Bulls Island

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Thanks,” I said, and let myself into the sanctum of fear and terror.

  As he had been doing during my last “papal audience” with him, Bruton stood looking out his windows, down at Rockefeller Center and over the thousands of people below, who were hurrying in zigzags like so many ants on amphetamines. His hands were behind his back, clasped in some kind of fervor of contemplation. His fingers were white from the pressure. I noted this in the same way someone climbing to the gallows would recall the patina of the hangman’s shoes.

  “Hi!” I said, attempting to sound nonchalant.

  “Hi,” he said, turning to greet me. “How was your trip?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  Niceties over.

  I would not say that his expression was one of anger or disgust, but I would say his mood bordered on the bubbling fury of every devil in hell. Kerosene with a match to restore the fires to their most effective level. Human barbecue to follow.

  “Sit,” he said.

  Like a good dog, I sat. He went around to his side of the desk, sat in his chair, leaned back, and looked at me long and hard across the dry gulch of silence between us for a very uncomfortable and excruciatingly long few minutes. Then he leaned forward, shoved the newspaper toward me, and leaned back again.

  “You’ve seen this picture and read the article, I assume?”

  “Yes, I have. Very stupid.”

  “Very stupid of whom? The photographer? The reporter? You? You know, when this came across my desk, it struck me as odd. Really strange. There was something wrong here, something that was out of character for you, at least for as long as I have known you.”

  “I never said those things.”

  “Okay.” Pause. “I believe you if you say so.” Silence followed by more silence. “It’s none of my business what you do on your own time, but it is most definitely my business what you do on the company’s time. With our money. And how you watch our investments. And our reputation. Obviously, I have to know what’s really going on here. We have huge bucks in this. The other partners, even Pinkham and McGrath, are not pleased by what this picture implies, and more importantly by what this scoundrel of a pissant journalist says you think. And before I cancel this entire deal, I’d like to hear an explanation from you.”

  Bruton was predictably furious.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Apparently. Betts, I’m not saying that you’re not entitled to a personal life, because you most definitely are. Love is fine. But in business it’s better left at the door. You get involved, you start to buy into the other guy’s priorities, suddenly you exist in your own deal outside of your company’s best interests, and the next thing you know you are compromised in a way that’s unprofessional. Even lethal. You know that. You’re too smart for some dirty little office affair, so what the hell is going on here? Before I cut our losses and throw this whole deal out of the window, I’d like some facts.”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “All the time we need. Now, let’s have it.” He leaned forward and crossed his arms on his desk in the most attentive position I imagined one could assume. But his brow was drawn in deep furrows and I knew it was going to be difficult to explain the situation in a way he would want to hear.

  “I’m not sure where to start…”

  Forty-five minutes later, Ben Bruton knew all the environmental issues as well as I did and understood why close communication with J.D. was so important to the deal. I couldn’t endorse decisions on ARC’s behalf if I didn’t understand the local politics and the real problems with pollution, erosion, and the disturbance of habitats.

  “So there was quite a learning curve on this one, is that what you’re telling me?”

  I could sense that he was starting to relax, as there was a moderate change in the clench of his jaw from a Great White to the claw of a blue crab.

  “Yes, and there’s more. Obviously.”

  Soon he knew the history of my relationship with the Langleys. He asked all the right questions and I answered him honestly, choosing my words with care. But there was still a sense of uncertainty, that famous Bruton hard edge that had no problem putting a sword through a blueprint. He was on the verge of pulling me off the project, and if he did, my career would go up in flames. I could sense his temptation to do this in every nerve ending.

  “So, you’re satisfied you can handle the public’s, shall we say, extreme displeasure?”

  “Yes. Well, to be completely honest, we have had frequent problems, daily almost, with vandalism, but nothing more serious than slashed tires, green spray paint, and that kind of thing.”

  “Maybe it would be a good idea to go down there, you know, pay a visit. Do a PR splash?”

  “Can’t hurt. We’re actually hiring a publicist.”

  Then, after a considerable pause, came the bomb.

  “And what about J. D. Langley? Your boy is his, isn’t he?”

  What? What did he say? I felt the blood and sweat drain from my whole body and I was sure that if I looked in my seat and on the floor, I’d see it all there in a pool. The room began to turn and I thought I would faint right then and there. I didn’t know what to say.

  “He doesn’t know, does he?”

  “Know what? Who?”

  “J. D. Langley. That your boy, Adrian, is his son?”

  “How? How did you find out?”

  “Two phone calls. And the picture on your desk. Great God, Betts, he’s practically a clone.”

  We stared at each other. Finally, fighting back an ocean of tears, I found my voice.

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Why am I asking you this? Perhaps it might make a difference if I share the details of my personal life with you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bruton stood, faced the bookshelves behind his desk, picked up a photograph of his wife and children, and stared at it, taking a deep breath.

  Then he turned back, put the photograph down, leaned across the desk, and said to me in a very quiet, extremely angry voice, “Because my mother left me in a laundry basket on the steps of a church when I was just hours old. How clichéd is that? It’s like something out of an old black-and-white movie, isn’t it? In fact, that’s probably where she got the idea. Who knows? But the punishment? I never knew her. Or my father. All my life. No mother. No father. Never knowing, thinking they didn’t even care. And they didn’t. Grew up in orphanages and foster homes. Here I am with all this, and guess what? They don’t know. No one to slap me on the back and say, ‘Good job!’ You want to do that to your son?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “You see, Betts, in this lousy world, here’s what means everything. Integrity. That’s the stuff that makes and breaks lives. You’re a smart woman. So, even though this is technically none of my affair, I want to know that you’re not going to do to your boy what my mother did to me because it’s so, so wrong. What’s your plan?”

  “To continue working on the Bulls Island project—”

  “And figure out how to come clean? I am no longer so worried about the project. A good campaign can clear that up. You know, another stab at informing the public that we aren’t the evil developers.”

  “Even though we are.”

  “Everything is point of view.”

  “Hey, I’m on the side of the house.”

  “I know that. Betts? Listen to me, the sooner you tell J.D. he has a son—”

  “He’s married.”

  “Of course he’s married. But he doesn’t have to make a public announcement about an illegitimate son, does he?”

  “He’s getting a divorce.”

  “That’s what they all say. Let me tell you something, okay? When there’s shocking news to deliver, it’s best to just put it out there. The person hearing it will need time to process it anyway. That’s the truth.”

  “I don’t want to use Adrian as a tool to expedite his divorce.”

  “Don’t
flatter yourself, McGee. He’s a man. He’s going to do what he wants.”

  “Don’t go sugarcoating it for me, Bruton. Thanks a lot.” I stared at him, a little angry and insulted. But it was true, wasn’t it? It was all true.

  “I don’t like this stuff in the papers, Betts. It’s garbage.”

  “Neither do I. I agree.”

  “Let’s not have this happen again. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Okay, do you have plans for dinner?”

  “I was just going to go back to my apartment and throw up.”

  He actually laughed.

  “Okay, then. I just thought you might like to join a group of us at Sparks. We’re starting a new fund to invest in the operating turnarounds of mid-market companies.”

  “Bor-ing.”

  “You’re right. You could’ve handled that in the ninth grade, but I’m just guessing.” He clicked his mouse on his computer screen and brought up his calendar. “Let’s see here. All right. Looks like I could come to Charleston in three weeks. Is three weeks sufficient time to execute a plan to move the public-awareness-campaign rock up the hill?”

  “Could you use another word besides execute?”

  He smiled again.

  “Actually, I thought I might surprise my son with dinner or something. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “Good idea. Listen, I haven’t told anyone else that I was thinking he was Langley’s boy. That’s your secret to tell, not mine.”

  “Thanks.” So he didn’t actually know! That son of a…“So you weren’t actually sure?”

  “I play poker on the weekends.”

  “Ah. Well, it does my heart good to know you have a vice.”

  “Go call your son.”

  I stood, knowing I was dismissed. “Right. Hey, Ben?”

  He had already reimmersed himself in the three computer screens on his desk, watching numbers.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for listening and for—I don’t know—understanding.”

  He looked up at me and I had the feeling our relationship had moved away from the red zone and closer by a notch to green.

  “Life’s complicated,” he said. “Try and keep it simple. Don’t get all sappy on us and stay in touch, okay?”

  “You know it.”

  I let myself out, passing Darlene with a serene smile for her to interpret and distribute along the gossip machine. Bruton did not eat her alive.

  I stopped in my office and went to my desk. I took the framed photograph of Adrian and dropped it in my purse. Seeing no other items that demanded any attention, I tossed all the junk mail in the wastebasket and left. I had almost left the building when I felt another hand on my elbow. Dennis Baker, Elevator Annoyance. Ew.

  “Hey! I thought you were out on assignment. What are you doing here?”

  “Had a meeting with Bruton.”

  “Everything okay?”

  I just looked at him and wondered if that now renowned newspaper article had been posted on the company’s website or Smoking Gun.com.

  “Of course everything is okay. Like it’s any of your business?”

  Dennis backed up and threw his hands in the air, feigning innocence.

  “Hey, I’m just being a friend, you know, happy to listen or help out. Whatever.”

  “Oh, Dennis, Dennis,” I said as I pushed the revolving door to the street. “There is no whatever between you and me.”

  I didn’t look back, but I could feel his cynical smirk groping my derrière, which had been the target of his weasel eyes from day one.

  I pulled out my cell phone and pressed Adrian’s number on speed dial.

  “Mom? I’m in the library,” he whispered. “Can I call you back?”

  “Sure, but I just need a sec. I’m in town. Wanna have supper?”

  “Um, sure! Seven okay? Meet you at home?”

  “Perfect.”

  I hailed a cab, got in, throwing my overnight bag across my seat, and gave the driver my address. When we pulled up in front of my building, Sam the doorman was there.

  “Well, Ms. McGee! I wasn’t expecting to see you today. Welcome home!”

  “Thanks!” I said, giving the driver a ten-dollar bill. “Keep it,” I said. I was feeling generous since I had not been fired in disgrace. “How are you, Sam? Everything quiet in the building?” I handed him my bag.

  “Yes, ma’am. Quiet as can be. We like it like that.”

  “Yes, we do, Sam. Quiet is good.”

  He went ahead of me into the lobby and pressed the elevator button. When it opened, he held the door for me. I stepped in and he placed my bag at my feet.

  “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Nope, that’s great. Thanks, Sam!”

  The door closed quietly and I pressed the button for my floor. For some reason, the elevator seemed small and claustrophobic. And I thought for the moment about how my surroundings seemed to change dimensions every time I left them for a while. The door opened and I stepped out, fumbling for my keys. The day’s mail was stacked on the hall table and I was sure there was a mountain of it inside.

  When I was out of town, my housekeeper brought the mail into the apartment for me and piled it on the kitchen counter, next to where I had the garbage cans tucked away in a lower cabinet. We had known each other for so long, she even knew which catalogs to discard. Bills had their own pile, Bergdorf ’s and Saks catalogs had theirs, just in case there was something I wanted from there that I couldn’t live without even though I could walk to either one of them in twenty minutes. Anything that was hand-addressed or that looked like personal mail was placed front and center so that I would be sure not to miss it. I gave that stack a cursory flip and decided it could all wait until later.

  My apartment felt lonely. I went into my bedroom and decided when I caught a glance of myself in the mirror that I looked lonely, too. Maybe I was.

  “You need a shower,” I said out loud to no one, and began taking off my clothes.

  I let the water in my bathroom run and run until the air was thick with steam. A hot shower always lifted my mood and Adrian would be there soon. I would order sushi or whatever he wanted. We would get caught up. I missed him then, something fierce, and I couldn’t wait for my arms to be around his neck.

  The time flew by, the mail dropped into the trash, and soon Adrian was there, ringing the doorbell.

  “Hi, Mom! Where are you?”

  He had rung the doorbell and also let himself in, calling out so he wouldn’t scare me to death.

  “Hey! Where’s my boy? Come here, you!”

  It seemed that he had grown taller and older, more mature in the few weeks since I had seen him, and I marveled at the changes.

  “Mom! Wow! You look great!”

  Maybe I had a bit of a suntan?

  “Thanks! So do you! Who is this strapping young man before me? Oh! Sweetheart, I missed you so!”

  “I missed you, too! Strapping? What’s for dinner?”

  “Just like a male, always thinking of your stomach!” I said. “Get the menus!”

  “Nothing like a home-cooked delivery!” he said.

  “You know it!”

  Soon we were eating sashimi, shrimp tempura rolls, and all sorts of Japanese delicacies.

  “So tell me every detail of your college experience, baby. How are your classes? Your roommate?”

  “Classes are wicked hard. It seems like all I ever do is study. George the Slob is good. He’s from like this really huge family. Must have a zillion cousins or something. On parents’ weekend—”

  “Parents’ weekend? Did I miss that?”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I called Aunt Jennie and she came. I wasn’t going to drag you all the way back here for something that lame. I mean, it was stupid and it wasn’t important to me.”

  “I feel terrible! Adrian! You know I would’ve come! I just didn’t remember…”

  “I know that! Jeez, Mom, don’t fall apart over it. It was th
is really huge waste of time anyway. Seriously!”

  “Still! I mean, I never missed a class play or anything and now I blew this? Your first parents’ weekend?”

  “There’s another one on the calendar. If you want to blow a perfectly good day sitting in an auditorium listening to a bunch of academics who are so boring you could kill yourself…”

  “When you find out the date, I want to know, okay?”

  “It’s on the website. But anyway, I gotta tell you, Mom, the only thing that sort of got to me was that George has such a huge family! Seriously! I mean, there’s just us? Don’t we have any cousins or anything? Any old ladies in nursing homes? We’re from Atlanta, right?”

  We’re from Atlanta, right? His words were slamming all around the inside of my skull like bullets ricocheting on the walls of a steel vault. Was this the moment to tell him? No. I quickly decided it was not. News of that importance deserved a well-thought-through revelation, not some slapdash “Oh, by the way…”

  “Adrian, I wish I could tell you we have more family, but well? What can I say?”

  “Well, I Googled ‘McGee’ and ‘Georgia’ and there are massive amounts of them in every county. It’s just a little hard to believe we don’t have anyone on the planet besides us who is a blood relative.”

  “I know. But there it is. We don’t have one single relative in the entire state of Georgia. Maybe some of them are distantly related, but I never knew them.” I was deceiving him again. This could not go on forever, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “Not even one hillbilly hiding in the mountains of Tennessee? Somebody with a still and no teeth and pet pigs?”

  “If we do have relatives like that, I wouldn’t be claiming them and you know it. So tell me about your professors.” My left eyelid began to twitch.

  “My professors? Interesting question. They cover a wide range. I think my algebra teacher is like an alien or something…Mom? Are you okay?”

  “Sure, I’m fine. What do you mean?”

  “Your left eye is, like, going nuts over there. What’s bothering you?”

  “Me? Oh, nothing. Just a little stress at work.” My traitorous eyelid!