by David Lewis
I took another breath. We stood there awkwardly until she bridged the gap and hugged me. She smelled just as I remembered, but it seemed terribly different. She was here because she wanted to be, not because she had to come out of a sense of responsibility. I resisted the inclination to linger within her arms. She felt comfortable, warm and safe, and when I let her go, she kissed me on the cheek and smiled into my eyes as though we hadn’t been divorced just a few weeks earlier.
Minutes later, Larry came by, carrying a bouquet of flowers.
My father rasped out humorously. “I ain’t no female, son.”
“Flowers are for men too,” my mother assured him.
Larry didn’t skip a beat. “Actually … I was hoping to impress the nurses. Maybe … get a date or something…”
“Well, then,” my father exclaimed, gesturing to his fold-out table. “Put ’em front and center. I’ll put in a good word with that cute brunette down the hall.”
Larry sat down and bantered with my father while my mother left the room to compose herself. When she returned, her face splotchy, Larry offered to bring supper for her, as though playing the dutiful son she supposedly never had. She politely accepted his offer.
“Bring me some ice cream,” my father said, tongue-in-cheek.
Larry laughed and left the room.
It was early evening when my father, after taking another nap, decided it was time for our talk. Larry had left hours before, having punched my shoulder on the way out. Hard. It still smarted.
My mother rose. “I’ll be down the hall.”
“Stay, Mom.”
Dad shook his head. “I need to talk to Stephen alone.”
Hidden from my father’s view, Mom lingered at the doorway. Be careful, her eyes said, and I nodded, which seemed to reassure her.
Once Mom had left, my father’s eyes closed again. At first I wondered if he’d suddenly fallen asleep again. Then, without looking at me, he said, “I don’t blame you at all, Stephen.”
I was prepared to head him off at the pass. I didn’t want to hear his premature deathbed confessions. “You’re going to be fine, Dad. Let’s not do this, today.”
He opened his eyes. “Do what?!”
“Anything that will needlessly rile you,” I said. “You need to stay calm.”
“Stephen, please,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “May I have five minutes of your time?”
I sighed. My father swallowed, then started again. “I don’t blame you for hating me.”
I looked down at the floor. “I don’t hate you.”
My father licked his lips and considered my dubious reply. “What kind of idiot do you think I am?”
“Dad, please—”
“I can’t make up for being a lousy father, but I can apologize, and if you don’t want to accept it, then don’t, but at this point, that’s all I got.”
I expelled an exasperated breath, still looking at the floor. When he didn’t continue, I looked up. His eyes were closed again. I waited for another minute before he spoke again.
“I never intended to cheat anyone, but there’s a whole lotta folks who’ll tell you otherwise. I was trying to help, Stephen. I just … wasn’t very good at it.”
“You were a good salesman,” I said, for lack of something better to say.
He blew out an exasperated breath. “That’n’ a quarter will get you a cup a coffee.”
“Dad—”
“I don’t want to rehearse the past, Stephen. There comes a time when you just chuck the whole thing and hope that God sorts it out.” My father took a deep long breath and sighed. He opened his eyes again and fixed me with a piercing gaze. “I kept ’em,” he said. “You were only twelve when I realized the game was over, but I kept ’em anyway.”
I tried to make sense of his seeming incoherence.
“They’re in a box,” he said. “Your mother knows what they are, and when you see them, you’ll understand. I wanted it all back, Stephen, but by the time I woke up, it was too late.”
My father struggled with his composure. “I wanted it back…”
“Dad, get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He snorted. “I got all eternity to sleep.”
I resisted the inclination to chide him. “I’m going to get Mom.”
Dad reached out and grabbed my arm. I was startled by his strength, like a vise grip, and his eyes pierced my own. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “If not for her, I’d die with nothing.”
I forced a smile. “Mom’s special. We all know that.”
Closing his eyes, he sighed, and I gently pulled away from his grip. “I’ll get her for you, Dad.”
After I had found Mom and we returned to the room, Dad lay very still. I assumed he’d dozed off again, but his face lacked color. He’s tired, I told myself, ignoring the queasy feeling in my gut. For the next few hours, Mom and I shared few words, and Dad didn’t awaken. Mom thumbed through a gardening magazine, if for no other reason than to stay occupied, and I caught a few winks in the chair, thinking about the upcoming scheduled surgery.
Snippets of our conversation flickered through my mind. I got all eternity to sleep. And I cringed at the memory of our last phone call. Come with me, he’d said.
I was suddenly awakened to the sound of a continuous shrill beep. Code blue 252 echoed over the intercom system. I glanced up at the heart monitor and to my horror, realized the EKG had flatlined. Before I could react, several nurses burst into the room, pulling what appeared to be a big red toolbox. In a flash, our room became the center of frenetic activity.
I hugged my trembling mother, who prayed under her breath. One nurse opened the box and pulled out two paddles, and another nurse ushered us out of the room. As the door closed behind us, I heard the words, “Charge! Clear!”
For thirty minutes, Mom and I hovered by the door, waiting for any word. Finally, a doctor came out, his face glistening with sweat. I recognized the truth in his grim expression. So did my mother. “He’s with Jesus,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Dear Lord, watch over my husband.”
The doctor continued speaking. “His aneurism must have ruptured. We don’t know for sure, but an autopsy would confirm this.”
As I tried to listen, my thoughts were as incoherent and rambling as my father’s speech. He was perfectly fine a few hours ago.
They allowed us to visit Dad one last time, to say our good-byes. I did my best to simply hold Mom as tightly as I could, until she’d said everything she’d needed to say and the nurse gently lifted the sheet over Dad’s face.
A few minutes later, two men in blue hospital gowns gently lifted my father’s body to a gurney. As Mom and I followed, they took him downstairs. The mortuary had already been notified.
The next few hours were a blur. Larry came back. Ruth was there. Eventually, all the arrangements had been made, and when my mother hugged me good-bye, just before getting into Ruth’s car, she whispered what I would have expected: “You’re in shock, Stephen. Please don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself.”
My throat closed. My dear mother. Her husband had just died, and she was worried about me. Dazed, I drove home in the dark, through a world that had changed suddenly. Inside the house, and alone again, I tried to embrace the reality of it. My father was dead. I slept fitfully that night, trying to erase the last images of my father’s life.
The next morning, I drove up to Frederick to attend Sunday church with my mother. She’d insisted on seeing her friends again, regardless of the timing.
When we entered the church, the entire congregation converged upon us. People I’d never met before hugged me, offering condolences.
“Your father talked about you nonstop,” someone said to me. “His death was so sudden!”
“You look just like him,” someone else whispered in my ear, and for once it didn’t seem like such a blight.
We sat up front again, like privileged guests. The pastor acknowledged my mother from the pulpi
t, then announced the plans for a Wednesday funeral. I reached over and patted Mom’s hand.
“He’s in a better place,” she said, smiling through the anguish in her eyes.
On Wednesday, during the funeral, Donna and Alycia sat on one side of me, Mom and Larry on the other side, while the minister spoke of a gentle man who didn’t resemble my father. Alycia sobbed nonstop, and I wondered if our divorce hadn’t contributed to her newfound vulnerability.
“She’s more fragile than you think,” Donna had said to me.
It’s natural, I told myself. No one handles funerals well. But in my heart, I knew there was something else going on.
Thursday my mother invited me out to the house. I drove the twenty miles in radio silence, and was relieved to see her surrounded by friends, seemingly in good care.
When I came in the door, her friends greeted me, and I lingered for as long as seemed appropriate, listening as the others engaged in painful reminiscing.
Excusing myself, I wandered around the house until I noticed, in the living room, a cardboard box resting on an old ottoman.
When it was time to go, Mom handed it to me. “Open it at home.”
I was tempted to protest, to buy some time, but instead placed it in the trunk of my car. When I got back, I pulled into the garage and shut off the engine. I pressed the remote and the garage door lumbered down.
In the dimness of the garage, I opened the trunk and stared at the box. Bracing myself, I lifted the lid and found my old softball and mitt, given to me by neighbors I’d long forgotten.
Slowly, I closed the box again, folding the flaps. Carrying it inside, I buried it in a corner of the basement, hoping I’d never see it again. When I ascended the stairs, it finally hit me. Strangely exhausted, my legs stiffening, my arms suddenly weak, I allowed myself to sink to the stairwell.
I’d already spent a foolish lifetime lamenting what might have been, and as I sat in the middle of the stairs, I now wept for what could never be.
CHAPTER TWENTY - EIGHT
On Friday morning, the doctor provided a preliminary diagnosis for Paul’s situation. What seemed to be a coma, they said, wasn’t a coma at all. “It’s severe brain damage,” the doctor said in his now-familiar clinical tone. “He’ll need to relearn how to talk, how to walk, how to eat.” A lifetime of physical therapy would be required, not to regain his former life, but to function merely like a five-year-old. “Even that’s somewhat optimistic,” the doctor told Clare, who was visibly shaken. We all had expected, hoped for, something far better.
Susan wasn’t around to hear the report. She’d already left for Minnesota to stay with her sister. She hadn’t even said good-bye, and I didn’t expect to see her for a long time.
In the meantime, I’d called my attorney to begin the bankruptcy proceedings, and while I waited for a court date, he suggested I attend Gamblers Anonymous. I looked for one, but the closest chapter was Sioux Falls, two hundred miles away.
Late morning, Alycia phoned me from school, and her mood was more dark than at the funeral. I tried to conduct a normal conversation, but getting her to open up was like extracting teeth.
“What a pair we are,” I cracked a fake chuckle, but she didn’t chuckle back.
“Let’s get some ice cream,” I suggested.
“I hate ice cream,” she said. “Always have.”
During the course of our remaining conversation, I continued to probe gently, but the more I did, the more distant she became. Finally, I asked, “Is there someone else you’d rather talk to?”
I meant it well, but she must have taken it wrong and hung up on me. An hour later, Alycia called back. She sounded as if she’d been crying again.
“Okay. Fine. I need to talk to you—in person,” she said.
“Of course, honey,” I replied. “But have you tried talking to Mom?”
“I can’t tell Mom,” she cried. “I need to talk to you.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Whatever it is, honey, we’ll get through it.”
I promised to pick her up after work, and once again, she hung up without saying good-bye.
Unfortunately, Larry had picked this day to release the bombshell I’d been anticipating for months. When he poked his head in the office, I nearly dropped my teeth. The patented affluent suit and incongruent tie had been replaced with jeans, a long-sleeve plaid shirt, and tennis shoes.
“What are you doing for lunch?” he asked in an offhand manner.
My initial inquiries were met with a hokey smile. We locked the office and took his car to Sixth Avenue. On the way, I tried to read his cheerful behavior.
“Going on vacation?” I asked him, sizing up his attire.
He turned to me and granted me another puzzling smile. “I’ll tell you everything in a few minutes.”
The Steak House was a semi-fine restaurant with no windows and plenty of private booths. A young man in a white jacket confirmed Larry’s reservation and then led us to the back, to what seemed like a padded cubbyhole.
Larry ordered wine, another first, and after perusing a selection of steaks, we ordered lunch.
He leaned on the table and swished the wine in his goblet. “I know you’ve been trading, Stephen.”
He said it as if I’d done something illegal, but I didn’t deny his accusation; at this point, admitting it would have been a mere formality. Besides, my poker face wasn’t up to par.
“That’s what you brought me here for?” I asked.
“I knew you would lose it all.” He took a sip of his chardonnay and continued. “It was inevitable, wasn’t it?”
I bit my lip and braced myself for what now appeared to be a rather abysmal lunch, but he switched gears. He asked about Donna and Alycia, as if he and I were mere acquaintances, not best friends, as if he had suddenly come to earth after having been gone for months.
When the waiter brought the food, my appetite had long since disappeared into a quagmire of irritation. I fixed Larry with a confused frown. “What’s going on, Larry? Surely, you didn’t bring me here to give me a lecture.”
This time he didn’t hedge. “We’re about to be indicted, Stephen, and I’m not sticking around for it.” Larry casually finished cutting off a piece of steak, stuck it in his mouth, and began chewing.
That simple.
“Indicted?”
Again, that goofy smile emerged as he chewed his food. He seemed to enjoy eating in a way I hadn’t seen in months. “Tax fraud,” he mumbled through a full mouth.
“Tax fraud,” I repeated. Of course.
In an exaggerated casual manner, so casual I wondered if he wasn’t just making the whole thing up, he explained the situation. The more he talked, the more flabbergasted I became. Offshore trusts. Fraudulent charitable foundations. Diverted income to nonexistent foreign corporations.
He finished by confirming the obvious. “We’re ruined, Stephen. There’s no partnership anymore. Once they arrive, and I figure they’ll be here in days, no later than Monday, our assets will be frozen— what’s left of them, that is—and eventually the business will be dissolved.”
I leaned back in my chair and fixed him with a bewildered frown. Monday was only four days away. “Am I missing the punch line?”
He laughed, nodding proudly. With a dramatic flair, he reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to me. “You beat me to it.”
I stared at it, confused. Opening the flap, I pulled out a small paper. It contained what seemed to be an account number, a random array of letters, and the name of a bank.
“Remember how you once walked me home after school because I was too scared to face my dad alone?” Larry’s expression bordered on the nostalgic, a new emotion for him. “ ‘For better or worse,’ remember?” Larry chuckled. “Your half, partner.”
“Half of what?” I asked.
“Just don’t lose the number or the password,” he said. “It’s your ticket out, Stephen.”
I stared at the number. �
�How much?”
“Two point four,” he replied without blinking.
I stared at him. “Thousand?”
He laughed. “Get serious.”
“Who does it belong to?”
“You.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Multi-multi-millionaires. All of ’em rich enough to absorb my fee without batting an eyelash. Thirty thousand a pop. And for that, I saved them millions.”
“You stole it.”
He shook his head with irritation. “Of course not. They paid us fair and square. They knew the risks. For my advice and expertise they took a chance. Most of them will survive unscathed.”
“Most?”
Larry nodded. “I’ve burned the paper trail. The files have been shredded. The hard drive has been wiped clean. Tax returns are all they have.”
It was all so glib. Another walk in the park. Another day at the zoo. Two million dollars. Finders keepers, losers weepers.
“Where is it?” I asked. “What country?”
Larry grinned proudly. “Guess.”
“Switzerland.”
Larry laughed. “Grand Cayman.”
I considered this. “So … what’s next?”
“I told you,” he replied, cutting the last piece of charcoaled steak, forking it into his mouth. “I’m leaving.” He finished chewing, dabbed his mouth with the linen white napkin, and wiped off his hands. Apparently, he was leaving now.
“Where?”
Larry tossed the napkin on the table and abruptly stood up. “Deniability, partner. I can’t tell you.”
“So … you’re leaving me here to answer the questions.”
“I’m paying you well for it.”
I looked at the paper again.
“Check it out,” Larry said. “They have an online Web site. Plug in the number, but erase your footprints once you’re finished.”
“I have to lie?”
Larry snorted. “Is that a problem?”
“They’ll give me a lie detector test.”
“So … fail it. Lie detector results are not admissible evidence.” He chuckled. “Besides, they can’t torture you.”