Sweat (2 page)

Filming concluded with shots on a knoll behind the main manufacturing area, the slight elevation allowing the camera to focus over the barbed wire fence for an unobstructed view of a brilliant sunset over the waters of the Pacific. With the proper angle, proper lighting, and proper focus, the cameraman followed his orders to perfection. The fifteen thousand dollars he and his men had received for immortalizing lies in the lens of his camera wouldn't weigh on his conscience. He didn't have one. Fifteen grand for eighteen hours in a plane, a few hours of camera work, and two days in the sun. It was easy money.

The senator's filming entourage milled about near the main gate, whispers floating between them. Lee Chang eyed the group as he walked past. “I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to join you and the senator for dinner this evening, Peter,” Lee said flatly, approaching Peter from the side. “I have some urgent business that needs my attention.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Peter replied. “Maybe you and I can get together on my way back from Hong Kong next week?”

“It's possible. I have some business trips planned, but if you let me know your schedule, I'll see what I can do,” Lee Chang answered. “Meanwhile, I've taken the liberty of reserving your favorite table at The Palm. I assume that is acceptable for you and the senator.”

“That's fine. Thank you for the trouble.”

“No trouble at all. And if you like, Chow Ying can drive you over and see to it that you make it back to the hotel safely,” Lee Chang offered, gesturing toward the large Chinese man who hadn't strayed far since their arrival. “He's very reliable. And not only does he drive but he's big enough to keep you out of trouble, should you find any,” he added with a laugh.

The senator looked at his all-star aide. “Scott, take the night off.”

The senator's chief-of-staff looked around. In Washington, he would have protested for the opportunity to stay awake for another twenty-four hours in the name of career advancement. But looking around, he saw no one to impress. And he couldn't imagine any restaurant on the island with a who's who reservation list.

“Yes, sir. I'll grab a beer in the hotel bar and hit the hay. Getting up early to go waterskiing tomorrow.”

The senator rubbed his hands together. “Well, then, that's settled.”

Ten minutes later, with the white van packed, Lee Chang, Peter Winthrop, and Senator Day waved the senator's public relations filming entourage goodnight.

As the van pulled away in a small cloud of dust, the senator inspected the main guard booth and the now present guard. Lee Chang took Peter by the arm and stepped away. The sweatshop boss dropped his voice to a whisper and looked over Peter's shoulder as he spoke, “Interested in the usual companionship?”

Peter, in turn, looked over at the senator who looked back and nodded in approval to the conversation he couldn't hear but fully understood. “Is Wei Ling available?” Peter asked as if ordering his favorite wine from the menu.

“Yes, of course. Wei is available. Shall I find a companion for the senator as well?”

“Yes, the senator would enjoy some company. Someone with a good command of English. I don't think he wants to spend the evening playing charades,” Peter responded.

“No, I'm sure he wouldn't.” Lee Chang smiled, nodded, and barked at Chow Ying in Chinese. The large subordinate walked across the front lot of Chang Industries, down the side of the main building, and vanished into the seamstresses' two-story living quarters. The CEO, senator, and sweatshop ruler went upstairs to wait.

Traditional Chinese furnishings cluttered Lee Chang's living room.

“Nice piece,” the senator said, running his hands across a large black cabinet with twelve rows and columns of square drawers.

Peter spoke. “It's an antique herbal medicine cabinet. The Chinese characters written on the front of each drawer indicate the contents.”

“Tattooed reminders of a former life,” the senator said with poetic license.

Lee Chang stepped over and pulled open one of the drawers. “And now it holds my DVD collection.”

“Modernization never stops,” Peter added.

The three men found their way to the living room and Peter and Senator Day sat on the sofa. Lee took a seat on a comfortable wooden chair, small cylindrical pillows made from the finest Chinese silk supporting his arms.

The middle-aged woman who entered the room to serve tea didn't speak. She had standing orders not to interrupt when her boss's guests were wearing suits. The senator watched the woman skillfully pour tea from a blue and white ceramic teapot. He wondered if the woman was Lee Chang's lover. Peter knew Lee's taste ran much younger.

The intercom came to life on the wall near the door and Chow Ying announced that the ladies were ready. A brief exchange followed in rapid-fire Chinese before Lee Chang ended the conversation abruptly, flipping the intercom switch off.

“Gentlemen, if you are ready, the car is waiting.”

The senator took the front seat next to Chow Ying. Peter gladly sat in the back seat, squeezing in between the two beautiful Asian women. As he got comfortable in the rear of the car, Wei Ling whispered in his ear, her lips tickling his lobe. Peter smiled as his lover's breath blew on his neck.

Shi Shi Wong, the senator's date for the evening, looked up at the seamstresses' quarters as the car began to move. She spotted several faces pressed against the glass of a second floor window and fought the urge to wave.

By the time the black Lincoln exited the gate of Chang Industries, Peter had one arm around each lady. He kept them close enough to feel their bodies move with every bump in the road. He leaned his torso into theirs with every turn of the car.

Peter Winthrop's favorite table at The Palm was in an isolated corner next to a small balcony overlooking intimidating cliffs thirty yards from the back of the restaurant. A steady breeze pushed through the open French doors that led to the balcony, blowing out the candle in the center of the table as they arrived.

Peter asked for recommendations from the chef and ordered for everyone. They had spicy barbecued shrimp for an appetizer, followed by a salad with freshly sliced squid that the senator refused to eat. For the main course, the party of four shared a large red snapper served in a garlic and lemon-based Thai sauce. Copious amounts of wine accompanied every dish.

Chow Ying waited subserviently in the parking lot for over three hours. He fetched two cups of coffee from the back door of the kitchen and drank them in the Lincoln with the driver's side doors open. With his second cup of coffee, he asked the waiter how much longer he thought the Winthrop party was going to be.

“Another hour at the most,” came the reply.

On the trip back to the hotel, the honorable senator from Massachusetts threw his honorability out the window and sat in the backseat with the ladies. Flirtatious groping ensued, the senator's hands moving like ivy on human walls. His Rolex came to rest on Wei Ling's shoulder. His Harvard class ring continued to caress the bare skin on Shi Shi Wong's neck.

Peter made conversation with Chow Ying as the driver forced himself not to look in the rearview mirror. Peter, never bashful, glanced at Wei Ling on the opposite side of the backseat, their eyes meeting with a twinkle, her lips turning up in a smile for her lover. Peter smiled back. Wei Ling was beautiful, and a sweetheart, and intriguing enough for Peter to find an excuse to stop in Saipan when he was on business in Asia. He usually brought her a gift, nothing too flashy, but something meaningful enough to keep her compliant in the sack. A dress, lingerie, earrings. He liked Wei Ling, a simple fact tempered by the realism that he was a CEO and she was a third-world seamstress. Pure attraction couldn't bridge some gaps. But Lee Chang was proud of the fact that Peter had taken a fancy to Wei Ling. It was good business. She was a company asset. He wished he could put her on the corporate balance sheet.

Chow Ying dropped the party of four off at the Ritz, an eight-story oasis overlooking the finest stretch of white sand and blue water on the island. He gave Wei Ling and her sweatshop roommate-turned-prostitute-without-pay a brief command in Chinese and followed with a formal handshake to the senator and Peter. He waited for the four to vanish through the revolving door of the hotel and then pulled the Lincoln into the far corner of the parking lot.

The senator and Peter weaved slightly across the lobby of the hotel. Wei Ling and Shi Shi Wong followed several paces behind. The concierge and hotel manager, jaws dropping momentarily, engaged in a seemingly urgent conversation and didn't look up until the elevator doors had closed.

The memorial service was held at St. Michael's, a stone and masonry masterpiece that stood at the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue and Twenty-Third Street in the District. The main vestibule of the church sat three hundred comfortably, four hundred if the parishioners were willing to get friendly. Christmas and Easter had the sinners lined out the door, but on a Saturday morning for a funeral, the pews were less than a quarter full. Father McKenna, who had baptized Jake twenty-four years before, just feet from where the padre now stood, opened the Bible and read a verse from Corinthians.

Jake Patrick slouched and wiped tears from his eyes, shoulder-to-shoulder with his relatives in the front row of pews. Three uncles, their spouses, eleven cousins, and old friends of the family Jake had known since birth had all made the trek from Portland. Distant friends and relatives in both geography and support. With a nod from Father McKenna, Jake stepped forward and delivered the main eulogy, a speech he wrote and rewrote two dozen times before he came up with something good enough for his deceased mother. Uncle Steve followed with a few words of his own, and when he finished laying praise on his sister of forty-eight years, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

His mother would have appreciated the sentiment, if she hadn't been so pragmatic. But before Susan Patrick had passed, she'd let it be known that the funeral wasn't for her—it was for those she was leaving behind. She was in good hands. “The rest of you still have time to serve,” she loved to say. The last time Jake heard his mother utter those words with her magical smile and a wink, he had managed to laugh. They laughed together amidst the plethora of medical equipment that had filled his mother's living room—beeping and pumping and hissing—straining to prolong her life.

Yes, his mother would have appreciated the friends, family, and co-workers who came to pay their last respects. The good thing about dying slowly, if there is any redeeming quality in prolonged agony, was the opportunity it gave everyone to say goodbye. It was a morbid reality and an opportunity that perhaps only the loved ones of someone lost suddenly can truly appreciate. Real tragedy struck without warning.

The crowd came to pay their respects, the goodbyes long since expressed. And less for a single exception, there were no surprises, no unexpected faces in the multi-colored streams of light formed by the sun forcing its way through the arching stained-glass windows.

Six pallbearers were more than enough to lift the casket, the container far outweighing its contents. Jake didn't see his father until he was exiting the church, one sixth of the weight of the casket resting on his left shoulder. Their eyes met, his father nodded, and for a second Jake thought he saw a tear on the cheek of the man he hadn't seen in over six years.

The procession followed the hearse and its police motorcycle escort through Saturday morning traffic to King James Memorial off Sixteenth Street. Jake's mother had agreed with the selection of her final resting place, a stone's throw from Rock Creek Park and the National Zoo. It was nice—as far as cemeteries go—and if that helped to ease the grief of those she was leaving behind, then fine. Personally, she didn't care where they put her. Her credo was, “Love me when I'm alive, not when I'm dead.”

Most did.

The ashes-to-ashes, dust-to-dust ceremony at the plot of freshly dug earth was short. Hands caressed the casket in a final unfulfilling gesture of intimacy, roses placed on the white cloth that draped the middle of the coffin like an untied belt. Jake made his way to the casket, gave his mother a symbolic final kiss goodbye, and then broke down sobbing for the only person in the world he really loved.

The post funeral gathering was held at Uncle Steve's; Jake's only relative who didn't require a long-distance phone call. The familiar faces from the first several rows of pews at St. Michael's now filled the tight, outdated kitchen with its cracked Formica countertops and worn linoleum floor. The women tried unsuccessfully to evict the men who stood around the small kitchen table inhaling chips and dip, circling like vultures waiting for a more substantial carcass. Jake's mother's favorite jazz CD played in the living room, loud enough to hear throughout the small first floor of the brick row house.

Uncle Steve, fifty, bald, and feisty, passed out cold Miller Genuine Drafts to anyone who would join him in a pre-noon drink. Mrs. Nelson from two doors down moved her sixty-eight-year-old body like the former salsa dancer that she was, and transformed the dining room table from a bachelor pad pile of magazines and newspapers to a place where people could sit down and eat. Smokers were banished to the back porch by Father McKenna, who was the first to take Uncle Steve up on his offer for a late morning beer.

The doorbell rang and Uncle Steve, bald head glistening from the heat of the kitchen, shuffled toward the front foyer, beverage in hand. A curtain hung over the oval window in the antique door, offering only a silhouette of the tardy guest. Steve peeked behind the curtain, yanked the tarnished brass knob, and opened the door. Cold stares spoke volumes as the silent collision of the past and present soured the already somber atmosphere.

“It's been a long time Peter,” Uncle Steve said.

“Yes it has, Steven.”

The two men stood face-to-face through the half-opened door and Uncle Steve made no effort to invite the guest into the house.

“Jake mentioned he saw you at the memorial service. Awfully nice of you to come.”

“I didn't know that Susan had passed. I got a phone call in Hong Kong and caught the next plane out as soon as I heard,” Peter replied honestly.

“Still the world traveler, eh?”

“Some things never change.”

“You said it, not me,” Steve replied with bite.

Miles Davis filled the void in conversation.

“Still in the roofing business?” Peter asked.

“When my body lets me. Bad back, worse knees. Some mornings I can barely get out of bed.”

“Looks like your liver is still working,” Peter retorted, gesturing in the direction of the bottle in Steve's hand.

For a brief second it was just like old times, two brothers-in-law taking jabs at one another. But time has a way of making strangers out of even brothers, and another moment of awkward silence fell on the two.

“Could we not do this today?” Peter asked. “I just stopped by to say that I‘m sorry for your loss. I know you and Susan were close.”

“Yes we were, but not as close as your son was to his mother.”

“May I come in?”

Steve considered the request but didn't move. It was a battle of wills between Uncle Steve, a blue-collar roofer with dirt under his nails, and Peter Winthrop,
GQ
magazine cover model with manicured nails.

“Just for a minute. I won't stay long.”

“You never did,” Steve replied. He took a swig of his beer, fully opened the door with his left hand, and motioned his ex-brother-in-law into his home.

Peter advanced slowly through the living room, past an old upright piano littered with pictures of people he knew a lifetime before. Uncle Steve followed behind, observing Peter as he took in the ghosts of his past. Peter nodded to an elderly couple on the couch. The white haired husband and wife nodded back at the well-dressed stranger.

Peter stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. Jake was at the back door, talking to a vaguely familiar face whose name Peter had long since forgotten. The crowd ripping through the hors d'oeuvres and working on food preparations took notice of the intruder, held their breaths, and exited the room as if someone had discovered a bomb in the refrigerator.

Jake felt the vacuum created around him and turned toward the far doorway to the kitchen. As the whispers grew in the next room, father and son stood at opposite sides of the kitchen like heavyweights in their respective corners of the ring before a fight. Uncle Steve stepped back to give the two some privacy, while remaining close enough to intervene if they needed a referee.

“Hi son,” Peter offered first.

“Hi Dad,” Jake replied. It felt normal to call him Dad, but it was a title he used without any emotional attachment.

“How are you holding up?” Peter asked, out of his element in the role of a father.

“Been better.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Sorry to hear about your mother.”

“I'm sorry too,” Jake replied. He wondered if his father was as uncomfortable as he was.

A long pause interrupted the stalling conversation.

“I wish there was something I could have done.”

“You could have stopped by and visited her. She was your wife at one point. And the mother of your only child.”

“I didn't think she wanted to see me.”

“She was dying, Dad. She wasn't in the mood for a fight.”

“Well if she wasn't in the mood for a fight, then I‘m sure she didn't want to see me.”

Jake forced a small, brief smile. “Mom didn't share your problems with me and she never uttered a bad word about you when I was around. She didn't walk around singing your praises, but she never badmouthed you either.”

“She was a good woman.”

“The best.”

“You're right. I should have come to see her.” Peter didn't believe his own words, but hoped they would provide some comfort to his son.

The resemblance between father and son was unmistakable. The broad shoulders, the brown hair, the chiseled face. The smile. The walk. Jake was casually mesmerized, staring into the paternal mirror at what he expected to look like in another thirty years. He hoped he looked as good as the man in front of him when he reached his fifties. Genetics are a strange thing, he thought. And while he looked at his father, he felt nothing. Jake didn't hold a grudge because his father was an alcoholic, workaholic, or womanizer. He may have been all of the above, but Jake didn't know. And it is hard to be upset about something you don't know or can't remember. He wasn't angry, hurt or disappointed—he wasn't close enough to the man in front of him to have any of those emotions. Everything happens for a reason and Jake tried to leave the past in the past, a skill he learned from his mother. All Jake knew was that he could expect a hundred dollars for Christmas and another hundred for his birthday. The money arrived in generic cards, usually a week or two late, his father's signature probably forged by a secretary.

But Jake did know that his father was successful, and if he hadn't already known, the thousand-dollar suit his father was wearing would have been a clue. He knew his father ran a company or two and lived in a house with a pool. But the talk of private jets, beach houses in the Caribbean, and a garage full of German and Italian sports cars was hearsay. He knew his father had paid child support when his mother had requested it, but she had done her best to keep his money out of her life and the life of her son.

Peter looked at Jake, and as his son had looked at him and seen his own reflection, Peter saw images of himself as a young man. He remembered his son as an infant and had spotty recollections of his son's pre-teen years, but he had missed most of the major milestones. He never met his son's dates, never went on vacation together, missed his son's all-star dominance as the pitcher of the year for the high school city champions, and passed on an invitation to his son's college graduation in favor of a week in Fiji with some floozy whose name he had long since forgotten.

For the first time in his life he felt a fleeting moment of remorse. Then it was gone. Peter Winthrop was a user, always had been. It was a by-product of his upbringing and the neverending chase for more money, more toys, and more women. People were objects, to be used as objects and discarded once their usefulness was exhausted. He didn't set out to act the way he acted, it was just the way he was. Like a leg-humping dog that is never reprimanded, he didn't know any better. When he was younger, no one ever told him there was another way. As he got older, no one dared to.

He knew he was a shitty father, as his own father had been to him. There was nothing he could do to make amends for the past, and he didn't even bother to hope to repair the relationship with his only child. All he could wish for was that his son would have a child of his own and break the vicious cycle of poor fathers that ran through the Winthrop family tree.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Jake asked, breaking the silence.

“No thanks. I have to get going.”

“Are you sure? You're welcome to stay,” Jake said, assuming the role of the adult.

“No, I'm sure,” Peter replied. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card. He plucked a Waterford pen from his breast pocket and scribbled some numbers. “If there is anything you need, I'm a phone call away. Anything at all. You can reach me at any of those numbers, day or night.”

Jake stared at the card pinched between his father's thumb and index finger. Behind his father's shoulder, Uncle Steve looked on at the business-like exchange of information between a father and son acting like complete strangers.

Jake accepted the card, slipped it into his jacket pocket and said, “Thanks.”

As always, Peter concluded the business deal with a handshake. A hug was out of the question for both of them.

“Maybe we can catch a Redskins game this season? I have box seats,” Peter said, his mind already out the door.

“Yeah, maybe,” Jake replied. He knew better than to wait by the phone.

Uncle Steve followed Jake and his father to the door. Peter smiled to the room of strangers, raised his hand slightly in a half-attempt at a wave, and exited the house. He hopped into his two-seater German roadster and drove out of the lower-middle-class neighborhood. He felt better as he worked his way home, back to a residential area with a population in a much higher tax bracket. His kind of people.