Until We're Called To Rise

Until We're Called To Rise

by Peter Fisk

Smashwords Edition

© 2013 by Peter Fisk

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Chapter 1

Amy Kessler was paralyzed. Her mind was an unleashed torrent of darting images. Her swiveling eyes were attempting to corral the ever-changing landscapes of those images that threatened to bestow on her a physical and psychological inertia she had never before experienced. Such episodes were vying to become the rule rather than the exception in her disorganized life.

Miss Kessler, Miss Kessler.

Amy felt as though her life was untethered from that essential anchor that provided a satisfying life meaning. She had tried everything and still had more questions than answers and more fears than comfort. She could not handle this any longer. It was time to act.

Miss Kessler.

Amy shook her head, and with some difficulty, was able to focus on her class.

Come on, kids. Let’s just listen to a little more.

Joshua shook his head and covered his ears.

Oh, Miss Kessler, do we have to? Joanna asked ruefully.

Well, if you don’t listen, you don’t know what you’ll be missing.

Like what? Joshua said, suddenly removing his hands from his ears.

I’m afraid, my dear child, you’ll just have to just listen.

Amy Kessler had been teaching for as long as she could remember. Through all its ups and downs, she could not recall anything more rewarding, though today was a glaring exception. Increasingly, she wondered what it was all about.

Her mother, Gertie, a retired teacher herself, had always felt that teaching nine-year-olds was akin to living with inoperable hemorrhoids, but there was little that gave Gertie undiluted pleasure in life. That was another long story Amy did not care to visit today.

When life had been tethered for Amy, she knew she wanted to be a teacher. She could think of no greater reward than to impart to thirsty minds, all that she had learned about life and its choices. She had come to despise stagnancy and believed it hastened all forms of death; emotional, spiritual and intellectual, long before one’s physical demise occurred. It was for that reason that she embraced the glow of creativity. In her mind, it was the antidote to stagnancy.

Beethoven was a great composer. Many musical experts believe that he was the greatest composer who ever lived. Amy sighed. Joshua, Miriam’s hair is not for pulling.

But I don’t want to listen to that dumb stuff anymore.

You don’t have to, but you won’t pull Miriam’s hair.

Amy looked up and saw her close friend and fellow teacher, Jill Mitchell, frantically trying to get her attention.

Um, class, I just have to speak with Miss Mitchell for a moment. When I return, I want to see who can spell Beethoven’s name.

God, do you look tired, Jill said.

It’s been a long week.

At least we know there’s a Friday in every one.

Amy nodded.

You seeing your mother tonight?

Do cats vomit fur balls?

Jill smiled warmly. What time you going over?

I don’t know. A half hour before sundown, I guess.

Jill gave her best friend a hug. Don’t let her upset you.

Yeah, sure.

Jill started to turn to leave and then said, After you’re done here, meet me in the lounge.

What’s up?

Jill smiled. You okay?

Amy nodded.

Just meet me there.

The Chelsea School, located close to Central Park in Manhattan, had been preparing young boys for illustrious careers in politics, business, medicine and law since the turn of the century. It was said that tradition never had to fear dethronement at the Chelsea School, which is why it required an act of the New York state legislature to allow young girls to attend. Amy applied in 1985, within six months of receiving her bachelor’s degree in education, and became one of the first women to teach at Chelsea. Within seven years, she had advanced from novice instructor to head of the Creative Arts department. It was one of the few things in her life that provided her with unabashed pride.

Miss Kessler, Miss Kessler.

Yes, Wyatt.

Um, B-A-Y, um, T-O-E-F-E-N. Am I right? Am I right?

Amy nodded and wasn’t quite sure what to say. Well, you did get most of the letters right.

Why do you keep playing so much of his music? Joanna wondered.

‘Cause I think he’s a pretty special person.

Is he cute? Jennifer asked.

Not particularly. In fact, I think he was pretty ugly. But that’s just on the outside. He was a special person because of what was inside of him. She paced back and forth for a few moments. Joshua, you got a favorite song you like?

Yeah, sure, he said nervously.

Suppose you could never hear your favorite song?

You mean like they stopped playing it on the radio?

No. I mean that you could never hear it. That you were deaf.

I wouldn’t like that.

I don’t think I would either. But that’s exactly what happened to Beethoven. He wrote songs and symphonies, and he could barely hear a note of anything he had written.

That’s so sad, Miriam said.

Yes, it was. I can’t think of too many things that are sadder.

How can you write a song and not hear it? Taylor asked.

It’s not easy, and that’s why he was a genius.

Do you think he cried a lot? Miriam continued.

I’m sure he did, Amy said, sensing that she had most of her students’ attention. There were days he was so sad that he didn’t even want to go on living.

You mean he wanted to die? Jennifer asked.

Yes. He even wrote about it.

He did? Miriam wondered.

Yes, but he did not die by killing himself.

He didn’t? Paul asked.

It takes a lot of strength not to do something like that when that is all you want to do. And by choosing to live he gave the world a library of incredible music.

Amy swallowed a few times and continued with a bit more emotion in her voice.

Besides his beautiful music, in my opinion, what makes Beethoven even greater, is that he lived with his sadness and never gave into it. He was tough and he was strong. He was scared and alone, but he hung in there. He never gave up.

Just then the bell rang. Everyone started to get up.

There’s a lesson in this for all of us. While you are enjoying your weekend, think about what that lesson is. She sighed. Be good, and I will see you on Monday.

CHAPTER 2

Amy headed for the teacher’s washroom, thankful that Friday had finally arrived. Her depression seemed more intense than usual and perhaps, she thought, it may have been responsible for the strong feelings she had as to whether being a teacher was still as meaningful to her as it once had been.

Oh, hi sweetie, Jill said, as she was re-cosmetizing herself.

Amy did not answer but just went over to splash some water on her face.

Garrett’s taking me out tonight.

That’s nice.

Something special, she said. I gotta meet him in the lounge of the Benchmark Club in East Hampton.

Moving up in the world, I see, Amy said with little affect.

He said something about meeting some important people. He wouldn’t tell me anything else. Jill smiled. God, he’s so sexy when he gets like that.

Like what?

You know, coy, mysterious!

Amy sighed for a moment. I like Garrett. He’s bright, funny, handsome, wants kids…

…Great between the sheets. Makes me reach higher octaves than I’ve ever reached before. Jill suddenly stopped herself. Christ, I sound like an airhead.

You’re just discovering that now? Amy teased.

Sometimes I think that’s his only redeeming quality. At least he’s better looking than Einstein.

A diseased tree is better looking than Einstein.

Amy stared at her friend as she effortlessly combed her perfectly straight, long blond hair. She watched as Jill slowly applied her deep pink lipstick with great care and precision. She also observed as Jill turned sideways and couldn’t help but notice her friend’s figure in the full-length mirror. Adjusting her skirt, shifting her bra and tucking in her blouse, Jill smiled as she was at last content with her appearance.

So, what’s with you, girl? Jill asked.

Amy didn’t answer. Jill walked over to her friend and looked directly at her.

Sweetie, talk to me.

Why? What’s the point? I don’t even know why you’re friends with me. I have to be the dullest, most boring whiner that ever slinked through these halls.

You don’t have a clue about yourself, do you?

Amy shrugged her shoulders.

Your students adore you. I can see it in their faces. I can see it as they listen to what you say to them. You connect with them. You reach them. I’m lucky if my kids are still awake when the bell rings. That’s a gift, sweetie. A gift I could only hope to have in my wildest dreams. Everybody loves you here, and I mean everybody. You are helpful and kind and thoughtful and funny.

Amy’s face started contorting. Just stop, will you?

Jill sighed.

Amy turned towards her. "You are my dearest friend, but sometimes you don’t know when to shut up! I have been hearing that my whole fucking life, that I am so sweet, so considerate, so nice. You know that, for God’s sake. And I know I am those things, but I’m sick of being those things. I have all those wonderful qualities our parents taught us to have, those sure-fire attributes that the whole world loves. But you are the one going out tonight. You are the one who has someone to snuggle with, to touch you, make love to, wake up to. The tears were running down her face. And me? I’m gonna be at my mother’s house for Shabbat dinner."

Jill stared at Amy before hugging her tightly. I wish I knew what to say to you to make you feel better.

Amy smiled through her still flowing tears. It’s not your problem.

I know. But it is for you, and I hate not being able to help my best friend.

That’s just it. There’s really no way around it. I’m in the clutches of this damn bear trap alone, and I’m the only one who can pry myself loose.

Maybe you shouldn’t see your mom tonight. I know she grates on you.

Amy sighed. I’ve been thinking about it.

Well, what would you do to get out of the commitment? Jill asked her.

Amy hesitated. I’m sure I could come up with something.

Jill hugged her friend once again. Will you call me tomorrow?

Amy nodded slowly.

Jill smiled and headed for the door. Now remember, meet me in the lounge.

But…

Before Amy could complete her question, Jill had gone. Amy splashed some more cold water on her face and waited a few minutes for the redness in her eyes to go away. She then turned toward the far wall where a very accurate scale was located. With noticeable trepidation, she approached it, and finally stood on this purveyor of truth. Her face dropped. Jesus. Still 152. She started breathing heavily again and looked up at the ceiling. Can’t You give me a fucking break? What’s the point of even talking to You?

Amy sat down on one of the toilet seats and tried to stop herself from shaking. She took some deep breaths and momentarily, felt her frustration lift. She moved to the mirrors, slapped on some mascara, added lipstick, and ran a brush through her tangled hair. She practiced smiling, and finding one with which she felt relatively comfortable, departed the ladies restroom.

She walked briskly towards the front door of the school. As she passed the teacher’s lounge, she stopped. This is stupid. But, before Amy could continue her escape, the door flung open.

Surprise! Surprise! Before her, stood the entire faculty of Chelsea, singing Happy Birthday. At first, Amy retreated and felt overwhelmed. It took all her strength to hold back the tears that were brewing. She started to perspire and felt the room spinning rapidly.

Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in! someone yelled.

Managing a slight smile, Amy slowly entered the lounge. Jill grabbed her arm and guided her toward a beautiful centerpiece adorned with a magnificent array of roses, carnations, gladiolas, tulips and daisies. Amy was truly speechless. Next to the lush setting of flowers, sat a cake with the inscription, Happy 35th birthday to the greatest teacher in the world, from your friends at Chelsea.

So, we surprised you, didn’t we? Jill blurted loudly.

Before she responded, Amy threw an angry glare at her friend. Yes, yes, I was surprised, she said awkwardly.

Moving into the center of the circle was Jared Newton, the school’s headmaster. He smiled warmly at Amy and placed his arm around her.

"Yeah, this is to wish you a happy birthday, but it’s also to let you know that we think you are a pretty special person around here. If the art of teaching ever needed a poster woman, I’d have no trouble nominating you."

The crowd erupted with strong applause and shouts of speech, speech.

It was clear that Amy was overwhelmed and began shaking. Jill noticed this and went over and placed her arm around Amy. Hey guys, why don’t we let her take this all in?

Any turned to her friend, her eyes filled with tears. You did this, didn’t you?

We all did.

Amy sighed and gave Jill a long hug. This brought even stronger applause.

You are all so special to me, Amy began. No one has ever done anything like this, ever. She paused and looked down. You know it never really feels like work to come here ‘cause I really do love the kids and I love all of you. It’s family when I come here.

So how does it feel to be thirty-five? someone yelled out.

What are you, a reporter? Jill abruptly cut her off.

Let’s cut the cake, Mr. Newton suggested.

Yeah, yeah. For the next half hour, people were chomping away and, one by one, they left the lounge.

Well, I guess it’s time I headed home, Jill said. I need at least another half-hour to get ready. There was a momentary silence as they looked at each other. You really gonna be okay tonight? Jill asked.

Yeah, sure, Amy said. Why do you keep asking me that?

Jill paused again. I don’t know. Just a feeling I get.

I’ll be fine.

You know, I’ll can call Garrett right now and tell him I can’t go.

Jill!

I mean, it’s not that important.

You belong with him. You two are perfect together. You go to that dinner. I really will be okay.

Jill leaned over and kissed her friend. Amy watched Jill bounce through the door, noticing how her gently curled, freshly combed, long blond hair bounced along with her.

Suddenly, she was alone in the lounge. It felt cold and empty and dark. There were days that Amy hated that feeling of being apart from people. She had dreamed of wanting days like this, but today was not one of them. She stared at the half-eaten cake that was left for her to take home. She moved closer to it and started scooping up frosting with her fingers. As she did, she noticed that the number 35 still remained intact, having not been cut into or eaten. As she shoved globs of frosting into her mouth and stared at that number, her eyes welled up with tears. She forcefully threw the remaining frosting back on the cake and grabbed a bunch of napkins to wipe the brown, gooey topping from her hands. Once this was done, she blotted the tears from her eyes. You weak cow, she mumbled. With this Amy turned around and left the lounge.

She located her 1998 Toyota Corolla easily. She threw her purse in the back seat and placed her head on the steering wheel. She took a few deep breaths before turning on the ignition. As she emerged from the parking garage, she immediately found herself stuck in the car pick-up line behind a shiny and new, deep silver BMW 740. A Lexus 460 pulled up behind her within a matter of seconds.

As they inched along, Amy’s attention was drawn to the playground area. She watched the children running and jumping and laughing and chattering. It seemed hard for her to remember doing such things when she was young. Amy watched as mothers and fathers came to pick up their children who shrieked with delight upon seeing their parents. She watched as they raced to the cars with arms outstretched as the mothers and fathers hugged and kissed them. She saw the parents of the children in her class give the kids treats and toys, and make sure they were buckled in their seat belts. She watched as all the expensive foreign cars sped away, around the corner and out of sight. She watched all of this and wondered why the pick-up line seemed to go extra slowly today. It had never gone this slowly before. She was hypnotized. It took several beeps from the 460 to jolt her back into reality.

Suddenly Amy heard a tap on her window.

The schoolyard monitor yelled, What’s your child’s name? Then he noticed who was in the car. Oh, sorry, Ms. Kessler. Amy nodded and drove off.

CHAPTER 3

Amy drove home in a soft drizzle, oblivious to the cacophony of city noises enveloping her. The oldies radio station, to which she had been increasingly tuning, failed to alter her mood. She desperately wanted something to alter her mood.

The black, moonless sky seemed to blend in well with the black, spray-painted graffiti adorning most everything in her neighborhood. These dark scrawls that Amy could never decipher seemed to ooze their way onto the shimmering, wet, asphalt road. She couldn’t find anyone walking the streets, highly unusual for an early evening. She wondered what that meant.

Amy drove slowly down her pot-holed street past her apartment building, unable to locate a place to park her car. Though she had grown accustomed to such things living in Manhattan, it bothered her much more today. She started cursing under her breath and felt a sudden urge to ram her car into one or two of the parked cars. In eight years of replaying this scenario, she had been fortunate enough to find a parking space within a block of her apartment, only one time. She had since come to believe that parking places were either somehow willed to next of kin or won in the lottery.

Amy drove around the block three more times before pulling up right in front of her apartment and stopping. She put her head back down on the steering wheel and started to cry again. Why the hell is this happening to me? Her sobbing increased. Why isn’t the damn moon out? She dried her eyes, removed the keys from the ignition, grabbed her purse and got out of her car. She had double-parked, something she had never done, but it didn’t seem to bother her much.

Walking slowly with her head down, Amy trudged up the ten steps that preceded her stoop to the front door of her building. As she was about to enter, she tripped over something and fell to the ground. In the darkness, she initially could not determine what had impeded her path. In her effort to get up, Amy pushed against the obstacle only to feel a slimy, oily sensation between her fingers. As she jumped up, she lost her footing again and fell on top of the heap.

Jesus, lady, ain’t you heard of letting people sleep in peace? a voice barked out.

Amy was momentarily startled.

Ain’t you people ever heard of garbage cans? she yelled back, angrily.

She stepped back and stared at the rumpled disarray in front of her. She studied it carefully, and like the discoverer of a new island, didn’t know whether to go ashore or remain safely in the boat.

Is there someone there? Amy asked more gently.

No, came the quick response.

Amy turned to go inside but did not move. Instead, she turned around and stared at the pile on her stoop. Slowly, and with great trepidation, she bent down and pulled back several old, crusted, torn blankets. As she moved her face closer to see what was there, her glasses fell off. She was immediately overwhelmed by the excessively pungent odors of feces, urine, alcohol and mildew.

My God.

Nice to meet you, too, spoke the anonymous voice.

Can you please return my glasses? I think they fell into your, your…

Just leave me the fuck alone, bitch.

Listen, asshole, I’m in no mood for this. Just give me my fuckin’ glasses and I’ll leave you to yourself.

There was no answer.

Amy reluctantly reached into the opening in the blankets. A bloody, matted, hairy arm gripped hers. She was very frightened. What she saw staring back at her appeared to be a pair of dead eyes. Suddenly, a hand tossed out the glasses from their hiding place. She quickly wiped them off.

Thank you.

Just fuck off!

By the way, the gutter’s thirty feet in front of you.

Amy turned around and opened the door to her apartment building. She dragged herself upstairs and managed to find the key to her domicile. Amy entered her small, dark home, and immediately sank into an old, overstuffed, food-decorated chair, her purse sliding off her arm onto the floor. She remained this way for several minutes before forcing herself to get up.

Amy turned on a dim light from a lamp that had no shade. Opening a small door on the end table that supported the lamp, she removed a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and placed it on the flat surface. She walked across her un-vacuumed living room floor to check her answering machine.

Darling, darling, are you all right? It’s mom. Have you forgotten that it’s Shabbas tonight? I want to wish you a happy birthday, too. This is such a special day for you. You are thirty-five years old. I am so happy that I lived to be here for such a wonderful occasion. The candles are waiting to be lit and the plates are waiting to be filled with food. You just need to be here.

Amy sat down at her upright piano and started to play the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

Are you sick, darling? the message machine continued. You are usually not home so late.

Soft, almost inaudible sounds oozed from the instrument as Amy’s full, rounded fingers gently massaged the keys. She closed her eyes and slowly bobbed her head up and down, achingly keeping rhythm to the soulful melodies. The music seemed to pour out of her as a dam overflowing its banks.

You must call me as soon as you get in so that I know you are okay. I’m so worried. I really hate that neighborhood you live in. You would think at that school, with what they charge for tuition, they could pay you enough so that you could live in a better section of town.

As she continued to play, the tears that were welling up in her eyes spilled over and slid down her circular face and onto the keys of the piano. Her hands began to tremble, but she continued to play. She could not tear herself away from the music.

Anyway, darling, I am so looking forward to seeing you. This will be an extra special Shabbat dinner in honor of your birthday. I love you so much.

Having finished, Amy went to her kitchen and found a can of chicken soup, which she opened and poured in a pot. She turned on the flame and briefly stared into space. In her bathroom she doused herself with some cold water, found a nearly full bottle of Valium, popped the top, and returned to the living room, placing the pills alongside the open bottle of bourbon. She sat down in the chair and stared at both sedatives. She took a few long swigs of the booze and put the bottle back down. She got her phone and lethargically called her mother.

Hey, mom. I—

She sighed.

No. There’s nothing wrong. I just wanted to…

She sighed longer and more deeply.

Will you be quiet for a goddamn minute? Amy shouted into the phone. She took a deep breath. I’m not coming over tonight.

She waited. I know you’re upset, but I don’t want to spend my birthday there tonight. She waited and contorted her face, trying to prevent herself from losing control.

I know you prepared a wonderful meal. You always do, but there is more to life than a wonderful meal.

Amy closed her eyes and waited for the expected onslaught.

No. I will not be alone. I’ll be with friends. She held the phone away from her ear for a few seconds.

Yes, mom, I will be all right and, yes, I will call you in the morning.

She hesitated a moment. I am truly sorry I won’t be seeing you tonight. There is just something else I want to do.

She paused again. I will mom. Good-bye.

After hanging up, Amy traipsed back to the Valium and bourbon. She took several more hits of the liquor and fell back down into the chair. She then reached for the pill bottle and emptied several into her hand. She placed one in her mouth and washed it down quickly. She closed her eyes and started to cry, then got up and went into the kitchen. As she suspected, the soup was boiling and ready to swim out of the pot. Underneath her sink she found a thermos into which she poured the soup. She secured the top and traipsed to her front door.

Outside her apartment building, to her surprise, the heap was gone. She looked in the street, thinking that he might have taken her suggestion, but the heap was nowhere to be found.

I brought you some hot soup, she said quietly.

She waited and then said, more loudly, I brought you some hot soup. It’s gonna get cold out tonight.

There was no response.

It’s chicken noodle.

There was only silence.

It’s Campbell’s; the thick and hearty kind.

Her words were still met with absolute quiet. Amy lowered her head as she placed the thermos on the stoop.

You can keep the thermos.

She went back inside and immediately sat down by the pills and the booze and took another long swig.

"Oh, daddy. I’m no good. It’s just beaten me. I can’t fight it any longer.’

She took another pill.

I tried to be strong like you. You kept telling me that life’s a bitch and then you die, and that’s what you did, you died. You told me that I had to be strong like you, yet you couldn’t take it either. You fuckin’ gave in, too. So why the fuck do I feel so guilty? Why the fuck do I feel like I’m letting you down, letting mom down? There are so many reasons to hate you but I don’t, and I don’t understand that. I miss you so much.

She started to cry again.

I keep washing myself with cold water but it doesn’t help. It does no good. It just feels cold.

Amy sighed, reached for the bourbon, and turned out the light.

CHAPTER 4

God, I’ve missed you so much, Jill said, as she slowly rubbed her stocking-covered leg against Garrett’s thigh. It’s been a long week.

Garrett nodded. I haven’t got a clue why Stretch sent me on this damn assignment.

You never told me why all of you call Max, Stretch, Jill said, starting to place her mouth on Garrett’s earlobe.

I don’t know. All editors need a nickname. You know any editors named Max?

No, she said casually, inserting her tongue into his ear, but why Stretch?

‘Cause he’s short enough to be a jockey and it bugs the crap out of him.

Thanks for the explanation, Jill said, as she started sucking on Garrett’s neck.

Geez, honey, Garrett said. If you really wanna do this, let’s find a cave or a three-hundred-year-old hollowed out oak, and do it right. I have no idea where the hell I am, and I sure don’t want to drive around here and get lost.

Then let’s stop.

Okay. I think we’re almost there, about another mile or so. Lemme just turn at the next road and we’ll get to work.

Jill laughed seductively as she started to unzip her fiancée’s black, newly pressed trousers.

Wait, wait.

I can’t, she panted.

Oh, God. How can heaven be any better? Garrett stopped a little off the main road. I surrender.

Oh, my God, Jill said in amazement.

What?

It’s so big.

Well, I try. You know I go to the gym seven days a week.

It’s so strong and massive. I’ve never seen anything like it.

You know they really do have exercises for…

I mean, I’ve seen a lot of them, but geez, this one is huge!

Suddenly Garrett felt flushed. You what?

I’ve seen lots of them and this one’s even bigger than Daddy’s.

Garrett quickly felt the urge to re-zip himself. Your daddy?

And his was big, but this one really stands out.

I… I…

You stuck? You want me to give you a sharp jerk?

I… I’ve just never seen this side of you.

I wonder how far back it goes.

Um, mine or your father’s?

Suddenly Jill became righteously irate. What d’ya mean, yours? You should be so lucky to have one like that. She caught herself and softened her tone. I’m sorry, honey. That wasn’t nice. Maybe in time, if you kiss up to Max, I mean Stretch, you just might.

God. All of a sudden I feel the urge to vomit.

Did you ever see a home so grand as that? Jill asked.

What? Garrett said totally bewildered.

Yeah. Just look at that house up there on the hill. You remember Daddy’s, before he sold it? It was big, but not like that.

While Garrett tried to catch his breath, Jill continued to marvel at the elegance of the home that had so captivated her. It was a stately New England colonial with tooth-white Corinthian columns in front of a used brick façade. It sat on two-and-a-half acres of gently rolling landscape, immaculately sculptured and manicured. Both precision and genteelness radiated from the grand mansion’s very foundation.

I bet that’s it, Garret said.

That’s what?

Prusser’s home.

Prusser. You mean Governor Dornan Prusser,?

Yeah. That’s who Max sent me to interview.

You’re gonna be interviewing the governor?

He said Prusser asked for me specifically.

Oh honey, I’m so proud of you, Jill said hugging him passionately.

Yeah, old Stretch told me that Prusser likes the way I write and has some big assignment for me.

Garrett turned to Jill and smiled. I wanted it to be a surprise.

Oh sweetie, it is. I’ve never met anyone in politics before. Jill looked at her fiancée again. I am so proud of you. She kissed him. I was wrong. You keep doing interviews like this and one day you’ll have a big one like that.

Listen Borkner, you tell Greenberg, that accountant friend of yours, to fix the fucking oversight, or I’ll personally flatten that two-car garage of his he calls a nose.

Dornan, honey.

Not now, Claudia, Prusser said. I thought those people are supposed to be good with money.

Dornan Prusser stood about six-feet tall with an angular frame. His salt and pepper hair coordinated well with his gray pinstriped suit. His tightly pursed lips suggested a man who could have night terrors over an unruly strand of hair or an errant scuffmark on his shoes. He was a man used to getting things done and having others do them for him.

It’s irrelevant which of the companies he puts it in. You created them and told me not to worry. So how come I’m worrying? You take care of it, or you’ll be fighting for space on the welfare line up in Harlem. You get my drift? Now you get your lard-ass over here. I don’t want to be late for this.

How about a nice neck rub, sweetheart? Claudia said. You always like my neck rubs.

Prusser sighed. Sure, sure.

Claudia Prusser was a lean, almost gaunt-looking woman who smoked over three packs of cigarettes a day. She always dressed stylishly and projected a reserved, sometimes sullen self-portrait. She barely raised her voice and was a perfect hostess. She was admired, but not loved. She inspired respect, but not loyalty. Her few friends referred to her as a camera without film, and her enemies were not nearly as kind.

Does that feel better, sweetheart?

Prusser sighed. It’ll do. He turned around and looked at his wife. Christ, you look like shit. Can’t you put on more make-up? Don’t you realize this is the biggest day of my life?

You look fine, dear, Claudia said. You’ll do fine.

Prusser sighed. You really put up with a lot in me, don’t you? he said in a more subdued tone.

Yeah, I do. She sighed. Now, you go give ‘em hell.

Prusser nodded. When Jenkins comes to work tomorrow, will you make sure he cleans the pictures of the boys? They’re filthy!

You know, this is supposed to be some kind of coming out thing, Garrett said.

You mean like he’s gay?

I doubt it.

Well then, maybe his son?

I don’t think he’s got any kids. I think he’s only got eyes for the presidency.

Garrett and Jill drove up the long circular driveway. They were met by two attendants.

As they exited the car, they stepped on a bright crimson carpet that lead directly through the front door of the Prusser mansion. Shimmering chandeliers descended from the ceiling and fourteenth century Persian rugs adorned the Italian marble floors. Monet, Picasso, Degas and Van Gogh originals draped the eggshell-white walls, while the Julliard String Quartet, ensconced in a corner besides a pristine reproduction of Rodin’s The Thinker, graced the airy hallways with Haydn’s Emperor Quartet.

I’ve never seen a home like this, Jill said.

And to think what we live in, added Garrett.

Excuse me sir, madam, would you care for some black Russian caviar? a waiter asked.

Um, sure, Garrett said, momentarily dumbfounded.

Me too, Jill added.

Man, this is delicious, Garrett stated. Not bad for fish eggs.

What?

Some champagne, madam?

Jill nodded and grabbed a glass.

Don’t they have anything else besides fish eggs?

Jill quickly scoped her immediate environment. Oh, yeah; over there. That looks like escargot.

Ladies and gentlemen, if you would kindly take your seats, a voice said over a microphone.

Over the next few minutes all the guests found their way into the huge parlor/library that was the centerpiece of the downstairs portion of the estate. It had held many live chamber music concerts and art exhibitions in its day. It was ornate and elegant with dark, handcrafted mahogany bookshelves. Chagall stained glass lit up two