Okay, labeling my mood a “blue frame of mind” is sort of like calling Van Gogh’s predominant mental state a “bad mood,” but I was unaccustomed to depression.
The fact that I had a pretty decent reason—the arrest of my boyfriend and attempted suicide of his business partner and both of our guilt that we might have contributed to his decision to do that—didn’t help. I was used to looking somber moods in the face and winning that staring contest. But now the grim malaise kept creeping in, seeping around the edges of everything.
Theo had gone to work, convinced he had to do so for Eric, to keep together whatever remained of HeadFirst and figure out where they had gone wrong. I noticed he referred to he and Eric as we again—We went wrong somewhere. We got a bad deal somewhere. We have to figure out what we should do. It was hard to think of Theo alone in that office, which only a short time ago had held employees and a partner who was alive and well, but he was insistent.
As soon as he was gone, my mood plunged further.
I tried to annihilate it, I really did. I jumped when Maggie called, saying the Bristols were getting together and did I want to come over?
I adored her grandfather, who I saw as a mentor. And I loved the rest of her family, as well.
But my mood only blackened with the jocularity of the Bristols, the way they all seemed sure of themselves and their lives.
In Marty Bristol’s penthouse apartment in the South Loop, I snuck away to his home office and took a seat in front of a huge plate window that overlooked the museum campus and Lake Michigan. Usually such a view of the lake raised any dark shades that had fallen over my mind, but that day the view was blocked by heavy fog, like cigarette smoke in front of a beautiful woman’s face.
I said my thanks to the Bristols, left the building and went to the Macy’s on State and Washington. Oftentimes the sight of that building, which used to be the old Marshall Fields, would hand me a little happiness even if the thought of shopping didn’t. I loved the green clocks hanging over the street, the granite columns. Inside, the Tiffany glass ceiling and the burbling fountain always inspired me, lifted me. I stared at the green-and-red decorations, which covered everything from floor to ceiling.
I took the escalators up and began doing some holiday shopping for Spence and my mom. I even found an odd little navy blue globe on a gold stand that I thought my father might be able to tolerate in an office or on an end table.
When I got to the men’s floor, I stalled. What to get Theo…? Would he even have a choice of clothing in the future or would he be wearing a neon-orange suit, compliments of the federal government?
I hurried down to the fourth floor, pulling out the big guns by heading for the shoe department and reminding myself that I was a wage earner again. But it was hopeless. The beautiful nude shoes with the delicate fur straps didn’t make me swoon. I just wondered where in the world I’d wear such a thing. A fabulous holiday party was not in my immediate future, especially after the debacle that was our last party.
And so I went back downstairs and called my dad. I knew he wanted more contact with Charlie and me, but he just didn’t know how to obtain that. So I thought I’d be gracious. And maybe someone who had spent his whole life away from his family, watching his life from afar, could give me some pointers about how to handle what was going on in my life now.
When he answered, I sat on the stone rim of the Macy’s fountain, and instead of beating around the issue, I simply told him, “I’m sad, Dad. Really sad. And confused. And…” I stopped then, realizing we’d had little experience with such conversations and sensing oncoming discomfort from his side.
But I was wrong, as I so often had been with my father. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Macy’s. In the Loop.”
“I’m not too far. Meet you at the restaurants on the seventh floor?”
“Okay,” I said, feeling a little more calm just having something to do next.
“Let’s go to Frontera Fresco.”
“What’s that?”
“Rick Bayless’s place.”
Rick Bayless is a well-respected Chicago chef who specialized in gourmet Mexican. I would not have expected my father to know that.
“See you in fifteen minutes.”
Thirty minutes later, my father was making good work on something called a huarache, a Mexican pizza of sorts made of cornmeal and topped with chorizo and salsa.
“Go on,” he said, pointing at the tamales he’d ordered for me when I was stumped on what to choose. The words were kind, spoken in a tone that indicated welcome. Then he nodded at me, and I knew he was telling me to continue our conversation.
So I told him about Eric, how I felt so guilty about the way I’d given him such a hard time in his office, when really I didn’t know if the problems at HeadFirst had anything to do with him. I told him how awful Theo felt about hitting him, and both of us wondered if either encounter was what had led to the suicide attempt.
My father listened, and listened. He put his food down at one point, and took off his glasses. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back. When I paused he opened one eye. “Keep going,” he said. Then he closed his eyes again.
I kept talking, telling him about how there were a number of initial investors in the company. I told him that Theo had said the Feds likely took (or were given by Eric) documents having to do with the initial formation.
During this, my dad kept his eyes closed, face tilted toward the ceiling, as if he were listening to a symphony.
When my words slowed, his eyes opened. He returned his copper glasses to his face. “Suicide is rough, because when you want to kill yourself, you really just want it done and over with. Your life, I mean. And you simply don’t care about anything else.”
He sounded like he very much knew what he was talking about.
“If you’re smart…” He paused, thought about it. “And by smart I mean aware enough to see outside the pain in your mind, you think about the people who would be hurt by you hurting yourself. And you stop yourself. But really, it’s just too much to handle, that’s what you think. You think you can’t get past it. And it isn’t anyone’s fault. No one else’s.”
“But if I hadn’t gotten so mad at Eric—if Theo hadn’t—maybe he wouldn’t have felt so bleak about himself, maybe—”
“No.” My dad shook his head. “Doesn’t work like that. Even if you told him to kill himself, it’s not your fault. No one does these things except the person themselves.”
“So what do I do now?”
“Help Theo. Help him find out what’s going on at HeadFirst. Keep an open mind as best you can. In other words, keep doing what you’re already doing.”
I sucked in air. I must have been holding it tight since I heard about Eric. Then I thought some more about my dad’s words. “Did you ever feel like that? Like you wanted it to be over?” The answer seemed obvious, but I wasn’t sure how to talk to him about this.
“I did,” he said without hesitation. “Many times. But I always thought about your mother. And you and Charlie. I knew you would be hurt.”
“But we already thought you were dead. Well, Charlie and I did.” My mother had said once that she knew my father wasn’t dead, even though they said he was. She’d always known it in her bones.
“I felt…somehow…that you could be hurt. Psychically, I guess. Subconsciously. I didn’t want to add to the pain you’d already suffered.”
It seemed a strange thing to say and yet one of the kindest things I’d ever heard.
And right at that moment, I felt something toward my dad I hadn’t felt in a long, long, long time. What was it?
I tried to think it through. Maybe my father would disappear again. Maybe not. Maybe we would be good friends someday. Maybe not. But right then he was one of those people with whom I could let go completely. He had only good in his heart. At least toward me.
I did trust him, I realized, for the first time since I was a kid. I trusted him entirely and
completely.
And then I realized there was someone else I felt like that about—that no matter what our history had held, no matter what he had done, I trusted him. Well, I thought I did. But in deciding to trust—or whom to choose to trust—I always felt better making that assessment in person.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. Then I picked up my phone to text him.
37
“Unfortunately, this is not a foreign thing for you,” Sam said.
“What’s not foreign?” I asked, my elbow on the bar table where we sat.
“Having someone in your life in trouble with the law. Because of me.” He looked at me so sympathetically.
How in the heck (meaning how in the hell) was it that my ex-boyfriend (my ex-fiancé, for frick’s sake) was now counseling me? On my relationship?
Stranger waters my life had never entered, it seemed. But I’d walked willingly into those waters. After my dad and I said our goodbyes, I’d texted Sam again and suggested we meet for coffee or a drink. Preferably a drink, I’d texted.
Theo was still at work, didn’t know when he would leave, and I wanted to see Sam suddenly. I wanted to test my internal trust-o-meter.
“So you shouldn’t feel bad about your questions,” Sam said. “You had questions about me.” He stopped then, scratched his dark blond hair above his ear. He seemed to be waiting for a response for the first time since he’d been doling out advice, which I’d been soaking up, eager for someone who understood. And how many people actually understood what it was like for me to be me right now—someone whose fiancé had disappeared and who had wondered and worried and feared? Probably two people: Sam and Maggie. And Maggie had been distinctly keeping more and more to herself, clearly worried but not confiding in me about whatever she was worried about. It had left me feeling helpless that I couldn’t help her, and a little helpless for myself.
“I did have questions,” I said. “A lot of them.”
His eyes were eager, too. He needed this, I realized, as much as I did.
I leaned in. “And yes, I did come to believe you after those questions. I do trust you.”
Utter relief, like I’ve never seen it, took over his face. Suddenly, he looked much younger, his martini-olive-green eyes more clear, almost sparkling.
We were at Hubbard Inn, one of those one-stop- shopping kind of places that had a small bar, a bigger bar, a dining area and a number of tucked- away private dining areas.
Sam and I were in the small bar. We were sitting across the table from each other, elbows on the table, talking like he would with his buddies.
“I’m glad to hear that, Iz,” Sam said. “Really glad.” He paused before turning the conversation back to me and Theo again. And then we both seemed to relax. And we talked. And I let Sam help me.
And for the first time since it happened, since he’d taken off about a year ago (how long a year can be), I felt something unfurl inside me.
I was grateful then, watching Sam give me advice while he chewed on a cocktail straw between the lips I used to kiss, lips that, even stranger, didn’t hold much pull anymore.
I looked at my watch. Theo, I hoped, would be getting home soon. “I should…” I said, standing.
“Do you have to take off?” Sam looked at his watch, then looked at me, and right then a wave of love for him washed over me, like some kind of cellular memory locked in my body and released right when he’d said that question, right when he had made me feel, as he so often had when we were together, that he couldn’t get enough of me, that I was fascinating and delightful and smart. And loved.
And that, I realized, was something I hadn’t been feeling from Theo lately.
Still, I’d never been one to be unfaithful when I was committed, and I didn’t want to get sucked into a relationship with Sam where I was even emotionally connected. Because I had a commitment with Theo. Sort of. Anyway, it was something I wasn’t willing to destroy blindly and then regret later.
So I pulled my bag from the table. “Yeah,” I said. “I have to go, Sam.”
38
On Monday afternoon, Brad Jameson sat in the office of the federal prosecutor who had charged his son with embezzlement and money laundering.
He shot a glance at his lawyer—an older guy named Nicholas Grand who he’d heard had negotiated deals with thousands of prosecutors, both state and federal. Grand had told him that it wasn’t very common for the prosecutor to offer to meet both the defendant and his counsel to talk about the case. Grand said it could only mean good things, but now Brad wasn’t so sure. Was it ever a good thing to be in the office of a federal prosecutor? What was about to happen here? And why couldn’t he get a full breath of air in his lungs?
Nicholas Grand looked at Brad, seemed to recognize his questions. Grand held out his manicured hand and pushed down at something imaginary, telling Brad to relax.
A young woman came in, not acknowledging them, going through some documents on the prosecutor’s desk, moving away his empty chair to open a drawer. Then she sat in a chair at Brad’s left and scribbled something on a yellow pad, still failing to acknowledge them. Brad shot a look at his attorney, who seemed unperturbed by the appearance of this woman, apparently a young lawyer or an assistant.
They sat in silence for at least five minutes. Brad was just about to lose control and storm from the office when a thin Indian man came into the room. He strode to Brad and then his lawyer and pumped their hands warmly. “Sorry to keep you waiting. We have a thing before Judge Haden and…” The guy shook his head and laughed at the craziness of Judge Haden’s courtroom, making Brad feel oddly jealous that his case, his son’s, suddenly didn’t seem to require more serious attention and reflection from their lead prosecutor.
The Indian guy greeted the young woman, then sat behind his desk and nodded at Nicholas Grand, as if to say, Go ahead.
“Anish, we’ve sized up the case,” Grand said. “And what we’ve seen so far is that your case is primarily against—” he looked down at the white pad of paper in his lap “—against a Mr. Theodore Jameson.” As if Theo wasn’t Brad’s son! As if Brad wasn’t sitting right next to him.
“Of course,” Grand continued, “we’d expect that Mr. Jameson’s partner, Eric Deringer, would be next on the list of culpability.”
The prosecutor, whose full name was Anish Desai, looked at him frankly. Brad returned the gaze, but he felt weak, the arrest of Theo and then Eric’s suicide attempt having taken much from him over the past few days. His gaze shot to his lap. He recovered some strength and raised his head again.
“You know Mr. Deringer attempted to kill himself Friday night,” Anish said.
“We’re aware,” Grand said. As if it were an inconsequential matter.
“I asked you here to discuss your client, not Eric Deringer. As one of the key stockholders in HeadFirst, we believe Mr. Jameson may have insights into his son’s case,” Anish said.
“What are you looking for?” Brad’s lawyer said.
“Testimony. Against Theo Jameson.”
Brad shot to his feet. He couldn’t help it. “I will not testify against my son!”
He felt an admonishing gaze from his lawyer.
Brad found his seat again and calmed himself. He employed the mental techniques he’d learned over the past few months to control the aggression, fear and anger he experienced whenever he got a phone call from that one overseas number.
There was a time when that phone number conjured up images of sand and sun and palm trees—images representative of the place itself—and he could recall the happy calm he used to get from speaking with the bankers, from hearing that their money was safe, was even multiplying.
How fast things changed.
39
Mayburn, my father, Charlie and I sat around a table in a German restaurant on Lincoln Avenue. I knew my father wanted to spend more time with Charlie and me, and after our talk yesterday at Macy’s, I did, too. So when I suggested we get together after work on the Monday bef
ore Thanksgiving, he had quickly agreed. Since my dad and Mayburn were working together and I had to talk to both of them on a work level, I’d invited Mayburn, too. Now we made a strange foursome. Theo was, as usual, at the office of HeadFirst, picking through the graves.
It had been good to go back to work today, the bustle of the office soothing to me. Q had called early saying he wanted me to clean up a bunch of old cases around the office. I knew he was giving me a break, and I appreciated it, throwing myself into the work.
At the end of the day, I’d popped my head in Maggie’s office. “Anything?” I’d asked. She shook her head. No new information about Theo or HeadFirst or why they believed he had stolen money from the company and its customers.
At the German place, things began to feel a little more comfortable after a round of large Belgian beers. Charlie and my father discussed his work at the radio station, how he was beginning to turn his sights on different things in the radio and TV world. Mayburn and I chatted about Lucy. Lucy was what Mayburn always wanted to talk about.
“Don’t think I forgot about how you set her up,” he said at one point, sitting back in the booth, throwing his chin up in the air.
“What’s that?” I said, pointing at his face. “What are you doing there?”
I thought he’d drop the macho pose, but nothing about his face moved. I noticed then that he was even thinner than when I’d seen him at our party a few days ago.
“Dude,” I said, “I didn’t set her up. I didn’t go to her with the idea. She asked me to take her out with Theo and some of his young friends, and she met C.R. And I think they went out once or twice. Look, I don’t even know if they—”
“Okay, okay,” Mayburn said, holding up a hand. “I don’t want the details.”
“I don’t know the details. I’m telling you I know little about it and had little to do with it. So stop being angry at me.”
“I’m not angry.” He picked up his mug, sipped at it, then shifted his gaze out the window. On Lincoln, cars were slowing down. “Holiday traffic,” Mayburn said glumly. “It’s starting already.”
Question of Trust Page 14