The Concealers (18 page)

“Don't worry, Hailey, I'll make sure there's room for you.”

Katherine said her good-byes to her mother and grandpa, with extra-long hugs and kisses. She could feel a weight building in her heart, knowing leaving this time was different. This time Katherine knew she was leaving more than the family she loved. Katherine reset her GPS to project the New York State Thruway to Syracuse and Highway 81 South to New York. It suited her mindset.

Katherine wanted to savor the good feelings she had from her visit and unbundle all the thoughts and emotions produced by the trip. Thinking about it, she felt like she had stepped on the up escalator of a large department store, each floor containing a wide variety of specific goods and materials.

First Floor. Marion. It felt so good to be with her grandfather again, and her mom. She loved being in the country. The winding roads, the trees, the creeks, the colors. But, somehow, it just didn't fit anymore—like trying to wear the clothes she wore as a child. Yes, it was quiet, but the quiet this time gave her a headache. It was lonely. And boring. She decided not to explore that floor anymore.

Second Floor. Uncertainty. How happy was Grandpa? His health still seemed to be good, but this time, when she looked into his eyes, there were pieces of him that were missing. How long would he last?

Third Floor. Her mother. She'd felt she designed the blueprint for rebuilding the house. She made clear that the foundation had to be the truth, and her mother had promised not to lie to her anymore. Her mother had always been truthful—with everyone. Until now, she'd never even thought about her mother's honesty; it was just assumed, perhaps, taken for granted. What Katherine understood, but still couldn't accept, was her mother's lying about such a fundamental and core matter. The roots of identity ran deep; when they were severed, the pain was exquisite and unbearable. Katherine understood her mother's reasons for lying, which she found practical and even reasonable under the circumstances—but the consequences were, for Katherine, catastrophic. The confidence inherent in an identity was replaced by insecurity.

The road suddenly became wavy, and Katherine knew she could not continue up the escalator. It was time for lunch anyway. She pulled off at the next travel plaza.

Three hours from New York City, Katherine called Susan to check in and see if she was still willing to help her get settled in her new apartment.

“Hey, what's going on?” Susan said.

“We're on our way back.”

“Great. I am, too—emotionally, that is. How's Hailey doing?”

“She's licking my face as we speak.”

“How'd it go?”

“It was quite an experience, actually. They say you can't go back.”

“Uh-oh. I'd better sit down. This is gonna be one of those conversations.”

“Not like our last one,” Katherine said.

“I'm sure it won't. I'm sober.”

“Glad to hear that.”

“Are you going to tell me how it went?”

“It went well. I picked up my stuff. It was great to see Grandpa. And my mom took a day off so we had plenty of time to talk.”

“So, what did you tell your mother?”

“That we needed to rebuild our relationship, from the ground up, and I asked her to promise she would never lie to me again.”

“Too bad.”

“Why?”

“That's a promise she can't keep.”

“Well, she was pretty direct in our conversations after that.”

“Everybody lies,” Susan said. “Big lies, small ones, bad ones, and good ones. It's the grease that makes the wheel go around.”

“You don't,” Katherine said.

“All the time. Mostly to myself. Sometimes to others, depending on what I need and what they want. As an alcoholic, I've honed my lying skills to an art form.”

“I think you're being too hard on yourself.”

“I don't. We all need a little delusion to soften the reality. We all conceal parts of ourselves.”

Katherine paused, giving that one a little thought. “Interesting comment,” she said. “Do you really believe what you're saying about lying?”

“Ever hear about the monks in the Middle Ages who held there was actually a hierarchy of truth?” Susan asked. “At the top, they studied their navels over the fate of the universe—you know, whether there's a heaven, stuff like that. Next down on the rung, was moral truth—how to live. Under that was the allegorical truth—the lessons of the stories. And at the bottom—least significant—was the literal truth. Because that was irrelevant. It didn't matter whether it was truth, history, or fiction because it was supplied for signification. It wasn't about enlightenment; it was about concealment. Control. Sound familiar?”

Katherine was quiet for a few minutes while she pondered what her friend had just said. She could tell by the tone of Susan's voice that she was serious about it.

“Where do you come up with this stuff?”

“Well, in this case, fourteenth-century medieval history.”

Katherine thought about sports. Alex Rodriguez. Marion Jones. Barry Bonds. And the endless questions about Lance Armstrong. Then her mind turned to how intense political coverage had become. Classified. Unclassified. Talking points. Spin rooms. She was glad Susan was her friend.

“Thanks for telling me that. Do you feel like helping me unload and get settled?”

“No. Call when you're at my building. And when we're done, let's go to Katz's Deli for a pastrami sandwich and see if I can get what she had.”

“You'll never get Harry and Sally out of your mind,” Katherine said. “See ya soon.”

By the time Katherine and Susan moved everything from the car to the new apartment, they were too tired to go back to the city. They ordered in a pizza and sat in the midst of unpacked boxes to eat it. Exhausted, Katherine slept right on the mattress on the unmade bed, while Susan spent the night on the couch.

They woke up late the next morning, had breakfast, and took Hailey for a walk. When they returned, a friendly woman who looked to be sixty or so, wearing an apron, was waiting at the front door of Katherine's apartment and carrying a chicken casserole in a foil-covered Pyrex dish.

Hailey rose on her hind legs and gently put her front paws on the woman's arm, smelling the dish.

“Hailey, down,” Katherine said. “I'm so sorry, ma'am.”

“No need, my dear. I love dogs. Mine's been gone for two years now, and I still miss her. I'm Becky Bergner, your neighbor in the apartment next door. I made this casserole for you,” she said, handing Katherine the dish.

“Thank you so much. I'm Katherine Kelly, and this is my friend Susan from New York City. You've already met Hailey. Can you come in?”

“Oh, I'd love to.”

They stepped inside Katherine's apartment. “I just moved in last night, Ms. Bergner. Please excuse the mess.”

“Please, call me Becky. And forget the mess. What else would it be?”

Katherine put the casserole in the refrigerator and thanked Becky again.

“Please, what else would I do?” Becky said.

They pulled up chairs around the small, white round table—about the only space that wasn't filled with boxes, clothes, and suitcases. There was still coffee left over from breakfast. Katherine poured them each a cup.

Becky told them her life story. How her husband, Howie, had worked in the garment industry until he died of a heart attack. What a wonderful man he was. Why they never had children, and how Chloe, her French poodle and the smartest dog in the world, had died. All the time she talked, Becky was petting Hailey, whose head was resting on her lap.

“It looks like you've made a friend,” Katherine said.

“What else? She's a beautiful dog. And smart.”

“How can you tell she's smart?” Susan asked.

“Because she knows I love her. Look at her. The smart ones know.”

“How 'bout taking care of her when Katherine's away?” Susan said. “That was my job when Katherine lived in Manhattan, but now she's out here.”

“Forgive my friend Susan, Becky. She's always been direct.”

“Please. I wanted to ask earlier. I like direct.”

“I appreciate that, Becky,” Katherine said. “I'd love to call on your help in the future.”

“I'm going to go now. You have a lot to do. Come see me when you can, Katherine. I hope you like the dish. It was one of Howie's favorites. Nice to meet you, too, Susan. What's your last name?”

“Bernstein.”

“You come visit me, too, Susan. I'm a good cook. And now I know what you like to eat.”

“Thank you,” Susan said. “We'd enjoy that. In fact, Katherine and I are going to Katz's this afternoon when we get back to the city.”

“They're good. Howie thought their cheese blintzes were almost as good as mine.”

They walked Becky to the door, Hailey trailing at her side all the way. At the door, Becky kissed Hailey good-bye, waved to the girls, and left.

“What did ya think of the reports, Big Guy?” Austin asked. “Pretty strong stuff, huh?”

Casey sat and stared at Austin, reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a cheese sandwich, and started munching.

“Well?” Austin asked.

“I think if you had a cogent thought in your head, it would be lonesome,” Casey mumbled while chewing.

“You're becoming increasingly difficult to work with,” Austin said.

“You're empty,” Casey said.

“You don't like the reports.”

“It's not a matter of liking them or not. They clearly paint a positive position for us. The statement of assets is strong. Of course, it's made up largely of three-dollar bills. Did it ever occur to you that we have an obligation to tell the bank the truth?”

“We gotta get a lease extension. Teddy told me what he needs. These reports give it to them. We're not talking about a loan here, or floor plans. This is only real estate. I've presented it in the best light for us, that's all. Lighten up. It's not an IRS audit.”

Casey finished his sandwich and a cup of coffee, and started in on his next Snickers bar.

“Say something, Casey.”

“I don't like you,” Casey said.

“Why?”

“Because you're an Ivy League helium balloon.”

“That's not funny,” Austin said.

“I agree. It's sad. Get out of my office.”

Later that day, Casey noticed Preston in his office, buzzed him on the intercom, and asked if he had a minute. Preston motioned through the glass partition for Casey to come in.

“Have you seen any of Austin's latest reports?” Casey asked him.

“Just that they came in—I haven't reviewed them. Why?”

“They're all trumped up—if you'll forgive the expression. He's not giving the bank the whole picture. We've seen this movie before.”

“So why don't you straighten it out?” Preston asked.

“I did that four days ago. And I'll correct these. But it's a pattern. He's not doing his job and he's dangerous. And you're in denial trying to protect your buddy.”

“We've been through this before, Casey.”

“Exactly. That's the problem,” Casey reiterated. “Maybe I can make my position clearer. I quit.”

“C'mon, Casey, settle down. You can't quit; you're an owner.”

“Yeah, but you have to buy back my fifteen percent. So talk to your big-shot lawyers and get them working on it. Not going through this again. I'm leaving in thirty days.”

Casey was out the door and down the hall before Preston could formulate a comeback. And Preston was left wondering if Casey really meant what he said.

Preston left his office and instructed his driver to take him to the Union League Club. He spent a couple of hours thinking about the company and Casey. Surely, he figured, he could talk Casey out of leaving. He wished Casey was not so critical of Austin, and he sensed some reverse snobbery in Casey's attitude.

After two or three scotches, however, Preston admitted to himself that he hadn't reviewed the financials in any depth, and if Casey was right, the company could really be exposed. He consoled himself with the fact that he'd been going through an extraordinary amount of stress, particularly with Marcia and P.J. The only bright spot was Katherine—but he sensed that that was not helping the situation with his wife. He needed to put his relationship with Marcia back on track. He was sure it was an alignment problem. He left the club, felt the light rain, went back, got an umbrella, and walked to his condo.

Marcia had finally quieted P.J. down when she heard Preston come in and throw his keys on the marble table by the door. She gently closed the door to P.J.'s room and went to the kitchen.

“I hadn't heard from you about when you'd be home,” she said to Preston. “I'm about to fix dinner. You've been at the club.”

“Casey wants to quit,” Preston said, pouring himself a scotch and collapsing in his favorite leather chair.

“Where did that come from?” Marcia asked. “I thought things were going well.”

“I don't know. Maybe he's just blowing off steam. He doesn't like Austin.”

Marcia saw the tension in Preston's face. She sat down in the adjoining chair. “Neither do I. He's a phony. You're the only one who likes him.”

“So, how was your day?” Preston asked sourly.

“As you know, I've been consulting with Clarke Schools and taking P.J. to Betty Simpson, the pediatric audiologist, and to Dr. Triden, the otolaryngologist, for assessment. This morning, P.J. and I met with Betty for his first fitting. She is so good to work with.”

Marcia could feel the floor vibrate from the rapid up and down movement of Preston's legs, and she could hear him patting his thighs.

“You mean he's wearing hearing aids right now?” he asked.

“Not at the moment. I just put him down. This is a process, Preston. We have to introduce him to the aids, and make it a happy time. I wish you were involved in this. It would be a lot easier for me and better for P.J.”

“How am I supposed to do that when I'm trying to keep our business together, deal with Casey, and everything else? How's that supposed to work?”

“We're not the first family with a hearing impaired child. I love Casey, but he's not my first priority. If he wants to leave, I wish him the best and I hope he's happy.”

“That's easy for you to say. You don't have to deal with the daily problems of Wilson Holdings.”

“You know, Preston, I never gave any thought to the fact that I'm younger than you are until this moment. Every day you're becoming an older man. And every day, I'm feeling farther away from you. We have a child. He needs us. I'm going to take care of our child as best I can. If you can't be an involved husband, you should at least want to be an involved father.”

“I am an involved father—on two fronts now. And I don't know how you can say I'm not an involved husband.”

“Let's leave your bifurcated fatherhood on the table for the moment. I've stood by you with Katherine, and I like her. This isn't about Katherine. It's about you and me and our son. The fabric that binds us is stretching and it's starting to tear. We repaired it once. I don't know if we can do it again.”

“What in the world does all of that mean?” Preston asked.

“Not enough to you. Not enough to you,” Marcia said, tears streaming down her face. “Let's forget about dinner. I don't feel like cooking and I'm not hungry. I'm sorry you had a bad day, and I'm sorry that Casey wants to leave—although it doesn't surprise me. He's probably worried about our company. And it is
our
company, if you'll recall. If he's worried, I'm worried. When you talk with your lawyers, and I'm sure you will, ask them what happens to his shares.”