Riverside Park (20 page)

Alexandra slid out of her chair to her knees. She touched Cassy's hair, her eyes thoughtful. “Could it be that we're really getting somewhere?” She smiled, meeting Cassy's eyes. “Do you think?”

“I'm not really sure,” Cassy said truthfully, “but it feels like it.”

Over the course of the night it became clearer to Cassy that, yes, they seemed to really be getting somewhere.

“
HELLO?” ROSANNE SAID
into the phone as she pulled sheets out of the washer and put them in the dryer.

“Mrs. DiSantos?”

“Yes.”

“This is Celia Cavanaugh calling from Captain Cook's.”

“Jason's not here, Celia.” She considered explaining that he was staying in the Cochrans' old apartment because Mrs. G's illness and the nurse's aide were upsetting him to the point he couldn't sleep, but decided it was none of her business. “I can take a message, though.”

“I wanted to let him know a good job's opened up at Park West Café. I've already talked to them about him. And I think if he'd just go over tonight and see a guy named Rich he'll get the job. It's bussing, but I think it'll turn into waiting tables in June.”

Rosanne made a face, straightening up. “He's got to work tonight.”

There was decided hesitation on the other end.

“Don't you work tonight, too, Celia? I thought you worked Tuesday nights,” Rosanne said, tearing off a sheet of fabric softener and tossing it into the dryer. She closed the door, set the timer and turned it on.

“I just wanted to make sure he heard about this job, Mrs. DiSantos.”

“Uh-huh,” Rosanne said, stepping out of the laundry area and closing the louver doors. The nurse's aide was in the kitchen getting more ice water. She was trying to get Mrs. G to drink more water. Why she thought Mrs. G would drink more water now when she disliked drinking it even when she was in the pink of health Rosanne had no idea, but then, everyone kept telling her that Virginia was in charge of Mrs. G, not her.

“I'll see he gets the message, Celia,” she promised before hanging up. “Virginia, I'm going out for a little while. Can I pick up anything? I thought we'd have sole tonight. Mrs. G said she thought it sounded good to her.”

“I love filet of sole,” the aide said. “That would be very nice.”

She had given Virginia her bedroom to use as a sitting room so she could hear if Mrs. G needed her. Rosanne in the meantime was bunking in Jason's room and Jason was over in Mrs. C's old place. He came to visit Mrs. G every day. He just couldn't sleep here, he was so nervous about her dying. The social worker said it had to do with how his father had died when he was young.

The reality hadn't fully dawned on her yet, Rosanne knew.

 

“Why aren't you getting ready for work?” Rosanne asked Jason, closing the apartment door of Mrs. C's old apartment and following him into the kitchen.

His school books were all over the breakfast bar. His shirttail was hanging out over his jeans and he was walking around in his socks, which is what Rosanne had asked him to do so he wouldn't mess up Mrs. C's floors. He took his place at his books, picked up a pencil and twiddled it next to his ear.

“Jason?”

“I had this paper to do,” he began.

“You just took two weeks off and now you're taking tonight off?”

He sighed heavily, eyes on the book in front of him. “It's sorta complicated, Mom.”

“Well uncomplicate it,” she told him, taking off her coat. “September's going to be here before you know it and you'll be grateful for every single penny you save. Or at least
I
will.” She tossed the coat on one of the stools. “So what's this paper?”

“It's like a calculus thing.”

“Not my favorite thing,” she said, looking over his shoulder. “Before I forget, Celia called. She sounded a little vague on the subject of you working tonight, too.”

Her son's reaction was almost visceral. Now he looked at her as though she had plunged a knife in his back. “Celia Cavanaugh?”

“She said there was a job bussing tables at Park West Café that would probably turn into waiting tables in June. She said if you're interested you should go there tonight and ask for Rich. She said she already talked to him about you and says if you go over tonight you'll probably get the job.”

He had turned away from her and the back of his ears had turned very red.

“Jason, did you get fired?”

He shook his head, his back to her still.

Rosanne shifted her weight onto her left foot, plunking her right hand on her hip. “What's going on, Jason?”

He hung his head a little. “I quit.”

“I thought you loved working there.”

“Not anymore,” he mumbled.

She took a step closer and softened her tone of voice. “Jason. Turn around and look at me, please.” Reluctantly he did. “When did you quit?”

“Just before Christmas.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I was gonna.” He shrugged. “Then Gran got sick and everything.” He looked up at the clock and started to slide off the stool. “I guess I should go over to Park West Café.”

Rosanne pushed him back down on the stool. “What happened at Captain Cook's?”

He tried to meet her eyes but failed. “I was tired of it.”

She put her hands on his shoulders. “Tell me the truth.”

“I just didn't want to be there anymore.” His ears were still burning red.

“Jason,” she said warningly.

He twisted away from her and got up off the stool. “It's not something you talk to your mother about.”

The only things boys did not talk to their mothers about were sex and drugs. And maybe violence. Since she knew two were not presently at issue she assumed it was the first. “There's a girl there?”

Bingo. The flush spreading across his face told her she was right.

“She's not a girl,” he mumbled, jamming his hand into his pocket and tracing the kitchen door jam with the toe of his sock.

What did
that
mean? “How old is she?”

“Twenty-four.”

Twenty-four!
It had to be a crush, then, right? He was in high school. “Celia Cavanaugh?” she guessed.

After a moment he nodded, eyes still on the doorjamb. “She doesn't like me the way I like her.”

“She's a lot older than you are, Jason.”

His head kicked up and she could see anger in his face. “That's not it, Mom. I wasn't too young for her. She just doesn't want a boyfriend, she doesn't want a relationship.”

Rosanne felt the tiniest sliver of fear. “Just how far did this relationship between you go?”

“It was just—you know,” he said, sliding his hands into his back pockets. There was the slightest touch of pride in his voice and Rosanne started to feel light-headed. She swallowed, trying to see her son in the same way strangers might: tall, nice-looking, the new need to shave regularly, his sweet nature.

“No, I don't know,” she said trying to keep her voice even.

“I have to go to that restaurant,” he said, turning away.

“Don't you dare take another step. Not until you explain to me what has been going on between you and that bartender.”

When he turned back around she saw a mixture of fear and defiance in Jason's eyes. This was one of those defining moments Mrs. C used to warn her about. “Okay, Mom. Have it your way.”

She waited.

“Go on, ask me, if you want to know so bad.”

This was not how she had imagined Jason's first love would be. He still played video games and watched cartoons on TV.

“I screwed her, Mom, all right?” he suddenly said. “Isn't that what you want to know?”

Rosanne caught her breath and then straightened to her full height, throwing her shoulders back. “Jason Frank DiSantos, you will
never
use that kind of language again, do you hear me? And you will
never
use that kind of language about what is—what
should
be—a sacred act between two people.”
Yeah, right
, she thought,
that's me and Randy, sacred every Saturday night
.

“That's what you care about, Mom?” he said, angry, coming toward her. “My language? Aren't you even worried she might be knocked up like your sweet little Sammy Wyatt who you spend all your time with?”

She slapped him. Hard. Rosanne had never done that before and the red mark it left on Jason's face made her feel sick. “You have no right to judge other people,” she told him. They glared at one another until she finally stared him down and he backed away a step, turning his back to her. “So Celia the bartender is
not
pregnant, is that right?”

“Right,” he said, resting his hands on the breakfast bar.

“You're going in for a complete physical.” She took a breath. “You're going to get tested for AIDS, for herpes, for—”

“She's not like that, Mom.”

“And how could you possibly know that?” she said, grabbing his arm and turning him around. “How can you know where she's been, where the men she's slept with have been—”

“She's not like that, Mom, so just shut up about her.”

“This is what tells me you are still a child, Jason. That's why I am scared. Because whether you like it or not, a twenty-four-year-old woman has no business messing with a boy in high school!”

He suddenly whirled around to pound the breakfast bar with his fist. “Shut up, Mom!” He turned back around, tears
threatening. “She's not like that. She's a wonderful person. And I love her, Mom. Okay? And I wouldn't love her unless she was something special.”

Oh, she's something special all right,
Rosanne thought.

THE EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE
meeting dragged on. On the table was whether or not Electronika International would altogether close down its plant in central Connecticut and, if and when they did, would they build a new plant in a right-to-work state or move that entire end of production to China. No one at the company wanted to shut down the plant but they couldn't afford the northeast union wages and benefits anymore and they were getting hammered with taxes on their property and equipment.

“What do you think, Sam?” the president asked from one end of the long boardroom table.

Since Sam's thirty-year career at the company had largely been spent in marketing, he knew the question was being asked in terms of public relations. Just how bad would the fallout be for pulling the manufacture of high-end office equipment out of the States? And should Electronika even care about fallout since their key competitor had already moved production to China and was killing them with lower prices?

Sam leaned forward, folding his hands somewhat gravely in front of him, his wedding band catching the sunlight. They were on the twenty-third floor and had a view of the East River. He was one of two people of color in the room. The human resources director, a woman, was half Puerto Rican and half something very white. Skin did not get much darker than Sam's, and he liked how the crisp white cotton sleeves of his Brooks Brothers shirt looked against it.

“I think we should consider going public with our problem,” Sam said.

“If we delay shutting down that plant it won't just be a problem anymore,” the controller said, “it will be our disaster.”

“Go on, Sam,” the president encouraged. He had been in the office for four years now. At forty-five he was the youngest president they had ever had.

“From here on in let's make the whole process public.”

“Would that be including the pending brain-cancer lawsuits?” someone said sarcastically.

“I think we call the
Times
and say, this is where we are, these are the choices we currently have and we want the public to understand what's going on. Then we tell the governor of Connecticut we can't afford to do business there anymore, which is the absolute truth. Then we set up a summit with the governor and Connecticut union guys to see what, if anything, can be done to keep us there. And then we set up a summit with, say, the governor of Arizona, about what would be possible in a right-to-work state. We give the numbers out to the public all the way, what it costs to do business in Connecticut, what it costs in Arizona, and then what it costs in China to produce what we need.”

“To a certain extent we're already doing that,” the president said.

“What about the brain-cancer suits?” someone said again.

While legal started talking about that, Sam made some notes regarding an overall corporate image rehab. He was somewhat startled when his secretary came in to drop a note in front of him.

“I am telling you,” the controller said, “unless union workers increase their contribution to their health care we can't use union workers anymore, period.”

The meeting went on for another half hour, during which nothing was resolved except the president was going to make a highly publicized trip to Connecticut and Arizona.

When Sam returned to his office he couldn't help but smile when he saw Althea sitting on the couch, typing away on her laptop. When she was very little she sometimes came in with him on Saturday mornings and sat on the floor and colored on the coffee table. By the time she was six she was scribbling nonsense on sheets of paper—alternating between being president of the United States and a movie star—doing somersaults down the thickly carpeted hallways and looking for other workers who had come in to catch up because they might give her some candy.

Now Althea made twice the money he and Harriet did combined.

“Hi,” he said coming in, “this is a nice surprise.”

“Hi, Dad, hang on a sec—” She finished typing something. He made his way to his desk, tossing his legal pad on it and took his seat. Althea walked over to the door. “Do you mind if I close this for a minute?”

“No, not at all,” he said. He watched her as she closed the door and came back to sit down in front of his desk. It was hard sometimes to equate the little girl looking for candy with this poised and confident woman. Althea was like him in that she loved well-fitted and finely made clothes, but she had a grace in her movements he had never possessed.

“Would the great and powerful Oz also mind coming out from behind that curtain?”

The desk. She didn't like to talk to him while he was behind it. Sam smiled, shaking his head, and got up out of his very comfortable leather chair and walked around to sit down in the chair next to Althea. “So what's this?” he said, reaching for the folder.

“Wait a second,” she said, pulling it away. “You can't open it yet until I explain.”

“Okay.” She gave it to him and Sam sat back in his chair, crossing his leg to rest his left ankle on his right knee, and tapped the folder against his leg. “Explain.”

“I wanted to talk to you without Sammy or Mom around, Dad. Because I know if you back me on this then it'll happen.”

“And if I don't back you?”

“I'm going to do it anyway,” she told him evenly.

He nodded, biting the side of his lower lip. “I take it we're back to the baby.”

She nodded. “I've served notice to the adoption agency in Utica that I'll be suing to stop the process.”

“Althea,” he began, shaking his head, “your mother and I—”

“Are going around in circles,” she finished for him. “And it's not your fault, but you're damned if you do anything and you're damned if you don't.” She brought her hand to her chest. “I don't care what Sammy thinks right now. This child should not leave our family and I'm not going to let it. And
no offense, Dad, but you guys are way too old to be anything but grandparents.”

Sam rubbed his face. “And what about your sister?”

“I want you and Mom to tell Sammy that unless she allows me to adopt this child then you will cut her off financially.”

“You want us to commit extortion on your own sister,” he said dully, opening the folder and looking through it. There were a number of legal documents.

“Whatever it takes,” Althea said. She touched his arm. “She wants to get rid of the baby, Dad, so she can chase that man. You're not going to be able to stop that. She thinks she's in love with him. But you can't just let her out of this without her having to face up to the consequences for her behavior. She has to do the right thing. She has to let us keep this baby.”

“So you think she did it on purpose,” he said.

“I know she did,” Althea said without hesitation.

Sam closed his eyes, feeling nauseous.

“It was the only way she could think of to call his bluff. To get him to leave his wife.”

“Jesus,” Sam said, swiping the folder and standing up. “Jesus Christ, help us all,” he said, going to the window.

“It happens, Dad.”

“Not with one of my daughters it doesn't,” he said, pivoting around. “She was not raised this way, Althea!”

“I know,” Althea said, standing up. “And Mom's dying of a broken heart. But if you just stop and think about how spoiled Sammy is, everything she does makes sense.”

She stopped when she saw Sam glaring at her. If one more person said how he and Harriet had spoiled Samantha he was going to start breaking up the furniture. He had
not
raised his daughter to carry on with a married man, he had
not
raised a daughter who would try to trap a married man—

He threw himself in his chair behind his desk, tossed the folder on his desk and bent over, pretending he needed to retie his black Oxford shoe. When he sat back up he felt more in control. “Tell me again why it's fair to take away this child's chance to have a mother
and
a father?”

“You're fixated on that. Just because your childhood was miserable, Dad, doesn't mean every other child's has to be. We're not talking six kids here, Dad. We're talking about one. And imagine if Grandma had made the kind of money I do. You don't think your life would have been a lot different after your father died? Of course it would have been. Grandma would have given you the world if she could.” She was leaning over his desk now. “You of all people should understand why I, as a successful black woman, cannot allow to see my own flesh and blood be given away when the child can have a warm and loving and thriving home with me.” She had tears in her eyes. “You of all people, Dad, should understand that it was
you
who raised
me
to be this way, to succeed and to be independent and to have the courage to stand up and be who I am. And who I am, Dad—and I know this with all my heart—is the mother of this child.”

Sam heard her. He really heard her this time. He pulled his chair closer to the desk and opened the folder again, thumbing through the papers.

“I want you to be with me when I talk to Sammy, Dad. I want you to back me up on this. If you do, I know she'll agree.”

“And if she doesn't?'

“I'll sue to stop the adoption.”

He nodded, turning a page. There was a document in here for Samantha to sign away all of her legal rights as a mother. It would be something she signed after the birth of the baby. There was also one for the father. The name of the father was blank.
“What if Samantha changes her mind and wants to keep the baby?”

“She won't. She's too narcissistic.”

“But what if she does?” he asked, looking up at her.

“I'd want her to live with me in New York,” Althea said. “Transfer to NYU. So the baby has some stability.”

“And if she refuses to come back to New York with the baby? What would you do then?”

“I'm not sure. But I do know I would keep tabs on the child and make sure it wanted for nothing. Time, attention and love included.”

Sam took in a long, deep breath, looking down at the papers again. Althea's commitment was there. She meant what she said. Come hell or high water she would be the guardian of this baby.

“Okay, babe,” he murmured. He closed the folder and looked up at his daughter. “I'm in. Let's do it.”