by Geena Maxon
After ten minutes, during which very little was said among the three of us, Uncle Aaron arrived. He and Pa grunted their brotherly greetings. I can't remember ever seeing them smile at each other.
“Aaron, this is Gregg Monsell,” Pa said, with a clear lack of enthusiasm. “Alex Monsell’s son. Alex left Superior Apparel to him. He has no experience in the business, but he’s the boss anyway. He has some idea about taking over both our companies. The idea doesn't make sense, and I told him so already. But Katherine wants to give him another chance to talk me into this, which he knows is not going to happen.”
“Why am I here?” Uncle Aaron said. “The business end is your department, Sidney. Whatever you decide is what will happen. That’s the way it works in this company. ” He started to rise from his chair.
“Just listen, Uncle Aaron. I want you to know about this.” I took him by the arm and nudged him to sit back down. I wanted to get this started quickly. If they began arguing now, Gregg wouldn’t have a chance to tell his story. I nodded at Gregg, encouraging him to take over. “Tell us your plan.”
Gregg was in excellent form — smart, articulate, persuasive. He made a strong case for merging the two companies. Gregg Monsell is, indeed, hot stuff, I thought.
But before he had a chance to finish, Pa broke in. “Don’t even think about it. It’s not for us.”
“But Sidney, you have to do something. Look around,” Gregg said. “Your competitors in cut-and-sew are going out of business. The work is going to China. And Bangladesh.”
Pointing his finger at Gregg, Pa said, “We don’t have competitors. Our customers are our customers. For years."
“Not any more,” Gregg said.
Pa lost no time getting worked up. It happened suddenly, and it was frightening. “What do you know? You walk into a business we’ve spent our whole lives in, and suddenly you’re the expert. There are customers who rely on us because they trust the Porteous name. You want quality work, you come to Porteous. That’s a name people know. Ask anybody.” He turned in his chair and stared at the wall. I could tell he was losing touch with us, that his memory was overtaking him. “I was just a kid, with my father. We ran into a man on the street who owed my father money. But the man said he didn’t have it, that he couldn’t even afford to make Christmas — which was the next week. My father took fifty dollars out of his pocket and gave it to the man. That was a lot of money in those days. Here, make Christmas for your family. That’s what the name Porteous means.”
I hoped Gregg wouldn’t respond, but he did. “I don’t understand, Sidney. What does that have to do with a merger?”
“Don’t you pay any attention at all?” Pa said. “But how could you understand?”
“It happened fifty years ago. The man’s dead. Your father’s dead,” Gregg said.
Uncle Aaron watched and listened, without saying a word. He hated confrontations. He just wanted to be left alone.
Pa stood, holding his arms out in front of him with his palms raised, as though to the heavens. “You — you’re a — You have no respect for me or for this family. And what is Katherine to you? A way to get your hands into this business, that’s all. I think this meeting is over.”
Gregg saw nothing would be gained by trying to reason with Pa. He shook Aaron’s hand. “Good to meet you.” Then he held out his hand to Pa, who looked as though he didn’t even see it, then turned and walked away.
Uncle Aaron started to leave. “Let me know how this turns out,” he said as he passed me on his way to the door. What he was really telling me was, “Leave me alone.”
Pa was back behind his desk, intently gathering papers, not looking up. I was angry and embarrassed, but knew anything I might say would only stir up more harsh words. Yet it was clearer than ever to me that Pa was getting worse, that he was increasingly losing touch with reality..
Gregg stood in the hallway waiting for me. “I’m sorry things went so…” I began, but he held up his hand to silence me, and said, “It’s all right. Just let it pass.”
“Call me later,” I said, and hurried to my office.
There was a note on my desk with a phone number and the name Norma Falco. I didn’t know any Norma Falco. I called the number. “This is Kit Porteous, returning your call,” I said. “Who are you, please?”
“I’m Norma,” the voice said. “I’m Lucien Goodhue’s mother.” Her voice was raw and gravelly, the kind you get from too many cigarettes, and too much alcohol. “I know you were Lucien’s girlfriend down there in New Orleans. He always talks about you.”
“Why did you call me?” I said.
“It’s like this, see. Lucien kind of disappeared a few days ago, and it’s got us worried. As you’re so much on his mind, I got to thinking he came up there to see you.” She began coughing in spasms that went on and on. “Pardon me,” she said, finally. “You see, he’s been going through a rough patch. Emotionally, I mean. Not serious, you understand, so long as he’s taking his medicine. But he says the pills wear him down, and he stops taking them.”
“What happens then?” I said.
“He gets depressed. And he does things, sometimes. Like last month he took a folding chair to the cemetery and sat there talking to his father's gravestone all day. So you see, that’s why we’re worried about him.”
“We?” Who is we?”
“You see, it’s me and his doctor. You know, his psychiatrist,” she said. “Kit — can I call you Kit? — has he contacted you? Have you seen him?”
“He’s been here,” I told her. “He came to see me, wanted to get together with me again. I told him no, it isn’t possible. And he left.”
“Where did he go?”
“I sent him away. I thought he’d leave town. But I’ve seen his car parked outside my apartment building. He’s waiting for me. He’s stalking me.”
“He shouldn’t be driving, that’s another thing,” Norma Falco said. “But you don’t have to be afraid of him. I mean, he’s just not the type to ever hurt anybody. Never harmed a fly. When you see him, can you please tell him to come on home, that his mother needs him?”
“I don’t intend to see him. I’m afraid of him. Maybe you better come up here and get him yourself.”
“Can’t,” she said. “He took my car. I have to walk to the market to get food. It’s hard for me. Got terrible arthritis.”
It occurred to me that this day had been filled with troublesome matters — Pa and Aaron and Lucien and competition in China, and now Norma Falco. Enough is enough.
“I’ll tell Lucien if I see him,” I said into the phone. “I’ll let you know. I have your number.” I hung up without waiting for her reply.
Thank my lucky stars for Gregg, I thought. He’s the best thing in my life, the only thing I have to hold onto. I want to see him, touch him, have him hold me, save me from a hostile world.
Or is he, God forbid, manipulating me only so he can make his deal?
It was two days later, when Henrietta poked her head into my office. “Guy to see you,” she said in a loud whisper. She pointed toward the front door. “Lucien somebody.”
Just what I needed, right? “Stall him as long as you can. Then tell him I’m not here. Tell him I had to leave. Tell him anything, but get rid of him. I’m leaving before he decides to march back here.” I grabbed my purse and headed for the building’s back door, that opened onto the delivery dock. “Gone for the day,” I told Henrietta.
What should I do now?
CHAPTER 11
I kept checking the rear view mirror as I drove to my apartment. No Lucien. I had escaped from him by ducking out the back entrance to the plant. At least, I hoped I had. I knew I shouldn't stay long in the apartment. Lucien would come looking for me here as soon as he figured out I was gone from the plant.
Desperate for a way to avoid Lucien, I called Gregg's cell phone. I knew Gregg was in Atlanta for the day, but I needed his help. When I reached him he was waiting to board his plane in the Atlanta airport.
"I can't face Lucien again," I said. It occurred to me that I was shouting.
"Look, do you remember how to get to the cabin?"
"Oh my, yes," I said. "I remember every minute of that day."
"Then get into your car and go there. The key is under the loose floorboard on the left edge of the porch. I should be there in three or four hours," he said. "Hey, there's a silver lining to this dark cloud."
"What could it possibly be?"
"We get to have a sleep-over.""
I quickly filled an overnight bag with clothes I grabbed from my closet and bureau drawers. There was no time to pack properly. In fifteen minutes I was back in my car heading onto the expressway, again checking the rear view mirror every few minutes. There was little traffic, and I felt relieved as I breezed along. Stealing away for a night at the cabin would be a welcome remedy for the worries of this dreadful day.
But it was not to be.
I had just left the expressway, turning onto the dirt road that led to the cabin when my cell phone played its little tune to tell me I had a call. It must be Gregg, I thought. But it was Uncle Aaron’s voice on the phone.
“Kit, I’m calling you from Mercy General Hospital,” he said.
“What’s the matter? Has something happened to you?”
“Not to me. To your father. Sidney’s in the intensive care unit. He got sick in his office. Couldn’t speak clearly, and his face got all droopy on one side. The doctors here say they think he had a stroke.”
“Oh my God. Is he all right? How is he?”
“Wait a minute,” he said. I could hear him talking to someone. Then back to me, “They don’t know yet. His eyes are open, but he can’t talk. They’ve got him on medicine — I don’t know, some kind of something through a tube. They’re working on him. That’s all I know, what I’m telling you. I think you better get over here.”
“I’m coming,” I said. “Just as fast as I can. I’m in my car, and I’m turning around now to come back to the city.” I spun the car on the dirt road and got back on the highway, blasting toward the city at a speed that frightened me even as I pushed on the accelerator pedal, and hoping there were no police to delay me.
It took exactly fifty minutes to reach Mercy General Hospital, and another five to find my way to the intensive care unit. As I hurried along a corridor, I called Gregg’s cell phone with my own. He didn’t pick up. He was probably on the plane. I left a message telling him breathlessly what had happened, and hoped he’d check his voice messaging when the plane landed.
Uncle Aaron was sitting on a chair in the hallway, starring sullenly ahead. He stood when he saw me, gave me a listless hug and kissed me on the cheek. “How is he?” I said.
He sat back down. He seemed exhausted. “The doctor looked at him a few minutes ago. He said Sidney was stabilized, whatever that means. Turns out he’s had what they call atrial fibrillation for years — irregular heartbeat — that can cause a stroke. He never said anything. Did he ever tell you?”
“No, never,” I said. “Have you been able to talk with him since he got here?”
“He’s asleep,” Uncle Aaron said. “I stayed with him when they put him in intensive care. And I went with him when they wheeled him down for a CAT-scan. The whole time couldn’t talk. He looked old, lying there. Let’s face it, he is old. And I’m old, too.”
I bent down and kissed him. “You’re fine. You’re Peter Pan. You’ll always be young.”
He forced a smile. “OK, if you say so. Come on, I’ll show you where he is.” He took me by the arm and we walked into the ICU. Pa was lying peacefully with his eyes shut, surrounded by electronic gear that monitored his heart, and, I supposed, other bodily functions. Transparent bags dripped liquids into him through plastic tubes, and another tube delivered oxygen to his nose. All the color was drained from his face. His skin was gray. We watched him for a long moment. His breathing was steady and tranquil. There was nothing more we could do but wait, and hope for the best. We went back outside and sat.
Three hours passed, and we found little more to say to each other. For a time Uncle Aaron closed his eyes, and I thought he was asleep.
Gregg arrived, hurrying down the corridor, carrying an attaché case and looking more than a little rumpled after trips up and back to Atlanta in one day. His tie was loosened, and he carried his suit jacket folded over his arm. He may have been travel-worn, but he looked wonderful to me. I threw myself into his arms, and felt secure for the first time that day. You need somebody to help you get through the tough times.
I knew I’d be justified in crying. The stresses of this trying day could easily spill over and dissolve into tears. But I didn’t cry, because it’s not my style. Never let ‘em see you cry. That’s my motto.
“This is Mister Merger, right?” said Uncle Aaron, his eyes now open. “Monsell’s nephew, isn’t it? How come he’s here?”
“We’ve become friends,” I said. “He’s here because I asked him to come.”
“Well, your friends are your business. But if I were you, I wouldn’t let your father know right now. You know how he is. It would upset him.”
A young man wearing green scrubs went into the ICU and we watched as he talked to one of the nurses. “That’s him. That’s the doctor,” said Uncle Aaron. After an extended discussion with the nurse, the doctor came out to talk to us. “You’re the daughter. I assume. I’m Dr. Sabin, and I’m a cardiologist. Your father seems stable right now. He’s had a stroke. A clot has blocked a blood vessel leading to the brain, and impaired some of his brain functions — we're not sure yet which ones. Right now we’re giving him what we call clot-buster drugs to try to dissolve the clot."
“And what if you can’t dissolve the clot?” I said.
Dr. Sabin said., “Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. We’ll watch him carefully and take this one step at a time. Your father may be in the hospital for awhile. The next few days will tell us what needs to be done.”
“He’s going to live, though, and recover?” I said.
“Nobody can make that promise. We’re doing everything that can be done, and right now, he seems to be responding well,” the doctor said. “Some patients make a full, or almost full, recovery. But often, depending on the extent of brain damage, certain functions have to be re-learned to some degree — walking, speaking, manual dexterity, other things. His problem appears to affect his left side, so he'll probably still be able to use his right hand. It'll take time. There’s an extensive rehabilitation process.”
“When will he be able to come back to work?” Uncle Aaron said. “He’s the boss of our company.”
“There’s no way we can tell right now. Maybe after a rehabilitation period. Maybe never. Please understand that our first job here is to make sure he survives. Somebody should take over for him at work.”
Uncle Aaron nodded his head knowingly. “That’s you, Kit. I can’t do it. I’m just a cutter. I know you have Sidney’s power of attorney. If he can’t make decisions, you’ll have to make them for him.”
“You know the business,” said Gregg. “You can do it.”
I was startled that he was bold enough to comment on a Porteous family matter, especially at a time like this. I thought, was he truly he concerned about me, or was he thinking how he could use me now to approve his merger plan? I wanted to trust him, but there always seemed to be some troublesome, lingering doubt. I saw him look away from me, just for an instant. Was he suddenly uncomfortable because he realized he’d said the wrong thing? No, I told myself, he’s here because he’s a smart, thoughtful, handsome man who’s in love with me. Right?
CHAPTER 11
Uncle Aaron went home at 9:30, completely worn out. He looked awful, and I was worried about him. After all, the man was 65, and working as hard, or harder, than he had when he was in his 30s. By 10:30, Gregg and I were both starved, eating candy bars out of the vending machine down the hallway, because the hospital’s cafeteria was closed. There was no cha
nge in Pa’s condition. He continued to sleep, and seemed to be comfortable.
The nurse in charge said we might as well go home, and she’d call if there was any change. Gregg followed me to my apartment in his car, and we went up together in the elevator. I suspected we might discover Lucien lurking about, but his battered Chevy was nowhere to be seen, and he wasn’t camping out outside my door.
I raided the fridge, and made us a couple of ham sandwiches, which we washed down with a half bottle of chardonnay, also from the fridge. Gregg kept trying to raise my spirits. “Your father is a tough old bird,” he said. “He’ll be fine.”
Despite the late hour and the demands of the situation, we were both wide awake, probably on a sugar high from the candy bars we’d wolfed down at the hospital. “What if he can’t go back to work — ever?” I said. “This is a rough time for the business. Uncle Aaron won’t take over, and I don’t have the experience.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Kit. You’re your father’s daughter. You’re smart, and you have the Porteous name. You know how the company works. The people you do business with will respect you. You can do it.”
“What happens to the merger? I said. “Pa doesn’t want it. I can’t do it if he says no.”
Gregg slowly slid his glass of wine back and forth on the table, watching it catch the light from the overhead lamp. “I wanted to talk to you about that, but with your father in the hospital, I figured it wasn’t a good time.”
“Go ahead, tell me,” I said. “I need help.”
“This may not be the help you’re looking for. I had lunch in Atlanta with Higginson today. He called me late last night to tell me he was being pressured to make a decision. I didn’t know what to do. I told him I had news for him, and I’d fly down and tell him over lunch. The only thing I could think of to say is that the merger was going to happen, that my merger partner had plenty of cash, and that we were ready to get started.”
