During those seven years he tried to rationalize it in his mind, what he’d done and why, but he still couldn’t find his way around it. He could never have seen himself giving up all that he had, and would have, to live in some cramped apartment with some farm girl from Ohio, having to actually work for a living and listening to a screaming baby.
Night after night he tried to convince himself that he did the only thing he could have, and that was what his mother told him to do. He married a girl she’d picked out for him within a year and got her pregnant as soon as was humanly possible to cover the guilt of what he had done in New York, forgetting that he’d ever been there. But seeing Melanie’s face night after night every time he closed his eyes would not let him rest, so after almost seven years of sleepless nights following his mother’s death, Julian Bramson the Third booked a flight to New York to finally meet his past, face to face.
Chapter VI
FATHER’S DAY (or Who’s Your Daddy?)
When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears, When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears I held your hand through all of these years but you still have...all of me
My Immortal,
………As performed by Evanescence
“Please show the gentleman in, Alida,” Jack said stiffly into the intercom, never once considering even the remotest possibility of this particular visit; but having been pulled out of where he was at that point in his memory, he was ripe, rare and ready for the encounter.
He stood up and went toward the door, suddenly taken back to an earlier time recollected only moments before, that Christmas Eve in 1986, holding that sad boy in his arms, rocking him and praying with all his might that he’d tied off the wound in time. Oh yes, he was very ready.
Alida opened the door and motioned with her hand for the man to come in, and there he stood, in the flesh, Julian Bramson the Third, dressed in a navy blue serge suit, white shirt, conser-vative Foulard tie and camel-hair overcoat. He put out his hand and smiled. “Dr. Edgeworth, so good of you to see me on such short notice. I apologize for any inconvenience,” he said in the polite social voice he’d been trained to use by his governesses since early childhood.
“Not at all, Mr. Bramson. Please come in,” Jack said, drawing on the polite voice of his own well-raised upbringing and offering his hand to shake Bramson’s, but inside steaming like a locomotive about to take on a long and strenuous hill, fueled by the seething, red hot lava of a long dormant volcano just then stirring itself to life. “Please, sit down,” he said pointing to the chair in front of his desk and walking around to take a seat in his own. Once they were both seated, Jack’s curiosity got the best of him.
“Needless to say, Mr. Bramson, this is quite a surprise. What exactly is it that brings you to the Met?” Jack asked pointedly. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“No, thank you, Doctor. I’m fine, but I’ll get straight to the point, I’m here is to see my son.”
“I don’t understand, I wasn’t aware that the Congressman had any association with this Museum,” Jack said, toying with him, but still keeping his composure intact while underneath his insides churned with blazing fury at the cavalier way Bramson had used the words “My Son.”
“I’m referring to Dr. Mitchell Bramson, Dr. Edgeworth, so let’s not play games with each other,” Bramson said conde-scendingly, the crack in his veneer of gentility showing itself at last as he tossed the copy of Time Magazine he’d been carrying around until it was nearly pulp.
Jack leaned back in his chair, a smirking grin appearing on his otherwise placid face and laughed to himself. This smug bastard has no idea who he’s dealing with, but that’s alright, my time has finally come and I’m going to make a real party of it. He put his clasped hands to his lips, pondering briefly before he spoke.
“What exactly happens to men who’ve abused their wives and abandoned their children when they reach our age, Bramson? Is it that, all of a sudden, they can convince themselves that they didn’t really act as they did in the past and that their wives and children have forgotten how badly they’ve been treated by them, and all of a sudden those things vanish and it becomes, ‘Oh my son, my son’!” Jack said mockingly, throwing up his hands dramatically in a comic gesture of false paternal devotion. “Are you sick, Bramson, dying maybe? Is that it? Feeling your own mortality creeping up on you these days?” Jack asked him, his voice somewhere between a sneer and a growl.
The expression of shock that came over Bramson’s face from Jack’s unvarnished bluntness could have registered on a Richter scale. Too stunned by Jack’s shift from staid Museum Director to scrappy street fighter to speak, Bramson said nothing, but by then it was too late. Jack was on him like a pit bull, the train was gaining steam, the hot lava lain dormant for so long was rumbling furiously in his belly, working its way to the surface, unstoppable.
“I mean, from the way you said that you wanted to see ‘your son,’ one would never guess that you’ve never even met him,” Jack said, landing another direct hit at the man opposite him, and it felt good. The steam that was pushing his train was gaining momentum, the molten lava inside him working its way further up into his throat, determined to make its way to the surface now the opportunity had come knocking. But now that the battle lines had been drawn, it was Bramson’s turn to feebly try and poke at the fire, struggling to hold onto his well trained Boston coolness.
“I somehow fail to see how that’s any of your concern, Dr. Edgeworth. I simply came here to find out where I can find my son,” Bramson said shrugging, acting as if he had no idea what Jack was talking about, but instead only revealing his true cowardly nature. It’s always the sign of a truly stupid man when he’s not even smart enough to know when he’s in danger. In this case Julian Bramson, the Third, was completely unaware of the volcano that was about to erupt and spew twenty years’ worth of soot into his face, notwithstanding the red flags Jack was waving right in front of him. Jack sat upright in his chair and leaned over his desk like a military high commander and pointed his finger at Bramson.
“Oh yeah! Well, let me have the honor of being the first tell you how, and why, it is my business,” Jack said through clenched teeth, knowing there was a train wreck close over the horizon, a volcanic eruption only seconds away. “Oddly enough, I don’t remember seeing you at his mother’s funeral, holding him in your arms while he cried, comforting him while his whole existence crumbled before his very young eyes. Were you there, Mr. Bramson? No, I don’t think you were, because I was,” Jack said pointing his finger at his own chest. “I held him as he cried his broken heart out, not you. Or were you at the hospital when the boy almost died, starving himself from grief at not having a mother or a father. I don’t remember seeing you there, and you know why? Because I was there. I was the one who never left him when he needed me. I was the one who gave him security and encouraged him to be the best man he could be. Where were you at his graduation when he came out at the top of his class at Columbia? Were you there clapping and cheering, shouting and whistling with pride? Funny, I was and I didn’t notice you anywhere around. Or when he got his doctorate, or when he brought the biggest show to New York in thirty years making him one of this country’s top art scholars? Where exactly were you when all this was going on, Bramson?” Jack’s eyes zoned in on his, following them so he couldn’t avoid his gaze, reading all of the pitiful embarrassment he saw there.
“And now you have the unmitigated, screaming gall to come in here to me and tell me you want to see your son and that it’s none of my fucking business. Well, let me tell you something, buddy, he’s not your son, you forfeited the right to ever use those words. He’s my son now and don’t you ever forget that! So don’t you fucking come in here to my Museum trying to pull some half-assed ‘To the Manor Born’ shit on me and tell me it’s none of my goddam business. It’s none of your fucking business where he is or what he’s doing now, old man!” Jack said, his voice just this side of a shout.
Bramson lo
oked at Jack stunned, physically pushed back not only by his words but by the force of his delivery. “Now see here, Edgeworth… There’s no reason for…” Bramson stuttered in embarrassed distress from having his ass pinned to the ropes, but Jack wasn’t letting him go. He was going to finally have his say in the matter and nothing was going to stop him
“See here, my ass…” Jack said, cutting Bramson off sharply. “And I’ll tell you another thing, Mr. Bramson, if you ever try to come here to see him again or try to contact him in any way I…will…take…you…apart, personally if necessary. I’m not afraid of you or your money. You may be old Boston, but I’ve got five generations of Main Line Philly behind me. You don’t scare me in the least, so don’t you come in here and try to fuck with me unless you want a war on your hands. I’ll give you a battle you’ll never forget. Not that it would change anything as far as Mitch is concerned. You may have planted the seed before you ran off like the coward that you are, but I was the one who made it grow, taught him how to be the man he is, and Mitch knows that. He’ll never agree to see you. He’s a fine man, brilliant, caring, dedicated, all qualities I’m going to assume he got from his mother. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? You don’t deserve to, and you never will if I have to spend every last penny I have and pull every fucking string I know to keep it from happening,” Jack said, crossing the line over into shouting.
Bramson struggled for something to say but was clearly outclassed in the world of articulate banter. The best he could muster was, “But…“
“But nothing! You chose money and your own comforts over the life of your own child. And that’s unacceptable no matter what fucking rarified planet you come from. Now get the hell out before I call security to throw you out, and don’t ever come back here again. Or better yet, I think I’d rather throw you out of here myself,” Jack shouted, standing up from his seat and moving to come around the desk.
Julian Bramson the Third saw Jack meant business and got up quickly, heading toward the door like a scared rabbit as Jack moved closer to him. Luckily for Bramson, he managed to shut the door behind him before Jack could get close enough to grab him.
Then as Jack went back to his chair, feeling free for having finally vented all of his pent-up frustration from the last twenty years, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest, traveling down his arm. He grabbed hold of the ledge on his desk, barely managing to get himself back in his chair and hit the button on his intercom. “Alida,” he called into it gasping for breath and reaching in his desk, scrambling for his little pill box.
Alida rushed in a moment later. “Yack!” she cried in panic when she saw his shallow breathing and hectic color. She grabbed the little pill box from his hand, took out two small tablets and put them under his tongue. She took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and dipped it in the water pitcher he always kept on his desk and began dabbing his face.
“You were listening, weren’t you?” he croaked.
“Chess,” she replied and kissed his forehead.
“Good. I’m glad. Now, I need you to help me. I need you to take all the documents relating to Dr. Bramson and the Devon project to your daughter’s tonight. It looks like we’re going to have a security risk. And we need to get Mitch to England as soon as possible. Do you understand?” he gasped and squeezed her hand.
Alida nodded, her black eyes looking at him sadly.
“Chess, Yack,” she said, nodding in agreement. He finally took a deep breath.
“And Alida, when you get back, do you think you could come over and make me some of your arroz con pollo…and stay with me. I need you tonight.” Alida smiled coyly, the sheen in her black eyes changing from worry to affection as she saw his color coming back to normal.
“Chess, of course, Yack,” she said and kissed him lightly on the forehead again. “Your Alida will take care of you tonight.”
Chapter VII
SIMON
I am unwritten, can't read my mind, I'm undefined I'm just beginning, the pen's in my hand, ending unplanned Staring at the blank page before you Open up the dirty window Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find Reaching for something in the distance So close you can almost taste it Release your inhibitions Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins The rest is still unwritten.
Unwritten
………As performed by Natasha Bedingfield
Simon was the first to get out of the cab at Russell Square, barely able to contain the thrill that rejuvenated him once the plane hit the ground. London! London! I’m in London! I can’t believe it! he thought as his head spun around in all directions, trying to take it all in while Mitch paid the cabman.
“Simon, come on. Help me get the bags out!” Mitch called to him, dragging a few of the heavier bags from the cab to the curbside. He would never have let Simon lift anything heavy because of his leg, but he could sure help out with the hand luggage. “Earth to Simon…” Mitch called out again. “There’ll be plenty of time for gawking later.”
When Simon finally came back to earth, Mitch had already gotten all of the heavy bags out and was nodding his head in Simon’s direction as if to say, “You can get those,” and headed towards the front door of the George Hotel. He always stayed there when in London. He loved the Georgian elegance of the place and since he had to stick to the Museum’s budget when it came to his accommodations, it was a perfect match. It didn’t hurt that it was within short walking distance of the British Museum, so it really served a multitude of his purposes.
When he walked in the door, he immediately asked the concierge for Madame Duvalier. Oddly enough, during the fifteen or so years he’d been coming there, the French woman had been running the establishment. A few minutes later a very stylishly-coiffured woman in her late seventies wearing a bright red scarf held to her shoulder by a huge rhinestone spray over a tailored navy blue suit came out of the office door. The colors of the French flag flitted through Mitch’s mind. Nice touch, Madame!
“Doctor Bramson!” she said in perfect English with only a slight French accent. After all, she’d been in residence in England since shortly after her father was killed in the war, executed by the Nazis for being with the French Resistance.
“Madame Duvalier! Comment ça va?” Mitch greeted her, taking both her hands affectionately in his and kissing her continentally on both cheeks.
“Tres bien,” she answered kissing both his cheeks in return. “I was so pleased to find out that you would be coming back to us for a visit.”
“Always a pleasure to be back at the George and to see you, Madame,” Mitch said, smiling sincerely. Since they first met so many years ago, they had taken to each other like fellow travelers in a storm and she always made sure he had the best of service. Just then Simon came up behind him, accidentally nudging him with the tip of a suitcase. Humorously jolted, Mitch didn’t even have to turn around to see what it was.
“Madame Duvalier, I’d like you to meet my assistant, Simon Holly. I’m training him to take over for me, when I get too old to carry on the way I do,” he said smiling mischievously.
“Bonjour, jeune Monsieur Holly,” she said to Simon and put out her hand to shake his. He took it and bowed like a gentleman, thinking to himself, Oh my God! She’s French. I’ve never met a French person before. What do I say? and struggling for the proper words to say to her that wouldn’t embarrass Mitch, finally deciding to keep it to her own words, “Bonjour, Madame.”
Never one to miss a beat, Madame Duvalier observed Simon casually and saw the small bit of shiny metal peeking out from his trouser leg and instantly knew what it was. Ever the gracious hostess, schooled by both profession and her own kind nature, she said to Mitch while still looking at Simon, “And such a handsome young man, Dr. Bramson. I’m sure he will have no trouble filling your shoes in
that regard.” Then she looked back to Mitch and winked slightly to let him know she was on with his program. Simon blushed bashfully but managed to step up to the plate, surprising both Mitch and himself.
“Thank you, Madame,” he said bowing slightly again. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to be staying at such a beautiful hotel with such a charming hostess,” but thinking to himself the whole time, Gee, I hope I did that right.
“Why thank you, ma jeune Monsiuer Yeux Bleu,” she said, reaching out to touch Simon’s face.
Mitch looked sideways and said to Simon, “That means ‘my young Mr. Blue Eyes’.” Simon blushed again.
Madame Duvalier looked back to Mitch, smiled and said, “No, my dear, Dr. Bramson, I don’t imagine he’ll have any trouble at all. Tres charmant.” A few seconds later a bellman came up behind Madame Duvalier and said quietly behind her ear. “Shall I take the bags to the rooms, Madame?”
“Yes, please, Robert, if you would be so kind. I’m sure that Dr. Bramson and his protégé would like some refreshment before they go to their rooms,” she said, smiling again and motioning fluidly with her hand for them to follow her to the bar.
After about a half an hour having cocktails with Madame Duvalier, catching up and giving her a thumbnail sketch of the reasons for their visit, Mitch and Simon went upstairs to their rooms.
“So how ya feeling? Mitch asked.
“Fine, Dr. Bramson, a little overwhelmed, I guess, but I feel good…energized.”
“Well, enjoy it while you can, that’s a sign that jet lag is probably going to kick your ass soon, so let’s take advantage of it while we can and go out and do some sightseeing to burn it off,” Mitch said and laughed.
The Digger's Rest Page 6
