The Serpent's Bite (7 page)

“Not me. I'm showing wear, little sister. Bad habits. Booze, smoking, overeating. Tension and pressure.” He sighed and felt himself falling into a pit of self-pity. He tried to visualize her face. Years ago there was an eerie resemblance between them, two peas from one pod.

“It was tough going if I remember. Ten days. For city slickers like us, it was hard but …,” she paused, “… unforgettable.”

He knew what she meant and quickly changed the focus.

“You think he can hack it? He's really pushing the envelope. Hell, he's nearly eleven years over the guide's age limit for the trip.”

“He always kept himself in shape,” she said. “Walked a lot. Used the treadmill before it was trendy.”

“He takes pills for blood pressure, remember,” he interjected. “And the altitude. It's supposed to elevate it.”

“His choice. Can't blame us if he…you know.”

He knew what she meant.

“I can hear the applause,” he smirked.

“That's my heart, Scottie, beating a victory march.”

“You haven't got a heart, Courtney.”

She let it pass and continued. “Grandma and Grandpa lived until their mid eighties, remember. He's got good genes. With modern medicine he could go into the nineties. Not like Mom. We never knew that side. They all died young. No, expect the old man to go on and on. Maybe even find a new lady.”

“Good for him.”

“Oh shit, you idiot. That's all we need, another hand in the honey pot.”

“I'm sure he'd be smart enough to have a prenup.”

“Prenup?” she giggled. “You seem familiar with the nomenclature. Are you considering a union?”

“Not on the agenda, Courtney.”

Some of his relationships with women had brought him to the brink. But he could never take the final step. Therapists had provided what seemed like a thousand reasons. He had no desire
to discuss them, especially with Courtney, the prime cause of his dysfunction.

“I'm not probing,” she said.

“Good,” he agreed. Under no circumstances did he want to open that Pandora's box.

“Maybe a new lady is the point of all this,” she mused. “Got to be a good reason for his makeover. He's using remembrance of things past to announce his new tack. Tell his kiddies that he's got a Mom replacement. Who knows what guilt goes on in his bleeding heart? Some bitch gets her tentacles into an old dude, there goes the ballgame.”

“If there is a ballgame,” Scott said. “He might have cut us out.”

“You've been in touch with him over the years. No clue?”

“If once every six months means keeping in touch.”

“Maybe this is what this so-called adventure is all about,” Courtney mused. “If it is a lady, we could be fucked, financially speaking.” She added quickly. “But then, as you say, we might have already been cut out of the will or considerably diminished.”

“And if we are?”

“There's always lawyers,” Courtney said.

“Fuck lawyers. Could drag on for years.”

“Of course, if he's got a lady, and she gets her claws into him, say bye-bye to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. All that pillow talk after you know what. There's Viagra today. Good sex will do it. Goes a long way.”

The comment made his stomach knot. Leave it alone, he begged.

“When did you talk to him last, Scottie? I mean before he called about the trip.”

“Couple of months. He never mentioned anything about a new woman. It was not, by the way, a very pleasant conversation. Not at my end. He refused to get involved in my deal, not that I can blame him. But he is, after all, our father, and it wouldn't break him to give me just one more shot. I'm afraid, Courtney, that we've run out the string.”

“As long as he's alive …” She paused for a long moment, cleared her throat, and continued. “Out there in no-man's-land, anything can happen.”

“I don't understand …,” he began, disturbed by the implication.

Then she continued the thought. “Especially to someone his age.”

“Jesus, Courtney.”

“It's pretty dangerous out there. And he's not as limber as he was twenty-odd years ago. You know what I mean? He could fall off his horse. And we're going on mountain trails.”

“I'm sure he's given it lots of thought. He's been there before.”

“So have we. Why choose a trek like that? Your ass on a fucking horse, shitting in a damned hole, cleaning up in water that is colder than a witch's tit in hell, sleeping stiff in a sleeping bag like you were a mummy, coyotes screaming in your ears all night, prowling grizzlies, lousy cowboy food, fucking wild animals everywhere, hungry predators, miles from civilization. Good God.”

“He has his reasons, I suppose,” Scott said. “Bring us together again. Bonding.”

“Well worth it if he shows us the money. Great bonding material, money.”

“You've got a one track mind, Courtney.”

He had expected the conversation to be at an end. But then his sister began again.

“On the other hand, maybe he's going to tell us that he's been diagnosed with some rare deadly disease, and this is his way to kind of make a statement. A last hurrah kind of thing.”

“You seem to be stuck on the subject of his…you know what I mean.”

“Wishful thinking maybe,” Courtney blurted.

While her remark was chilling, he wondered if he was seriously capable of entertaining such a cold-blooded thought. He was his father, for crying out loud.

“See you on the other side of hell, big bro,” she said, hanging up.

O
n the drive to the trailhead, their father had confined his remarks to the glories of the digital camera, which he described as a miracle of technology.

“No more film, and you can instantly check whether you've got the picture right. Takes much better digital than the iPhone.”

“I remember last time, Dad,” Courtney said, determined to maintain a posture of approval and interest. “You took lots of great pictures.”

“Yes, I did,” her father acknowledged. “And looking at them always brings back happy memories. I get lots of shots out of this little baby. And if I don't like them, I wipe them out.” He held up the camera. “Easy as pie.”

“Good, Dad,” Scott interjected. “I left my camera home. Old-fashioned kind. Not digital. I'm into happy memories, but I'm not much for the tangible kind. Often they don't tell the real story.”

He looked toward Courtney, offering a sarcastic half smile. Despite his vow to avoid assessing her physically, he could not resist inspection. She was, indeed, in remarkably good shape. Her figure, accentuated by her tight jeans and shirt, which pulled tightly against her high breasts, remained youthful and sexy. Her hazel eyes, showing emerald green in the clear sunlight, were as startling as ever, and her high cheekbones and chiseled, straight nose gave her a haughty look, perhaps too haughty for the Hollywood version of female vulnerability. Abruptly, as he
contemplated her Cupid's-bow lips, he ceased his assessment, feeling what he had repressed for years begin again.

During the process of matching rider with horse, Harry had checked each person's baggage for weight, noting that they were above his declared weight limit of thirty pounds per person to spare the mules. Scott had brought some heavy cartons of wine, and Courtney had admitted to carrying three bottles of Stoli. Their father declared a bottle of scotch, but after a brief lighthearted debate, they opted to leave other items behind and retain the beverages.

“Booze always wins hands down,” Harry laughed, his unusually florid complexion suggesting his own obvious predilection.

As Harry saddled the horses and fiddled with the tack and stirrups, Temple shot a number of pictures, some posed, some candid.

Scott studied his father carefully as they mounted up. He looked reasonably fit, although he had needed help from both Harry and Tomas to climb into the saddle.

Earlier, on first meeting his father that morning, he noted that the man was his usual fatherly self, embracing them, as if nothing had occurred between them that had ruffled the paternal relationship. They were not baffled by his gesture, since he had always exhibited these demonstrative signs of affection, although Scott had noted that it did seem odd after a four-year silence to greet Courtney in a similar manner without comment about their long estrangement.

“You're looking lovely, darling,” he told her.

“Thanks, Dad,” she had replied. “You're looking very well yourself.”

Both siblings exchanged glances, ignoring the obvious change of hair color and whitened, even set of teeth. On closer inspection, he seemed to look slightly different around the eyes, indicating unmistakably that he had had cosmetic surgery.

If their father noted their reaction, he ignored it. Scott was relieved at his affability. There was not a hint of tension or acrimony, and he appeared genuinely and sincerely happy to see them both. Scott admitted to himself that he was pleased to see how well he looked, and it was not without a brief pang of shame that he recalled any unkind thoughts he might have entertained.

It had always amazed him that, despite deep disagreements and heated arguments, his father never wavered from playing the role of the wise and affectionate progenitor. He had always been a doting, concerned, supportive father, and Scott never doubted for a moment that both he and Courtney were loved children. As they grew older, Scott sensed that his father might have thought of them as errant pets that had never been quite housebroken.

Scott had been very disappointed in their last face-to-face confrontation during one of his infrequent visits. He had come to New York specifically for the purpose of getting his father to invest in his new enterprise. The old man had refused.

“I'm sorry, Scott, I've done more than enough, far beyond the call of fatherly duty. Besides, a restaurant business is foolhardy, too labor-intensive and dangerous. Restaurants as a category are the most dangerous businesses in the world.”

“And if it wasn't restaurants, Dad, would you back me?”

“That's not a fair question. I have backed you.”

“I know, Dad, but that was when technology tanked, this time it's basic. Food. People have to eat.”

“I'm sorry, son. It's too risky for you or any investor. Really, Scott, what do you know about the restaurant business? It's hard enough for experts.”

His statement had an air of finality. A wall had risen that, Scott knew, would not be easily breached. Besides, his earlier bankruptcies made it impossible to secure credit.

“Are you trying to force me into your business, Dad?”

“No, but it will always be an option. Besides, I'll never understand why you haven't come in. It will be yours and Courtney's some day.”

Scott could never reveal the real reasons for his refusal.

“I guess you've lost faith in me.”

“You're my son, Scott. I love you, but I'm convinced that going down this new path will only hurt you more, not help.”

“I don't agree, Dad. It's a great deal.”

“Maybe so. But I won't back it. Believe me, to refuse you is painful for me. But I'm sticking by it.”

Before, when Scott had approached him for other investments, he had not even required any pro forma or financial justification. That phase of his support was obviously over. The conclusion of this interview was not very pretty.

“I can't understand it, Dad. I'm your son. You're in good financial shape. Don't say I'm counting your money, just observing the obvious. All I want is a little help. Frankly, I think you're being cheap. What the hell are you going to do with your money? Sure, I'm very, very disappointed in my track record. But hell, who could have predicted the technology meltdown?
Not every deal works. You're a businessman. Someday I'll click. I know I will. Who else would you back if not your own son? You say you love me. I'm not sure. If Mom were alive, she'd be in my corner.”

Nothing seemed to move the old man. He stood stubbornly to his conviction. But unlike Courtney, Scott had not closed the door completely. He told himself he was being more practical than his sister, betting that his father's decision would one day be reversed. He hoped that this experiment with bonding might achieve such a reversal.

Seeing his father that morning convinced him that however strained their relationship, the old man had not cut the ties that bind. Nor had his son.

The ties that bind
. Scott mulled its meaning. At times, early memories of his childhood, warm happy memories of loving family life would surface. Little vignettes like sound bytes on a television screen would intrude on his mind: clutching Dad's warm hand as they walked through the Central Park Zoo, cuddling in the safety of his parents' bed to dispel the horrors of a sudden nightmare, the sweet pleasant aura of his mother's perfume, parental embraces, words heard around the dining room table, the reassuring timber and tone of his parents' voices, the distinctive taste of his mother's cooking, household smells, the view from the window of his old room, familiar pictures on the wall, his father's proud face when he dumped a basket at a high school game, and echoes of his father's praise, pride, approval, and admiration in his modest childhood achievements.