by Sharon Potts
Irv shifted his glass from hand to hand. His thin skin was covered with hundreds of tiny exploded blood vessels, making him appear perpetually red-faced. But the dull blue eyes were shining.
“Sometimes after the others would leave, Rachel would sit with me. Right here, as you’re doing. Just the two of us. And she would ask me things.” He closed his eyes. “Oh, about everything. She was insatiable. And she’d suck words out of me like a famished leech. I taught her about integrity and honor. I taught her never to compromise.” He inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. “Another Drambouie, Pete. Drink up, Jeremy. Make that two more, Pete.”
A couple of men in suits walked into the oak room, then catching sight of Irv, turned and walked out.
“One night,” Irv said, “we were talking about life. Would you rather live a long, safe life, Rachel, or a brief, magnificent one?” Irv sipped his drink. “What do you think she said?”
“A long one, I suppose.” At least that was what he hoped she had wanted, but he wondered just how well he had known his mother.
Irv took another deep breath. “I was disappointed in her for that response. For her lack of total commitment. If you want greatness, you must commit to greatness,” I told her. “Your quest must be all-encompassing. You cannot compromise. You must not compromise.” Irv was talking to his folded hands now. “I never guessed how deeply my lessons would hit their mark.”
Irv waved his empty glass at the bartender. It was noon and Jeremy’s stomach growled. The liquor was muddling his brain.
“But I was her mentor. Did you know that, Jeremy? She was Galatea to my Pygmalion. I shaped her, and she learned my lessons well. Too well, perhaps? Do you think she remembered it was I who taught her everything of value?”
Irv took a long drink from a fresh glass. “And what of her mentor, I’m sure you’re wondering? What became of the principled man whose life was ruled by the highest code of integrity?
“I, who held the purest view of an honorable world? Who dreamed of disintegrating in glory as I spun toward the sun? I sit here— a useless old man no one wants to listen to anymore. And your mother, Jeremy. Your mother became the meteor.”
Tears the size of giant raindrops ran down Irv’s flat cheeks, over the burst red capillaries. “What the fuck are you staring at?” he said. “Why the fuck have you come here?”
Jeremy slid off the barstool. The maître d’ and another man were coming toward them.
“Did she send you? Did she?”
The maître d’ stepped in between them. A hand squeezed
Jeremy’s shoulder. “Come on, son,” a soft southern voice said.
Jeremy followed Bud McNally out of the bar, into the restaurant. He could still hear Irv shouting. “Did she?”
Bud led Jeremy to a window table some distance from the bar. Jeremy’s legs were shaking. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the unexpected attack by Irv. Bud handed him the bread basket. “Eat this.”
Jeremy felt as though he’d done something to unleash Irv. He stared out at the dark, filmed windows of an adjacent office tower.
“I’m sorry about that, Jeremy.” Bud tore off a piece of a pumpernickel roll and buttered it. “Irv can get a little emotional.” He smiled at the waiter. “You have fried oysters today, Simon?”
“For you, of course, Mr. McNally.”
“You like oysters, Jeremy? The chef here makes the best ones I’ve ever tasted. And I’m a cracker. I know about such things. Make that two fried oysters, Simon.” He slipped the bread into his mouth. “So aside from awkward barroom encounters, what have you been up to, Jeremy?”
“Boxing up old files for Mr. Luria.”
“That’s right. And how’s that going? Almost done?”
Jeremy caught Bud glancing at his cut hands.
“Irv’s an unhappy man, Jeremy. I think your mother’s death affected him more than he lets on.”
“I’d hate to see him when he is letting on.”
Bud laughed. “You’re all right, son.”
“Was he on bad terms with my mother?”
The smile faded. “What do you mean?”
“He seems bitter toward her.”
“Irv’s a bitter man.”
“But was there something going on between him and my mother?”
“Irv’s not capable of hurting a fly, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m just wondering why he seems so angry at her.”
Bud signaled to the waiter. “Bring me a Grey Goose, Simon. Thanks.” He tapped his thick fingers against the linen tablecloth. “Your mother was concerned Irv’s drinking may have been impairing his effectiveness.”
“She wanted to fire him?”
“We don’t fire partners, Jeremy.”
“Retire, then. She wanted him to retire?”
The waiter placed Bud’s drink on the table. “Let’s just say, she was concerned.” Bud sipped his drink. “And Irv was hurt. That’s all. Hurt that your mother could even contemplate such a thing.”
“Because he’d once been her mentor.”
Bud raised his eyebrow. “That’s right.”
“So is he going to retire?”
“Certainly not. It was just talk. Not anything any of us were seriously considering.”
The waiter set two platters of fried oysters on the table. The heavy oil and pungent smell turned Jeremy’s stomach.
“Now, don’t these look great?” Bud jabbed a big one with his fork. He licked his lips after he’d chewed it. “But perhaps it would be best if you moved on from the filing project, Jeremy. Tomorrow, get back into one of those sharp suits of yours, and we’ll get you out on a real audit.” He speared another oyster. “Now, how’s that sound?”
Chapter 14
Jeremy hadn’t returned to the file room after lunch. Bud had shooed him out of the building, telling him to take the rest of the day off, then report to Castillo Enterprises the next morning. So things were looking up. At least Jeremy would have a chance to talk with some of the other auditors, perhaps pick up if anyone besides Irv held a grudge against his mother.
Jeremy had a few hours to kill before his six thirty class. He considered calling Elise, but she was probably in class. It seemed to him she was doing better, though she was still occasionally sleepwalking. They had their late night dinners together, watched TV, then she went to bed while he went for a run.
They talked less frequently about the investigation and perversely, this had the effect of making Jeremy think about it more. But what could he say to his sister? That he was trying but there just wasn’t enough opportunity?
You make your own opportunity, he could hear his father say.
He pulled into the parking lot at MIU, but found no available spaces. The campus in the early afternoon was completely different from when he came here for his evening classes. The paths and grassy areas were teeming with blue-jeaned students carrying backpacks.
Cars were parked along the curb that surrounded the campus. The “No Parking” sign and warning that your car will be towed didn’t seem to faze the other drivers, so Jeremy slipped into one of the last remaining illegal spots.
He headed toward his father’s building. Maybe Winter wouldn’t be around. Maybe Marina would. A group of students in brown tee shirts were milling about like hornets around a damaged nest. One was loping toward him, but Jeremy didn’t slow his pace.
“Hey. You’re D.C.’s son, right?” The kid was panting. He had greasy hair and sunken cheeks covered with acne. Written on his brown tee shirt in white letters was Café j. The other eight or ten students gathered around Jeremy, as well.
“You shaved your beard,” said a short, plump girl with wild, black curls. She must have seen him after the funeral at the Castillos’ house. “Are you here for the meeting?”
“Why would he be here for the meeting, Liddy?” the greasy kid said.
“I don’t know, Queso.” She looked up at Jeremy. “Are you?” He didn’t have a chance to answ
er. “Well, it doesn’t matter. That prick Winter cancelled it,” Liddy said. “Locked the door to the room we always use, and when we went to ask the secretary, she said, ‘I’m sorry, the economics department facilities are only available for sanctioned clubs.’”
“What club?” Jeremy asked.
“You know.” She pointed at her shirt. “Café j. It stands for Cuban-Americans for Economic Justice. Your father started it.”
“Winter’s been trying to shut us down for years,” someone else said. “He never had the balls while your dad was alive.”
“But why would he want to shut you down?” Jeremy said.
Liddy rolled her eyes. “Funding, probably. Some of the rich Cubans who give the school money weren’t too happy with your father’s politics.”
“It wasn’t sweet enough for them,” Queso said, punching another kid in the arm.
“That’s good, Queso. Sweet. Not sweet enough for SWEET.”
And everyone laughed as though at an inside joke.
A slight figure weighed down by a satchel was hurrying along the path toward the economics building.
“Excuse me,” Jeremy said. “I need to go.”
Liddy followed his eyes. “Marina Champlain? You know her?”
“Not really.” He didn’t know why Liddy made him feel defensive, but he didn’t have time to analyze her tone or his reaction. Marina had disappeared behind a crowd of students. “I’ll catch you guys later.”
When Jeremy reached the door to the building, there was no sign of Marina. He sprinted up the stairs to the third floor, but came to an abrupt stop as he stepped out of the stairwell. At the opposite end of the hallway stood a tall, bald man in a navy blazer. Winter. Jeremy slipped behind a corner and peered out. Winter was talking to a large blonde woman who was dressed in high heels and one of those sheer floral outfits he’d occasionally notice the rich women on Lotus Island wearing. Definitely not a student. In fact, he was pretty sure he recognized the deep, raspy laugh of Mrs. Castillo. But why was she talking to the dean?
A couple of students came up the stairs, giving Jeremy a funny look. When he glanced back down the hall, Winter and the woman were gone.
“You’re here early today, Jeremy,” said a soft, accented voice near his ear. “Have you quit your job?” Marina asked. Where had she come from? “Too many paper cuts?”
She was wearing a tight, camouflage tee shirt and oversized khaki pants that hung low on her hips. A couple of inches of pale muscled midriff were exposed and a tiny belly-button ring in the shape of a serpent’s head with red-jeweled eyes stared up at Jeremy.
“I got the afternoon off,” he said.
“Good.” She handed him her satchel. “I was hoping to see you. I have something for you.”
He felt an inexplicable rush as he followed her out of the building. Her hair was piled high on her head and loose curls surrounded her long, thin neck. He could make out a tattoo at the base of her hairline. Something with wings: a butterfly? a bird? a bat?
They were out in the open now, walking toward the parking lot. His own car was still where he’d left it illegally parked. They passed two of the café j students, Liddy and Queso. Jeremy gave them a half-smile. They didn’t return it.
“Do you know them?” Jeremy asked after they were beyond earshot.
“The café jers? They were the closest thing your father had to groupies.”
Groupies? They seemed more serious than that. “Did you know Winter’s closed down their club?”
Marina opened the door to her yellow Toyota, took her satchel from Jeremy, and threw it in the back.
“Winter has closed down all the clubs your father had organized. There were perhaps half a dozen.” She held up her small hand and counted her fingers. “Let’s see: G-W-E-N— Global Warming Ends Now, S-A-W— Students Against War, F-M-F-W— Free Markets for a Free World. And a couple more.” She slid into the driver’s seat. “Well, come on. Get in.”
Jeremy hesitated. “Where are we going?”
“Are you afraid I’ll kidnap you, Jeremy?”
He sat back in the seat. It was too low to the ground, as though the springs had lost their bounce, and his legs felt cramped in the tight floor space. He hadn’t noticed this the other night when she’d taken him to the bar.
“I found some papers of your father’s.” She backed the car out of the spot too quickly. Jeremy turned around to be sure no one was walking behind them. “I didn’t think it safe to keep them at the school. I half-expected Winter to burn your father’s writings and publications like the church did to the heretics in the Middle Ages.”
“Do you think my father was a heretic?”
She pulled out of the campus onto the main road. “I think your father was a genius.”
“Why did Winter hate him?”
She patted Jeremy’s leg as though he was a child and gave a small laugh. “Let me count the ways.”
“I know he wasn’t happy about my father’s politics.”
“Or popularity, or tenure, or the fact that some of the key contributors to the school are representatives of a major sugar growers’ organization.”
“So they wanted my father shut down?”
“Many people wanted your father shut down.”
Marina turned into an old Miami neighborhood. The oak trees were so tall and wide they blocked the sun, and the sparse grass was covered with dead leaves. Several of the houses were two-story and built from coquina, the rock the early settlers had used, Jeremy’s dad once told him. But the neighborhood was shabby, with rusted cars up on concrete blocks and plywood on windows that had probably been put up for the last hurricane season. Though judging from the condition of the wood, Jeremy wondered if some of the protective coverings dated back to Hurricane Andrew in ’92.
Marina stopped on a gravel driveway next to a turquoise and white Chevrolet that resembled a Checker cab, probably a mid-’50’s model. It had a thick blanket of dead leaves on the windshield.
Jeremy was taken aback by the vibrant green lawn. It was a bit jarring beside the two-story gray house that looked like something out of an old black-and-white film. An ancient, hunched woman in a wide-brimmed straw hat and gardening gloves was spraying water from a hose over the front yard.
“My landlady,” Marina said to Jeremy under her breath. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lambert,” Marina called as she strode toward the back of the house with her satchel over her back.
The old woman squinted at Jeremy. Her light eyes were so clouded by cataracts Jeremy wondered how she could see. She turned off the hose and tottered toward Jeremy. And then she smiled. A wide toothless grin.
“Come on, Jeremy,” Marina said. “I live back here.”
But Jeremy was paralyzed by the old woman’s smile. “She’s waiting for you,” she said, her voice quivering as though unaccustomed to speaking.
“Jeremy.”
“Did you remember to bring your charger?” Mrs. Lambert asked.
Marina squeezed his wrist. “Come on.”
Marina’s apartment was in a separate structure behind the house. It consisted of two small rooms and looked as though it had once been a garage.
“What was she talking about?” Jeremy asked. Through a doorway, he could see the bedroom with its unmade bed and a pile of clothes on a side chair. A black bra, pink thong. He turned away. The front room had a futon, a red desk and chair that were chipped and revealing an earlier coat of blue, and a tiny kitchen area with a rust-stained sink filled with unwashed dishes.
“Mrs. Lambert has dementia,” Marina said, picking up the newspapers from the gray futon, which appeared to be stained with coffee and red wine. “She never makes any sense.” She spread out an old faded blanket with an Indian pattern over the low sofa. “There. That’s better, no? You can sit here, Jeremy.”
He perched on the edge of the futon.
Marina turned on the ceiling fan to full blast. The force of the swirling air caused her curls to fly out from her face. “It�
��s stuffy in here,” she said. “No AC. And I’m not sure the fan helps. It just seems to circulate the same putrid air.” She lifted her loose hair and rubbed her neck. There were perspiration stains under her arms and just below the curve of her breasts. He forced himself not to stare at her. His own shirt was sticking to his chest. It was hard to breathe. Why didn’t she open the windows? Perhaps they were painted shut. He could just make them out behind the dusty, broken venetian blinds.
“Would you like some wine, Jeremy?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
But she pulled the cork out of a gallon jug and filled two plastic tumblers. Something small and black darted across the dirty terrazzo floor.
She handed him a tumbler. “My wine glasses are all broken. Too fragile for my lifestyle, I suppose.” She kicked off her clunky army boots, lit a cigarette, then sat down beside him. He could feel the heat of her body. He could smell her. Smoky musk and almonds. She touched her tumbler against his. “To your father.”
To my father. He recalled Irv’s earlier toast today to his mother. Marina’s knee pressed against his. He had to stay focused. “You said you have some of my father’s papers?”
With one small finger, she outlined his cheekbones, his forehead, his nose, his chin, his lips. He needed to get back to school. He had class. His car might be towed away.
She dipped his hand into her wine glass. The red wine dripped on her tee shirt as she took his fingers into her mouth, sucking the wine from each. Chills ran down his spine and his groin tightened.
“My father’s papers,” he whispered.
She put the cigarette out against the wall and let it drop to the floor. Then she pressed her small, round mouth against his. She tasted like vinegar and tobacco.
Her tongue was rolling around his own. The ceiling fan spun wildly— creaking, screaming. The heat was getting closer.
Don’t do this, a voice said. Stop. Leave. But the physical need for her was overwhelming.
His hands groped her thin arms, her tight abdomen, her small breasts. He pulled off his shirt, then hers, and his tongue worked its way from her salty neck, down her chest, until he found himself pressed against her stomach, eye to eye with the rubies in the tiny serpent ring.
