Words Unspoken (50 page)
“Where’s Annie?” Lissa asked. “Where are the others?”
“Just out for a while. They’ll be back soon.” Mr. MacAllister lay down on the bed, his breath irregular. “Lissa, I need you to get me my medication.”
“Where is it?”
“In the bathroom there.”
“I’ll get him some water,” Silvano said, and hurried back to the den.
The sink was lined with brown prescription bottles. Lissa grabbed them all and brought them back to the bed. “Which one?”
“Nitroglycerin.”
Her hands shook as she fumbled with the white plastic top. She got it opened and handed the bottle to him. He took out one pill and slipped it under his tongue.
“Thank you, Lissa. Thank you.”
Silvano set the glass on the bedside table and left the room as Lissa sank to her knees by the old man’s side. His eyes were closed.
“Are you all right? Should I call the ambulance?”
“No, no, dear. I’ll just rest for a while. I’ll be fine. The pills always work their magic.” His voice was barely audible. “Just let me rest.”
Lissa tiptoed out of the room, closed the door, and walked to the den, where Silvano was pacing back and forth. In a fury she turned on him. “Are you satisfied? Did you get what you wanted? Couldn’t you see he was ill?” She was shaking in her anger. “Get out of here, Silvano! I never want to see you again!” She marched to the front door and opened it.
Silvano followed and grabbed her arm. “Listen to me, Lissa.”
“No! I hate you! Let go of me!”
He obeyed. “Lissa, I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I’ll leave you alone, I promise, but first will you please just listen to me for a minute? I know you don’t trust me. But I have been around a lot of writers. Mr. MacAllister wants his religious message to get out to people. Here’s an author with good intentions, a message capable of transforming lives. He and I were just talking about this when you came downstairs. I think he was beginning to understand the positive side of recognition. We can make him bigger, more important. Surely you see that would be good, Lissa.”
As he spoke, it registered: Silvano had figured it out—that Annie was not S. A. Green. And it was her fault. She had led him to the writer.
“Just go away, Silvano. You’re going to kill him. Leave.”
“Lissa, every writer wants more readers, more recognition, more money. I’ve never met one who said he was making too much or he felt he had too many readers.”
“Mr. MacAllister is different. He doesn’t care. If he’s stayed incognito for so many years, doesn’t that prove he doesn’t care?”
“He was afraid of fame. That’s not the same as not caring. And, Lissa, he has made a bundle of money, and he wants to keep making it.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve met with his stockbroker. I don’t know what he does with the money, but I know he is afraid of losing any of it. And he’s old, Lissa. For heaven’s sake, he won’t be writing forever. Whatever he needed anonymity for in the past, it’s over. I’m ready to help him realize his potential. He has a great message. He can reach more readers. It’s a win-win situation, Lissa.”
Lissa imagined the MacAllisters on the front porch, the steady stream of driving students coming in and out, drinking lemonade, trading stories, gaining confidence.
“His whole life is about doing good. His whole life is a message. He doesn’t need anything else. Just leave him alone. Please, Silvano, don’t publish your story.”
“Lissa, you can’t understand. You grew up around wealth, luxury. I doubt you’ve ever wondered where your next meal was coming from or if you’d have a roof over your head in a week. But that was my life. My family is poor, and I am their hope. They sent me to America for reasons you can’t understand, and you can’t understand the type of pressure I’m under.
“I’m not doing anything illegal. I’m a sleuth, and I’ve got a scoop and a magazine willing to pay me handsomely for it. I need the money for my family. You’ve got to believe me.”
“I don’t believe you! I don’t believe anything you say.”
Silvano went back into the den, grabbing his tape recorder and briefcase. “I’ll go. But you’re making a big mistake. You’ll see soon enough, Lissa, that I was right.”
He slammed the door. She leaned against it, closed her eyes, and slid down onto the floor.
The voice whispered distinctly,
“All your fault.”
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7
AFTERNOON
Nursing a gin and tonic at the club, Ted sat across from Jerry Steinman. This was no friendly business meeting. He had interrupted Jerry’s golf game on a perfect fall Saturday afternoon.
Jerry took off his glasses, put them back on, took them off again. He carefully hid his emotions, which frightened Ted more than having him explode. At last he spoke. “I am really disappointed in you, Ted. You turned your back on all of my advice. Not only have you ruined your reputation, you’ve caused two of my best clients great harm. I trusted you, Ted. I assured them you would do them right. What were you thinking?”
Ted’s mouth was dry, and the gin and tonic did not help at all. He cleared his throat and squeaked out, “China, sir. I was trying to help my marriage with a promise of a trip to China with the Million Dollar Club.”
“Greed.”
“Yes, sir. Greed. For those I love.”
Jerry was looking through a file of papers, reciting Ted’s grievances as if he were reading the ticker tape at the office. “You’ve been suspended from the firm pending investigation of the facts. From what you’ve told me, it won’t take much investigation. Your actions were completely illegal: you messed up on discretion, you forged a client’s signature, you started a ghost account, you traded illegal options.” He set down the file. “Wow, Ted. You’ve screwed up royally.”
“I know, sir.”
Jerry clenched and unclenched his jaw, head down, studying the file. “Dr. Kaufman is asking for full restitution. He realizes that some of his losses were no fault of yours—a consequence of Black Monday. But the rest, the 1.2 million or whatever it is, will have to come from your account.”
Ted felt the perspiration break out on his neck. “I don’t have that kind of money in my account. What do I do?”
“You write a letter to Dr. Kaufman; you crawl and beg forgiveness and make up his losses. Sell your house, your car—your wife’s wedding ring, if that’s what it takes—but you make it right. And then you wait to see what the arbitration board decides.”
Ted swallowed several times. Chills replaced the numbness. “And what about Miss Green?”
“I’m actually meeting with Miss Green early next week. I wouldn’t expect anything but a trip to hell from her.” Jerry shook his head. “And it’s exactly what you deserve, Ted. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true. A trip to hell and back.”
They both stood. Ted held out his hand and thought for a moment that Jerry was going to refuse to shake it. Eventually, the retired broker took his hand and gripped it fiercely.
“You’re making me come out of retirement, Ted. I’d lock you up myself, but I don’t need to. The authorities will see that you get what you deserve. Good-bye, Ted.”
Ted watched the older man leave and thought to himself,
There goes my future. He gave me the biggest break of my career, and I threw it away.
He had failed everyone—his firm, his clients, his mentor. His trusted mentor, and friend too. And boy, could he use a friend right now.
He remembered reading a passage from that darn novel and being thankful they were simply words written on a page. The little girl—Toni or Tonya or something—stood with her hands on her hips and told her brother that someday the bad guys were going to get caught. He just needed to wait and see.
Boy, was she right, and he was the guilty party.
I am not a bad guy!
Ted argued in his mind.
Then he gave a pitiful chuckle. Who was he fooling? He was a lousy, cheating, thieving crook.
He waited for the porter to get his car out of valet parking, handed the man a dollar bill, and got in the Mercedes. His whole life was evaporating. Should he pray? Or fight? Surely, surely he could fight.
Sell your wife’s wedding ring, if that’s what it takes.
He had to go home and tell Lin Su.
He
couldn’t
tell Lin Su. Not yet.
________
Ev knew what was happening. It had come on him slowly this time— the cold sweat, the loss of breath, the gradual pain in his chest, arms, and jaw. The first two heart attacks had been fast. Ever since then, he had felt them coming and prevented them with the nitroglycerin. But this time he had waited too long, and the pill only lessened the pain momentarily. Now it was back. The pressure. He pulled himself up on the bed, wincing as the pain increased. He needed to get to the phone and dial those three little numbers: 9-1-1. He stood up, and the nausea washed over him.
“Lissa!” he called out. It was barely more than a whisper, and he fell back onto the bed.
Forgive me, Father. I’m a stubborn old man. Forgive me. I give you my books again. Thy will be done, even if it means notoriety. Or death. Thy will be done.
But please don’t take me in front of Lissa.
________
Silvano knew he shouldn’t gloat, but he couldn’t help himself. In that brief interview he had gotten all he needed: confirmation of the true identity of S. A. Green and a photo of the old man standing on the porch, appearing surprised. It was perfect! The article was going to be worth more than he had originally calculated.
You did it, Silvo! You did it! Auguri!
Silvano turned over the events of the day again and again. He had to admit it. Lissa was right: the guy was for real, an old man with a head of silver hair to lend authenticity to the rumor of S. A. Green’s wisdom. An old man who taught teenagers to drive, for goodness’ sake!
Silvano felt the adrenaline pump in his ears. Releasing this story would be a major breakthrough for the publishing house. He could imagine the sales climbing as customers scrambled to get copies of the other books by S. A. Green. They’d reprint the whole lot of them and give them glossy new covers with an even better literary slant.
And after his story broke, Silvano would grant interviews with other newspapers and magazines. Heck, he’d heard that TV stations even offered fancy trips for good stories. Maybe the story would be good enough for his whole family to get a one-way ticket to the States! He would make a name for himself.
Yes, Eddy Clouse would be furious and would probably fire him. But Eddy wouldn’t snub off the profits, and sooner or later he would acknowledge that Silvano had been right. The end did justify the means.
I’ll quit before he fires me. I’ll find another publishing house that will be happy to have me.
Even as he congratulated himself, he heard Ev MacAllister’s voice saying,
I do not want notoriety. I have no use for it.
Blasted novelist! He hated the way the man and his message got to him, the words yanking on his heart like a tug-of-war between his mind and the mind of S. A. Green. Sure, he could give the old man a good argument—prove to him the worth of renown. He had even used the Bible to make his point—now that was a stroke of genius! But was it really for the best? Every one of the man’s books had gotten under his skin.
He thought of Stella Ann Green—Annie MacAllister—tough, wizened, shrewd, and according to Lissa, tender at the core. He liked her a lot, what he knew of her. He liked them both. Now that he’d met the old man, the famous recluse, the writings meant even more. Lissa was right again: he was just an old man who wanted to live a simple life, protect those he loved, and help hurting kids.
Silvano tried to shake the image of Ev MacAllister’s pale, pain-stricken face. He was sorry for the old man’s health. But it wasn’t his fault.
He was sorry he’d dragged Lissa into this, sorry for the way he had left her at the house. But again, it wasn’t his fault.
Sometimes the best thing you can do is admit that you’ve failed, and start over. Repair, forgive, start over.
Why did he keep hearing lines from that book!
He was not about to start over. Fifteen years of living in the States away from family was finally going to pay off.
Lissa had no idea of the pressure, month after month. Sometimes he wondered if his family even cared about him, or if all they cared about was the money. He pushed the thought away. Of course they cared! They loved him, and he was their savior! No longer would he send his mother measly checks for several hundred dollars. Soon he would be sending her thousands! With that money, she could buy the plane tickets—or maybe a TV station would
give
him tickets—and move them all to Atlanta, to live with his aunt until they could get started on their own. Legal immigrants. No more renting from that gang of thieves. And finally he could hush the voice that said,
If you don’t achieve, you will be responsible for your whole family’s fall into ruin.
Silvano turned onto Fourth Avenue, rolling down the windows. Leave it to Chattanooga to provide seventy-degree weather in November. He was going to reward himself with a Frosty from Wendy’s. He glanced over to the passenger seat, where pages of notes lay beside his camera. In his rush to leave the house, he had not even had time to put them in the briefcase. At a traffic light, a gust of wind swept through the car, lifted one of the sheets of paper, and blew it out the window. Silvano watched, mesmerized for a moment as it floated and twisted with the force of the wind before settling on the pavement.
