7. A Matter of Legacy （Ryan）
Chapter seven
A Matter of Legacy (Ryan)
It felt disrespectful going back to work so soon after the funeral. It had been two weeks since Hoffa’s death, but I couldn’t still bring myself to believe that I was living in a world where he did not exist any longer.
I argued with myself when I got up the next morning with the mother of all hangovers.
I apologized to Hoffa’s spirit for drinking the entire bottle of Patron in one go, but I knew that he was going to be okay with it.
It was the living — more specifically, me — who had to deal with bullshit like a hangover and go back to work the day after your loved one had been buried.
Stacy, who had seen the shadow looming over my face, walked in as I came into the office.
“Push my meetings for me, will you?”
“What happened?” she asked, sitting down by my side.
“Well, I’m sure you heard. Hoffa died,” I said.
Stacy gasped as her hand autonomously went up to clutch the base of her neck. “Are you okay?”
“Not really.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” It was a genuine question.
While she did not know Hoffa as well as I did, she did have a friendship with him.
Every time he came to the office, he spent at least fifteen minutes at her desk, sweet-talked her, asked about her family, and made sure to bring her a mocha Frappuccino.
He’d never brought me a mocha Frappuccino.
He’d tell me every time, “That Stacy of yours, she’s one in a million. ”
“He died two weeks ago at the country club. It was all very sudden, his death. The funeral was yesterday…I still can’t believe it happened.
It was almost prophetic. There I was, sitting with Hoffa while he was telling me that he was going to die soon.
I was gone for no more than five minutes, and when I came back, he was no more,” I said.
“We had a secret book club,” Stacy revealed “It was just the two of us in that club. He’d tell me what book he was reading that week, and the next week I’d tell him which book I’d brought to discuss with him.
During those fifteen minutes he spent at my desk, all we ever did was talk about the books we read. ”
“Have you seen his study? I have, once. It’s got thousands of first editions and collector’s editions of Irish literature,” I said, remembering the time he had taken me home.
“I bet. He was the most well-read man I knew. Now that he’s gone, who’s going to come to my desk and ask me for my review of ‘Of Mice and Men?’ That’s the book we were going to discuss this week!
” Stacy’s eyes were watery, and her voice was breaking something awful.
She put a hand on her face and got up to leave.
“Stace.”
She turned around, looking at me sorrowfully.
“I’ll do the book club thing with you. I think it’ll be good for both of us,” I said.
Stacy nodded slightly. Once the moment had passed, she looked around the office, undoubtedly admiring the effort of the janitorial staff in cleaning the mess my friends had made last night. She asked, “So what are you going to do today?”
“Listen to The Cranberries, sing along to ‘Whiskey in the Jar’, drink some whiskey while I’m at it, and spend the day thinking about the old man,” I said.
“You had a ten o’clock with Josh about his next album.
I pushed it to tomorrow. Then there’s this new rapper whose agent has been relentless.
I gave him a meeting just to get him to shut up.
It’s not today, though, so don’t worry. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure that no one bothers you today,” Stacy said at the door.
“And then take a half day yourself, maybe go visit his grave?”
She nodded again.
“Oh, and the new intern, did she come today?”
“Melissa? She was a now show after her worst day of work. Hasn’t come back for two weeks. Why do you ask?” Stacy said.
I did not want to burden Stacy with the news that Melissa was Hoffa’s daughter, that I’d screwed things with her, and how karma had come back to bite me in the ass in the form of Hoffa’s last promise. Knowing Stacy, I’d get a lecture for the ages. Now was not the time for one.
I blamed Hoffa. If he hadn’t kept his daughter’s existence so secretive and had introduced me to her beforehand, I wouldn’t have done what I did. I would have been respectful. I also kind of blamed Melissa herself. She should have led with the fact as to who her father was.
That was wrong. Neither of them was to blame if I was being honest. It was me. I was the asshole. It took Hoffa dying for me to see just how big of an asshole I was.
Fall afternoons felt like bliss, especially when you had a view of Central Park such as I did.
All those red, orange, yellow, and brown shades of leaves from up high made me feel like I was a painter looking at my palette, the city my canvas.
In the background, The Cranberries were playing Linger.
The whiskey felt exquisite on my tongue as I sipped it gently, lost in thought.
On clear days the windows were completely clear without any reflections.
But on dark days such as this one, because the sky was so cloudy, the windows became reflective, allowing me to see what was happening behind me in the office.
As it happened, someone was standing at the door.
The reflection only allowed me to make out the shape of a person; it didn’t reveal the person’s identity.
I wheeled my chair around and froze in place.
Melissa was standing there, a file in her hands, dressed casually in a pair of jeans of a loose shirt.
She did not ask for my permission to enter as she walked into the room.
There was something different about her.
In the two weeks that had passed since her father’s death, somehow, she seemed more confident, aware, and sure of herself.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” I said.
“Save it,” she said quickly, then sat down across the table. “I came here to quit, and I wanted to do it in your face.”
“Before you do that, would you mind hearing me out?”
“I have no interest in whatever you’re going to say.”
“Then how about this. I pour you a drink. Just the one. And by the time you finish it, I’ll stop talking. If, after that, you wanna leave, be my guest. I will even apologize for my behavior and never bother you again,” I said, putting down my glass.
“You must be so sure of what you have to say,” she demanded, not breaking her gaze away as I walked over to where I kept the whiskey and poured her a double, neat.
I handed her the drink, then sat down a respectable distance away, watching her as she contemplated downing the double shot in one.
Of course, she wasn’t going to do that. But then again, she was Hoffa’s daughter, and I’d once seen that man drink an entire bottle of whiskey in just two gulps.
So there was no telling what she would do.
What I didn’t expect her to do was put down her glass, cross her fingers, and stare at me indifferently.
“I should not have done what I did,” I said, putting it out there. There was no point skating around the subject. I owed her an apology. It would be better if I started with one. “I am sorry for the way I behaved.”
“You said…”
“I know what I said and I do not like myself for having said that. I sincerely apologize,” I said.
“What I don’t understand, Ryan, is which version of you was the real you.
Was it the person I met that night, the sweet and charming guy who listened to me and told me stories from his life, or was it the complete douche I woke up next to?
I know you are not a sociopath. You’re not cut out to be one.
So which was it?” she snickered, now taking the glass in her hands and bringing it to her nose, smelling it.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I am a little bit of both?” I asked.
“That’s not good enough of an answer,” she said.
“Then how about this? I wasn’t lying to you that morning.
I did all of that because of a dare, a stupid, idiotic, misplaced dare that has been a rather dark and ignorant tradition of my frat house.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking. A guy’s nearing his forties and he’s still in touch with his frat house buddies. ”
“Believe me, I get it. It’s pathetic. But that’s what it was.
They dared me to do it. I will not deny it because it won’t change anything.
I will admit that I toyed with you. But at the same time, the person you met that night, the person who took you to the Lieberman diner, went to your apartment with you, listened to you when you spoke of your father, that was me too.
Between the two versions, I enjoyed myself with you when I was being earnest and sincere,” I said.
“If I could change things, I would. But that is not how the world works. There’s no do-over. No one goes back in time.”
“Are you really trying to sell me the whole asshole with a heart of gold shtick, because that’s not going to stick,” she said. She downed her double shot in one gulp, not surprising me one bit. She was her father’s daughter through and through.
“I’m not. What I am going to tell you, however, is going to make you see things differently.
That morning, I didn’t know who your father was.
But later that day, when I met Hoffa at the country club, he told me about you — how you’d discreetly gotten an internship there.
The Joe Hill way, as it were. You didn’t want people giving you favors just because of who your father was.
I respect that. I admire it, as a matter of fact.
But it's also what caused this whole thing.
“You see, Melissa, your father, that’s Frances Hoffa O’Shaughnessy, just so that there’s no misunderstanding, was my friend.
A dear friend. More than that, he was the guy who invested in my business in the first place.
All I have today, I owe to him. The fact that I hurt his daughter is going to give me a lot of sleepless nights, seeing as how I loved the man and never wanted to do wrong by him,” I said, reminding myself to not let it slip that Hoffa had essentially asked me to marry her and take care of her.
I had to be careful. Gaining someone’s trust back was a feat that sometimes took a lifetime.
“You…you knew my father?” she whispered.
“He gave me my seed funding. He’s been there for me ever since, giving me business advice, teaching me how to play golf, and learning how to appreciate good whiskey. That’s why I was there at the funeral yesterday. I did not mean to upset you by my presence.”
Melissa was no longer indifferent. Her face had lost its reserved expression; now, everything that she had been hiding underneath came spilling out in the form of shock, exasperation, and confusion. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes squinting as her forehead furrowed into a deep frown.
“And no, I literally did not know that you were his daughter beforehand. I wish we’d met properly for the first time under different circumstances, where I hadn’t been such a fuckwit to you,” I said, pouring myself some more whiskey just as the song changed from Dreams to Zombie.
Hoffa loved that song, claiming that he had sung it with local buskers in no less than two hundred Irish bars.
“I don’t know what to say,” Melissa said, staring fixedly at her empty glass. I filled it up with another double.
“Then how about you sit with me and let me? We will drink and will talk about your father. I have more than a dozen tales I’d like to share with you, just as I am sure you have.
I am just now realizing that I was the last person he talked to before he passed away.
I am sure you’d be interested in knowing what he had to say. ”
“Just as long as you realize that this does not mean that I’m ready to forgive you for what you did,” Melissa said, raising her glass.
“I completely understand. Forgiveness has to be earned, and I will keep trying,” I said, raising my glass.
“Very well, then. To Dad,” she said, clinking her glass with mine.
“To Hoffa, may he be drunk in heavenly spirits, singing his ballads in Empyrean pubs,” I said.
We drank in unison, and then we sat quietly for a spell before I began regaling her with all sorts of tales from her father’s eccentric life.