The Collectibles (4 page)

With that, Peter rubbed his son's head and put his right arm loosely around Preston's shoulders. Preston stiffened, words imprisoned somewhere deep within. Moments later, Peter rose and strode out the door.

Preston crawled under the covers of his bed, the recorder in his mind playing his own conversation with his mother, and that of his mother and father, over and over.

You don't understand, Preston. It's not that simple. I don't want you to make the mistakes
. . . I don't want to discuss your father in this way . . . There is good reason to connect Preston to your deal . . . You have my love, but you don't have my respect. I love you, Peter, God knows why. But I'm .
. . tired of it all . . . there will be a divorce . . . You're an abject failure . . . You're an abject failure
. . . You're an abject failure.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. “May I come in, Preston?” his mother asked. “The door is unlocked,” Preston said as he sprung up in bed and pulled the covers around himself as his mother walked in.

“Your father tells me that he has spoken with you,” she said, perched on the edge of the bed. “Don't let this upset you too much, Preston. Your father loves you, as you know I do. You and I have each other, and we will survive this and be fine.”

Preston awkwardly put his arms around his mother. “I'm not sure what to say, Mother. I really want to try to get some sleep. I need to think about all this.”

“I understand, Preston. It's been a long day. I'll talk to you in the morning, dear.” June quietly got up, sidled to the door, and gently closed it behind her.

You're off chasing rainbows . . . you have a wife and a son who are unclear what you really do and who you really are. Do you know how many deals I have given you money for that were going to make you millions
?
. . . I'm not stupid, Peter, and neither is Preston . . . You're an abject failure.

Preston, his mind spinning, turned off the light and stared into the darkness. He finally fell asleep, but not before making himself a promise.
I'm going to be a bloody financial success no matter what. I will never be an abject failure.

T
he chancellor's words were drowned out by the increasingly loud sound of rap music that came from a black Pontiac speeding by. No one would have paid any attention, except for the confusion that came from the shot. Or was it a backfire from the car's engine? The crack startled Joe as he took Ashley's hand to guide her up the stairs to the Hall. She was holding back as if her dress were caught or she were being tugged by yet another of her admirers.

 

Earlier that afternoon Joe had felt the warmth from the soon-to-be-setting sun through the bathroom window as he struggled with his bow tie, rushing to keep up with Ashley in preparation for her big event. He knew that he had to be ready by six o'clock and could tell by Ashley's glance that his late start was, as usual, not appreciated. Over the years, he had come to understand and even appreciate her several editorial looks directed at him. She had, after all, only partially trained him.

He'd glanced over at her as she brushed her hair and applied the faintest amount of make-up. She had a face a guy could spend his whole life looking at: high cheek bones, sparkling blue eyes that highlighted full eyebrows, and silky golden brown hair.

Ashley applied unnecessary last-minute touches, while Joe slipped into his rack size-forty tuxedo jacket and stood before the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. He brushed his still-full head of salt and pepper hair, noting the increasing grey setting in at the temples. He'd taken a moment to check his eyes, satisfied they were sufficiently clear, indicating that his long day in grueling depositions had not been enough to prevent his bounce back from the shower. He wanted to look his best for Ash tonight.

Ashley wore a long black Armani dress. The diamond brooch and pearls she chose were understated but perfectly suited for the charity crowd they would soon greet. Joe caught a whiff of Ashley's Joy perfume. After fourteen years, he still felt excitement and stirring when he saw her. But when she really turned it on, like tonight, he was mesmerized.

Joe stood staring, trance-like, at their picture on the night stand, he in his full Navy dress and she in a pale blue silk gown set off by a simple diamond necklace and matching earrings. Ashley told Joe that of all of her jewelry she loved those most because he had given them to her when he really could not afford it.

“Joe, can't you move a little faster? What are you doing staring at that picture?” As if realizing she'd spoken sharply, she added almost in a whisper, “I have a surprise for you, but it can wait until we get home.”

Jarred by the tone in Ashley's question, Joe responded, “Nothing, just thinking.” Then he turned to her. “Ash, this is your night. What's bothering you? What's wrong?”

“Sorry, I don't mean to be short. I'm a little edgy tonight for some reason.”

“Why?” He gently put his hand on her shoulder.

“Oh hell, Joe. A lot of things. It's complicated. I know it's my night, and that's part of it. I realize we need to honor the donors, keep their spirits up, all that. But these companies could afford to give so much more, do so much more, really engage. Instead they're happy to take the deduction, the press, and move on. The awards highlight them and fundraisers like me, not the needs of those we're trying to help.”

Joe knew this was a time to just listen. As he looked at his wife, he recalled the night they met. It was at a cocktail party in her home town of Charleston, South Carolina, held in honor of the officers of the
Trader,
then one of the Navy's new groups of nuclear submarines.

Neither four years at Annapolis, nor the years as a naval intelligence officer assigned to the Navy's fleet of spy submarines, had prepared him for the impact Ashley would have on him that night, or since. Ashley understood all of the nuances; she was an effective lady. Men, of course, were instantly aware of her beauty but they soon were equally impressed with her intelligent approach to any topic. Women simply loved her. She had a soft touch but things got done. They saw that she could be trusted and that she cared not only about what she was trying to accomplish but about them personally as well. They could feel her warmth and knew it was sincere. While Joe appreciated all of that in her, what he loved – and what everyone else loved – was Ashley's lack of pretense.

The cocktail party was scheduled for seven on the lawn at the entrance to Taylor Hall with the concert to follow. Ashley was to receive an award for her cancer crusade work from the National Lung Association, together with the university's distinguished “Medal for Life.” It would have been impolite, to say the least, to be late for the opening ceremony.

The chancellor of the university had arranged for Ashley and Joe to be picked up by limousine. While Joe appreciated the gesture, Ashley fretted that it was a waste of university resources. Whatever it was, the car was waiting.

Joe snatched a last-minute glance in the mirror and noticed Buck, his German shepherd, in the background. Joe could see Buck's fully upright and alert ears and, of course, those penetrating dark brown-black eyes watching every move. Buck had joined Joe and Ashley as a puppy ten years before, in response to Ashley's anticipated loneliness and to add to her sense of security when Joe was first assigned to an extended Atlantic tour. Underlying Buck's arrival was the inability, despite the lack of discernible medical reason, of Joe and Ashley to have the child they longed for. The idea for a German shepherd had come from Red Barnes, Joe's roommate at Annapolis, his best man, and his executive officer on the
Trader.
As usual, Red was right. Buck was always there, following Joe and Ashley from room to room, ready to travel. His intelligent eyes were compassionate, alert, comforting. His strength was obvious, his love and devotion unconditional.

Joe softly commanded Buck to stay and told him they would see him later. At the same time, he playfully commanded Ashley to get going. “Come on, Ash,” Joe teased, laughing and locking his soft hazel-brown eyes with hers. His voice seemed to blend his authority and his humor, all in a way that made one trust him, want to follow him. They shared a soft kiss and walked downstairs into the limo.

It was a fifteen-minute ride to the university, winding through the older section of Braydon, past the country club and under the arches formed by the eighty-year-old live oak trees. As Joe leaned back against the large, black leather seat, he took Ashley's hand and gave it a tender kiss. He could not help but reflect on how good life had been to him since a somewhat shaky start. He thought about his mother and father and hoped that somewhere up there, they were aware of how far he had come from Mineville. What would they think if they were riding in this limousine tonight? Would they have expected their son to be a prominent attorney, respected by his peers, judges, friends? Would they ever have thought he would marry a woman such as Ashley? He realized that he would never be accepted in southern society in quite the same way Ashley was, but he did feel taken in.

“Competence is respected here, that's what counts,” Dr. Robert Worthington, their local doctor friend, had said upon Joe's arrival in Braydon years earlier. While Joe, coming from the Adirondacks, had his doubts about that, he'd come to feel that Dr. Worthington was right. The same had been true when he went to law school after the Navy, and especially as he handled more and more sophisticated legal cases over the years. Joe got the cases the big firms couldn't handle and was known far beyond the Southeast for being an exceptionally cool attorney under fire, one who could figure a way out that worked for everybody.

Joe watched Ashley make notes in preparation for her remarks and, at the same time, admired the azaleas just coming into full bloom that April evening. He decided not to interrupt her, to resist telling her again how tremendously proud he was, how deeply he loved her. He would tell her all of that and more later tonight. He wondered about the surprise Ashley promised, reminding himself not to allow his dream of their having a child overpower his expectations. Yet he could not suppress the hope.

The limo pulled up to the crowd gathering in front of Taylor Hall. A group of cadets from the Citadel lined the entrance, their white gloves and uniforms sparkling with swords at their sides. The evening was a perfect 68 degrees. Joe could see the glow in Ashley's eyes as she took the gloved hand of one of the cadets and stepped from the limousine.

Several young girls were greeting guests at the entrance; each wore a long flowing gown and a warm, full smile. Ashley was instantly surrounded by friends and well-wishers, for many of whom she had arranged large donations. Seventy-five guests were in place, engrossed in excited conversation.

Except for the faint sound of loud rap music, no one noticed the convertible swerving down University Drive, carrying five teenage boys. Nor could anyone smell their liquored breath or hear their adolescent arguing, laughing and shouting.

The chancellor welcomed the guests outdoors and enthusiastically invited everyone to enter Taylor Hall to begin the ceremony. He approached Ashley and Joe, bowed slightly to Ashley, and took her white-gloved hand, raised it slowly to his lips and kissed it. “You look stunning, Mrs. Hart. We are honored to have you here this evening.” He motioned Ashley to lead the way.

As Joe took her hand, he looked into her face, first seeing her odd expression, then feeling the warm trickle of blood on his right arm. When he moved his hand and arm up to cradle Ashley's head, he felt more blood, mushy and warm. Ashley collapsed on the stairs. The primal scream began somewhere deep within Joe's gut, but when it finally erupted, he never heard it.

W
hat followed was pain beyond Joe's worst nightmares. He watched the following nights and days as if they were played for him on a sharp, fast-forward screen. The futile rush to the hospital by ambulance, the conversations with the doctors and later the police. “Sorry, Joe, I know this is rough. Do you know how many random drive-by shootings killed innocent people last year?”

Yes, the boys were caught. Yes, the boy who fired the handgun was arrested, and pled guilty. No, it did not make any difference. Yes, the shooting would be used to rally the anti-handgun laws and to support Braydon's anti-crime drive. No, Joe would not lead any anti-crime reform causes and was tired of explaining.

Then there were the conversations with Clayton Anderson at Anderson Mortuary about the details of the funeral. “I know this is difficult but there are a few matters we need to discuss and for you to decide, Mr. Hart.” Joe found himself hating the details and hating the choices, especially the choice of the casket. He finally settled on a fine wood but wondered if that was for Ash or himself.

The staff at Anderson's greeted well-wishers and friends in the same gracious manner it had for the last one hundred years, and for Joe the funeral was a blur. He did recall and was surprised to discover how much he appreciated the many flowers. He had always sent flowers but until then never knew how much they could mean. It was toward the people that he experienced a lack of feeling, not for any want of their responsiveness. If anything, Joe pulled away from their reaching out, knowing that they only wanted to help, feeling guilty in his withdrawal.

Joe understood the funeral was important and faced it with the same discipline – instilled at the Academy and polished by the Navy – that he had employed all his life. Joe and Ashley's home was full of people bringing food, trying to help. During calling hours at the funeral home, all offered well-intended remarks and expressions of sympathy. Silence would have been more appreciated.

 

While hundreds of people came through the long lines, Joe did not remember any of it. His old Navy buddy Red Barnes was there, of course, at Joe's side, quietly anticipating Joe's needs and doing all he could to help. Red took calls from friends, clients, and well-wishers, most of whom he did not know, and did his best to take notes about who had called. Apart from struggling with some of the accents, Red was able to understand most of the callers. A few, however, seemed different from the rest, their conversations hard for Red to decipher. Somebody who identified himself as Johnny seemed to talk in a particularly strange way. “Tell Joe Johnny called. Okay. Tell Buck okay.” Red thought he must have been a nutcase.

Then there was a caller named Tommy Greco, who sounded like he was right out of
T
he Sopranos.
A woman named Missy, who was too upset to talk, just said, “Please tell Joe I love him and wish I could be there but . . . well, he'll understand.” And a man named Harry, who said to tell Joe he was sorry, but he wasn't feeling well.

 

Finally, Ashley's burial. And then nothing. Joe felt as if a dentist had given him a full body shot of Novocain, administered directly into his heart. Ashley's parents returned to Charleston, people stopped coming to the house, and only Red was left.

“I'll be fine, Red. I'm okay. Go ahead. Need some time alone. Thanks for being here. As always, you've got my back. Got Buck, and he's better-looking than you anyway.” In reading Red's face, Joe knew that this was not enough. They had been together too long. “Okay, look, I can't sleep and when I do for an hour or two, I see her . . . sort of like a dream . . . and I really want to see her. I know I can't. It sounds crazy. I wake up in a total sweat. Then I take another shower.”

“You always took too many showers,” Red replied with a smile. “Who is going to give you the save-water speech?”

“Thanks for your searing insight, Buddy,” Joe said with a forced grin. “It probably all comes down to time. I'll be fine. I got an idea, Red. Why don't you get your sorry ass out of here and leave me alone?”

“Aye aye, Cap. I'm out of here, but keep in touch and tell me how you're doin'. That's an order.”

Joe walked Red to his metallic gray Panamera Turbo. Joe looked the Porsche over and the two men smiled, shook hands and slapped shoulders. Joe spun at the doorstep and returned the salute he knew Red had given so Red would know he was fine.

But Joe was not fine. For many nights he did not sleep, only briefly dozing off. Believing Buck needed as much consoling as he did and thanking God they at least had each other, he tried to get his dog to jump up and sleep in bed. But Buck remained on the floor, on Ashley's side.

Joe constantly thought about his Uncle Howard and Aunt Lettie, the heavy responsibility they must have felt taking the place of his parents, killed in a freak lumber mill accident when he was ten. He loved his uncle and aunt dearly and he knew they had done their best. But he wondered what his mother and father were like, and what it would have been like to be raised by them, to have felt them. Even though he didn't know them, he'd always missed them. It was through Ashley – her love, her understanding, her acceptance – that he had finally come to peace over the loss of his mom and dad. And now he'd lost the compass that led him out of that place. How was he supposed to go on now? Why should he?

Joe felt that he was having a conversation outside of himself, but he didn't know where it was coming from, or where it would lead. He hadn't been afraid of much in his life because he had faith and always managed to determine where he was going and how he would get there. Now he had no idea where he was going and less of an understanding as to how, or if, he could get there. His training was kicking in on one level – push forward, get it done – and on another level he felt he was in a deep, black hole. He decided for the moment, at least, the best he could do was to keep moving.

Over the next six months, Joe threw himself into his law practice, finding the huge caseload helpful and the people gracious, save a few well-meaning jerks, who simply could not let the topic of his loss alone. He looked forward to the long hours, avoiding empty nights at home and meals sitting across from an empty chair. He learned he could be utterly alone in a group of three or a crowd of two hundred.

He thought about seeking the counsel of his minister. He respected Dave, found him easy to talk to and certainly understanding. He knew how valuable a minister could be under these circumstances, having observed how helpful the doctors and clergy were to the men with whom he served in the Navy when they got in trouble or were under unbearable stress. Joe realized the value of all this, not to mention the connection he knew Dave would make to his relationship with the Lord and the comfort and the support that would provide.

It was essentially the same story that was drilled into his head when his mother and father died, although he was too young to fully understand it. He heard it again when his Uncle Howard passed away, soon to be followed by his Aunt Lettie. But this time it was not enough. This time he and Buck were all alone and no words were going to change that. And there was no reason for it. No logic. Why? Why would a woman like Ashley, in the prime of her life, be killed by the bullet from a gun of a young kid she never knew? How could it happen? The whole thing made no sense and Joe could not, despite day after day of thought, make any sense out of it.

At first he found himself waking up and reaching out for Ashley or calling for her as if she were there. He found himself talking to her and asking Buck about her. In short, he felt he was losing his mind. Then he went through alternating periods of withdrawal, hostility and anger, listening to himself lash out at clients, friends or others in a way he'd never done before.

He was aware that he was doing it but what bothered him was that he couldn't stop doing it. He'd been pissed off before, yet for his whole life he had managed to be in control of his emotions. That was one of his greatest strengths and that's what everybody talked about who'd worked with him in the Navy and served with him on the
Trader.
It was one of the components of his leadership, an area for which he was most admired. Where was that quality now? Would it come back? He didn't know. Worse, he didn't care.

Wanting to communicate less and less, he shut down his email and cell phone.

So he asked himself,
was this the time to go see a shrink?
While Joe had on occasion dealt with psychiatrists on behalf of clients and friends over the years, he had never consulted one in connection with his own problems. Although increasingly aware of his depression, Joe sure as hell did not want to be medicated. He'd seen enough of that over the years, in and out of the service. He knew time was his only ally. He remembered his feelings of abandonment and despair when his mom and dad were killed, and found solace in having survived that loss. He would survive this one, too.

Your Aunt Lettie and I love you like our own son . . . I wonder sometimes whether we've been good enough for you . . . We prayed many times, asking for help from the Almighty
. . . Lettie and I could not be more proud of you if we tried.

He had learned through Ashley to let go and to love flat out, without reservation or qualification, but now reservation and qualification were back. He drove cars too fast, slammed doors too hard, and apologized too slowly. He resented it when his friends implied – and some expressed directly – that six months was time enough to get on with your life. How the hell did they know? How could they possibly understand the life he and Ash had? How many had ever experienced that? Time might diminish the scar, but no time would ever be enough where Ash was concerned.

While he wanted to cling to everything to do with Ashley, he also knew he had to do something, make some change. He kept being drawn to the pain he'd felt when Lettie told him that God had taken his mom and dad, and they were in heaven now. Looking back, he knew he would have joined them if not for his aunt and uncle. He remembered Lettie's last words to him, that she loved him, and
“whatever you do, don't forget Jesus.”
What Joe wondered was whether Jesus had forgotten him? Joe had faced danger and risk of death many times. After all, he would die at some point anyway.
Why not now?

When he pushed these away, his thoughts turned to Howard and the mountains. Joe could feel the spray from the waterfall on his face. He could hear the rush of the brook and taste the trout. He could see Howard's smile, hear his voice, as if he were still alive.

There's a certain truth in these mountains
. . . They're beautiful, but they ain't forgiving. Only the strong survive . . . Treat the mountains
with respect . . . you'll be all right, and never alone . . . If you make a mistake up here, you can die
. . . It can be cold and raw and windy and whipped. It can also be calm and clear.

Uncle Howard was long gone. So was Aunt Lettie. So were Joe's mom and dad. And now Ashley. They were all gone. All except the mountains. They were still there. It was time to go home.