I thought about my dad.
When you're young, you think your father can do anything. Unless he was this severely abusive person and beat you or got drunk and smashed things, you probably worshiped him. At least most of the guys I knew were like that. They might not have used those exact words, but they all have some cherished memory of something they did with their father, even if it was just a shiny, far-off moment.
I remembered being eight years old and making a Pinewood Derby car for Boy Scouts. Dad had brought out a gleaming red Craftsman toolbox that I had never seen before and helped me carve the car out of a block of wood, and we sat at the kitchen table painting it silver and blue with red flames up the side. I drank Pepsi and he sipped a beer. When we finished, the car didn't weigh enough, so we put lead weights in the bottom and sprayed lubricant on the wheels until it rolled freely from one side of the table to the other. I won third place, and he said, "I'm proud of you."
I remembered going fishing with him up in Maine, taking a little motorboat out across the foggy lake until it was too dark to see our bobbers.
I remembered him teaching me how to tie a necktie on the morning of my cousin's wedding.
I remembered seeing him in the stands at my first junior high swimming tournament, standing next to my mom and cheering.
I remembered waking up very early in the morning and hearing him downstairs making coffee before slipping out to work.
I remembered the first time I ever heard him swear.
The light changed again.
The night air was cold and damp. Without a cell phone, I realized that I didn't know what time it was, although I'd probably been standing here for at least ten minutes.
I crossed Eighth Avenue and headed east.
It took me thirty minutes to get across town on foot to the tower on 855 Third Avenue, and another twenty minutes standing up against the glass, waving and gesturing and knocking on the glass until Rufus glanced up from his newspaper and realized who I was. He tucked the paper away and stood up slowly, making his way across the huge marble lobby as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
"Brother," he said, as he unlocked the door and opened it for me, "you do work odd hours."
I stepped inside and looked around. The only sound was the fountain, clattering out endless watery applause for an audience of two. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass, my bloody tuxedo shirt and bruised face.
"What happened to you?"
"I got mugged," I said. "Did anybody else come through here?"
"What, tonight?" He regarded me doubtfully. "Just the cleaning crew. Couple other security guards, Davy and Rheinhart—they're down in the control room, doing their rounds."
"Nobody else? You're sure?"
"Been at this desk all night." Rufus cocked his head to the side. "You want me to call the cops?"
"No thanks. Is there anybody up on forty-seven?"
"Some of the partners are working late, I guess. Where are you going?"
I went to the turnstile and hopped over it. "Up."
"Hey, man, you ain't supposed to do that. You got to swipe in first. That's policy."
"I lost my wallet, remember?" I headed for the elevators. "Keep your eyes open."
"What am I looking for?" Rufus said distantly. "You sure you don't want me to call you an ambulance or something?"
He was still watching me as the elevator doors slid shut.
I stepped out of the elevator and into the quiet of the climate-controlled hallway. The lights on the forty-seventh floor were turned down to their dimmest setting. In the shadows I saw the letters on the wall spelling out Harriett, Statham, and Fripp. Someday, my dad used to say, it would read Harriett, Statham, Fripp, and Stormaire. He meant both of us, senior and junior.
I walked through the reception area and gazed out the floor-to-ceiling window at the lights of Midtown far below. The glass was cold, beaded with condensation, my breath ghosting against it and then evaporating again.
The only sound was the faint whir of sleeping electronics, a scanner clicking, a fax machine's far-off hum.
The reception desk had been immaculately tidied up in preparation for Monday morning. Framed personal photos from home, a potted plant, flat-screen monitor cycling through endless screen-savers. Beyond it was the wide opaque glass door leading back into the offices themselves.
I took the handle and tugged.
It was locked.
I shouldn't have been surprised. I took a breath and wondered what I'd come here for anyway. What had I been expecting to find all the way up here, halfway between God and Broadway? The answer to all my questions?
The elevator chimed behind me.
The doors opened. Footsteps padded across the carpet and stopped.
"Perry?"
I looked around at the figure standing on the other side of the reception area, staring back at me.
"Hello, Dad."
30
Describe a fictional character. Be sure to point out what you do and do not like about the character and relate these attributes to yourself. (William and Mary)
"What are you doing here?" he asked. "What happened to your face?"
I didn't move. "What are you doing here?"
"This is my office."
"It's three a.m."
"You're bleeding," he said. "Were you in some kind of accident?"
"You could say that."
"Well, what happened?"
"Mom said that she was calling you. Did you talk to her?"
"She may have called, I'm not sure." He took out his cell phone, pressed a button, and put it away. "My cell died. I've been on the phone with the police for the last three hours, trying to find you. I came here..."—he took a breath and released it—"because I didn't know where else to go."
He took a step toward me, moving closer under the recessed lighting, and this time I took a step back.
"Who's Santamaria?"
"Who?"
"Santamaria."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit."
"Perry, I swear to you, if I had the slightest idea what you were talking about, I would tell you."
"Like you told me about Meredith?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"That was different," he said. "And it's over."
"Whatever."
He tucked his chin and glared at me from underneath his eyebrows, his voice low and intense. "You'd better watch yourself."
"Or what?" I flicked my eyes back to the names on the wall outside. "You're not going to let me be a lawyer? You're not going to let me work here and be like you?" I exhaled. "I think I'd rather clean toilets."
Dad flipped one hand outward, dismissing my words. "I'm sure you would, but that's not an option. Your mother and I have invested too much in your future to let you piss it all away on some act of knee-jerk immaturity." His voice tightened with newfound resolve—he'd regained the parental high ground and wasn't about to lose it again. "Now come with me. I'm taking you home. We can deal with the car and the rest of it in the morning."
"I'm not leaving with you."
"You're mistaken. Badly."
"Don't touch me."
He reached up anyway, gripping my shoulder and arm.
"Get your hands off me." Squirming loose, I tried to take another step back but ran into the door. There was no place left to maneuver.
"Listen to yourself," Dad said. "You're about to burst into tears. Stop this nonsense right now."
"Get your hands off me, I said!"
When his hand reached for me again, I punched him in the mouth.
Dad took a step back, blinking at me and touching his lip, staring at the blood that his only son had somehow drawn. He looked more startled than hurt or even angry. It was the expression of a man who'd just been informed that, effective immediately, up was down and black was white.
Neither of us said a word.
"Two things," I said. "First, wh
en I get back to school I'm joining the swim team again. Second, if you ever cheat on Mom again and I find out, I'm going to beat the living shit out of you."
Dad's high forehead creased with the tiniest of frowns. "Are you still on that?"
"You lied to us."
"You don't know the details."
"I know I can't trust you," I said. "What else do I need to know?"
"I don't know, Perry. I don't know who you are anymore."
"Yeah, well, that makes two of us."
Dad's shoulders sagged. He glanced around the reception area as if seeming to remember that he was in an office, a place of negotiation and civility.
"Sit down," he said. "Let's talk."
"Not now." I pointed at the doors leading back into the office. "Do you have a key for this door?"
"I think so. Why?"
"I need you to open it for me."
"What's this all about, Perry?"
"It's about Gobi," I said.
31
How has your family history, culture, or environment influenced who you are? (University of Florida)
Dad unlocked the door and we stepped inside. We walked down the freshly vacuumed hallway past a series of closed doors and oak-paneled conference rooms. The darkness seemed to be holding its breath.
"There's no one else here," Dad said.
I didn't say anything. We kept moving forward. At the far end of the hall I turned left at a bank of photocopiers and stopped. Twenty yards away, the lights were on in the corner office. Without looking back at my dad, I padded past the other cubicles until I was standing in front of the door.
My hand went up to try the knob, and a voice spoke up behind me.
"Excuse me? Can I help you with something?"
My shoulders jerked with surprise and I whirled around. Valerie Statham was standing there in a white blouse and skirt, no shoes, and very little makeup. Her hair was down and she looked much older than I remembered from our conversation in the elevator, although it was probably the expression of surprise on her face.
"Phillip?" she said, glancing back at my father. "What are you doing here?" She turned to me. "What is this? What's going on?"
"I..." My dad shook his head. "I'm sorry, Valerie, but I honestly don't know."
Valerie took a step back, alternating between my bloody tuxedo and my dad's fat lip. "You two look awful. Is everything all right?"
My dad nodded. "Perry..." he started, and I imagined him saying, Perry and I were just having a private conversation about being responsible. I imagined him saying, Perry's just had another one of his famous dizzy spells. I imagined him saying, Perry seems to be having some trouble discerning fantasy from reality.
Instead, he said: "Perry was asking me about someone called Santamaria. Do you have any idea what that means?"
Valerie turned to me. Her eyes narrowed. "Santamaria?"
"Yes."
"No, I can't say that I do."
"Is there anyone else up here?" I asked.
"No."
"How do you know?"
Something changed in Valerie's expression. I couldn't quite tell what it was—I didn't know her that well—but the puzzlement hardened somehow, grew an edge.
She looked at my dad.
"Phillip, may I speak to you privately in my office?"
"Of course," he said.
"No." I grabbed his wrist. "Don't do it. Don't go in there with her."
Now they were both staring at me. Valerie in particular made a point of looking straight into my eyes. "Poor guy, he looks absolutely exhausted. Perry, I enjoyed your show tonight, the little bit of it there was. You were right, your band is good. You might want to consider hiring someone else to do the lights, though."
I stared at her.
"It's you," I said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're Santamaria."
Valerie didn't react immediately, but when she did, it was with a tight, practiced smile. "Well, I've been called a lot of things over the years, but I believe that's a first. I'm more likely to be the Nina or the Pinta, don't you think?"
"That's why you came to the bar tonight," I said, "because Gobi was there."
"I'm sorry," Valerie said, "but I honestly—"
"Why did you kill her sister?"
"I assure you, the only thing that I've killed tonight is a bottle of Maalox, and that's only because I drank too much coffee."
"You laundered their money. You did it from here. You're the bank."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Perry," Dad said, "that's enough."
Valerie's smile hadn't changed. "It looks like somebody doesn't want that letter of recommendation to Columbia."
"Dad, just don't go in the office. I don't care how mad you get at me. You can ground me for the rest of my life—let's just go."
"Perry, don't be ridiculous."
Before I could stop them, he went into her office and shut the door. It was quiet for a moment. I heard voices—Valerie's, sounding calm and logical at first, and my dad's, then Valerie's again, louder—and I went to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. Dad was shouting now. I heard him saying, "What are you talking about? What does that mean?"
There was a sudden thump, a crash of furniture overturning. What sounded like piles of books thumped to the floor. The door handle started rattling hard from the other side, but it didn't open.
"Dad!" I shouted. "Open up!"
A second later I heard the shot.
32
Sometimes being proven right isn't the most satisfying outcome to a situation. Discuss one situation where you were right and wish that you hadn't been. (University of Chicago)
Flashpoint:
My dad stumble-tripping backwards out of the office, fingers laced across his stomach, falling down between the copy machine and the cubicle beside it. His blood splashed on the oatmeal-colored carpet like an abstract painting.
Flashpoint:
Valerie, stepping calmly forward, getting ready to shoot him again.
Flashpoint:
Me, lunging at her, pulling her arms down as her elbow angled up and jabbed me in the eye.
Recovering my balance, grabbing my father, legs pumping hard back through the office in the direction we'd come.
Another gunshot from behind.
The glass door in front of us exploding in a spray of glass, revealing the reception area beyond it.
Flashpoint: the elevator fifty feet in front of us, opening.
And then—
Gobi.
I stayed down, flattened against the carpet, head swiveled toward my father. Bullets exploded above me, smashing into walls and glass and furniture, tearing apart lamps and blowing a computer off the desk. Somewhere to my left I saw Valerie Statham spin around and fire repeatedly at Gobi or at least in the direction where Gobi had come from, the elevators, the entryway. Big wads of stuffing from the gutted chairs and sofa cushions spilled down into the carpet. Splinters of wood flew past my face and got stuck in my hair.
My hearing died again, but I still felt the vibrations of gunfire. The air smelled poisonous. My eyes stung with smoke. My tongue tasted like dirty iodine. I crawled under a desk and slithered to the corner where my dad had drawn his knees up to his chin, his head down.
"Dad?" I shouted, and even though it was loud enough to hurt my throat, I couldn't hear a sound. "Dad? Dad?"
He lifte Whatdhis head, but his face was far away, addled with confusion and fear. I looked at the gunshot wound in his stomach and saw that it had just grazed his side. What remained was superficial but still bleeding steadily.
"We have to get out of here!" I silent-shouted. "Dad, we need to—"
Something flashed in front of me and crashed to the floor—some object, a fire extinguisher or a monitor, thrown hard, aimed at my face. Warm fingers seized my wrist. Hot steel rammed into my ear. I saw Valerie Statham's bloody face staring up at me, her lips shaping the words Get up.
Befor
e I could get to my feet, she dragged me forward through the broken glass and smoke, clamped her fingers around my throat, and held me up in front of her as a shield.
Non-noises pressed against my ears, the vibration of sound I couldn't hear. Very faintly I heard voices shouting and saw Gobi twenty feet in front of me, still holding the sawed-off shotgun and the machine pistol that she'd taken from the men back on Tenth Avenue.
She was completely soaked in blood. Her hair swung in red tangles around her shoulders, and her face was a gleaming mask, her eyes like hard diamonds.
I am Death.
"The police are already on their way up," Valerie's voice shouted behind me. "You'll never get out of here. They'll be looking for a psychotic Lithuanian girl who just gunned down an attorney and his son. I should just kill you now."
Gobi grinned and I saw the gap where her tooth had been knocked out. She said something in Lithuanian.
Then she shot me.
33
Describe a painful experience and what you learned from it. (Boston College)
Gobi's bullet tore through my leg just below the knee, cutting a trough along the outer margin of the calf muscle. The instant it hit, Valerie let go of me, shoving me forward. I plunged straight down, facefirst, into a bath of pain so intense that I couldn't even scream.
Not that it would've mattered. Nobody heard a thing. My abused eardrums registered only the faintest thumps and pops, like fireworks from the next county over. The elevators behind Gobi were opening again, and I saw cops or security guards piling out. Their faces looked exactly like what you would expect on anyone walking into the middle of a firefight. It took about three seconds for them to duck and cover behind the nearest couch.
"Drop it!" one of the cops shouted. "Drop the gun!"
Gobi didn't move. She stood twenty feet in front of me, keeping the machine pistol raised in my direction so they could see it, the sawed-off shotgun hanging at her side. Lifting one arm, she wiped the blood from her face.
Au Revoir, Crazy European Chick Page 12
