1. Jake #2
My turn. I pull the phone jack out of the wall, wrap the cord around the phone and drop it in an empty kitchen drawer. I yawn, rub my eyes then make myself a pot of coffee in the darkness.
If the old bastard is really dying, there’s no rush.
I don’t want to get there in time to have to talk to him.
No. Coffee. Lots of coffee. A long hot shower. A shave. I’ll wear the dark blue suit, take a couple of shirts and ties, just in case I have to stay a few days to finalize his affairs.
I shudder at the prospect of even a few hours in the monstrous house that Candace has created, never mind sleeping there.
Mike must still be living in the old house, the one where we grew up.
I’ll crash there. Five bedrooms in that place.
There has to be one I can use. Maybe a couch.
I’m not proud when it comes to avoiding Candace’s hospitality.
The upside is that once this is over, there will be no reason to ever set foot in Empire again.
That’s a sufficiently encouraging prospect that I get moving.
In thirty minutes, I’m on the road, having left messages at the office etc.
Even better, I’m learning something new about the city I know and love.
At three in the morning, the only westbound drivers on the 401 are the occasional tractor trailers, getting through the city when things are quiet.
Who knew? I own all sixteen lanes of asphalt and concrete, which tempts me to see what this gorgeous sports car can actually do – but I am not in a hurry.
For better or for worse, Empire, here I come.
The problem with a long drive is that it gives you plenty of time to think. I could have connected my cell to take calls on the way, but I didn’t. Instead, I think of my father. I remember all the bad times but come up short searching for a couple of good ones.
Mostly I think about my mom.
I’m the oldest of the four kids she brought into the world at two-year intervals.
After me is Mike, the most easy-going guy in the world, then Austin, who might be even more of a prick than I am.
I became a finance guy, mostly so I could flee our hometown and never look back – and never need to ask my father for a single crumb from his table.
I worked my own way through university, thank you very much.
The last thing he ever bought me might have been my share of a family pizza dinner when I was seventeen.
My father didn’t start the family business but, to his credit, he grew it into a major concern.
I should probably admire that more than I do.
My own suspicion is that he was in the right place at the right time, not that he was particularly brilliant.
(He would tell you otherwise.) Cavendish Enterprises is one of the largest, if not the largest, growers of greenhouse-cultivated tomatoes in the country.
An exporter, a big employer, a leader in greenhouse technology and an economic force to be reckoned with.
I wonder if they did win any kind of award at the ceremony I left early with Isobelle.
Here’s a key difference between me and my half-siblings.
My father’s first four kids, including yours truly, all worked in the greenhouses for crummy pay in high school.
It’s hot, sweaty work picking tomatoes, and you work long days when the crop is in to get them all harvested in time.
It was not optional. We all did it, every year, even before we were of legal age to work, until we managed to escape.
I started at twelve. Nights after school and weekends.
He did pay us, but it went into an account he could administer because we were minors and all.
One of my fondest memories is of transferring that balance on my eighteenth birthday to an account that was mine and mine alone.
I can’t look at a tomato, even now.
Madison and Ethan? Oh no. The only tomatoes those golden children pick are the ones on their salads.
(I’m sure Madison’s are some fancy cultivar specially ordered for the princess from the other side of the world.) It’s not because they ever had other part-time jobs.
They do what they want, from what I see, and our father pays for everything.
Mike, the next of the original four siblings and two years younger than me, still works in the greenhouses.
Actually, he pretty much runs the place.
Technically, he’s head grower but since my father retired, I know Mike has been juggling a lot of extra responsibilities.
(Thus, the solitary incident of him swearing while asking a favour and my subsequent agreement.) I hope Mike really wanted to follow that career path, but it wouldn’t be unlike my father to corral one son or the other into continuing the legacy – and Mike would have been the soft touch.
He has a degree in greenhouse cultivation and a master’s degree from Europe, and has been at Cavendish Enterprises ever since his graduation.
He gives his all for the firm, and my dad is miserable to him, always demanding more.
Mike is the proof that there’s no percentage in being the nice guy.
Brother number three, Austin, also bailed early on the home situation.
No university for my fast-talking sibling, the one with charm to spare – when he feels like turning it on.
He worked his way up in restaurants in Manhattan, went to cooking school, then moved on to television.
I guess he’s kind of a star. He’s quick and critical, some people apparently think he’s funny, and he’s been starring on a show that’s kind of a cooking contest. So You Think You Can Cook.
I watched it once, by accident, and won’t make that mistake again.
It’s a perfect venue for Austin as he gets paid (generously, I’m sure) for being nasty to strangers.
As I said, some people think he’s funny. I don’t.
I have no quibbles with anyone being an asshole.
It keeps the needy at bay and diminishes expectations all around.
I love it as a lifestyle choice. But just cutting people down, deliberately destroying their dreams, is petty and tedious.
It’s mean. But then Austin was always the one who would do you dirty, any chance he could.
Haven’t heard from him in years or seen him in more, and that’s just fine.
Crap. There will probably be a funeral. Maybe I can catch a communicable disease in time and miss the festivities.
Finally, there’s our sister, Abbie, because Mom saved the best to last. I think all three of us brothers would do anything for her.
The incredible thing is that she barely even met Mom, who died shortly after Abbie was born.
Maybe that’s part of the reason we all dote on her.
The other is that she was always the fragile one.
If there was a bug going around, Abbie caught it.
She was small and vulnerable, and in need of our protection.
She also fled Empire as soon as she could, which shows good sense, and now runs a florist shop in Vancouver.
I’d be glad to see Abbie again. Maybe I’ll hold off on contracting the communicable disease.
I think about my mom as I roll west, toward doom and drama. The drive to Empire takes over four hours one way, down the north side of Lake Ontario and then Lake Erie, almost all the way to Windsor. Good for the car engine, I guess.
I fully expect to arrive and find that my father is home and fine again. If anyone is going to spit in the eye of the grim reaper, it’ll be Patrick Cavendish. The one thing my father likes best is proving anyone wrong and Death isn’t going to get a hall pass on that.
But I’m wrong.
I reach the house that morning – it’s even uglier than I remember.
Did I forget the turrets or just block them from my memory?
I know there weren’t gold lions on the gate posts the last time I was here.
There might not have been a gate. No, Candace must have been at work, ‘improving’ what Mike calls Casa Cavendish.
It would be a mercy to toss a grenade at the place and even better to watch it burn.
I’d bring the marshmallows.
When I park in the circular drive, Mike comes out to meet me. He looks gutted, which tells me the news even before he does. We exchange a few words, and I know I need to shake him up a bit. He’s in a very rough place, as if he blames himself for our father’s death.
Not on my watch.
“In a movie,” I say as we walk toward the house.
“He would have opened his eyes, repented of all harsh words, and made amends before he breathed his last. The clouds would have parted and a beam of sunlight would have shone down upon the scene while bluebirds swirled around, chirping serenely.” I’m glad to see the ghost of a smile on Mike’s lips. “I’m guessing that’s not how it went.”
“No.”
“No. Of course not.” He looks so forlorn – if anyone could miss the old bastard, it would be Mike – that I give him an impulsive hug.
I don’t know which of us is more surprised.
I cover my reaction by heading into the study with purpose.
I sit down at the desk and start opening drawers.
“Look at this mess. Didn’t he ever file anything?
” Mike is just standing in the middle of the room, like a wounded bear that doesn’t know where to turn.
I’ll give him a job. He’s good with assignments.
“Can you get me a table, Mike? Maybe one of those big folding ones, set up there.” I point to a place as good as any, knowing that precise instructions are easier to follow.
“Are you seriously giving me a job?”
“Are you seriously trying to delay it? The sooner we figure out the exact state of the corporation and uncover whatever plans Dad made for its future, the better.”
“Just seems a little fast.”
“And what’s going to change if we sit here and cry for a day?”
Mike sighs. “You really are an asshole, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and it’s too late for me to teach you that fine art, so just find a table, please.”