Chapter Nine #3
furniture itself.
She was another reason I
usually enjoyed the many hours I spent in my father's office as a
child. When he was busy or with a client I would sit out here right
on the floor, coloring at the coffee table, or as I got older,
doing homework or studying. Sue was perfect company, busy with her
own tasks, but available for conversation, with a supernatural
intuition that always seemed to know whether or not I was in a
talking mood. Maybe she really is a vampire.
But it was her manner with
my father that I found most appealing. Sue is the one person that
never took his bullshit, that called him out on his arrogance, and
had the audacity to crack jokes at his expense. And as the most
diligent, efficient executive assistant in Manhattan—my father's
words—he was happy to put up with it. I think he even enjoyed it.
In fact, if I wasn't fully aware that Sue preferred women and had
been committed to her now-wife since before she even started at
Mason, Goldberg, & Caplan, I would have suspected they were
having an affair. After all, she's nothing if not
beautiful.
"Sammy Boy!" Sue exclaims
from behind me, and my lips automatically slip into a small grin.
The familiarity of her exuberance is strangely
comforting.
I turn into her embrace
and am immediately struck by how small she seems. She looks no
different from the last time I saw her. It's me that's changed. Sue
no longer seems like the Queen I remember, but just a tall,
beautiful, if still completely ageless, woman. I now tower above
her by all of two inches.
"My God, boy, I never
thought I'd see the day you were taller than me!"
I chuckle lightly, I was
thinking the exact same thing, and I tell her so.
Her hair is done in small,
spring-like curls, slicked back into a poofy ponytail. It's
actually a fairly tame look for her.
She motions for me to have
a seat on the sofa, and makes to join me.
"How are you? How's
Lillian?" I ask her.
"Oh, fine, fine," she
replies flippantly, tossing her giant, funkily manicured hand in
the air as if how she and her wife have been is of little interest.
"We're the same, just a few years older, it's you who's barely
recognizable! Jesus, just look at you." She pats my cheek playfully. "And about
to enter Columbia. You're gonna slay those poor little coed
hearts." She squeezes my bicep, her massive hand making it look
smaller than I'd like, but her expression tells me she finds it
impressive, or at least she's flattering me. "I bet you're doing it
already, aren't you? If I look out the window am I going to see a
mob of crazy teenaged fans holding up posters and waiting for a
glimpse?"
I shake my head at her in
amusement. She's always been like this. Telling me how handsome I
am and that I better be careful or some poor girl's dad was going
to come after me for my supposed future heartbreaking ways. But the
recollection of those regularly repeated warnings drains my
mirth.
Because I know that's how
it's supposed to be. Fathers are supposed to protect their
daughters, even from the imagined threat of a boy pursuing her. But
not for Rory. For Rory, the threat was far from imagined, and it
was her whom her father went after.
I'm reminded why I'm here,
and there's nothing amusing or playful about it.
"Not exactly, Sue," I
finally reply. "Is my father with a client?" I feel badly for being
brusque with her. Another time, I would love to catch up with her,
honestly. But right now, I'm too determined by my task, and I can't
handle distractions.
"No, young man. He's
waiting patiently for your arrival. A little irritably, too—he has
a lunch date he doesn't want to be late for. But it's when he's
like this that I just love making him wait an extra bit." She
smirks, and I can't help but return it. God would I love to help her get my
father riled up right now, but that would be counterproductive, and
it's just not the time. I stand up.
"I'm sorry, Sue. But I
really need to speak with him. I don't have a lot of time either,"
I tell her. It's bullshit of course. I have no other plans until
this evening, but if he needs to be out of here by lunch, then
he'll be out of here by lunch, whether we're through or not, and I
don't want our meeting cut short.
A vague look of suspicion
flashes in her eyes, before she professionally tucks it away,
hiding it behind her amiable smile. She nods toward my father's
closed office door. "Then go on in, Sammy Boy."
I nod and thank her, and
head down the short corridor. I pause with my hand on the knob,
hesitating, before taking a deep, determined breath, and twisting
it open.
My father's head shoots
up, either actually startled or just finding my presence startling.
I swallow my nerves, they have no place here, not now.
"Mitch," I say in
greeting, wishing my voice came out a bit more steady. He stands
up, blinking as he looks me over, and for the first time in my
life, we are at the same eye-level.
"You're so tall," is the
first thing he says, before shaking his head to himself as if to
rid it of his somewhat stunned state.
"No taller than you," I
murmur. He nods and motions for me to sit in one of the club guest
chairs, and I make myself as comfortable as I could possibly be in
front of this stranger I barely know anymore, and wish I never knew
as a child.
Neither of us speaks for
long moments and I let him take his time as he looks me over as if
I'm some kind of curiosity. Eventually his neck sags, his eyes drop
to his desk, and his fingers reach for his forehead, rubbing his
temples in a stress mannerism I recognize as one of my
own.
Finally my father meets my
gaze, serious as I've ever seen him. Still, I stay quiet. I'm
certain he has something he wants to say, and I can only hope it
isn't something that's going to end this meeting before it even
begins.
"Look, Samm—
Sam. I owe you an
apology."
Not what I
expected. My expression slips into one of
sardonic disbelief before I can control it.
My father sighs. "Okay,
more than one," he concedes.
My brow furrows and I
blink at him, allowing my look to ask the question I can't quite
articulate.
"I've read through your
friend's case files. And I've spoken with the sheriff down there.
In her hometown, I mean, and…" He trails off, his eyes close
briefly and he shakes his head before he looks back at me. "I'm
sorry that I—"
"You saw the photos." I
interrupt him as soon as I realize what was responsible for his
complete about-face in attitude.
Rory told me about the
pictures of her injuries her friend Cam took on his phone while she
was asleep. Which may sound creepy, but is the exact thing I would
have done. I may never meet the kid, but I know he was trying to
help her the same way I'm trying to do now. My father must have
seen them in the police files. And the ones taken of her in the
hospital.
My father's somber
expression confirms it, and he nods once, never breaking eye
contact.
It's then that I notice
the manila file folders on his desk. I reach for them.
"Let me see
them."
But his palm slams down on
top of them, and I raise my eyebrows, somewhat taken
aback.
"That's not a good idea,
son."
I nearly recoil at the
moniker. The last mouth I heard it come out of belonged to a man I
hate even more than the one sitting across from me, a father even
worse than my own—Rory's. The recollection stops me long enough for
my father to slide the files from my reach.
He shakes his head. "Look,
Sam. You obviously care about this girl. And trust me, you don't
want to see someone you care about all cut up and bruised. You
can't un-see images like that," he advises with an empathy I would
almost believe if I didn't know better.
"I suppose you would know,
wouldn't you?" The biting retort flies from my lips before I can
even consider their consequences, and I silently chastise myself
for it. I have to stay focused on my goal, despite what deals I
have to make with which devils to do it. As long as they keep Rory
safe from her devil, I'll do fucking anything.
My father licks his bottom
lip, and I know he wants to say something more than what he's about
to say. This is the good version of him. The one in control of his
emotions. The one not abraded by alcohol and triggered by nothing.
"I deserve that," he murmurs, his voice low but steady.
Again, it's not what I was
expecting, and it silences me for a moment.
"Do you love this girl,
Sammy?" he asks softly.
I blink at him, thinking,
calculating, considering what answer is most likely to both end
this line of questioning and get him to do what I ask of
him.
"Not everyone is
na?ve enough to
think they're in love in high school," is my vague response. I
don't bother telling him that I'm not included in that enlightened
group, because the truthful answer to my father's question would be
a simple, yes.
It's the first time since
I got here that I see a flash of indignation on my father's face,
but it's hidden behind his careful mask of patience in the merest
of seconds.
"You can say what you want
about me and how I treated your mother, and you guys, too. But I
fell in love with your mother my junior year of high school and
I've loved her every day since. I wasn't na?ve to think I loved her, I was
na?ve to think
I deserved her. I
didn't." He sighs again and takes a deep breath, cutting off his
rambling.
But the resigned look that
follows tells me that he's making a choice, and I suspect that
instead of shutting down the subject, he's going to elaborate. I
remain silent, in a cautious state of astonishment. In the many
possibilities I imagined for this meeting, both productive and
disastrous, I never so much as considered this particular
direction.
"I had a problem with
alcohol by the time I graduated law school. But there are different
kinds of alcoholics, Sammy… I was functional. I didn't drink all