The Collectibles (3 page)

H
undreds of miles away and in a world apart, Preston, too, would hear words this night that would change his life forever. The only son of Peter and June Wilson, he had the misfortune of being born rich, and ignored by his father. From this father he inherited a tall, strong body with full shoulders, a well-proportioned and pleasing face, a full head of thick black hair, straight healthy teeth, and piercing blue eyes.

Preston's mother was an even-tempered, slight-breasted woman of thirty-seven who wore her thin brown hair in a page boy cut and a small amount of make-up applied to her eyes and sparse eyebrows. She had thin lips, slightly turned down unless she happened to smile. When she did smile, her pale translucent face took on a bright, less hungry look and, at times, she actually had a certain glow, especially when she saw Preston.

From his mother, thanks to her father, Preston would inherit a trust fund making him the sole beneficiary of 6.7 million dollars. His mother also inherited a sizable sum from her father, Rupert Gaylord, who had the good fortune to buy a large amount of stock in a little-known company named Haloid. Haloid became Xerox, and Rupert became rich.

Preston's father had been a promising young businessman when he persuaded June Gaylord to marry him sixteen years earlier. They were living in an expansive cooperative on the twelfth floor of 1040 Fifth Avenue, on New York City's Upper East Side that June's father had purchased for June when Preston was born.

June insisted that her son attend the right private schools; among the many subjects of Peter and June's arguments was the question of which would be appropriate. They had settled on Eaglebrook in Deerfield, Massachusetts for grades six through nine. He was now enrolled at the Hotchkiss School.

What seemed most important to Preston and many of his classmates were their backgrounds. What did their parents do? Where did they do it? How much money did they really have? Where did it come from? Would it continue to come? Did they actually make money from what they did, whatever that was, or was their money made from returns on their money? And, above all, would it last?

It wasn't hard to figure all of this out. It was a small group, after all, and there were only so many Michael Douglases, Samuel Kauffmanns and Hiltons.

The majority of the boys came from New York City, as did Preston. Preston could tell that they were from the city by how fast they talked, their body language, their attitude and the way they acted toward their teachers. They were rebellious, and underneath, they were all, in one way or another, angry.

While Preston knew that they, and he for that matter, were privileged, he wondered what the privilege was in being shipped off to private school, consigned to live with all these smart-ass kids, when what he really longed for was to have a relationship with normal friends and to spend at least some time with his mother and father. When Preston complained that he never got time with his mother, and even less with his father, June reminded him that his father did make an effort. “Preston, your father has tried,” she said, but it was evident that she was trying hard herself to think of an example. Then, her face a bit lighter, she reminded him, “There is the business about those trips way upstate in the mountains. You know he tries to do that at least every other year.”

His mother did not need to worry – Preston would never forget that trip last summer. While Preston appreciated – actually longed for – time with his father, he hated the fact that what little time he had was spent traipsing around in the mountains watching his father play hunter. Besides that, going into the mountains was not a vacation – certainly not the kind his friends enjoyed with their parents: skiing trips to Aspen, the Swiss Alps, cruising the British Virgins or the Greek Islands. And the mountains were dangerous.

What was with his father and these hunting trips anyway? What in hell his father saw in going that far to bust their asses climbing around in the woods with some local hicks and freezing to death in some half-ass lean-to was beyond him. Why did his father seem to covet the respect of some poor mountain guide? And what was Preston supposed to do about the kid, kiss his ass because he got him out of a tight spot after Preston slipped, fell from the trail and broke his damn arm? They shouldn't have put him in that position in the first place.

“Ask him why it's a good thing that I never see him. Ask him why you never see him either. Why do you and he stick me on a shelf, first up in Massachusetts and now in Connecticut, visit me on parents' day and Thanksgiving, and have me join you at Christmas? Why is that enough?”

“You don't understand, Preston,” his mother replied. “It's not that simple. These things are for your own good. I don't want you to make the mistakes . . . ”

“What?” Preston demanded. “Go on.”

“I don't want to go on,” June said in a choked throaty voice. Preston saw her eyes begin to fill, and he feared she was going to cry. “I don't want to discuss your father in this way; I don't want to let him down. I will talk with him, however. I'll do it tonight.”

Preston thanked his mother. He wished he could talk to his father himself, but either Peter wasn't around or, when he was, he was too busy doing “other things.” What Preston did not understand was what these other things were.

“What do you do, Dad?” he would ask, only to be told by Peter in a vague but sweeping way, “I'm a businessman, son. I make deals, make things happen, manage money, that sort of thing.”

 

Peter waited until a night when June would be in the right mood, after a steak dinner and wine at Mulligans, to educate her on the idea and get her support. Tell her about his vision for Global to import latex gloves into the United States. Unfortunately, the night he picked was the same one when June was waiting to talk to him and it was also the night that Preston happened to be home and had decided to position himself in such a way that he could hear their conversation after they returned from dinner.

Preston seemed to anticipate that his parents would continue their conversation in the study over Johnny Walker Red and ice. He crouched under the wooden cabinets in the narrow butler's pantry off the kitchen where he used to hide as a young boy. He could hear the exuberance in his father's voice.

“June, honey, I've spent a lot of time focusing on my next move, what I'm going to do, and I've really got one this time. I'd like to tell you about it.”

June sipped her drink, leaned forward in her chair and looked at her handsome husband with a smile that failed to mask distrust. “Oh, wonderful, Peter,” she said. “Please do.”

Missing, as always, the complexity of June's response, Peter was delighted with the green light. “I've devised a strategic plan,” he said, with pride and special emphasis on the word “strategic.” Peter went on to explain that he had become aware that the United States and China had recently held a joint session on Trade Investment and Economic Law in Beijing. “I've researched the Sino-American scene from a potential market perspective, and, baby, I've determined that the Chinese are hot in the latex market.” He flashed his best smile, hoping to convince June and himself of his confidence. “They're producing latex gloves right now, but they need the good old US of A to really fly.”

“Don't they have a large population of their own to supply, let alone the rest of the world?” June paused, and then asked sharply, “How much do you need this time?”

“Only two million. The rest will be self-producing. And I can pay it back in less than twelve months,” Peter said, trying to sound convincing.

“I don't want to talk about lending you money right now, Peter, and I don't want to be . . . ”
what did her psychiatrist call it? An enabler . . .
and she added, “In any event, what I want to talk to you about is Preston.”

“What about him, and why are you changing the subject? Why do you connect Preston with helping me over the top with this business deal?” Peter thumped across the room with no specific destination in mind. He stopped at the antique end table, picked up the empty ash tray and threw it down again. “My relationship with Preston is just fine.”

June stood up, drink in hand, and addressed her husband directly. “I think it's time we speak frankly, Peter. There is good reason to connect Preston to your deals because, while you're off chasing rainbows, you have a wife and a son who are unclear what you really do and who you really are. Do you know how many deals I've given you money for that were going to make you millions, in fact, amounted to nothing but debt? I'm not stupid, Peter, and neither is Preston, by the way. He asked me to talk to you, and I've been meaning to talk to you myself for a long time. I have decided that I'm not going to loan you any more money. And I want you to find Preston and have a heart-to-heart father-and-son talk.”

Peter knew he had to be especially artful in how he managed her now. At the same time, it annoyed him that he had to go through all this just to tap in to what he regarded as her inexhaustible resources. He decided to take a different tack. “Okay, June. Take it easy. It's not a big deal. Relax. I'll talk to Preston. I'll tell him whatever you want. What do you want me to tell him?”

At this point, June, having poured herself another scotch, was sitting stone erect on the forward part of the sofa. She looked up at Peter with ice in her eyes. “All right, Peter, I'll tell you explicitly what I would say to him and what I would not say to him. I'll start with what I would not say. I would not tell him that, despite your good looks and charm and gift of gab, you are an abject failure. Notwithstanding your promises, you've failed to deliver on every significant business matter you've undertaken. You've nearly exhausted the money my father left me, with no money left for Preston. Thank God the trust wouldn't let you touch the money for his education. You have my love, what's left of it, but you don't have my respect. As far as what you say to him, you as a father should be able to figure that out. You might try listening to him for a change. Ask him how he feels. Answer his questions. Truthfully, Preston loves you. He just isn't sure who you are or what you do, and he can't understand why you constantly push him away.”

“Anything else?” Peter asked in a tone laden with sarcasm.

“Yes, Peter. You can explain to him that you will be moving out of this house. I have been thinking about this for some time. I know what you've been doing, and I am well informed as to with whom you have been doing it.”

June stumbled over to her antique wooden desk against the wall, rolled up the top, and picked out an envelope. With a slight tremor, she handed it to Peter. “I still love you, Peter. God knows why. But I'm quite simply tired of it all . . . ” In a deliberate but barely audible voice she continued, “There will be a divorce, and I will have sole custody of Preston. You've asked for money. Here is your last check from me.” She handed Peter the envelope. “Call it severance or whatever you wish. Tom Sutton at Cromwell will get you the papers. It's over.”

“Where do you propose I live?” Peter's face flushed and twisted. He collapsed on the sofa, immediately pulled himself up, and began to wander again.

“Try one of your . . . friends.”

Preston, listening, sat cramped on the floor, stunned. He had no idea that his father was carrying on with other women or whatever his mother was referring to. But what really shocked him was hearing his mother say that his father was an abject failure. At this point, hearing more than he had either bargained for or wanted, he slunk upstairs to his room, softly closed the door and, feeling guilty about eavesdropping on his parents, turned up the volume on his TV. He stood in front of his bed staring but not seeing his Porsche racing posters on the wall, his head pounding.

“What about Preston?” Peter cried.

“What about Preston?” June demanded. “Preston needs . . . has always needed . . . a father. Why don't you try doing that deal for a change? You can visit him any time you want. I hope it is not too late.” Tears streamed down her face. “Go talk to him, for Christ's sake.”

Peter stared at June in disbelief and then opened the envelope and looked at the check. Noting the amount, he decided not to argue the point. He slowly put the check in his pants pocket and sauntered out of the study and up the stairs to Preston's room.

 

Preston knew he was coming from the sound of Peter's wingtip Churchills on the hard wood steps but he remained sprawled out on the bed, pretending to read one of his race car magazines and trying to appear calm.

Peter went to the dresser serving as the TV stand, switched the set off, moved around the bed and sat down on the near end, edging Preston's feet to one side. As usual, he did not look directly into Preston's eyes and missed the tears.

“Pres, there is something I need to tell you. Your mother and I have decided to separate. I will be moving out. I want you to know that none of this has anything to do with you. I love you. You're a big guy, and you'll be fine. You have a large trust fund, as you know. Actually, you are worth more than I am. I'll see you often. Your mom has made it clear that I may, and I'm still your father. Sorry, son, sometimes these things just don't work out.”