Reverb (34 page)

What has my incarceration cost me?
My freedom, most of my fortune, my dignity, my seed.
My obsession with music.
What has it given me? Elisabeth and Cameron.
Maybe she’s right. Things happen for a reason.
Round about though it may have been, my father has actually presented me an opportunity.

No! That’s bullshit. I could have died. Nearly did. Wanted to countless times.

But I didn’t. I’m still here. And life is richer, more intense than ever. Play it as it lays, James. And move on.

My head still pounds. Inhale deeply and release it slowly, but it doesn’t stop the pulsing behind my eyes.
To hell with this
. I grab the bottle of Nolet’s off the bar and go looking for someone, anyone, who knows where my wallet and passport are, but the invariable rejoinder from the staff is to wait and speak with my father when he returns to the estate, whenever that is. No one seems to know, or willing to tell me. Go back up to my old room, stop in the doorway. My head spins, buzzing from swigs of gin while on my quest. I stand in the threshold not sure what I’m looking for then spy the guitar. Retrieve the Fender and pull the strap over my shoulder, then plug it into the custom Hiwatt 100watt amp and turn it up, blast the stone walls with its resonance and proceed to finish the bottle of gin.

     Loud noise wakes me during the night. I’m on the floor where I passed out, the guitar still in my hand. Leave the Fender where it lay, get up, and after using the toilet, crawl into bed and fall back asleep.

My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth when I wake in the morning, and I have a fantastic headache, the kind that reminds me why not to drink anymore. Venture downstairs to find my father or Howard, and encounter a lot of people I don’t recognize rushing about with purpose. Everyone looks at me, stares really, except not in the usual way. When I look back, most look away and avoid eye contact. Creep factor becomes gnawing. At the bottom of the stairs someone grips my arm. I recoil, almost lay Howard out.

Howard jerks back and releases me. “Come with me, James.”

Follow him into the library. “What’s going on, Howard?”

He doesn’t answer. He turns and shuts the double doors then turns back to face me, fixing his gray eyes on me. “Your father is dead.”

“What?”

“Your father shot himself last night. He’s dead.” He stares up at me with contempt—like I’m the one who shot him. Howard waits for my response, but I can’t think.
Your father is dead.
             

Nausea overwhelms me and I run to the bathroom and throw up into the toilet.
Don’t think. Wipe your mouth. Get up.
Fill the sink with cold water, dunk my face in.
Don’t think. Hold your breath for as long as you can.
‘Your father is dead. Your father is—dead.’ Pressure builds in my chest until it feels as if my lungs are bursting. Finally straighten, gasp in the cool air, hold a plush towel against my face, pressed it deep into my eye sockets until I see sparkles, then go back into the library. Howard is gone.

Chapter Four

Howard Engel met Edward Whren in his first year at Harvard. He’d been pursuing a graduate degree in philosophy, of all things, with the intention of becoming a professor. Edward saved him from a beating by some neo-Nazis one night, back when Jew hating was all the rage. They walked to evening classes together a few times a week after that, and enjoyed animated discussions debating Nietzsche to Marx.

Edward was completing his graduate degree in Business. He was brilliant, well read, versed in history, and had a great sense of social conscience. ‘Prince Edward’ was his nickname on campus, and though he knew many people, he had few, if any friends. He kept his distance with everyone. Edward was the first Royal that Howard had ever met, with a family lineage that could be traced back over five hundred years. Howard Engel was nobody, from generations of poor Manchester steelworkers who died young of lung cancer, and left wives obsessed with their children's potential while drowning their own with gin.

Sharing a celebratory drink for graduation at the Oueen’s Head pub, Edward offered him the position as his Secretary Director, with an extremely generous compensation package, citing Howard’s moral character, and jokingly, his British antecedence over choosing an American. He knew even then that Edward Whren was a man of honor, and he’d be privileged to work for him, with him.

Howard managed Edward’s affairs, and through the years learned the finer points of business. Edward sought his opinion often, respected his choices, and walked his bride down the aisle at his wedding. Edward was Amelia’s other love, second only to Howard, and Edward mourned her loss almost as deeply as Howard did. He’d seen Edward through his marriage, the birth of his sons, the death of his wife, the rise and a few falls of many companies, his father’s death, the death of his first born. And the last two years he’d watched Edward wither under the weight of his mistake having James incarcerated. He’d aged ten years in one when he was made privy to the torture, and subsequent suicide attempt by his son.

James bursts into the study as Howard sits in Edward’s chair at the massive Partners desk, silently weeping. He doesn’t bother to stand. The boy doesn’t deserve that level of respect.

“What is going on, Howard? Why would Edward kill himself? What the hell happened here last night?”

“Your father put a bullet in his head in the chapel at four-thirty this morning, while you were passed out upstairs. Of course, I cannot speak for Edward, but my best assessment as to why he did it would be related to you.”

James stands in a halo of halogen light glaring at him. “What is your problem, Howard? What did I do to you? You knew what was going on. You could have stopped him in the beginning. But you didn’t. Why?”

His ire rises and it takes great effort to stay seated and calm. “I was not Edward’s keeper. His decision was made without my knowledge and did not require my consent. Your father is dead, yet you still mourn your own loss. What is it you want here, James?”

“My passport and wallet. And I want to know what the hell is going on.”

“You are in no position to demand anything.”

“What’s my crime, Howard? How do you justify what you let him do to me? What was my crime to warrant it?

“Indifference.” The impertinent child still glares at him. How is he to get through to this man? “Edward took you into his home, his life, provided you with a stable environment and supported and funded your talent without limits. And you walked away, disavowed his name, and severed all connections, lacking even a modicum of consideration for anyone but yourself. You shame me as a man and a mentor. I thought you knew better than that.”

“That’s right, Howard. You thought you knew me. You, and the endless parade of tutors and teachers. A valiant effort. Really. More than my father ever bothered.”

“From the day you came to Castlewood, you had your music, James. Perhaps it was
you
who never bothered. Regardless, that Edward was not able to coddle you because of his job requirements, should have long since been resolved by the son who has spent the majority of his adulthood emulating his father quite exactly.”

His eyes narrow with indignation. “You fault me my obsession, yet sit there asking me to have reverence for a man who devoted himself to his career and nothing else.”

“Edward’s devotion was to the business of
people
, James. Until Elisabeth and her son, Cameron, you have lived for yourself alone. It is criminal that you will never have the opportunity to thank your father for his contributions, and to forgive him for his error in judgment, with the understanding that the actions he took were motivated by concern for your welfare.”

“And for his. Let’s not forget that his precious Trust is without a willing heir to adopt it. My father is, was, a master manipulator. You’re not going to sit there and convince me that he was a Saint, and that his sole intention was for my own good.”

“I will not engage in any dialog to the finer points of your father’s intentions, as he is not present to define them, nor will I sit here and listen to you assassinate his character. Your father loved you, James, and whether you want to believe it or not, he bitterly regretted the outcome of his decision, and spent every waking hour, and quite likely millions trying to correct his mistake.”

James laughs, and Howard wants to backhand him. “My father loved me so much he left me locked up for over a year
knowing
what they were doing to me.”

“Your father was unaware of your experience at Langside until after the fact. From the beginning of your incarceration there, he used every resource available to him to get you released. Sir William Paul Ferrell blocked his efforts, compelled by retribution for killing his son. When you tried to take your life, Edward took the radical course of paying off key personnel and coordinating the team that facilitated your...early release.”

“Edward got me out?” James presses his palms to his temples as if he has a blinding headache.

“Yes, he did. The torture you and others endured came to light only after Edward received your admitting records to Southern General following your suicide attempt. The mutilation of your wrists and ankles from restraints, the toxic levels of haloperidol and phenobarbital found in your bloodstream were enough indicators to warrant a federal investigation of the institution. Your father felt compelled to testify about his involvement in your arrest to secure your legal release from the facility, in the process destroying his name, and quite possibly risking his own freedom had he remained alive to play the hand.”

James moves to the Van der Rohe chair and sits across from Howard, but doesn’t look at him. He runs his hand through his hair, his long, elegant fingers combing it out of his face momentarily. He slumps in the chair, folds his hands in his lap and stares down at them. “The snowball from Hell...”

Howard’s ire spikes again with the man still acting the insolent child. “A snowball that you set in motion when you walked back into this house still absorbed in yourself and strung out from drugs, directly after burying your brother, your father’s first born—from an
overdose
. Regardless of your perceived autonomy, you did not, and do not function in a vacuum, James. You, too, are culpable.”

“I’ve done my penance, Howard.”

“Your penance will never be over. You killed a man not yet twenty, stole a lifetime. Your action, warranted or not, does not invalidate this outcome. You’ve spent a lifetime fundamentally indifferent to many who’ve deeply cared for you. And it’s not hate, but indifference at the root of all evil. For these things, and others to be sure, you are culpable. You will bear the weight of them for the rest of your days.”

James stares at him, eyes narrow, hands still folded in his lap. Though he’s clearly angry, at least Howard has his attention.

“Everything is connected, James. We are all part of that connection. Your actions play a key role in the actions and reactions of the people in your life—like a note of music, your resonance is felt by everyone you touch.” Howard stays fixed on the insolent child, sees his jaw tighten, his eyes well, his demeanor soften.

James looks away but Howard sees tears stream down the man’s chiseled face. He stands after another minute, runs his fingers through his hair again, wipes his eyes and nose on his shirtsleeve, and looks at him. “I’m sorry, Howard. I’m sorry for your loss.” James does not mock him. The boy means it. Howard feels his surrender. Then he turns away and walks quietly out of the room. Perhaps he’s learned something after all.

Howard sits back in Edward’s huge leather chair and remembers more of their time together, sometimes weeping, sometimes laughing, the entire time wishing that the outcome had been different.

I will miss you, Edward Whren. I am honored to have known you, and privileged to have called you my friend.

Chapter Five

I stand over the open hole and watch them lower my father’s casket into the ground. Elisabeth stands next to me. Cameron is back at the estate, one of housekeepers at Castlewood watches after him. Elisabeth and I agreed it isn’t appropriate for him to be attending a funeral at his tender age, fearful of instilling a premature fear of death, or invoke nightmares of being buried alive. Wish I could’ve used either excuse.

Biting fall wind whips my father’s full length wool overcoat around me. Fallen leaves crackle and snap as they skate across the brittle lawns and gather at the base of the stone markers in the High Halden graveyard. This will be the last time I’ll stand here. My name will never appear on the giant marble monolith listing my family members buried here over the past two hundred years. Hold Elisabeth’s hand, only realizing I’m squeezing too tightly when she flexes her fingers laced in mine, loosening my grip, and gives me her soft, indulgent smile.

The priest hands me a shovel, but I refuse it. Avoid looking at the crowd around me as I kneel down, grab a handful of dirt, and pour it slowly onto the casket. A coating of moist soil clings to my hand, and for a moment that remaining soil connects me to my father until I brush my hand clean, the filth of the past to be buried with him, along with my anger. No tears come. Don’t feel much of anything, only a vague sense of a similar disconnect I’d experienced two years ago, when I stood here watching them lower Ian into the ground.

What am I doing here?
Again.

People start coming up to me with hangdog faces extending apologies. I don’t know how to respond to them. Don’t know if I’m sorry my father is dead. They grab my arm and shake my hand. I pull back but they hold tight and pump, showering me with accolades for Edward.

I want to take Elisabeth’s hand again, but can’t. And suddenly I’m falling. Spinning. Vertigo.
I have to get out of here.
I l
ook at her. She stares at me—nods. She takes the hand of the next person who extends one to me, introduces herself as a friend of the family, graciously thanking them for their condolences. I walk away from the crowd to the limo and get into the first in the row. Stefan shuts the door and I lean my head back and close my eyes.

Edward had sent for her. She’d arrived yesterday morning and was waiting for me in the library after I left Howard in the study. She presented me with the note Townes had given her as I was taken from the marketplace.

Ms. Whitestone,

It is necessary at this juncture I meet with my son. I’ve taken him at this time, and in this rather aggressive manner, unwilling to risk his refusal to meet, or James running from my inquiry to do so.

Love should know no bounds, so I put none between you. You are welcome at Castlewood. A driver will be at your hotel at six o’clock tomorrow morning to retrieve you and your son. A private jet has been commissioned for your comfort and convenience. A driver will be at Heathrow airport to receive you. I request twenty-four hours alone with my son. Thank you for your indulgence.

My profound apology for any undue stress my actions may have caused you and Cameron.

Edward Whren

     I look out the tinted windows at the sun setting over the rolling hills of Kent on our way back to Castlewood. Hold Elisabeth’s hand, try not to squeeze too tight. Just have to get through tomorrow and then we’re gone. Away from here. We have a 4:00p.m. flight to Logan out of Heathrow.
Just get through tomorrow morning and everything will be fine.

“What are you thinking about?”

“The reading in the morning.”

“You have any idea what you want to do?”

I want to burn it. Want to bury it with him. I want my name struck from wherever it appears.
I go back to staring out the window. “Let’s see what the Will says. Maybe he found enlightenment and left me out of it.”

“And if he didn’t?”

“I don’t know. Play it as it lays, I guess.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“I don’t know, 'Lisbeth. I don’t want any of it. They can run the estate into the fucking ground for all I care.” Regret saying it instantly, but she’s all over me anyway.

“I thought you said the Whren Family Trust has interests in over fifty companies, employing something like seventy thousand people worldwide. Are you telling me that you don’t give a damn what happens to all those people, and the families those businesses support?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. You know it. It’s just...you seem to have some misguided belief that I can ever become competent at overseeing something of this proportion, even if I wanted to, which I don’t.”

“My belief in you is not misguided, nor is it limited to your competence. I know you are an honorable man, and I believe your father knew it, too. As set as you say he was on the blood that bound you, do you really think your father was a fool, James? I’m sure he saw in you what I do.”

She stares at me with tender conviction. I have to look away. Want to be the man she sees, but I’m scared out of my mind of disappointing her.

“And I don’t think you should take on the Trust. I think you should look into it, not dismiss it out of hand.”

“All I know is music. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been any good at.”

Her expression softens and her full, ruby lips spread into a casual smile. “How did you get so good at music, honey?”

I smile back. “Practice.”

“That, and this.” She taps my chest lightly where my heart is and lets her hand linger there a moment. Her smile broadens into a teasing grin, though I know she’s serious.

I grip her face, bring her to me, meet her halfway and kiss her. She combs her hands through my hair and around my neck and pulls me in, returns my kiss with sensual sweetness, transferring all her compassion, her passion, her desire. She fills me up and quiets my fear, having her here—knowing she wants to be, wants to be with me.

Look back out the window and let myself free fall into the rhythm of the trees as they flash by, the white noise of the tires on the road, the melody of the wind; the sweet, fresh scent of Elisabeth next to me, the feel of her hand in mine, the tantalizing anticipation of Boston, starting a new life together. And for that moment, I let myself embrace the ride.

The tires crunch on the gravel drive. It’s quite dim outside. Thickening clouds block the late day sun. The estate is lit up and looks like a golden castle at the end of the long, tree-lined drive. Lots of people in the foyer gallery. A few I recognize from the funeral, know them vaguely as distant relatives. I accept their condolences, introduce them to Elisabeth as my fiancé. Others are household and contracted staff, busy with preparations for the memorial that will take place in the rose garden tomorrow after the reading of the Will. We’ll be gone by then. Castlewood will become a memory and I can bury it with my old man if I chose to do so. Or can I? It isn’t so easy to shut it all out anymore.

Elisabeth, Cameron and I attempt to sleep together in my old double bed. Cameron is the only one who actually sleeps. An hour or so before dawn I finally get up, and after assuring Liz I’m fine several times, I quietly slip on my jeans, pull on my shirt and leave the room.

Moonlight bathes everything in blue, lights up the marble staircases, the massive foyer gallery, beyond the arched thresholds of the four halls that lead to each wing of the estate. I pause at the base of the stairs, consider getting a cup of coffee. Too much of a hassle in that enormous kitchen, and I didn’t feel like talking to anyone in it. The library’s too closed in, with only that small ring of windows in the dome.

Ghosted image of my father crosses the checkered marble floor with an open book in his hand. He reads as he walks, and disappears down the hall and into his study. I follow the memory.

Study is empty, quiet, dim. Only the recessed bar lights are on. Edward’s huge desk has been cleared, his leather chair empty. Flash on him sitting there the evening of Ian’s funeral, then again yesterday afternoon, having aged ten plus years in two, then shake my head with a quick jerk to dislodge the starkly contrasting images.

Wander among the shelves of alphabetized books lining most of the walls, everything from Bettelheim, to Machiavelli, to Shakespeare. Had Edward actually read even a small percentage of his collection? What were his favorites? Whose words resonated with him? Why? I really knew very little about my father. I, too, had never invested the time. And I see Howard’s thin-lipped expression of disdain, then sweep the hair from my eyes, and sigh with weighted awareness.

Small torn piece of paper sticks out of a worn copy of Kipling’s
Rewards and Fairies,
and I pull the book from the shelf. On the marked page is the poem
‘If,’
one of my personal favorites, though for the life of me I can’t recall who turned me on to it. Read it through, rereading lines that resonate again.

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

and treat those two impostors just the same;

Close the book to put it back on the shelf, but the last four lines of the prose linger, almost irritate, so I open the book and read it again, and again, and again.

‘If you can fill that unforgiving minute,

With sixty seconds worth of distance run,

Then yours is the earth and everything that is in it,

And which is more, you’ll be a man, my son.’

I don’t know how long I read it over and over, but suddenly I get it, like a brick to my head, opening up my skull and releasing all residual anger.

“You completely and utterly fucked up, Edward! And fucked me, too.” No one to hear me, and I know it. Don’t care. I need to get it out of my head. “And I hate you for what you did to me. And I love you, too.” Cover my mouth to stop more words from coming out. Tears blur my vision, fall on my fingers, feel warm. I wipe my eyes on my shirtsleeve and will myself to stop crying.

“If you knew your father’s intention came from love, would that temper some of your anger?” I see Liz, in the passenger seat of the Jeep on our way to Athens, her long auburn waves blowing around her shoulders and across her exquisite face. Her hazel eyes, deep brown right then, penetrate me, imploring me to find forgiveness.

Yes.
I’d been unable to answer her then, but now, the voice in my head is definitive.

Exhaustion consumes me, and I lean back against the bookshelves to stay standing. “I’m sorry, Edward. I never let you in. I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk another loss. And I’m sorry.” My voice absorbs into the walls of the study and the rejoinder of silence is resoundingly painful, like pin pricks from the flu. I’ve blown the opportunity for a merited truce with my father.

I can’t stop trembling. Close my eyes to control my quivered breathing, slow my heart rate, but have to open them and focus on the misted lawns emerging with the sunrise through the leaded windows to stop the spinning.

Don’t know when I slid to the floor, no longer able to bear my weight. Don’t know when the tears came again, but suddenly I’m aware of them, and the unbearable, intolerable ache of longing that I’ve not experienced since the death of my parents. I sit on the hardwood floor hugging Kipling’s book, rocking, crying, missing my mom, yearning for her and for Mike to hold me, touch me, to feel them. And finally for Edward, suddenly wanting him, too. And a floodgate of memories I’d locked away come like flashbulbs bringing images to the fore...

We’re hiking in the Highlands of Scotland. It’s just a month after I’d come to the estate and he’s requested I join him on a business trip. We’re standing on a windswept hilltop. Edward is showing me ‘our’ land, an endless three hundred and sixty degree view of grassy hills and forest groves of oak and birch along meandering rivers, punctuated by ponds of rich blue reflecting the morning sky. I don’t care. I don’t want to be there. It’s cold. I hate the UK. It’s always wet, cold most everywhere, and not just in the winter like Boston. I want to be back in the States, with my mom, and Mike, and ache for them, standing on that hillside, freezing my ass off. My father is just behind me, close but distant, lurking but not touching, as he points out features and regales me with history of the landscape. All I can think about is getting out of there, away from him, at least get back in my room at Castlewood with my guitars.

We’re in London, at the Palladium. Edward’s introducing me to the famed choreographer Miguel Joseph. He’s gotten me a gig to co-write the score to his latest. I’m fourteen. I don’t want to. I don’t even like musical theater. I like rock. Electronic, electric, acoustic, raw rock. The only music I want to create. Anything else won’t ‘broaden my foundation’ as he claims. And I don’t care he’s merely adopted my mother’s position supporting my talent. She’s dead. And everything else but rock is a mere distraction.

He’s talking at me, insisting I stay home and continue my lessons during school break instead of touring Europe with Mayhem. We’re in the music room with the renowned pianist Paul Michelson, my latest tutor. I hate practicing piano. Only want to play guitar. I’m fifteen. Don’t want to stay at the estate all summer, be near him. I want to get away from him. Forever.