by Warren Adler
Eventually their range of “issues” centered more and more on the matter of inheritance. As an accountant, she had a great deal of experience with estates and the complex issues between survivors. Also, she knew the value of a dollar, and her long widowhood had made her very conversant with making ends meet.
As the sole support of herself and her children, she had juggled her finances with great success, providing for college tuition and making at least one shrewd real estate investment. If she stayed with the accounting firm, she would earn a decent pension and be financially worry-free when it came time to retire. He was hoping that she would leave the firm when they married. Besides, she would not need the pension because of his ample funds.
As business people, they both knew that such financial considerations had to be resolved before they could enter into marriage.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she told him, “but I’m concerned about the aftermath of our marriage. We really need to dot the i’s on this to feel truly comfortable.”
“I would do anything to make you secure and happy,” he responded, as if the three little words would somehow transcend the issue.
“Then we have to put our houses in financial and emotional order.”
“Meaning?”
“You’ve got to make it right with your children. You’ve got to continue to enable them and support their ambitions. It is tearing you apart.”
“That’s a switch,” he told her.
“Yes, it is. But I want a happy man as a husband, friend, and companion. I don’t know if I’ll every make it with your children, but I certainly will try. I’ve learned in life that once you’ve been an enabler, you can’t go back. There is no return road. And you’ve got to tell them how they’ll inherit now that you’ve got a new wife. Believe me, Temple, in my accounting practice, I’ve seen families torn apart over money issues.”
“It will be costly,” he mused.
“You’ve got plenty, Temple. It’s too unnatural,” she told him.
“And the other. Telling them that I will make changes after our marriage to consider you …”
“Reveal everything and reconsider your current support. It’s made you guilt-ridden. No matter how deep your disappointment in how they’ve turned out, you’ve got to provide for them in a manner that reasonably satisfies them, especially if we marry and I am in the picture. However we structure a prenup, I will have a claim on some of your assets upon your death, certainly those we acquire during our marriage. I know all this sounds awful when put into words, but it is an issue that must be addressed. You’ve got to redo the paperwork, darling, so that your children, however rotten they’ve been to you, will not cause needless problems. I don’t want to spend my dotage in court. Besides, I know how much you love your children and how terribly guilty you would feel if you shortchanged them.”
“You sound more like a psychologist than an accountant.”
“You cannot go against nature,” Muriel had advised him. “Reconcile. Give yourself peace of mind.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Continue to finance their dreams, even if they come to naught.”
“But for how long?”
“As long as it does not interfere with our future and our lifestyle. Besides, they will get it anyway at some point. Let’s hope that is many years away.”
“And your children? What is your prognosis on that, Dr. Freud?”
“My kids. I’ve got a multimillion-dollar insurance policy, and they are the beneficiaries. Besides, my children are doing extremely well. Let’s do away with this worry and not let it create problems between us. What you need is peace of mind. If your kids blow it, so be it. Live with it.”
“Won’t be easy.”
“Yes, it will. You will have done all you could for them. Instead of moaning, give yourself a psychic medal.” She had dabbed her thumb with her tongue and pressed it to his chest. “I dub thee Father of the Century.”
“I accept.” He reached out and repeated the gesture with a squeeze of her large firm breast. Of course, he had loved Bea who had small breasts. Muriel’s breasts were large and full. For him they were a sexual stimulant, and he lavished his pleasure on them, rejuvenating that urge. She had smiled and winked at the gesture, caressing his groin. Then she winked and got serious again.
“Hell, darling. I’ve been an accountant all my adult life. I’ve seen how money can destroy relationships. And don’t expect gratitude. Somehow money does not spawn gratitude, and you can’t buy love. Just do your Good Dad shtick and expect nothing in return. At least you’ll have peace of mind and a guilt-free existence. You can’t be responsible for what they do with their lives.”
“That’s the problem with parenthood. You created them and always feel responsible.”
“Let it go, darling. We have our own lives to live.” She kissed him then added, “Do they know the original plan? What you and Bea had decided?”
“Bea told them.”
“Then they have expectations. Clarify it. Tell them everything. If they feel screwed, they will blame me.”
“Why you?”
“They will think that I engineered the deal to get my hands on your money when you pass on to the great beyond. I don’t want to live with that. You should resolve all this before we marry.”
“What I give them now is sure to go down a rat hole.”
“For once, stop being practical. Write it off as the cost of fatherhood. Why make everyone miserable? On the other hand, you may be happily surprised.”
“I doubt it,” Temple had told her.
“Then figure another few mil going south. I’m your accountant, remember? You can afford it. Besides, I don’t want to go into my last chapter worrying about hassles. Besides, judging by how frisky you are in the sack, you may even outlast me.”
“Blame Viagra and those big delicious boobs,” he had laughed out loud in repetition of that reaction. In the night his voice carried.
“You okay, Dad?” Scottie yelled from his tent.
“Just laughing at an old joke,” he replied.
It was Muriel who had suggested the trek as a perfect venue for the financial revelations, the idea being to recall happy times and reunite his family. He had regaled her with this episode numerous times, and there were pictures hung all over his jewelry salon and apartment.
He had fond memories of those halcyon lost days when the children were, well, still children, when they were loving and curious, when a simple grant of permission was eagerly and joyfully accepted as a reward for good conduct or special respect. God, he wished those days had never ended. Then they had morphed into adolescence, adulthood, and now maturity, but the most glorious memories remained locked in the days of their childhood. What he needed most was to break the cycle of parental pain, the scourge of hopes dashed, dreams broken, aspirations aborted.
Realization had been slow in coming but it had arrived finally, forcing him to react in a way that was anathema to his sense of the human aspect of business but not to the cool logic of reality engendered by Muriel’s advice. He knew in his gut that throwing more money at his children was a bad gamble, requiring the suspension of his life’s experience in the hard world of commerce.
It pained him deeply to acknowledge such an idea, but the facts could not be refuted. Both his children were dreamers, fantasizers. The odds, based on their pasts and their luckless endeavors, were against their attaining their unrealistic goals.
Nevertheless, the money issue became a central point in organizing their future plans and escaping the burdens of family disputes. She was right, of course. Her advice made a great deal of sense.
For weeks, he contemplated her suggestion. In Courtney’s case, antagonism had grown deep and ugly. She had rejected any communication. As for Scott, their relationship was strained by Temple’s refusal to invest in his new venture, another potential failure.
“Put it all up front, darling. I want a genuine family alliance. Not warring cam
ps.”
In the end, after much thought, he took her advice, respecting her wisdom and generosity. Unlike his children, he was lucky in his partner choices.
“Haven’t I always taken my accountant’s advice?” he told her.
“We’re not just number crunchers, darling. We specialize in one of the Seven Deadly Sins.”
“Which one?”
“Greed.”
Again he laughed out loud, amazed at the clarity of his recall.
***
He booked Harry McGrath, the previous outfitter of their earlier trek, who was still in business. He had been wonderful that first time, and he felt lucky to get him.
Convincing both his children to accompany him had been a challenge, and he was delighted by their consent without too much of a hassle. He was encouraged by their concern for his health. Actually, he was in excellent physical shape. He had just taken a stress test and checked out normal on his blood work. Pills controlled his slightly elevated blood pressure. To bolster his condition, he upped his treadmill sessions and did stretching and weight lifting under the care of a trainer.
More and more as the time drew near, his excitement over the prospect increased. He became totally convinced that Muriel was spot on, that getting together with his children in such a nostalgic and isolated setting could provide just the right atmosphere for reconnecting. It was with some trepidation that he arrived in West Yellowstone, but seeing their faces, embracing them, hearing their voices, and experiencing their warm reception, quickly restoked the fires of fatherhood. He thanked Muriel in his heart and was certain he had made the right choice.
***
Despite the disturbing changes in his old outfitter, he was pleased by the reaction of his children. Both Courtney and Scott had related to him far better than he had expected, and he was careful to avoid any subject that might trigger controversy.
He hadn’t planned to reveal his relationship with Muriel at this early stage, but they had pressed him and he was determined not to veer from the truth. He was careful not to gild the lily, making any comparisons that would imply any competition with their mother. He thought he had handled everything, including his revelation about Muriel, extremely well.
Finally he slipped into a dreamless slumber and awoke refreshed to another glorious day, with a rising sun painting the Absaroka Mountain Range in a golden mantle. With a jolt of nostalgia he viewed Colter Peak, which with very little imagination appeared as the image of a man lying on his back serenely watching the sky.
He recalled McGrath on their earlier trek explaining to them that Colter Peak was named for John Colter, a trapper who peeled off from the Lewis and Clark expedition to discover Yellowstone and brought back stories of its thermal springs and vast forests. The explanation, he remembered now, as he viewed the mountain in the morning light, included the mystical suggestion that the contours of the peaks outlining the image of Colter himself had a supernatural connotation. Seeing it again, he felt ready to believe it.
Tomas was already at the grate making the coffee the cowboy way, which meant you threw the coffee grinds on top of the water and proceeded to boil it. The rich aroma was a treat to his nostrils, and he knew the result would be the most delicious coffee he had ever tasted in the last twenty-odd years.
On a skillet Tomas was frying a rasher of bacon and beside him in a bowl was pancake batter ready for use and orange juice in cartons. The delicious aroma of both the coffee and the bacon was mouthwatering. Tomas poured some coffee into a metal cup and handed it to him. It was delicious and triggered in him an air of satisfaction and contentment. The world was a good place, he assured himself. He was happy he had come.
Harry, rubbing the blur from bloodshot eyes, seemed ravaged and sickly as he crawled from the tent. Temple noted that as soon as he was vertical, he upended his canteen and took a deep swig. As he drew closer to the cooking fire, it was quickly apparent by the odor that the contents of the canteen was not water. The sight of Harry changed his mood.
It was particularly troubling to see Harry in this condition, injecting a note of insecurity and danger that Temple hadn’t banked on. They were, after all, completely dependent on his judgment and expertise in this wild country.
He debated whether to confront Harry at this point but decided to hold off, mostly out of fear that the outfitter’s reaction would be hostile. Nor did he wish to bring the matter up with Courtney and Scott who might become fearful and apprehensive, which could put a damper on the whole experience. Temple did, however, offer hints of his irritation by his expression, although he couldn’t be certain that Harry got the message.
Courtney emerged from her tent looking tousled and unhappy and without a morning greeting walked into the woods clutching a roll of toilet paper. It reminded him of her reaction to this lack of dainty creature comforts during their first trip. “Yucky” was they way she had put it, and Bea had seconded the statement but had soldiered on with good humor.
Humor, often self-deprecating and larded with the scatological, was one of the elements that made that first trip so memorable. Temple recalled an incident when his reading glasses had fallen into the latrine and had to be retrieved. When he recounted the anecdote, he had held up his glasses and declared they were “the shittiest glasses in existence.”
Laughter, especially in memory, seemed to underline the entire experience. They would laugh at their urban ineptitude and the clumsy way they raised their tents, bitching each morning at the discomfort of the sleeping bags, the pains in the knees and butts, the stops and starts of the horses as they relieved themselves, the so-called whore baths in the icy rivers, the pumping of the ceramic gizmos, their low tolerance of bugs and mosquitoes, the endless griping and longing for creature comforts, and their perpetual whining about the joys of city life and the constant questioning of why they were there.
In memory, though, the griping had the quality of joy. It was celebratory, the source of many a happy anecdote that induced laughter. Where had all this elation and exuberant good cheer and family comradeship gone? This is what he most fervently hoped he would find again.
Scott limped out of his tent, grunting in pain, as he stretched his legs and quickly peed, aiming at the base of the nearest tree.
“Slept like a rolling log,” he grunted, slightly hoarse, reaching out his hand for a cup of coffee. Tomas obliged. After a few sips, he appeared conscious of the aroma.
“Man, that smells good.”
Tomas poured the batter in large circles, and they watched them turn into flapjacks. Temple marveled at the skill with which Tomas flipped them.
“Looks good, Tomas,” he remarked. The Mexican, intent on his work, did not acknowledge the compliment.
“Told you,” Harry grunted, taking another sip on his canteen. Tomas handed him a cup of coffee, which Harry brought to his lips with a shaky hand.
Courtney returned from her ablutions with a look of disgust.
“Hanging on a rope to do you know what is not exactly ladylike,” she muttered. “I nearly slipped.”
Tomas handed her a cup of coffee and began to dole out the flapjacks and pass the syrup. Harry barely nibbled at his and put his cup out for more coffee. Comforted by the coffee and flapjacks, conversation between the three Temples seemed to revive as they recounted their night’s experience.
“Did you sleep well, Dad?” Courtney asked.
“Like deadweight,” Temple said. “And you?”
“I dreamed I was being chased by a grizzly. Did I scream?”
“If you did,” Scott said, “I couldn’t hear you. Someone was snoring up a storm.”
Scott looked pointedly at Harry, who avoided his glance. He was at that moment indifferent to conversation, nursing his hangover.
“And you, Tomas?” Scott said. He turned to his father. “Spent the night on the road. Right, Tomas?”
“On the road?” Temple asked.
“Brought the load back we took off the dead mule,” Harry explained.
Temple shrugged, shook his head, and made no comment.
“Ten hours at least,” Scott said, looking at Tomas, who paid little attention. “Without sleep.”
“Sleeps on his horse,” Harry said chuckling. “Mex talent. Right, Tomas?”
“Si. Señor Harry.”
“Got the job done,” Harry said. “All that matters. We aim to serve.”
“I can’t imagine …” Temple began, then retreated. Not my business, he thought, dismissing his comment but not his concern. Instead he asked: “What happens to the dead mule?”
Harry laughed.
“Dead meat, Temple. Becomes a restaurant for critters. Nothing dead out here goes uneaten. Everything recycles. Beauty of nature. Nothing really dies out here. Nothing. It’s like a relay race. We pass the baton.” He grew silent, lost in thought.
Temple thought about that and looked at his children. Point taken, he thought. Life as a relay. He nodded agreement. The wilderness did indeed suggest a search for deeper meanings.
“So what’s on the agenda, Harry?” Temple asked.
Harry nodded and said nothing.
Then Temple repeated his question, remembering with skepticism Tomas’s remark of last night, “He be fine.” He certainly didn’t look fine. It took him a while to acknowledge Temple’s question and amplify what he had told them last night about their fly-fishing expedition.
Recovering somewhat after his hair of the dog, he began in a hoarse voice to outline the program. He explained that all the equipment including rods, flies, and waders was packed and ready, and they would ride to the Thorofare River where the trout fishing was best.
He warned of some soft spots that he called “quagmires” both in the stream and along the banks that had the sucking quality of quicksand, but if they each watched each other, they had time to react and pull a person out if they were caught in the muck. As with most of his instructions, he invariably ended with the homily that “we ain’t lost anyone yet.”
