Prodigal

by T M Heron

  Jackson, I understand why you’re not returning my calls, but in your own time I’d appreciate you getting in contact. Harry.

  Jackson, if you can, I’d like the opportunity to talk to you in person. It’s been a long time, and it is with true regret I look back on how harshly you were treated after the accident. Harry.

  Jackson, if not for me then for your mother. Please at least consider meeting with me. I’ve known for a long time now it’s time to put things right. I’m not a young man any more, and I’d like to set certain affairs in place. I’m not trying to alarm you but please consider meeting to discuss. Your father, Harry.

  On my way home tonight I will drop by Chang’s and pay him an extortionate amount of money to have someone forge what I’ve written onto my father’s letterhead with his fountain pen. I’m happy with the notes. They don’t spell everything out, but they show the contrition of a proud man. And, even more genius, they hint at un-wellness. I have no idea how he really communicated; I never spoke to him after I joined Bakers and he told me he’d make sure I’d never be offered partner. But I doubt my mother has much of an idea how my father would have broached this subject either. Because he wouldn’t have.

  When Chang’s person is finished with them, the letters will look perfect.

  ◆◆◆

  My arms feel heavy and my head slow as I drive out to Plimmerton for lunch with my mother. I hope Helena won’t be around. I hope at least one of their hot house staff will be. It’s been over a week and there’s no news yet of the Park Rape Team abduction of Michelia, nor Belinda’s death. I’m feeling more and more wound up and desperately in need of some time with Savannah. Having started everything with such a bang I’ve been neglecting her terribly.

  I need to give Ava more attention as well. She’s heard about my father. She’s upset she wasn’t told. She would have liked to be on my arm at the funeral. Are we a couple or not? If it weren’t for Belinda Goodluck I’d say not. But as there’s been no news on Belinda’s death and, even more troubling, Michelia’s abduction, yes, of course, I tell Ava. Of course we’re a couple.

  My mother has had the good grace to have sent all the funeral flowers to Mary Potter Hospice. Why dying people want to watch floral arrangements experience unnecessarily premature deterioration is beyond me. But who cares? Her house no longer looks like a mausoleum.

  I’m glad to see she’s pulled herself together a little better as well. She wears a fine merino sweater and a camel-colored woolen blazer. Her hair could have done with more attention. But she’s wearing a tasteful amount of make-up and good-sized diamond earrings.

  Someone has prepared an informal table setting in her sitting room. There are two places for lunch, and a third setting for dessert. A flash of resentment sweeps over me. Who will be here for dessert? She is meant to be craving our time together. Just the two of us.

  “I’d hoped we’d be spending this time alone,” I say. “I’ve got some special things to show you, from Dad. I’d rather expected that would be important to you.”

  I pull her chair out and she sits down.

  “Our family is struggling. We’re grieving. And what hurts me most is that we’ll never have the opportunity to fix everything. But I owe it to Dad to fix what is left of us. You. Me. Helena.”

  No wonder I’m wound up. Having to constantly spout this sort of shit. Whenever I make these observations I’m mindful to unclench my jaw. Jaw-clenching is something I’ve never done before, but lately I’ve become aware I’m doing it more and more frequently. One of the graduates at work has crumbling teeth. When it comes time for her rotation in corporate she won’t be taking that serrated smile near any of my clients.

  Our silence is interrupted by a knock on the door. A young woman walks in carrying two bowls. Her black hair is fashioned in a modern asymmetric cut. She has a tiny ruby stud in her nose. She’d be a fighter. She’s not a patch on Savannah, though.

  Despite my semi-erection I wonder dismally what happened to the more suitable staff my parents used to have, with their shoulder-length bobs, opaque stockings and patent-leather shoes.

  “I’ve invited Neville Schuler to join us for dessert,” says my mother. “You may not remember him from the funeral.” Is she kidding? He’s the tosser who read the poem. “But he’s a close family friend. In fact he virtually is family. You’ll like him.”

  “For someone who’s virtually family I don’t remember even seeing him after the funeral,” I snap. “He must have all but beaten the pallbearers down the aisle.”

  “Oh no,” says my mother. “He only came to read Helena’s poem. Harry’s funeral was filmed for Helena to watch in real time. Neville watched the rest at home with her.”

  “That’s great. And now he’s here to intrude on another intimate moment. Perhaps he could have saved himself some time and had this lunch taped as well.”

  “Jacky, it’s not like that at all. Anyhow, I didn’t know how much time you’d have to spare. So Neville and I were going to look at headstones later this afternoon. But I specifically invited him early as I wanted you to meet him.”

  “Well, I guess I could always have my executive assistant reschedule the entire afternoon’s worth of meetings I had her cancel for this. I mistakenly thought you might like to spend this afternoon reading over the letters Dad sent me. In the interests of being a family again.”

  I need to rein myself in. I need to be nicer. It’s the stress.

  “Jacky, I had no idea. Of course I’d like to. I just, I didn’t know how much family involvement you wanted.” She suddenly smiles. “But this is all for the best. If you’ve got the afternoon off, we can all go look at headstones together. You, me, and Neville.”

  Great.

  ◆◆◆

  My mother cries when she reads the personalized notes. This time she doesn’t go in search of Kylie to serve tea but takes her sedatives right in front of me. “Oh Jacky, why did you wait so long before agreeing to see him?”

  “I was angry. He threw me out of his life. He threw me out of your life as well. He deprived me of a family. I’m still angry at him for it. And now I’m angry at him for dying.”

  “I’m angry at him too, reading these. And not telling me what he was up to. After all those years I wanted him to contact you.”

  Like she couldn’t have herself? Although she did wire me the $10 million. Which, apart from my house, has all but been spent.

  She blows her nose. “But Jacky, what are we saying? Listen to us. We can’t talk about him like this. He’s dead.”

  I hate being called Jacky.

  “I know,” I say. “And then when I did see him, we had the largest blowout.”

  “It’s all so bleak.” She hands the letters back to me. “I’m sorry, Jacky. So very sorry. You must believe I’m going to make it right again.”

  I believe it all right. I’m going to be guiding her the whole way. “We’ve plenty of time for all that,” I say, taking her hand. The diamond on her engagement ring is tiny. I wonder why they didn’t have it enlarged once they had money.

  The same semi-hot young woman who served us lunch brings out dessert. Sticky date pudding with home-made custard and rock melon. My groin and stomach ache simultaneously. But overriding that, I’m experiencing anger. I have no tolerance for bad manners. Neville Schuler is late for dessert

  ◆◆◆

  Neville’s gross tardiness is explained fifteen minutes later when he swings through the French doors pushing Helena. He has reared her wheelchair up so her feet are in the air and if I didn’t know better, I could swear she’s enjoying it. It bothers me that I’m already imagining I can read her face.

  I hope to God she’s not capable of eating normal food. My stomach churns at the thought. Even worse, if someone were to mash some of it for her, I’d be forced to leave the table. Surely by now she’s used to smelling delicious food she knows she’ll never be able to consume?

  “Sorry, my dear Esther,” says Neville. He swoops in for a c
heek peck then parks Helena between his placing and mine, slightly angled away from me. “I stopped by to see this one and we were scheming away about young Brent.”

  I can only see the side of Helena’s head but already her coquettish retort to Neville’s affectionate teasing is in my head: No we didn’t. Stop being such a tease!

  “No, you stop it,” says Neville to Helena, as I do a mental double-take. “I see what you’re like around one another. You’re not fooling anyone.”

  I’ve just discovered something worse than necrophilia — the thought of sex between a normal person and a tetraplegic. And here is Neville joking about it. Encouraging it. Now he’s apologizing again to Mother for being late. ‘Darling.’ Christ, even my father didn’t call her darling.

  “Don’t be silly, you’re barely late a second,” says Mother. She’s looking at him like he’s one of Christ’s apostles just descended. “I had Kylie make your favorite dessert.”

  “You’re just too good to me,” says Neville, without the slightest pretense of meaning it.

  “Neville, this is our son Jackson,” says my stupid cretin of a mother when the banter finally closes. ‘Helena’s older brother.”

  Helena’s older brother. If I had known for one nanosecond that everything would have been couched in terms of Helena once she ended up in that wheelchair, I would never have pushed her off that pool-house roof.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I say. I stand up and shake his hand. Careful not to apply even a hint of excess pressure. I’m a little bigger than him. Ergo stronger. He can see that.

  “Likewise,” says Neville, with the slightest hint of coolness.

  We sit down. Neville picks up a spoonful of sticky date and waves it at my mother. She waves her own spoon back and I feel as if I’m I in a sitcom.

  “That was a rather generous gesture to take a whole afternoon off to look at headstones,” I say to him. “I’d have thought you’d have your hands full right now.”

  Neville pours more custard over his dessert, most of it in fact. “Things are fine. It’ll settle.” He turns to Helena. “Unlike you! I wish you’d settle.”

  Helena gives a girlish laugh, which of course in my head, because it is the only thing she can say out loud, is “Nnggaahh.

  ◆◆◆

  Lunch is nauseatingly mirthful and it’s a relief when Brent finally pokes his head through the door in search of Helena.

  “Doesn’t this poor chap ever get time off?” I say in an attempt to add my own contribution of levity into the mix. I have to admit, for someone so charismatic I’ve been struggling. I smile widely at Brent. “Please tell me we haven’t just worked you seven days solid.”

  “This is one of my days off,” he says.

  He rearranges a loose wheaten strand of Helena’s hair behind her ear, releases the brake pedal from the wheelchair and wheels her out of the room. Put a fucking halo on the guy.

  With Helena gone the atmosphere becomes somber.

  “Jacky and I just had a very moving time reading through the letters Harry wrote him before he passed,” says Mother. “Harry was wanting to reconcile. I’m so pleased, but it’s also devastating.” She smiles sadly as Neville leans over and refills her water glass. “He referred to settling his affairs. I think knew he was dying.”

  “Settling his affairs? Esther, he could still beat me at squash. Of course he didn’t know he was dying. He was in fine form.”

  “I just wondered if at some level he knew. And it may have been what prompted him to contact Jacky, make things right before he—”

  “Yes indeed, whatever would have prompted him so randomly, that is certainly a question worthy of reflection.” Neville makes no attempt to hide his sarcasm. But fortunately it’s lost on my mother. “What do you make of it, Jackson?”

  “I don’t make anything of it,” I say coldly. “There was a lot of bad blood between my father and me. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Neville ignores me. “Esther, please don’t convince yourself he thought he was dying. That wasn’t the case.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll disregard my father’s hand-written accounts, to his son, in favor of the ill-founded personal opinion of a non-medical employee who, as it turns out, was wrong.” It bursts from me out of nowhere. Who the hell does this man think he is? “There clearly was something wrong with him. He’s dead.”

  “This family needs peace,” says my mother, who bursts into tears and hurries out of the room.

  “That’s great support you’re providing,” I say to Neville. “I can only hope your influence at work is half as positive.”

  “I wouldn’t trouble yourself over it, Jacky.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t trouble yourself over speculating as to my father’s medical status. Your knowledge of that was clearly minimal.”

  “Maybe so. But I don’t need to be a qualified rheumatologist to know your father was developing arthritis in both hands. So you might want to reflect on that before you produce any more recently hand-written letters.”

  The hot staff member I’d like to abduct returns, oblivious to the tension in the room, and starts clearing the table. I go in search of my mother and spout even more sentimental

  ◆◆◆

  After a very stressful day with my family I’m much in need of a visit to Savannah. She doesn’t seem to spend any of her Monday evening doing homework. There is no way she could be stupid, but I rechecked her school website and sure enough she’s been on the academic honors roll for the three years she’s been at the school.

  Now I have even more respect for you, Savannah. You’re so clever you don’t have to study. You’re like me. You just go through life and things come easily for you. Although soon I’m going to teach you a big lesson about that.

  Tonight she lolls on her bed texting. She wears a white singlet, no bra — doesn’t need one. Her knickers are white against her tawny legs. She clicks open a text, throws her head back and laughs. An awful thought occurs that it may be a boyfriend, and my throat tightens momentarily. But closer scrutiny of her face through the trusted lens of my Night Vision Device reassures me she’s texting girlfriends.

  I’m glad you have girlfriends. You’re going to need them. But enough about you, Savannah. Your life is simple and sweet. Mine, on the other hand. I have a feeling my mother’s going to become more and more high maintenance. I struggle with the emotional stuff. Coming up with it, that is.

  I look at her face through my NVD again. Her skin is golden and up close she has masses of tiny freckles. This can look appalling on some girls, ugly girls to be precise. But on beautiful girls it’s a point of difference and lends itself to the exotic. I think briefly of the red-headed consultant at Bakers. I haven’t had time yet to find out about her.

  A frown passes over Savannah’s face.

  I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be distracted. She’s a woman and you’re a girl. Women don’t interest me.

  Savannah frowns again, as if she knows that this particular woman does interest me.

  She’ll never come between us. She’ll never stop my plans for you.

  12

  “Neville’s a prick. He doesn’t trust me. Or like me. He’s way too ensconced in my family.” This is what I’d like to say to Anthony Hartman. But it would make me look bad, and out of control. So I just think it.

  We’re sitting in Anthony’s office which is tasteful and opulent. He could probably keep fit by running a few laps of it at lunch time.

  It’s 7 a.m. The wind hasn’t started up in earnest yet but gently caresses the building, making low, whining sounds. Mist is everywhere outside, masking other high-rises, making the world look mysterious. The sun shines weakly, turning some cloud areas from grey to silver, and it’s all very beautiful.

  “From all accounts Neville Schuler’s a sharp guy,” says Anthony. “Impressive. Loyal to your father. He’s already being head-hunted but showing no apparent interest.”

  I’d love to know where he g
ets this intel.

  “Harvard MBA. Merchant-banking background. His confirmation from acting group MD of RIL to actual is certain.”

  I study Anthony’s desk. The clever bastard has completely disguised the thick see-through glass and chrome by having an exotic Turkish rug fitted over the top, protected by a much thinner layer of glass. I wish I’d thought of this.

  “My mother introduced us the other day over lunch,” I say. “He’s arrogant.”

  I lift my hand to stroke the rug then remember it has glass over it. “But that’s not a bad thing. I have no desire to run RIL. And we want someone strong at the top. Keep them moving forward.”

  “And your strategy for bringing them on board?”

  “I swear to God, Anthony, they’re not coming anywhere while I’m a senior associate.”

  “You’ll make partner with Bakers if you bring in RIL — take it as a given. How much influence do you have over your mother?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. But it’s growing. I can’t just swoop in while she’s a grieving wreck and start making business suggestions. As I said, it won’t be immediate. My mother’s not stupid.”

  “I didn’t anticipate it would be immediate,” says Anthony.

  I stand to go and survey Anthony’s superior office a final time. “At the end of the day there is not one reason why RIL should continue using other firms while the sole heir is here at Bakers.”

  “I thought you had a sister?”

  “She’s tetraplegic. They have short life-spans.”

  ◆◆◆

  Jo has left a huge pile of drafts for me to review in my in-tray. I wonder what she’s doing here so early. She’s also left the morning paper smack in the middle of my desk which I’m sure is an intentional aggravation on her behalf. Should anyone worth their salt drop by while I’m away it makes the Dominion Post look like my standard priority of each new day. My collegial demeanor of well-being nurtured from the meeting with Anthony Hartman evaporates.