Sons (16 page)

“
Y
OU
know I never married. The reasons were the usual ones career women use to avoid commitment, and I won’t bore you with those. Still, I wanted a baby even if I didn’t want a husband. I suppose many women feel the same as I did, so I began searching for a way around my problem. Sperm banks were too clinical for my tastes, but at the same time, I didn’t know any men I would want as the father of my child—except one.”

Marsha looked Jan straight in the eye. “Tim Morris is Zan’s father.”

Jan got that sacrificial ox look again, along with a flush of anger Marsha didn’t expect.

My Tim? Is she saying my Tim is Alexandra’s father?

Jan narrowed his eyes and searched Marsha’s face, hoping she was joking. Suddenly, he felt hot. His eyes refused to focus. All he could see was Tim’s face. Anger seized his throat. He croaked his disbelief with a strangled, “
What
!”

Marsha tried to smile away his hostility, saying, “When you took over the firm from Tim, Zan was a baby and—”

“
Why
?”

“I told you. I wanted a baby, and Tim knew how desperate I was, my getting older and all, and so he offered and—”

Jan held up an impatient hand. “Marsha, I knew Tim, and I knew what a wonderful, generous man he was. That he offered to be the father of your baby is no surprise to me, but the fact that you chose to hide this from me for so long is about as low a thing as I could imagine. Here she is, Tim’s child, and you never told me!
And,
what’s more upsetting is that if Colin and Zan weren’t screwing like a pair of mink, you still wouldn’t have said a word.”

Marsha’s maternal side surfaced as she squared off with her boss. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Jan. Alexandra is
mine,
not Tim’s, and she certainly is not yours! No matter how deep your relationship with Tim was, it doesn’t give you any privileges where my daughter is concerned.”

Marsha got up and walked to the bar. She put her empty glass down and turned to face Jan, who had not responded to her outburst. She squeezed her lips together. “I told you about her relationship with Colin as a matter of courtesy. This is about being a parent!”

“Bull! It’s a matter of expediency. You wouldn’t have said a word otherwise,” Jan accused.

The air between them was hot with barely repressed hostility. The two glared at each other. At last, Marsha found her voice. “Am I fired, then?”

“What?” Jan asked, puzzled.

“Am I fired?” she said again.

“Of course not. This is personal, not professional, I just wish you had told me before, that’s all. When Tim died, all I had left was his property and money, but nothing of him. You have the only part of him that walks and talks. I’m jealous.”

Usually never lost for words, Marsha, for once, was silent. She wasn’t going to rub salt in an obvious wound, but she wasn’t going to give ground, either. “Well, I’d better get to work.”

Marsha headed for the padded office door, where she stopped and turned. “Oh, by the way, don’t forget you have a meeting with the deputy ambassador of Belarus this afternoon.”

Jan nodded, then said, “Marsha, you and Tim didn’t, umm… you know….”

Marsha gave a little laugh. “No! It was an artificial insemination. I thought you’d have figured that out on your own.”

“Sorry. Actually, I’m not sure why I asked,” Jan said, annoyed with himself.

“You’re not going to take this out on Colin, are you, Jan?” she said. “They’re just kids, you know.”

“Marsha, what do you take me for? Like you said, all we can do is watch over them until they either make or break themselves.”

“I didn’t say that, but thanks for the sentiment.”

“Welcome.”

“Are you going to speak with Colin about the sex thing?”

Jan replied, “Does the Pope wear a white dress?”

Twenty-Five

M
ARSHA
left Jan sitting on the office sofa, gazing out the window at the broad view of Rittenhouse Square below. He looked long into the noon light, trying to sort out his feelings.

Tim has a daughter
, he thought,
a child of his blood. And Marsha. She sees Tim every time Alexandra walks by. She sees his auburn hair full of soft waves and curls, his dark eyes
….

Jan wondered if Alexandra’s nose crinkled when she laughed, the way Tim’s did.

“And what do I have to remember him by?” he asked the empty office.

He waited for an answer, but even his angels seemed at a loss for words. The carriage clock on his desk chimed one thirty.

Jan heaved himself to his feet, walked to his desk, and grabbed his briefcase. He ran his fingertips over the words embossed in the rich buff-colored leather:

FACERE LUDICIU
,
DILIGERE MISERICORDIUM

Do Justice, Love Mercy. Tim gave Jan the de Main family motto as a Christmas gift when Jan was eighteen.

“Well, at least I have this,” he said, answering his own question.

Out on Rittenhouse Square, Jan headed to the Saint Roi apartment he and Tim shared for so many years. Since moving into Michael’s loft on Columbus Boulevard, Jan hadn’t visited the old Saint Roi address more than once or twice a year. Several months had passed since he'd walked down Van Wyck Street, and yet so little had changed. The flower shop, directly across from the Saint Roi where he first met Tim, continued to thrive. It had new owners, but the same battered sign leaning in the front window, now faded by harsh sunlight and dust, still read: “Special Today! Large bunch only $10.”

The traffic began to build up, as those who could afford city parking-lot fees fled to their suburban homes.

A boy Jan figured to be about fourteen or fifteen approached him, looking for a hand out. Through gray teeth, discolored by cocaine use, the boy asked, “Got any loose change?”

The teen’s clothes were stiff with dirt, body soil, and constant wear. Jan could smell him from four feet away. The stench attacked his eyes, making them water.

He saw himself, and what, in all probability, would have been his fate as a sidewalk boy toy, if not for Tim Morris’s intervention.

But for the grace of God go I.

Jan blinked away the image. Jamming his hand into his pants pocket, he retrieved a five-dollar bill.

“Here,” Jan said, “get something to eat.”

The hustler fingered the fiver and said with a smirk, “If you’ve got a little more and a place to go, I’ll do ya.”

“No thanks.”

Undeterred, the boy pled, “Come on, I’m real good.”

“I said no. Besides, how do you know I’m not a cop?” Jan said.

“Your shoes,” was the kid’s saucy reply, as he wobbled off in a narcotic daze.

He watched the boy as he approached another man farther down the block. Jan let out a rueful sigh, turned, and finished his walk down memory lane, crossing the street and ending up in the Saint Roi’s lobby, where a celebration was in full swing.

“What’s going on?” Jan asked, amused.

Mary Ann, one of the security guards, turned to answer. “Oh, hello, Mr. Phillips. We’re having a little party for Jerry. It’s his fifteen-year anniversary here. Fifteen years in the same building. Can you beat that?”

Just then, the guest of honor stepped up.

“Hi, Mr. Phillips, have a glass of champagne!”

Marsha’s revelation that Jan’s first love and mentor was the father of her child had dampened his sense of bonhomie.

“Thanks, Jerry, another time. Okay?” he replied, trying to hide the anxiety in his voice.

Jan didn’t wait for an answer but went directly to the private elevator that had only one destination beyond the Saint Roi’s marble lobby, his penthouse condominium.

J
AN
eased himself onto a window bench in the master bedroom. For six years, he and Tim Morris had slept and made love and, in the end, tearfully parted here. The room was unchanged since that day. The four-poster bed, with its double king mattress, though huge by any measure, stood dwarfed by the bedroom’s sheer size. Jan snatched up a corner of an ecru colored silk curtain and idly twisted it around his finger. A thin line of sunlight knifed across the plush carpet, then zigzagged up the face of the red mahogany armoire before fading into a poof of stray beams and floating dust.

Jan closed his eyes, conjuring up memories of Tim’s strong arms around him, his laughter and raw sexual energy that, at times, became unpredictably harsh. Still, it was the sense of being wanted that fed Jan’s heart. Although he shared his life and wealth with Jan, Tim remained, much like this room, a man hidden in the shadows. The break between them came when Jan finally understood that Tim’s true interest in him went well beyond love, or even the raw desire for an androgynous eighteen-year-old. His intention was for Jan to be an extension of himself, representing all Tim believed in and stood for. There was little room left for Jan and his dreams. On his death, Jan did indeed inherit Tim’s world in every respect but one.

Jan pulled his knees up under his chin, looked over at the bed, and thought of Alexandra, Tim’s very much alive daughter.

“Tim, you son of a bitch. Will I ever be free of you?” Jan muttered.

Twenty-Six

“
C
HRIST
, Pytór! Did that idiot Yuri have to kill her?

“I thought he was joking when he said she was pretty enough to snuff,” Louis Carew screamed at the Russian.

Crazed with remorse and fright, he wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. Louis was referring to the girl half of the city was looking for, a girl who, with Louis’s help, Pytór Krevchenko had
delivered
to his client for sex, perhaps more. The more part of the bargain meant
the killing of an innocent child.

Louis recalled the girl’s panic when she realized what was happening to her.

“Please let me go! I promise I won’t tell…. Please!” she had cried as the Russian jammed a rubber ball gag into her small mouth.

Louis paced the room, wringing his hands.

“We’ve got to do something. Do you hear me? Something, damn it!”

The once very blond, very thin, and very handsome Russian, now middle-aged and paunchy, said in a voice made husky from a lifetime of chain smoking and hard drinking, “Louis, sit down, and please restrain yourself before you become ill.”

Pytόr guided the stricken man to a shabby sofa covered with a fabric stained with residues of indeterminate origin.

The Russian put his strong hands on Louis’s shoulders and pushed him down onto the spongy cushions of the lone seating in the Fly-Away budget motel, so named due to its noisy proximity to Philadelphia’s airport.

Suddenly, the tiny room shook like a bowl of sugar-free Jell-O at a Weight Watcher’s convention. Pytór waited patiently as the after-boom of a jumbo jet faded away.

“Louis, my friend,” Pytór continued, his words rolling in a thick Ural accent, “you knew perfectly well snuffing the girl was, how shall I say it, an inevitable yet regrettable outcome.”

If the Russian was trying to calm his American counterpart, who also was in the business of supplying children for sex, he was failing miserably. Sex was one thing. Louis liked girl flesh too, but murder! He hadn’t bargained for murder.

Louis pushed the Russian away and stood. He resumed pacing the room, wringing his hands and cursing.

He thought,
I gotta get out of this mess!

Pytór began to suspect he was losing his control over the American. Like Pytór, Louis loved the huge amounts of money he made catering to the depravities of wealthy men and women. The trouble with this American was, like others fed to fatness in a decadent and spineless society, he had a conscience. It was an intolerable liability in their line of work.

Louis stood with his back to Pytór. He looked down at the thin industrial pile carpet and shook his head.

“You just don’t understand, Pytór,” Louis yelled. “This is America! People go to jail or worse for killing people, especially little kids. Are you trying to get us killed?”

Louis turned and faced the Russian.

“Do you know what happens to guys who hurt kids when they end up in prison? Well, do you?”