FaceMate

by Steven M. Greenberg

  Yes, amazing. Incredible: So incredible, he never would have guessed that thirty years of keeping all that locked inside had taken all the bitterness away, without him even knowing it was gone. And what was left, to his surprise, was contentment, almost a sense of gratitude: He had lost what he’d thought were all the greatest pleasures in the world forever. But now it came to him, with the first glance at that picture, that all the joyous moments in his early life were there alright, right there where he had filed them away, stored up in his latent memories with all the rest—if he only had the will to call them back. Yes, he’d lost his darling Lizzie, no denying that. But she’d been so inseparable a part of him, and he so intimate a part of her, for seven perfect years, that the good and bad in his former life were mixed so inextricably that they were impossible to tear apart. And in doing his best to tear them, in throwing all the good out with the bad, hadn’t he been faithless to both Lizzie and himself? Hadn’t he discarded memories he should have treasured—memories it was shameful to have lost? That picture brought the feelings back of Lizzie’s hand in his, her eyes, her face, the scent of her: The fact that she was taken from him should have never cost him that.

  So there he was, back to where he’d been at twenty-two: Which was the first step in Ben’s recovery—delete the pain, delete the sorrow, add in the splendid stuff again….

  Then right on its heels, barely a month after the amazing picture had come to light—Damn! How could even a fantasy-fiction writer have conceived it?— Right on its very heels had come … the amazing boy. Tommie Mulroy stepped into the room last Friday—My God! Had it only been a week—no more?—and half the picture came to life right smack-dab before his eyes! That young man’s face: Good God! but it was just like looking in some magician’s mirror and seeing yourself staring back at you again, but with thirty years excised. He’d blinked; he’d rubbed his eyelids; he’d squeezed them shut, but when he popped them open wide again, well there it was unchanged That face—his face, the exact same face in the picture in his upper right-hand drawer. Mind boggling! Ben was positively blown away!

  And—think of it!—If some worn-out picture, all on its own, had brought back so many pungently exquisite memories: Well, what in the world would that young man’s face likely do! What it did, what Tommy Mulroy did, in fact, was beam him back to the absolutely grandest times of his life, his formative years, the years when Lizzie fused into his spirit, when she was gradually becoming half of him and he becoming half of her. He was a mere child when he met her, but seven years later on, by the time he lost her, he’d become the man he was today. Half the Ben Atherton that everybody thought they knew had Lizzie Sommers locked inside. And when Ben took that first disbelieving look at Thomas Mulroy, he could tell the half that came from Lizzie was somehow, by some extraordinary happenstance, already there.

  You could see it; you could feel it, it was clear. Ben Atherton’s face, alright—that much of the picture was a given. But the rest of him—the voice, the manner, the poise—that was the Ben of twenty-two absolutely, incontrovertibly—the mature, fully realized Ben—with Lizzie’s spirit securely stowed inside.

  With the ultimate result that: Ben’s heart went out to the boy—totally and devotedly and instantaneously—How could he have reacted any differently?—It was inherent in Ben’s nature to give: He gave to people he liked and gave to people he didn’t like enough to merit his generosity. He gave to rich and he gave to poor—what did it matter what social stratum they were in, just so long as they could use your dough—And nobody, but nobody, had much more extra dough to scatter liberally than Ben.

  What else could he do with it, anyway? After all, without any fixed obligations, without even the most distant direct heirs, no kids, no brothers or sisters, and Carole’s family well provided for: where do you want your billions to go? To the government? Why the hell to them? So they can pass it discretely to their cronies, or use it to pay for votes, or wheedle themselves into lucrative positions once they finally get justly voted out? Hell, flushing it down the toilet would be more socially productive than postmortem government funding would be.

  So where, then, should your money ultimately go when you’re no longer here? You’ve got to find somebody specific, someone you know, someone you can trust to spend the dollars wisely and well. And if you have the chance to give your cash away while you’re still alive—then great! That’s better still: you get the added fun of watching all the benefit the recipient accrues.

  And therefore, as a consequence, Ben was a guy who habitually gave stuff to a variety of people. And there was no one—absolutely NO one—of all the people he knew, after last weekend, that he was more eager to give it to than Thomas J. Mulroy, his identical twin from another age, the kid who held the spirit and the soul he himself had held, with Lizzie’s essence superadded, at the age of twenty-two. One short weekend, two long days, had convinced him unquestionably that Tommy Mulroy was the guy he’d most like to pass some money to—Only problem being: The kid simply wouldn’t take the dough.

  What he had offered last weekend, essentially, was this: Why not come out, Tom, relocate to Jersey, bring your family along if you like? We’ll get you and them a nice big house, or two, or three, put you on the corporate staff—Big bucks from the outset; all the perks you want or need. Then we can groom you to fit right in to the corporation, right away; let you handle—oh, let’s say we put you in charge of auto industry acquisitions and management. You’ve got the background for that, right? We don’t have much going in the auto business now, like minimal to none; but that can easily be amended. We can buy some little companies in distress—parts suppliers, say, design and engineering firms for the auto trade—get them turned around, integrate them vertically, horizontally, move on to the majors, maybe, heavy manufacturing: cars, trucks, busses, subway trains—Hell, there must be loads of opportunities out there, guys who are hurting that we can modernize, rationalize. You can take off a little time if you like, finish up your PhD, say at MIT if that suits your fancy—I know some folks who can get you in there right away; just need to make a couple calls: Hey, name your terms and we’ll meet them: So? What do you say, Tommy? Sound like something you might like to do?

  It sounded great, sure—how could a deal like that not sound great?—But the damn kid wouldn’t bite. Ben might have known. Thinking back to what he himself would have done at that age, given such an offer, hell, smart as he was, cocky as he’d been about his prospects for the future, he wouldn’t have bitten either. From the time he came of economic sense, he had always had the compulsion to make it entirely on his own. If some eccentric billionaire had muscled in and offered him the same terms he was offering Tommy, he would have reacted in the exact same way.

  But the kid had another reason too, one that Ben hadn’t thought of, in turning the gratuity down, a reason that was even more endearing and comprehensible than that blossoming of youthful gutsy pride: After the weekend they had spent together—truthfully, after the first few minutes they’d sat across from one another at his desk—Tommy and Ben had turned into the best of friends. And what Tommy reasoned, beyond the pride issue, was: Giving money to a friend incurs an obligation, and obligation is the quickest way to turn the warmest friendship cold. Besides, said Tommy, paying for a friendship cheapens it, makes it less spontaneous, less genuine. So ‘no’ to the offer, that was that: One caveat however—The kid would go partway. He’d agree to spend more time here in Red Bank—lots of time, actually—but he’d spend it willingly, as a friend and not some needy client on the take. Ben understood his reasoning right away, and the boy’s refusal only served to endear him to Ben all the more.

  So in the end, when the kid had left on Sunday last, he took a generous share of Ben’s affections with him; and after four days absence, it now being Friday again, Ben could hardly wait to have Tommy Mulroy back again.

  And now, at 2:00 p.m., Ben sat in his office waiting impatiently for the boy who was due there anytime, any minute, any second.
He sat there eagerly watching the clock….

  And while scanning through that sheaf of companies for sale in the automotive industry, Ben all of a sudden dropped the print-outs in his fingers on the desk, leaned back in his swivel chair, smiled bemusedly, and thought:

  Hell: Why should he be the one to decide where to park the limitless amounts of money being socked away? What did he know about automotives? Let Tommy go through the list of available firms on the auction block. Let him pick what struck his fancy, whatever the hell struck his fancy: What difference did it make if Atherton lost a few billion here and there on businesses that were in the dumpster waiting for the garbage truck to come? No way to lose that newfound cash nearly as fast as FaceMate was pouring it in.

  36

  Luther picked them up at the airport just a little after 2:00. Brendan was beat, Eddie more dead than alive from lack of shut-eye, so those two sleepy people took the big back seat to doze, while Tommy sat with Luther in the front. Five minutes of effusive compliments from Luther on how terrific the automotive diagnosis had been, and how great his ‘pretty little Cad’ was running, now that the catalytic convertor had been fixed—all thanks to “you, young fella.” Then they ran into a bit of construction, cutting the road down to single-lane, keeping Luther attentive to his driving for the while, and leaving Tommy some peace and quiet to be alone with his thoughts.

  And the first thing that struck him, once he stretched out in the cushy leather seat and gazed out upon the Garden State greenery passing on his right, was the crystalline clearness of the day. Last weekend when he’d been here, it had been hazy-hot—Ben had told him that was pretty much the norm for August here in Jersey—But today, for whatever reason, ocean breezes, shutdowns at the chemical plants—whatever—the sky was robin’s-egg blue with not a cloud, not the faintest hint of the blanketing humidity that he’d felt so oppressively last week. No, today was so bright and crisp and glorious an afternoon, that you’d think it was ordered up special, specifically to show Tommy Mulroy that New Jersey, even more than Arizona, could be a delightful place to stay.

  Yep, if anyone could have raised a magic wand and made the weather perfect, it would have had to be Ben. Just like that play he’d liked so much in lit class in undergrad back in Tempe—The Tempest, it was called—with Ben as the magician in the lead: That fellow—Oh, what was his name again? Just when it’s sitting at the tip of your tongue, the darn thing flits away again. But, whatever the fellow’s name, all the rest of the dramatic action fit right in as smoothly as the bearings on a cam: A Brave New World, alright—that was for sure—the fascinating players, all of them larger-than-life; the incredible palaces he’d seen—and actually, incredibly, slept in.

  Now Eddie—he’d have to be the monster—Caliban was his name, that Tommy remembered, if nothing else—Not that Ed was monstrous in any way; but he had that harsh and grumbly façade that belied his inner kindness, so that was the role that fit him best. Then the sprite—Ariel, was it? Yes, that sounded like the name alright—that would probably be Ben’s secretary—umm, Cindy it was, he thought—hardly the ethereal type by a longshot, but her dependable functionality would likely fit her perfectly for the capable facilitator’s part.

  Leaving Ben as the well-intentioned sorcerer—Oh, what the heck was that character’s name, darn it? Funny how you forget perfectly familiar things—But with no Miranda as a daughter, thank heavens, or Ben would have had him halfway to the altar by now. Ben, though—he sure made the quintessential puppet-master-in-charge, assisted faithfully by his co-abettors Cindy and Ed. A puppet-master who had all the necessary gifts to fill those giant shoes: Wisdom galore that bordered on omniscience, profuse generosity that brought him pretty close to being all-good, and the kind of omnipotence that wealth provides, his pros—

  Ah! Prosperity, prosperity!—That was the sorcerer’s name—Prospero!—How can you forget such elemental things as that? But, come to think of it, only a couple of weeks ago the subject of a certain model Packard came up in the garage—the Caribbean—and darned if he hadn’t forgotten the name completely till somebody talked about a trip to Barbados, and it popped right into his head—Darn!

  Well Ben was Prospero, then, of course—without an available Miranda, luckily enough, but with a shipwrecked young fellow he was dying to aid, anyway—though he couldn’t hope to get him wed without a waiting maid in view. Problem for Ben was, (besides the marriage part), the shipwrecked young fellow wanted to find a wondrous Brave New World on his own. Why? Because that’s the only way it would be meaningful, the only way it would be his world and not some artificial fabrication dreamed up by the puppet-master according to his own peculiar frame of mind. He and Ben were alike, no doubt there, but not so much alike that they could pick and choose each-others’ tastes and preferences. That concept was what he needed to get across to Ben today. And if Ben was as much like him as he seemed to be, he’d have to understand.

  Well, Luther dropped him at the curb beside the building, then took off to drive the other passengers to their respective homes. Which was fine with him, thought Tommy; he didn’t need some nursemaid to lead him by the hand; he knew the way by now, having plotted out this same old path last weekend more than once. So in the door and up the elevator Tommy Mulroy went. Then into Ben’s outer office, up to the secretary—Ben’s less-then sprightly Ariel—with her great big belly and her super-friendly smile—Cindy was her name, he had it right and had the sharpness of his memory confirmed in print when he saw the placard on her desk: She was big alright—unhealthily big—but with narrow, clever eyes and that smile that could light up the road if your xenon bulbs went dim. She pointed to the door behind her with a gesture of her thumb, and gave him the go-ahead to amble right on in.

  Which he did, enthusiastically: “Hey Ben!”—Ben was seated at his desk with an affectionate grin on his face—Which was good—Which was terrific in fact!— meaning that nothing between the two of them had changed. Four days no contact—well, beside that little bit of chatting on the phone—and they were still the best of friends; you could see in Ben’s face that they were, and his face probably looked the same way to Ben. Tommy, cheerfully, proceeded with the greeting he’d begun:

  “Hi! So … Cindy told me I didn’t need to knock, but just to barge on in.”

  “Well sure, Tommy, great to see you—Hey, you got here a little earlier than they said you would. I’m glad.”

  Over he stepped and dropped into the chair across the desk from Ben, the place he’d sat last week for most of the morning and half the afternoon, and explained:

  “Yeah, I’m glad too; glad to be back, I mean. What happened was: Eddie arranged things so we left before 6:00 a.m., Phoenix time—Have you talked to him yet today?”

  “To Eddie? Not a word, no. But knowing Eddie, I bet he went straight home to get some sleep. Getting up to catch a flight at 6:00 would be a hell of a stretch for Ed. So? Tell me: How was your trip? Did Brandon get the engine fixed to suit your taste?”

  “The trip was easy. And yep, Brendan got a new bearing for the engine fan; I didn’t hear the noise this time. But let me tell you about last night though, Ben; you should have been there; it was incredible! Eddie came over to the restaurant my mom works in, and she cooked him up this terrific meal—Eddie went nuts for it, and I think he’s planning on flying back with Brandon next week to pick me up and get some more of Mom’s great food. Hey, maybe you should take off a day or two and come along.”

  Ben smiled, but it was a wan smile, a smile of reluctant refusal. “Honestly Tom, I’d love to, I really would; but there’s some stuff I’ve been working on…. Hey, you remember what we talked about last weekend?—The automotive acquisition stuff?”

  Oh boy! thought Tommy, here we go again! What they’d talked about last weekend was Ben’s company maybe buying some automotive entities for Tom’s sake—bringing him into the business through a side door and getting him to relocate to New Jersey that way. Oh, sure, Ben meant well; and, truthfully, his
interest in having the two of them live in way, way closer proximity made an awful lot of sense. No doubt about it, he’d like that too—A lot!—But his idea of close proximity would be a whole lot different from Ben’s—like in a different venue entirely. What it would entail, in essence, would be Ben picking up and moving the whole AthCorp operation to Arizona rather than him and Mom and Rachel moving east to Red Bank. Mom would never go for leaving Dad alone in Arizona in his grave, and Rachel had her friends. And, anyway, why wouldn’t Arizona be better in the end? The nicer weather, the lower taxes, the cleaner air, and besides, the Phoenix area had way cheaper housing than Jersey—All the Atherton employees would be ecstatic over that.

  Actually, he’d been planning on broaching the subject this weekend to Ben, if Ben seemed the least bit conducive—though he seriously doubted that Ben actually would consider the move. But one thing he was pretty sure of: if he could get Ben out there, even for a weekend visit to take a look, give him a taste of Mom’s fantastic food, get him in the desert sun to lift his spirits, color up his skin; have him breathe the nice, clean, arid Arizona air—maybe that would seal the deal, or at least get him started thinking of a move. It certainly had made an impression on Eddie, judging from the fun he’d had the past two days—So maybe it would have a like effect on Ben as well—He’d try his best to talk Ben into it—But as for Ben’s kind offer of employment, generous as it was—Sorry, that proposition was absolutely out: