by Rachel Kane
I could bring her down here.
His eyes flashed open with the memory of Tina’s voice, and he found himself turning his head to the door, just to make sure his aunt and mother weren’t standing there, outlined by moonlight like serial killers in a slasher film, orchestral stabs playing on the soundtrack.
“What was that?” asked Dalton.
Noah blinked. “What?”
“That look you just had. Like you’d just realized you’d left the oven on.”
He shook his head. “Just adjusting to the water. It takes me a minute for my nervous system to calm down. Listen, I don’t want to press you. You need to relax, clearly. Look at your shoulders, all bunched up. Something’s on your mind. You want to tell me about it?”
Dalton grimaced and shook his head. “Not really. But I suppose I’d better.”
21
Dalton
Can you get the story straight in your head, so you can tell it to Noah in a way that makes sense?
Will he even understand?
It wasn’t something he wanted to tell.
Yet he’d traveled all this way. And he owed it to Noah.
Colby and Dalton had stepped out of the elevator onto their father’s floor, and the entire atmosphere had changed. The old man wasn’t in his bed, and for one panicked moment Dalton thought about death, as though somehow Dad might have died and been disposed of in the minutes it had taken to get from Colby’s office to here.
Dad was sitting in a chair near the window, swaddled in blankets, looking down at the view of the park. Sitting on his own, accompanied only by the long oxygen tube that snaked across the floor. In his hand was a drink he definitely was not supposed to have, yet his color was better than it had been in prior days. More importantly, he was in a chair, not the bed.
Dalton couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat up.
“You know you’re not supposed to be drinking,” he said. “Where did you even find that?”
“Forgive me my trespasses,” his father said, eyes not leaving the window. “It turns out if you bribe the nurses enough, they’ll bring you anything. Besides, the doctors want me on narcotics day and night, to dope me out of my head so I’ll be nice and quiet. A little scotch is nothing.”
“I’m glad to see you out of that bed,” Dalton said, pulling up a chair. Colby leaned against the frame of the window.
The old man brought the drink to his lips with obvious pleasure, although Dalton couldn’t help but notice the slight tremor that shook the surface of the scotch. “How is the company? Everyone good and panicked now that I’ve stepped down?”
“We’re calming them,” Dalton said.
“The biggest lie in business is the image people have of themselves,” said Dad. “The businessman sees himself as a captain of industry, strong, unshakable. But drop the share price five cents and he turns into a diaper-baby crying for his mama.”
(”Diaper-baby?” asked Noah. “That’s what he said? He should meet Roo. She’d put those businessmen to shame.”)
“Why’d you call us up?” Colby asked. “Just to watch you drink? We’ve seen that before. We thought it was an emergency.”
The glass glistened in Dad’s hand as he raised his index finger and shook it at Colby. “It’s an emergency if I say it’s an emergency. That’s the power of being… What’s that damn title you gave me?”
“Chairman emeritus,” said Dalton.
“Damnable Latin. Emeritus. Sound like a damn professor. Boys, the minute I signed the company over to you, it was like a weight fell off my heart. I’ve been doing this work for fifty years. Thought I’d die at my desk. But when I had the heart attack, suddenly dying at my desk didn’t seem like such a good idea.”
“Dad, you’re not going to—” But his father’s raised hand interrupted Dalton’s reassurance.
“Maybe I’m not long for this world, and maybe I’ll hang on until I’m a hundred and three. It’s not for me to decide. But doing this now, moving the company over to you boys, it’s a gift to you, trust me. Doing it while I’m alive is a damn sight easier than doing it after I’m dead.”
“We’re grateful,” said Colby. “And we’re going to do you proud.”
“Are you?”
Ah, here it is, Dalton thought, tensing at his father’s tone.
“I knew you boys would fight. I don’t care about that. But dereliction of duty? Leaving your post, when the company is at its most vulnerable? That’s what surprises me.”
Dalton shot Colby a look. How could you tell him about my night off? But Colby’s expression of surprise, his shrug and the slight shake of his head, told him that Colby wasn’t the one who had told Dad.
“What are you talking about?” asked Dalton. “Maybe you need to set that drink down. Between that and pain-killers—”
“Don’t you patronize me. I know exactly what you’re up to, and you can stop looking over at your brother. I don’t need him to tell me anything. Fifty years, Dalton. Fifty years buys a lot of loyalty from a lot of people. You left work to visit some boy-toy.”
“I swear I didn’t say anything,” said Colby.
“More’s the pity,” said Dad, “because that lets me know I can’t trust you or your brother. Why would you cover up for him, Colby?”
“Dalton’s a grown man, Dad.”
“He might be a grown man, but is he the right man for the job? If his first instinct is to go off and pleasure himself with some scrawny runt—”
“All right, enough,” said Dalton. “You’ve got no right to say anything about it. I’ve worked at this company my entire life. You think I don’t deserve a night off now and then? You think I don’t deserve to be happy?”
“You have responsibilities.”
“It was one night.”
“A crucial night, a night you could’ve been calling customers to calm them down!” His father coughed, sputtered, droplets of scotch dotting the blanket, and after that flash of the old anger, the old strength, his coughing made him seem frail again, paper-thin. Dalton took his drink, setting it on the table by the chair.
There were so many things he wanted to say.
I have sacrificed every emotion I’ve ever had, to help run this company.
I’ve given up having a personal life.
Given up having any dreams of anything else.
Everything I have ever done, has been for you. To make you proud. And here we are at the end of your life, and instead of being proud you’re using your last breaths to chastise me for trying to be happy.
He had never been able to say anything like that to his father.
His father didn’t deal in feelings. He didn’t care about happiness, or fulfillment, or romantic love. He’d traded all that for power, for money, for a sense of satisfaction at ruling over a multinational concern.
His romance, his love, was tied into this building, this business. It had been that way to some extent even while Mother was alive.
The demand, the assumption, was that the boys would follow in his footsteps, feeling nothing except those same emotions. The pride of conquering a market. The thrill of defeating a competitor. Everything else should be bottled up, put away, not considered, unless maybe it was over a thoughtful scotch at the end of a busy week. Five minutes to feel your feelings, then it was time to put your big-boy pants back on and rejoin the battle.
It had worked for so long…but it wasn’t working anymore.
Ever since he’d met Noah, something had changed inside him.
It was like being in a prison your whole life, not even realizing it was a prison, not understanding that there was anything outside the windowless gray walls that protected you.
Then a door opens, a door you’ve never noticed, and you get a sudden glimpse, the white-blue of the sky, golden fields, green moss.
You understand what it means to be free.
What it means to feel.
At that point, there is a choice. Knowing what you know, that an outside w
orld of brilliant color exists, you can choose to stay inside. The four walls may be featureless, may be close together, may make you feel trapped, but they’re known.
Or you can step outside, leave the safety of your former life, and try something new. You don’t know what’s out there. You don’t know what might be lurking in that blazing daylight world.
Was this how it was going to be? In thirty years, forty, would Dalton be sitting here at the window, staring down, watching the last moments of his life pass by with nothing to show for it but an increasing number of zeros tacked on to his net worth?
Was it always going to be a battle? Was he always going to have to choose between his heart, and his place in this family?
It was one night with Noah, and they acted like the world was going to end.
“What did you say to him?” Noah asked.
Dalton shook his head. “Nothing. I couldn’t say anything. If I argued, it would just stress him out further, weaken him. But if I agreed with him…that would be even worse, in a way.”
“If you don’t mind me saying this, your family is really overreacting. I mean, I know your dad is sick, but he sounds like kind of a drama queen as well.”
He stared at Noah a moment, before breaking into laughter. “Oh god, you’re right. I’ve never thought about him like that before. But that’s it. He’s so used to snapping his fingers and have the whole world do what he wants. Are power and drama really the same thing, it's just that we respect the one and roll our eyes at the other?"
Noah wriggled down until the back of his head was in the water. "Some of us roll our eyes at both."
There was more. He needed to go ahead and tell it. But he found he didn't want to. It wasn't just that it was bad news. There was something about the water, something that insisted everything was going to be okay, even though his mind argued otherwise. The water, lapping and hot, coming up from the depths of the earth, seemed to represent something old, eternal, stable, not given to the whims of business or businessmen. Water didn't have to obey anyone's orders. It would run through these pipes until it decided not to, and then the pipe would burst, and the water would be free. Always moving, always changing.
He felt more of Noah's leg touching him, as Noah sank further into the water. Was that a troubled look on his face? It was hard to tell. When he'd arrived tonight, the Cooper brothers had made vague mention of troubles in the evening, but wouldn't be more specific with him. What could be troubling Noah?
He wasn't going to talk about it, unless Dalton drew him out, he could tell that much.
Dalton wanted to do that. Wanted to know what was going on.
But first...
"I need to finish the story, or I'm never going to get it out," he said.
Noah pushed himself up. Water glistened on his skin as his shoulders emerged from the bath. The moment his nipples touched the air, they grew hard and small. Another opportunity not to talk; Dalton could simply put his mouth to other uses instead, sucking on those delicate little nips, feeling Noah shudder under his attentions. Just the thought of it was making Dalton hard, although that felt a little indiscreet; the spring-house wasn't private, anyone could walk in, although he thought the guys would probably give them space.
Somehow that made it worse, knowing that they could be disturbed. It added a layer of the forbidden to things.
I could just stop my story here, he thought. I could pull him onto my lap, and we could forget all our troubles. Turn a bad night into a good one.
Yes, and that would avoid any feelings, wouldn't it? The one thing Dalton was trying to stop doing. Noah deserved to see his real emotions, his real thoughts, not the equally-honest lust that Dalton would prefer to use to cover the darker things he was feeling.
"I'm listening," Noah said.
He had no choice, then. He had to tell the tale.
His father's words hung in the air. The unfairness of them--it was only one night!--filled Dalton with a helpless frustration. Was this the same man who had talked to him for hours every night years ago, telling him his theories of money and business, answering his child's questions as though he were an adult? Dalton had felt so serious back then, sitting in the chair reserved for business guests, while his father cracked a window to let the cigar smoke out, and began to tell him about structured finance, about tax incentives for manufacturing, about negotiating the best deal possible without leaving the other fellow feeling cheated. You always want him to come away feeling he's won, his father told him once. That way, he'll come back next month, next year, and want to do another deal with you. People won't do that if they feel like they've been fleeced.
Tonight was a grim parody of those talks. Instead of a cigar filling the air with its fumes, there was the steady hiss of the oxygen tube.
How do you tell a man on his death-bed that he is overreacting?
How do you argue?
"I need to know you're taking this position seriously," Dad said. Colby stood nearby as though for moral support. Dalton could see the jealousy in his brother's eyes. Could practically hear him think: I would've never been called on the carpet like this, if he'd made me CEO. He would've been proud of me.
You'll never understand, Dalton thought.
"I'm taking it absolutely seriously," he said. "I've been doing the job for a while now, you know that. And I'm bringing the same level of expertise--"
"Colby tells me you let the robotics factory hire new staff."
He shot his brother a glare. "Yes I did. We've got to finish this massive order, and they needed more people."
His father shook his head. "Wrong. You make do with the men you have. Add more, and your profits start running through your fingers. Didn't I teach you anything about this business? You're losing your focus, Dalton."
He had to restrain himself so hard. He couldn't yell, couldn't raise his voice even a decibel.
"We had the factory at its breaking point," he said. "We're still going to make money. So much money."
"But you could've made more!" gasped his father.
Was that it? Was that all that concerned him, here at the end of his life, the lost pennies that could have been pocketed?
If we poured every dollar into your coffin, Dalton thought, you wouldn't be one dime richer in heaven. What's the point?
"Dad, maybe you ought to rest," said Dalton. "You can't get worked up like this."
"If you ask me—" began Colby.
"No one did," warned Dalton.
"—it's because of that damned house."
His father turned his head to look at his younger son. "What house? What do you mean?"
"Colby, come on," said Dalton.
"This place down south," Colby said, and Dalton felt his heart drop. "It was something we were looking into for the foundation. Dalton fell in love with it, I guess. Said he wanted to buy it for you."
A gift. It was going to be a gift. Now it was just a weapon in the arsenal of Colby's sibling rivalry.
His father clearly not grasping his point, Colby continued. "I think he got obsessed with it. It was all he would talk about. Either buying it, or using foundation funds. There's a guy there, too."
Oh no.
"All right, I think you've said enough," Dalton told him.
"A guy," said his father. "You're losing your focus because of a man?"
"I'm not losing my focus at all."
"Ask him where he was last night," Colby said. "Ask him who he was with."
So this was it. Colby was making his play. All this time, Dalton had thought Colby was content to be second in command. Third, when Dad was running things.
Wrong. Colby wanted the brass ring. He wanted it all.
I never thought you'd stoop to sabotage. I never thought you could be this disloyal.
And to do it right in front of Dalton.
"You're the only person who could make a gift to our father sound like a selfish act," he told Colby.
"Of course it's selfish. Sure it is. You decided
you wanted to impress Dad, to solidify your place in the company...and then, once you met Noah, you thought you could have it both ways. Butter up Dad with a new house, then steal away with your new boyfriend."
"I don't like what I'm hearing," said Dad. "Not at all. Is any of this true? What's this house?"
Dalton sighed. What was the use in denying it? He told Dad everything. Almost everything. Discovering Superbia Springs. Falling in love with it. Thinking it would be the perfect place for Dad to spend his last days.
His father's face hardened when he said that.
"My last days. You were ready to shuffle me off, were you?"
"I wanted you to enjoy yourself."
In a loud voice that trembled and shook inside the reeds of that ancient throat: "You wanted me out of the way!"
Oh shit. He's crazy. What has Colby been filling his head with, while I've been away?
I did it because I love you, he thought.
He couldn't say the words. Not with his dad glaring, not with Colby looking so fucking superior, arms crossed, standing just to Dad's side.
They'd just laugh at him.
They were businessmen. Dad's perfect vision of what a businessman should be like. No emotion. Just calculation.
Except that had never been true. There was plenty of emotion there. Anger. Frustration. Greed. Was greed an emotion? Surely it was.
"Now he's changed his tune," Colby said. "At first he was going to buy the house for you, but now that he's infatuated with Noah, instead he's back to using the grant money. Writing them a big check to impress his new boyfriend. Buying his love, I suppose."