The Concealers (3 page)

“It's when they don't take points away for arriving too early.”

“Oh,” she replied, detecting a reaction from O'Malley as she wrote. “Hope you don't mind?”

O'Malley nodded his assent. “Checked out your bike when you walked in the tent. Honda four-stroke was a great choice. Low-end torque. Takes the hills like a tractor, and you don't have to lean forward to compensate. And it's set up right.”

“Really?” she said, continuing her note-taking. “How's that work? Low-end torque, I mean.”

“Gives your bike the power to dig in going uphill . . . otherwise, depending on how steep it is, the front of your bike can flip over your head. The important thing is, you got through it,” O'Malley explained. “Who turned you on to Enduro racing in the first place?”

“I'm not turned on to Enduro racing. At least not yet. I'm writing a story about it.”

“You're a reporter?” O'Malley asked.

“Not yet, exactly—still a raw apprentice. I'm finishing my master's in journalism in New York.”

“Cool. So you got your motorcycle license, joined the American Motorcycle Association and the New England Trail Riders Association, all of that?” O'Malley asked.

“I had my license, but . . . yeah, a lot of hoops.”

“All for a story,” O'Malley said, shaking his head.

“An assignment—a paper on an action sport. Where I grew up, off-road anything was a big deal for the guys, as long as there was mud or dirt. They'd drive old cars up hills and race motorcycles. Motocross. Enduro.”

“Did you race?”

“No, but my boyfriend did. That was years ago. I did think it was neat, particularly the cross-country enduros. There were races all over. When I got this assignment I went to the IDR Speedsville Enduro to see what it was like. Couldn't see much, though. I decided the only way to be able to write about it was to do it,” Katherine said.

“Where was . . . where'd you grow up?”

“A tiny village in upstate New York. Marion.”

“Amazing,” O'Malley said. Then he stood. “I'm going for a beer, Katherine. Want one?”

“No, but I'd love a Gatorade. I'll go with you,” she said, trying to keep up with O'Malley as she registered the pain in her back, right arm, and left leg. She was relieved to see the guys from the shop loading her bike onto their truck along with a few other customer bikes. She was sure she didn't have the strength left to move it herself.

While they were waiting for their drinks, O'Malley looked at Katherine and said, “How'd you get the bike, if you don't mind my asking? It's a pretty sophisticated machine for a rookie.”

“A friend of mine from home has a motorcycle shop, and he knows a motorcycle dealer in the city. Are you sure
you're
not a reporter?” Katherine joked. “Let's talk about you. Besides being a Class A rider, what's your story?”

He parried. “Let's just say, I'm in a line of work like yours—where I usually ask most of the questions.”

“Let me guess. You're a lawyer.”

“Close, actually,” said O'Malley. “I did finish a year of law school.”

“And then?”

“U.S. S—” Just as he was about to tell her more, a voice over the loudspeaker announced that the scores were being posted.

Katherine's curiosity shifted into high gear. There was a great deal more that she wanted to know about Sean O'Malley, but their private conversation came to a halt when three of his buddies, still in racing gear, came to their table, full of high fives. They said hello to Katherine and then one shouted to their friend, “You did it again! Time to get your trophy. Besides, we're starving.”

“Nice talking with you, O'Malley,” Katherine said. “I should go. I'm tired, soaked, and a little sore . . . heading back to the city. Good luck with your job—whatever it is you do.”

O'Malley appeared more than a little disappointed. “I'd like to see you again, 6D. How do we do that?”

“I'd like that, too,” Katherine said. She got up from the table. “But it's going to be crazy for the next few weeks, graduation.”

“How 'bout a phone number then?” he persisted.

Katherine kept walking, thinking about her paper and Sean O'Malley's experience as a racer. And he wasn't exactly ugly. She wanted to talk with him at length to learn what had prompted him to start riding, get a sense of what he enjoyed about it, find out how much time he spent on the hobby, see what kind of bike he had and where he rode it, discover what other sports he was into. At bottom, she wanted to know what motivated him. She knew she needed time to get the information she wanted, but she felt it was too late to try to do it now. Besides, she was exhausted. It would have to wait.

Then she stopped, took out her iPhone, spun around, and snapped a picture of Sean.

She scribbled on her pad [email protected], ripped off the paper, and handed it to him. “Going to be really tied up for a while . . . but I definitely would like to stay in touch.”

“Me, too. Have a good trip back to the city,” he said, turning and walking away to join his friends.

Once again, Katherine was looking at the back of 6A.

Katherine caught a ride back to the cabin she'd rented at Prospect Mountain Campground so she could shower and pick up her bag, and then headed back to New York City. She dropped off her rental car and took the subway to Union Square. At her second-story walk-up apartment a block away, she struggled with the two locks on her door, heard Hailey bark, and was thankful that her friend Susan Bernstein, who'd looked after Hailey, was able to drop her off earlier that evening. Inside Katherine romped with Hailey on the floor and after a flurry of kisses perched herself on a kitchen stool and sipped some soup. Katherine scribbled some memories of the race while they were still fresh, and made a note to set up a meeting with her journalism school mentor for early Wednesday morning. She took out her cell phone and studied Sean's picture.
Just another uncertainty,
she decided, and fell into bed.

Preston could see that Marcia relished the moment. She got down on the floor and joined P.J. Preston was proud of the way his wife applied her psychology background, always reinforcing their young son's opportunities for new learning experiences. Not wanting to get into a fight with Marcia, though, he refrained from talking about the hearing issue.

Preston lifted P.J. high above his head, delighting in his son's giggles but unable to quell his anxiety over his son's hearing impairment. At forty-seven, he remained conflicted. On the one hand, he felt incredibly lucky—he'd pulled his marriage back from the brink, even though he'd nearly given up on fatherhood. When P.J. came into their lives soon afterward, he knew he had closed the deal. Marcia was thrilled to finally have a child, and he was, too. At last, their home, while not a model of domestic tranquility, appeared to have at least settled down, and they'd put the turmoil of the preceding decade behind them. Still, there was P.J.'s disability and Marcia's concurrent uneasiness. And secretly, he was still struggling with the sudden death of his mother two months before P.J. was born.

In Preston's excitement bordering on euphoria at the hospital at P.J.'s birth, he either was unaware or did not notice the equipment the technician was using. He barely focused on the doctor's concern that P.J. had not passed the hearing test.

Preston didn't know that an infant's hearing could be tested so quickly after birth. It was later, in discussions with the doctor, that Marcia and Preston learned about measurement of an acoustic reaction produced by the inner ear that bounces back in response to a sound stimulus from a small probe with a microphone and speaker. It was all too technical to Preston, who knew lots about business but little about science—something about electrical stimulus sent from the cochlea to the brain stem and a second and separate sound that does not travel up to the nerve but returns to the infant's ear canal, the otoacoustic emission.

During the weeks following P.J.'s birth, there was much discussion with Marcia's gynecologist, and numerous pediatricians and audiologists, concerning the causes of hearing impairment, its varying degrees of seriousness, and the need for continued assessment. The good news was that with early detection, depending upon the cause and type of loss, much could be done to increase P.J.'s access to sound. Notwithstanding many consultations since, however, Preston still couldn't understand how P.J.'s hearing could ever be normal.

Marcia saw things differently. “P.J.'s hearing will never be normal.” The audiologist had explained that hearing aids amplify the sounds that would reach an infant's brain and stimulate it to produce the architecture that will allow him to hear and speak normally with aids or cochlear implant depending upon the severity of the loss. “If you can't accept our son's disability, Preston, at least I have—and I thank God every day that it was not worse,” she pleaded as she gently rolled the baby over to face them and leaned down to cuddle his cheek. “He can be fitted with hearing aids right away. Don't you think it would be worth trying?”

All year Preston and Marcia had argued about whether to fit their growing son with hearing aids. When Marcia chided him for his unwillingness to make the decision, Preston only procrastinated further. She feared now it might be too late.

For Preston's part, he was totally supportive of full exploration of all efforts to correct P.J.'s hearing, but worried at the time it was taking and whether his son's hearing would ultimately be normal. Besides, the pediatric specialist he had consulted counseled patience, telling Preston that he had seen many cases where hearing ultimately developed on its own—as late as year two or three—and to wait and see.

Preston had worked hard over the years to develop automobile sales franchises—Porsche, Audi, BMW, Mercedes—that were upscale, unique, and more durable. His success hadn't happened overnight. Now it was a bit like having a cartel. On the business side, his stores appeared to have recovered from a previous setback and were even showing spurts of growth; most of his dealerships, in part because of the nature of the franchises, were far ahead of the dealers he knew who had struggled more to achieve much less. Of his ability to lead Wilson Holdings, Preston was certain. Accumulating wealth and managing relationships, however, were another story.

Preston's thoughts were interfering with his playtime with P.J. He pushed them out of his mind and lifted P.J. into his circular bouncer, where he could play with all the buttons and colored animals.

“Daddy's got to get back to the office,” Preston said for Marcia's benefit.

Marcia looked up at Preston and said, “We'll never get another chance to build our early relationship with our son. This time is so important.”

“It is,” Preston said, kneeling down beside her. “But I have a meeting at two. Maybe we can all go to the park—or even the zoo—tomorrow.”

“Are we still on for dinner with Mary and Bill tonight?” Marcia, Mary, and Marcia's old roommate Ann, had been close friends at Smith College. Mary and her husband Bill lived in Soho, and Marcia had been trying to get together with them for some time. She reached for her cell phone to call the nanny. “I want to make sure Nadine comes early, so P.J.'s fed and asleep before we leave.”

“As far as I know,” Preston replied.

“I have to get Ann up here. I miss her and I know Mary does, too. I wish she lived in New York. Speaking of relationships, what's going on these days with Missy? And Tommy?”

Preston thought for a while. “Uh, they're fine. I guess.”

“When's the last time you spoke to either of them, Preston? I'm getting a bad feeling here. Slipping. Remember who we named this little guy after?”

They'd chosen their son's middle name, Joseph, to honor Joe Hart, an attorney friend who had helped Preston overcome some thorny financial and banking issues that had nearly toppled Wilson Holdings, Preston's automotive and real estate firm—and empire. It was hard to believe Joe Hart had been gone for more than a year.

“Don't do that,” Preston said, seeing the expression on Marcia's face and knowing he was in trouble the minute the irritable comment left his lips.

It wasn't that Preston didn't appreciate all Joe had done for him. Facing enormous debt, Preston had been sure his automobile business was doomed to bankruptcy. Worse, because Marcia had personally guaranteed the notes, she, too, was at risk. What bothered Preston deep down was Joe's requirement that Preston fulfill an unspecified condition in the future before he would undertake the case. Preston could not understand how anyone could commit to do something without knowing what it was. When he'd raised the question Joe had simply replied, “Some men can and some men can't,” which Preston had interpreted as “my way or the highway.” Faced with a Hobson's choice, Preston had made the commitment.

Joe Hart had delivered. He'd worked hard in preparing and carrying on negotiations with Preston's banks. He also showed Preston how to stabilize, restructure, and grow his business. Preston had to admit he'd learned a lot from Joe, and he was grateful.

“Look,” he said to Marcia, more amiably, “I am well aware of my promise to Joe, and we both know all he did.”

“I just think you have to remember the promise to Joe regarding the Collectibles never really ends,” Marcia reminded him gently. When Joe had called in the IOU, he'd revealed his conditions: that he wanted Preston to meet, earn the trust of, and care for several friends of Joe's, including a battered wife, a photographer with bipolar disease, a man suffering from Alzheimer's, a gambling addict, and a mentally challenged man.

Preston had at first hated and resented the assignment. He could not figure out why Joe would have taken on these people and their issues in the first place, much less pawn them off on someone else. But Preston felt he had no choice but to live up to his side of the bargain, and he'd set out to find his charges.

Preston had been in the process of tracking down Harry Klaskowski, Joe's photographer friend, when events took an unexpected turn.

That was a little over a year ago. Life was indeed good for Preston now. And here he was, again being tied by his wife to past commitments.
Why now?
He asked himself, afraid to ask Marcia.
How long do you owe a duty to the dead?

Preston's automobile stores were booming with business and his real estate was holding its own. He had ample time for golf, the club, and travel, and Marcia was totally consumed with being a mother. They enjoyed the occasional dinner out, thanks to their godsend of a nanny, and they'd hung onto the home in the Hamptons, where they had taken P.J. a few times to experience the country and to see the ocean. Apart from Marcia's disappointment and occasional nagging, Preston felt that he and his wife were in a better place than ever, except for the P.J. issue. And now that accusatory word
slipping.
It left a wrench in his gut and spoiled his afternoon.

He had thought many times about calling Tommy and Missy, but something always seemed to come up at the office, or time with P.J.'s doctors got in the way. As for Harry, Preston had certainly let him know that he'd intended to get together . . . it was just that he'd been so busy.

“I'll give Bill or Mary a call about tonight,” Marcia said, interrupting Preston's thoughts.

Preston gave Marcia a perfunctory kiss good-bye and headed out of the door.