin’, Mr. Carson?”
Richard liked to stop by Al’s newsstand to chat and take a look at the magazines and papers before consigning himself to his desk. Al was probably in his sixties, but in pretty good shape. He wore a Yankees cap, worn around the edges.
“Good, Al. What’s hot today?”
“Usual. The used-to-be-royal family’s got its problems making the adjustment. Funny, I’ve never had any problem not being royal.”
“Who wants to live in Buckingham Palace, anyway?” Richard glanced over the counter, looking at headlines. “Anything in the Review?”
“Circled one you’d like.” Al reached from under the counter and handed him a copy.
“New novel?”
“Yeah, good one, too. Great title. It’s a biblical allusion, you know.”
Richard smiled. “Thanks, Al.” He began scanning the review. “About a couple of boys growing up in Missouri. . . . This isn’t a Huck and Tom rip-off, I hope.”
“Literature don’t do rip-offs. Writer like you ought to know that.”
“My book is a growing-up story, too. In Vermont.”
“I know, I know,” Al said. “When do I get to read it?”
“Still on the first chapter.”
“Get on with it, man! Rather read a good book than a perfect first chapter!”
Richard smiled and waved his card across the scanner disk. “Keep the change, Al.”
Richard left Al at the newsstand and exited out to the street. He passed the usual individuals: the shoeshine man, headphones on, waiting for commuters; the short, round man always talking on his cell while he stood outside his computer shop; the three women in surgical scrubs who were always at the bus stop at this same time, wires running from their ears to their pockets. He remembered when he was a kid and they’d come to the city for the day. Even though it was always crowded with strangers who rarely spoke with each other, at least there was the potential. Sometimes these strangers would say a word or two, or even just give an encouraging nod. But now everyone was wired to something. There was always music to listen to or television or movies to watch or someone somewhere else to work out a deal with over the p
hone. No one was ever here anymore.
Richard hurried through his firm’s lobby, reading the book review. Jones, Darrell, and Hubb had only one office, and it wasn’t even as big as Weatherford’s smallest branch. He closed the door to his office and sat at his desk. Something about the book caught his attention, like he was reading a review of the book he was writing before he’d even finished it. Two boys growing up long before they were ready, never having a real childhood. This was his story. Really, his son’s story. He was the one who should be writing this.
He looked at the picture of the cover one more time, reading the title aloud. “Death of the Innocents.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Richard needed to make up his mind. That’s what Carol always said. And, to be honest, she was right. It was easy for him to analyze and evaluate and reflect; deciding and acting were the tough parts.
Richard had just finished reading the review about Death of the Innocents and was pacing in his office. It wasn’t even ten yet, so it was too early to take a break, and there was no one at the firm he could talk to.
He looked over at his phone and said his wife’s name. He wondered if she’d be too busy to pick up.
“Richard?”
“Carol. I’ve missed you.”
“Me too. I mean, we haven’t seen each other for over an hour.”
“Okay, I got it, Counselor,” he said. “Working on a big case?”
“Yamashita case. Worth 300 million dollars. We’ll get a decent slice of that if all goes well.”
“The Yamashita that owns almost half our bonds? That owns pretty much half our country?”
“You got it.”
“I’m impressed. Sorry to spoil it for you, but I can tell you how the case ends.” He sat on a couple of magazines near the edge of his desk. “You win.”
Carol didn’t say anything, but he could sense she was smiling.
“I’m still preparing for a deposition that’s in less than an hour.”
“I just wanted to see if we could grab some lunch.”
“Isn’t it a little early for lunch?”
“How about one?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve just got too much to do.”
“How about dinner tonight? Your favorite restaurant.”
“I’ll be home late tonight. And, if I don’t get off the phone, I won’t be home until midnight.”
Richard paused. “Do you really have that much to do, or is this about something else?”
“You know how it is,” Carol said, “everyone has to bill just one more hour than everyone else. I’ve got to go. Don’t wait up for me.”
Richard was about to say something, but she hung up. He paused for a moment, then said his parents’ names.
“Hello,” his father answered, “how’s the weather there?”
“How’d you know it was me?” Richard asked. “You haven’t gotten Voice Recognition, have you?”
“Richard! Good to hear from you. I figured whoever was calling was somewhere near weather.”
His father laughed. Richard didn’t know anyone who enjoyed laughing more than his father.
“The leaves are starting to change.”
“Summer hasn’t even started yet, let alone fall,” Richard said. “How could the leaves be changing?”
“You’ve got to be very observant, and sensitive. Imagination, faith, and a touch of prophecy help as well.”
Richard smiled. “How’re you doing, Dad? Used to being retired yet?”
“Oh, I still go down to the English Department every now and then and raise some Cain on campus. You know, they don’t like someone who thinks the books mean something. They don’t care about the author and the meaning—they only care about the latest theory.”
“Hang in there, Dad,” Richard said. “Don’t give up the fight.”
“Son, you know me, I don’t give up fights. And I’m even willing to start a few.”
Richard laughed. “How’s Mom?”
“That old woman? Younger than ever,” his father said. “Beautiful. Smart. She’s thinking she’ll retire in a couple of years, but I doubt the Physics Department will let her. Besides, I don’t know what I’d do with her underfoot. She’ll be filling the tub and trying to demonstrate wave theory to me all day. You want to talk to her?”
“No, I was actually calling you.”
“You ought to at least say hello.”
“Okay, put her on.”
“Can’t, she’s at work.”
Richard heard the laughing again.
“Dad, I was wondering if you’d read this new book, Death of the Innocents.”
“By Fry? I have. About a couple of boys growing up in Missouri.”
“That’s the one. The reviewer says the book is flawed. That they grow up too quickly to be believable.”
“No, I disagree. I think their childhood is taken from them. They never had a chance to grow. You ought to read it, son, it’s a good book.”
“That title haunts me,” Richard said, looking down at the picture of the book’s cover.
“It should. Herod…the babies he had killed out of fear for the future…it’s a horrible story that continues to this day in all sorts of ways.”
His father paused, but Richard sensed he should leave the silence alone.
“How’s Christopher doing?” his father asked.
“Fine. We downloaded another video yesterday. I’ll send you the link.”
“I’m so tired of all the links I have in my life. For once I’d like to hold something in my hands.”
“Ah, the good ol’ days of DVDs,” Richard said.
His father laughed. “Send me that link and we’ll click on it until it wears out. We love to see that little boy. If he could just somehow get out of that blasted uniform.”
Richard nodded. “I know.”
“I don’t know which is worse—watching those videos, or not watching them,” his father said.
Richard could feel the void left now that the humor was gone from his father’s voice.
“I guess I better get back to work, Dad.”
“All right. Give our love to Carol. And our grandson, next time you see him. And keep some for yourself, son.”
His father hung up without saying good-bye. Richard sat on the edge of his desk, staring down at the review. Death of the Innocents. He hoped he could find such a good title for his book. Of course, the boys in the book didn’t really die, did they? They might as well have, though, because what life was worth living if its spirit has been robbed? No, no. It was better to be alive, even if things weren’t exactly the way you wanted them. Nobody lead the life they were meant to. At least, not completely. “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” Thoreau said, and he was right. But a man could live such a life and still call it good, couldn’t he? It was a type of sacrifice. It was the price you paid for being an adult.
But should a child have to pay that price?
Richard got up from his desk and opened the door so hard it hit the wall. He almost ran down the hall, bumping into a first-year associate.
“Sorry, Steve,” Richard said, not stopping.
“It’s all right, Mr. Carson. I mean, Richard. I was wondering if we could meet about—”
“Sorry,” Richard shouted from the end of the hall, “it’s time I did something.” He ran past the receptionist and out the door.
CHAPTER SIX
The subway was crowded. No matter what time of day it was, the subway was always crowded.
Richard climbed the stairs out of the subway stop and walked down the sidewalk. When he rounded the corner, there it was: The Newman Home. The building had housed the Essex & York Private School years before, but Newman had completely transformed it. Like most buildings in the area, there had always been bars on the windows, on the first floor to protect against intruders, and on the other six floors to protect against small children falling out. But Newman had special decorative railings made—with sculpted animals: th
e first floor had orange railings with giraffes; the second, gray with elephants; the third, brown with gazelles; the fourth, black and white, with zebras; the fifth, black, with gorillas; the sixth, yellow and black, with leopards; and the seventh, gold, with lions.
The dark sandstone on the front wall of the building, previously blackened by years of cars driving by, had been sandblasted weeks before “Newman” had been carved into granite. And the massive, cracking doors were replaced by two oak doors carved with jungle scenes.
“Welcome to the Newman Home,” a pleasant, but computerized, voice said from somewhere near the front door, “where we develop minds for the future. Please wait here for security purposes.”
Richard stood still on the porch, listening to the quiet whirr of the scanners making sure he was unarmed and healthy. He’d given up trying to see any cameras or microphones.
“Welcome, Mr. Carson.” This was a real person’s voice this time. “Please come in.” A clicking sound indicated the door was now unlocked.
He grabbed one of the large door handles, shaped like a smiling python, and pulled open the door. A faint, robotic noise signaled some camera moving and refocusing. He stepped into the lobby and felt the cool breeze from the air conditioning wash over his face.
The only person in the lobby was a man in a safari outfit sitting behind a rounded counter, looking at a computer screen image projected above. Next to the counter was an oak door that led to the rest of the school. The walls were covered with bamboo, and massive African plants reached out from pots on the floor along the walls and from baskets hanging from the ceiling.
“Someone will be here to help you in a moment, Mr. Carson,” the man said.
Richard took a few steps away from the counter and glanced around the lobby. The first time he and Carol had come here, she was still expecting, and the lobby had been crowded with other expectant parents waiting for the school tour. They had all been placed on the short list for their children’s possible enrollment, and that visit had been the parents’ first—and last—chance to meet the famous Dr. Newman. And it was the only time Richard had been through the oak door. He had been in the lobby a number of times, usually at the end of a quarter, when he and Carol and some of the other parents came to pick up their children for the quarterly visits home. The spring and fall visits were three days each, and summer and winter each had a week. Dr. Newman had explained that any longer would disrupt the entire education process. The parents always believed the experts. Hunter loved to repeatedly point out to him how some parents had even quit bothering to take their children home, wanting their children to make the most of their time at Newman.
The Newman Resident Page 2