The Associate

After the last client left and Sybil said goodbye and locked the front door, father and son relaxed in the big office and talked about college basketball and hockey. Then family, the twin sisters first, as always, then Patty.

"Does your mother know you’re in town?" John asked.

"No. I’ll call her tomorrow. She’s okay?"

"Nothing’s changed. She’s fine." Patty lived and worked in the loft of an old warehouse in York. It was a large space with lots of windows that provided the light she needed to pursue her painting. John paid the rent, utilities, and everything else she needed through a monthly stipend of $3,000. It wasn’t alimony, and it certainly wasn’t child support, but simply a gift he felt compelled to pass along for her upkeep because she could not support herself. If she had sold a painting or a sculpture in the past nineteen years, no one in the family knew about it.

"I call her every Tuesday night," Kyle said.

"I know you do."

Patty had no use for computers or cell phones. She was severely bipolar, and the mood swings were, at times, astonishing. John still loved her and had never remarried, though he’d enjoyed a few girlfriends. Patty had been through at least two ruinous affairs, both with fellow artists, much younger men, and John had been there to pick up the pieces. Their relationship was complicated, to say the least.

"So how’s school?" John asked.

"Downhill. I graduate in three months."

"That’s hard to believe."

Kyle swallowed hard and decided to get it over with. "I’ve changed my mind about employment. I’m going to Wall Street. Scully & Pershing."

John slowly lit another cigarette. He was sixty-two, thick but not fat, with a head full of wavy gray hair that began no more than three inches above his eyebrows. Kyle, at twenty-five, had lost more hair than his father.

John took a long drag from his Winston and studied his son from behind wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose. "Any particular reason?"

The list of reasons had been memorized, but Kyle knew they would sound flat regardless of how smoothly they were delivered. "The legal services gig is a waste of time. I’ll end up on Wall Street eventually, so why not get the career started?"

"I don’t believe this."

"I know, I know. It’s an about-face."

"It’s a sellout. There’s nothing that requires you to pursue a career in a corporate firm."

"It’s the big leagues, Dad."

"In terms of what? Money?"

"That’s a start."

"No way. There are trial lawyers who make ten times more each year than the biggest partners in New York."

"Yes, and for every big trial lawyer there are five thousand starving sole practitioners. On the average, the money is much better in a big firm."

"You’ll hate every minute of a big firm."

"Maybe not."

"Of course you will. You grew up here, around people and real clients. You won’t see a client for ten years in New York."

"It’s a nice firm, Dad. One of the best."

John yanked a pen from his pocket. "Let me write this down, so a year from now I can read it back to you."

"Go ahead. I said, ‘It’s a nice firm. One of the best.’ "

John took notes and said, "You’re gonna hate this firm and its lawyers and cases, and you’ll probably even hate the secretaries and the other rookie associates. You’re gonna hate the grind, the routine, the sheer drudgery of all the mindless crap they dump on you. Response?"

"I disagree."

"Great," John said, still writing. Then he pulled on the cigarette and blew out an impressive cloud of smoke. He put down the pen. "I thought you wanted to try something different and help people in the process. Did I not hear these words from you just a few weeks ago?"

"I’ve changed my mind."

"Well, change it back. It’s not too late."

"No."

"But why? There must be a reason."

"I just don’t want to spend three years in rural Virginia trying to learn enough Spanish so I can listen to the problems of people who are here illegally in the first place."

"I’m sorry, but that sounds like a great way to spend the next three years. I don’t buy it. Give me another reason." With that, John shoved his leather swivel chair back and jumped to his feet. Kyle had seen this a million times. His father preferred to pace and toss his hands about when he was agitated and firing questions. It was an old habit from the courtroom, and it was not unexpected.

"I’d like to make some money."

"For what? To buy things, some new toys? You won’t have the time to play with them."

"I plan to save – "

"Of course you will. Living in Manhattan is so cheap you’ll save a fortune." He was walking in front of his Ego Wall, framed certificates and photos almost to the ceiling. "I don’t buy it, and I don’t like it." His cheeks were turning colors. The Scottish temper was warming up.

Speak softly, Kyle reminded himself. A sharp word or two would make things much worse. He would survive this little clash, as he had survived the others, and one day soon all the harsh words would be over and Kyle would be off to New York.

"It’s all about the money, isn’t it, Kyle?" John said. "You were raised better."

"I’m not here to be insulted, Dad. I’ve made my decision. I ask you to respect it. A lot of fathers would be thrilled with such a job."

John McAvoy stopped pacing and stopped smoking, and he looked across his office at the handsome face of his only son, a twenty-five-year-old who was quite mature and unbelievably bright, and he decided to back off. The decision was made. He’d said enough.

Any more and he might say too much. "Okay," he said. "Okay. It’s all you. You’re smart enough to know what you want, but I’m your father and I’ll have some opinions about your next big decision, and the next. That’s what I’m here for. If you screw up again, I’ll damned sure let you know it."

"I’m not screwing up, Dad."

"I will not bicker."

"Can we go to dinner? I’m starving."

"I need a drink."

THEY RODE TOGETHER to Victor’s Italian Restaurant, John’s Friday night ritual for as long as Kyle could remember. John had his usual end-of-the-week martini. Kyle had his standard drink  –  club soda with a twist of lime. They ordered pasta with meatballs, and after the second martini John began to mellow. Having his son at the largest and most prestigious law firm in the country did have a nice ring to it.

But he was still puzzled by the abrupt change in plans.

If you only knew, Kyle kept saying to himself. And he ached because he couldn’t tell his father the truth.

Chapter 9

Kyle was relieved when his mother did not answer the phone. He waited until almost eleven on Saturday morning before calling. He left a pleasant little message about popping in for a quick hello as he was passing through York for some vague reason. She was either asleep or medicated, or if it was a good day, she was in her studio thoroughly absorbed in creating some of the most dreadful art never seen in a gallery or an exhibition. Visits with his mother were painful. She rarely left her loft, for any reason, so the suggestion that they meet for coffee or lunch was always dismissed. If the meds were in sync, she talked incessantly while forcing Kyle to admire her latest masterpieces. If the meds were out of order, she would lie on the sofa with her eyes closed, unbathed, unkempt, often inconsolable in her gloom and misery. She seldom asked about his life  –  college, law school, girlfriends, plans for the future. She was much too absorbed in her own sad little world. Kyle’s twin sisters stayed far away from York.