The Test

by Patricia Gussin

  For Dan and Frank, I wasn’t there after their mother died—too busy with my career. For Rory, I should have pushed for a legal adoption. For Ashley and Carla, I won’t be around to see them mature. And for Monica, I regret not being a part of her life.”

  Ashley and Rory started to sob. Chan put his arm around Rory. Meredith kept her hand clamped on Frank’s arm. Carl read on:

  In the end, only values and character count. Not money, not fame, not career. Here’s where I fear I have failed you.

  “Weird,” Meredith mouthed to Frank.

  I kept asking myself: is there a way to use my financial success to help correct my failures?

  Carl paused for a sip of water. The room was absolutely quiet. Even Dan and Carla seemed to be tracking this ridiculous effort at a confession.

  To sort out a code of values, I created a personal credo. This will be my legacy to you, that these values be passed from generation to generation.

  So much money at stake and his dad was going on about values? Smack in the aftermath of the Bush-Gore screw up? The inauguration just two weeks away? The one hundred seventh Congress in session? His committees—Armed Forces, Judicial, and Intelligence—all with hectic hearing schedules? And he was sitting here listening to drivel on family values.

  Carl read slowly:

  My value system has four parts God, family, community, and profession.

  First, God. It wasn’t until the last year of my life that I realized that faith is our most treasured gift, our absolute anchor. Faith is not just a private affair; its very essence is rooted in a public acknowledgment so that it can be passed from generation to generation.

  Second, family. I should have spent more time with each of you in your formative years. I left too much of the responsibility to Kay, and then to Vivian. I let my professional ego interfere with dedication to my family. For this I beg your forgiveness.

  “That’s not true, Dad,” Ashley sobbed. Carla leaned against her with a “Shush,” and Meredith patted her hand.

  Not you, Ashley, Frank almost said aloud. You were Dad’s special little shadow. Remember the time he took you on that world tour in the company plane?

  Carl read on:

  Third, community, By founding the Parnell Foundation, I want to give back to the world community that had been so generous to me. I trust that the foundation will flourish under your leadership and that you will extend the abundance of the family widely and generously.

  So far, no mention of funding his political career, Frank thought. How could he afford to worry about the world community? Maybe someday, but certainly not right now. Frank could see that the rest of them were eating this up, especially Rory who liked to consider herself the do-gooder of the century.

  Fourth, professional, career, and financial responsibility. You have had access to the best in education and to the family’s financial resources. Now you will need to demonstrate responsible management of your own funds.

  Carl stopped for a moment. The women, with the exception of Monica and Meredith, were fumbling with tissues, and Dan still looked shaky. Frank watched aghast as Carl looked pointedly at Cardinal Sean. No, he wanted to scream. Could Dad have left all that money to the church?

  But the cardinal simply nodded and Carl continued to read.

  It is my last wish that you embrace these values as your own. As an incentive, the allocation of all assets in this trust will rest on your demonstration of these values.

  What kind of a scam was this? Frank’s mind reeled as he watched the two old men exchange a knowing look. Everybody else wore a quizzical expression.

  As further encouragement, I have arranged for a test to measure your personal acceptance of these four credo values.

  Carl paused and reached for a glass of water.

  Carl Schiller is the trustee of the trust. He has a thorough understanding of my intent, he will administer this “test” and score it according to the guidelines I have provided. He will also give you the personal note that I left for each of you.

  Trust? Credo? Test? Personal note? Frank struggled to process what he’d just heard.

  The test will be given one year from now. Remaining assets of the trust will be distributed according to the results.

  Frank’s mind flew to the date, January 6, 2002. He almost missed the next part.

  Should collective scores not justify distribution of the entire trust, any remainder will default to the Parnell Foundation.

  Frank, who hardly ever used obscenities, not even in his head, could think only, “I’m fucked.”

  Carl’s hand’s shook more intensely as he read further.

  I hope you all know how much I love you and how deeply I hope to inspire you to embrace your legacy.

  “That’s the end,” announced Carl, “except for administrative details.”

  Frank spoke first. He didn’t care if he sounded sarcastic or obnoxious.

  “Wow, what a reading, Carl,” he began. “Is this real? Or some kind of a joke?”

  “No, Frank, it’s not a joke.”

  “Well, certainly it’s not legal. Certainly it’s not sane. Get your firm on this and get it sorted out. This is craziness.”

  Meredith increased the pressure of her hand on Frank’s leg.

  Nobody else said a word. Frank looked toward Ashley. She had more common sense than the other three. She sat biting a fingernail, thoughtful, but not upset. She wasn’t going to jump into this.

  “At the end,” Cardinal Sean broke the stunned silence, “your father was desperate to go back in time and focus on the values that he now realized were so important. But of course, he couldn’t, so he decided on this type of incentive to encourage you all to make positive change in your lives.”

  “Look, Cardinal Sean,” Frank interrupted, in no mood for a homily, “Dad was obviously senile. You said ‘desperate,’ right? ‘Wanting to go back in time.’ That’s crazy talk. All I’m saying is that this trust needs to be contested. Okay? Now I suggest we let Meredith handle it with Carl. That we sell the properties, and get on with our lives.”

  “Let me assure you,” Carl stated. “that your father took every precaution against the type of allegation you’re suggesting.”

  “Frank, I know you’re unhappy, but Dad was not senile,” Rory blurted. “His thinking was very clear until he lapsed into the coma at the very end.”

  “Look, Rory, I don’t think you’re the one to get involved here. Is this why you insisted on spending so much time with him the month before he died? I wouldn’t be surprised if you concocted this whole farce.”

  Rory turned several shades of red.

  “Frank, we’re all in a state; I know you didn’t mean that,” Chan said, starting to rise from his chair. Frank wondered what the hell his stocky brother-in-law was going to do. Punch him out?

  “It’s okay, Chan.” Rory tugged his arm and her husband sat back down. “Somebody had to stay with Dad. Ashley was in school. It wasn’t about money.”

  “For God’s sake,” said Chan. “Don’t you realize how tough it was on Rory? Spending all that time away from the kids to be with Paul at the end?”

  “We all appreciated what you did, Rory.” Ashley spoke up, “You were inspirational.”

  “Inspirational?” Frank couldn’t hold back the sarcasm. “Don’t any of you understand what’s going on here?”

  “Would it be okay if I said something?” Frank had almost forgotten that Monica was sitting next to him. She didn’t belong here, he thought, and he planned to check out that story about Dad and this woman. Insist on DNA. No two ways about it, she was not raised as a Parnell. She had been legally adopted by another family, and she surely didn’t need money.

  “Certainly,” said Carl, hoping, Frank guessed, that she might reverse the downward spiral.

  “I came here today to fulfill a promise to a man I wish I’d known better. I think that what Mr. Parnell tried to do for his family before he died is so wonderful. To have thought all this throug
h about how we can all become better people. I come away inspired and impressed.”

  You picked up a cool million bucks and are just greedy for more, Frank thought, but didn’t say.

  “But,” Monica continued, “I want to make this perfectly clear. I am renouncing my inheritance. The money Mr. Schiller mentioned I will sign over to the Catholic Charities in Detroit.”

  Cardinal Sean beamed at Monica. His lucky day, thought Frank. Not a problem for the little lady, raking in megabucks from concerts and CDs. What a disingenuous gesture. It made Frank want to throw up.

  “Monica, that’s most generous,” said Carl, putting down the sheaf of papers. “We have now concluded the official business.”

  Frank was too stunned to notice that Carla nearly tripped over his feet in her haste to leave the room. Ashley jumped up to follow as Carl concluded, “I will be in contact to give each of you your father’s personal message and to answer any questions. Now, Cardinal Sean, would you please conclude with a prayer?”

  Frank tuned out as his uncle droned on about Dad, his soul, and how we would all carry forward his brilliant legacy. At the final sign of the cross, Meredith steered Frank out of the house. Frank’s parting remark: a mumbled, “I will bury Rory.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FEBRUARY 2001

  Muting the Rolling Stones CD, Carla grabbed the cordless phone. “Yes, this is Carla Parnell.”

  The gravelly voice on the phone introduced herself as Miss Lopez from the New York City Health Department, and then asked for her confidential code.

  Carla felt a surge of nausea. Maybe she should just hang up. Last week, Hank, a guy she used to boink—before Bunky—unloaded that he was HIV positive. A sweet guy—straight, or so she’d thought—trying to make it as a model.

  “Face it, we’re high risk,” Hank told her with tears in his eyes. “What I understand, if you got the virus, you’d better know it. Like Magic Johnson. He’s got it. Right? And he’s gonna be okay.”

  Sex and drugs. Carla’s friend, Jan, the one who’d taken her to her one and only Narcotics Anonymous meeting, had said that there was a connection—a cross addiction—between sex and drugs. Parties, drugs, sex, blackouts. Before Carla came into her million from her father, she’d been so desperate for money that she’d signed on to an escort service as “Roxie Randall.” It hadn’t been too bad, better than turning tricks in the streets.

  So with Hank’s urging, she’d had the HIV test, and a hepatitis test as the Health Department suggested.

  “Frances of Assisi.” It took her a moment to remember the code she’d made up. “Frances” for her middle name and “Assisi” for the patron saint of animals. “Do you have the results?”

  “You’ll have to come in to see one of the counselors.”

  Carla’s knees buckled and her voice sounded tiny. “Why?”

  “Routine protocol,” said the scrappy voice. “We’re open nine to noon and one to four.”

  Carla sank back against the pillows. Normally, she’d consider her private doctor. She had great health insurance—one of the Parnell family perks—but with that Peggy Putnam bitch, who managed all the Parnell affairs, sticking her nose in everybody’s business, she couldn’t take the risk. Just the thought of that Putnam woman made Carla cringe. What right did she have to tell her what she could and could not do? When Carla had complained to Uncle Carl, it must have backfired because Putnam started to make her life a living hell, scrutinizing every penny she charged to the Parnell house account.

  But Carla knew that she could count on her housekeeper, Sara Waring, to stick by her. Sara had worked for the Parnells ever since Carla had been a kid. It had been Carla, not Ashley, who had been there when Dad interviewed Sara sixteen years ago. Carla would always remember that day. Her mom was supposed to do the interview, but she had an emergency with a patient. So Dad had picked up Carla at school, and they’d driven to Manhattan. Just Carla and her dad. Not even a limo driver.

  Ever since, Carla knew she’d been Sara’s favorite. A tiny woman with mocha-colored skin, deep brown eyes, and black curls that she always wore piled on top of her head, she lived with her husband and mother in the Bronx. She commuted by subway, and stayed in the maid’s quarters if they needed her for evening affairs or over the weekend. Without Sara, Carla wasn’t sure how she’d survive. Sara protected her from her family and the assholes in her building.

  As Carla waited in line for the slovenly receptionist to check her into the health department, she had second thoughts. Fellow patients were slouched in rows of metal chairs all crunched together. She thought of her mother’s cheery cardiology office. Mom wouldn’t believe this shitty dump. But then again, she wouldn’t believe many of the places where Carla hung out.

  Waiting to be called into one of the cubicles, Carla almost threw up as the odors—disinfectant, body odor, urine—turned her stomach. Why hadn’t she just used cash for a private doctor? But since Bunky had moved into her apartment, he handled the money and she didn’t want to scare him. Unless she had the virus, then she knew that she’d have to tell him. Would she have the guts to do that?

  “Miss Parnell?” She’d given the clinic her real name. Dressed like the other derelicts, shabby, and not too clean, she couldn’t see anyone making a connection with the well-known Parnell family. “You can see the counselor now. Step right in.”

  “Miss Parnell.” A plump, gray-haired lady pointed to a chair in a cubicle. “You’re HIV test came out positive,” she said straight out. “And you tested negative for hepatitis.”

  “Oh fuck,” Carla slumped back into the chair. So Hank had given it to her. Or was it the drugs? “Are you sure? Could there be a mistake?” Floundering for the right question, the one that would give her hope, “A false positive? Oh shit.”

  The woman kept talking, but Carla’s head was in a fog. Somewhere in that fog, her parents were out there, trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  “Talk louder,” she blurted.

  “Miss Parnell?” The fat lady waved a hand in front of her face like a windshield wiper. “Are you following me?”

  “What am I going to do?” She came back in focus. Her parents’ faces faded away, exposing reality.

  “Like I said, you can see a private doctor, or enroll in the HIV/AIDS clinic we run here. Remember, you’re not the first person to get HIV. I suggest you join a support group. Learn from other people’s experiences.”

  Carla didn’t respond. The woman continued, “You’ll have to make some tough choices. About whom to tell.”

  “What?” Carla’s eyes filled with tears as she considered. Bunky? Did Bunky have it too?

  The counselor fidgeted, shuffled some papers, and looked up at the wall clock.

  Carla realized that she was taking up too much fucking time. Starting to cry, she groped inside her purse for a tissue and blew her nose.

  “Oh shit.” Carla stared at the bright red spot on the tissue. The matronly woman reached into a drawer and handed her a fresh wad, not offering to take the bloody one. Carla knew her nose was all fucked up from cocaine.

  “You must tell your sex partners and anybody you’ve shared a needle with.”

  She had to be kidding.

  “They need to know,” the woman droned, “so they don’t go infect others and so they can get treatment themselves if they’re positive.”

  “How long have I had this?” Carla asked, but her question was ignored.

  “Regular medical care is a must.” The woman’s voice made Carla want to put a stranglehold on her pudgy neck. “Modern drugs can keep the HIV virus under control. The drugs are complicated. You need to find a doctor with experience.” The woman let her gaze linger on Carla’s emerald and diamond ring, the one her dad had given her when she’d turned twenty-one. “Or sign in at the Health Department Clinic. I have a packet of information for you. But my advice is to tell others. Those who you think will support you. This is something you’ll have to l
ive with the rest of your life. It’ll be your responsibility to take care of yourself and the more people who know of your illness, the easier your problem will be.”

  Carla sat there, unable to move. Tell people? Support?

  “You think about it. Read the information in this package.” The woman got up and handed her a manila envelope. Still, Carla couldn’t move.

  “I have to see my next client now,” the woman finally said. “Here, take this.” She reached for a sheet of paper from a pile on her desk. “The ten most important questions to ask your doctor.”

  As Carla headed out into the noisy, crowded streets of midtown Manhattan, she let herself be jostled by pedestrians, aimless, afraid to be alone. She ended up at the crack house where she used to hang out before she got the million from her dad’s estate. She did a line of coke. It helped, but when she came down, she still had HIV. She came off the high slowly, not crashing like she sometimes did. Through the lone dingy window, she could see that it was dark, and she decided to go home. She would tell Bunky. Maybe he had it, too, and had never told her. Wouldn’t that be sweet? Anyway, that counselor was right. Bunky did have a right to know. But no one else.

  The residence on Park Avenue seemed empty when she stepped off the elevator into the elegance of the apartment’s seventeen rooms. Sara would have left for home, but where was Bunky? She searched for a note. Not finding one, she headed for her bedroom. Weary and scared, she sank onto the down comforter, and without premeditation, called the number that she had memorized when she was in kindergarten.

  “Hello?” A deep male voice.

  “May I speak to Ashley?”

  “She can’t come to the phone right now,” the man said. “I’ll be happy to take a message.”

  Must be the guy that Rory had told her about—the doctor, twice Ashley’s age. How she’d met this guy right after Dad died. How he’d fucking moved in with her. How totally un-Ashley. Carla had been intending to call Ashley and get it straight from her, but, well, she hadn’t.