The Inheritance (Volume Two) Read online

  My chair’s next to Martin’s wife, Gilda, who hands me a glass of champagne the second I sit down. I almost knock it back but she wraps her fingers around my wrist, smiling sweetly as she says, “Better take it slow. Everyone’s watching.”

  Around the room, each guest throws a glance my way, ducking their heads when we make eye contact, turning so I can only make out the back of their heads. I lock eyes with Nicky and his wife, who politely nod before looking away. What happens at the club, stays at the club. I take a small sip.

  “We haven’t met before,” I say, holding out my hand.

  “We have,” she says. My face falls. “You don’t remember. That’s alright. It was a very long time ago and you were a little girl. Your father had taken you to Navy Pier and we ran into each other. I was with my son, Francis.”

  I remember snatches of my first and only trip to Navy Pier with my father: his hand in mine as we waited for cotton candy; the smell of the water as I rushed towards the Ferris wheel; a small brown-haired boy with large eyes, holding the hand of a young, pretty woman. Gilda and Francis.

  “I think I remember,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. “Where is Francis?”

  Gilda drops her chin. “He died,” she says, voice wavering. “Last year.”

  My fingers tighten around my glass. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She smiles, lips tight and curling into themselves. “I’m sorry too.”

  I take another drink.

  ______

  George Fletcher sweats beneath the stage lights, his fingers clutching the microphone stand as he speaks. The room’s attention has shifted to him, the man in charge of speaking about my father. Before tonight, I didn’t know who George was but he’s worked for my father for more than twenty years. The crowd hums in approval as he chokes up around my father’s name, but I wonder how he would feel knowing my father rarely (if ever) mentioned him outside of work.

  George presses the mic to his lips and calls my father his “family”. He says, “We’re all family, every single last one of us.”

  A pinch of hysterical laughter builds in my throat. These people with their expensive suits and dresses, smelling of perfume counters and liquor aisles, believe that being part of my father’s family is a position that should be coveted, like being a prince to a king, instead of the punishment it is.

  Gilda grabs Martin’s hand, twisting their fingers together as she ducks her head. A tear drops from the corner of her eye and she makes no move to wipe it away. Neal squeezes my arm like I’m one of the weeping women whose pitchy cries fill the room. Their make up running beautifully down their cheeks, the right amount of ruined mascara. George uses his handkerchief to dab at his eyes and clean the sweat from his forehead. He sucks in a breath and his face turns red. Someone should grab him a water before he keels over and dies.

  “Julian’ll be missed,” he says. “More than he’ll ever know. But he left our family in good hands, hasn’t he?” There’s a resounding noise of approval. Hundreds of eyes fall on Neal and he pulls me close. “Neal Dietrich,” George says.

  Somewhere in the crowd, someone whistles. Everyone laughs and a sharp blush crawls up Neal’s neck and spreads to the tips of his ears. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, in an attempt to keep myself from grinning.

  “He is a handsome kid. I’m sorry, handsome man, Neal hasn’t been a kid for a very long time. The double agent, Julian used to call him. The bright-eyed kid who walked into our office his first day at Geon Associates and you know what he did? He charmed the secretary into letting him into Julian’s office, stared him right in the face and said, ‘Lee Geon’s offering me a starting salary of sixty-thousand dollars. Think you can top that?’”

  Another round of laughter and applause. George wipes another layer of sweat away. Neal places his hand on my knee.

  “We all know the answer to that question. Of course Julian could top that. He could’ve offered Neal eighty-thousand and his own goddamn desk, unlike those animals at Geon cramming two to a cubicle. Julian was always bursting with ideas, he looked at Neal and saw something Lee didn’t. Opportunity. Ambition. He saw the new goddamn face of this company.”

  Nick Rodriguez cheers and the other guests join in, hands slapping together as Neal’s blush grows hotter. A pesky sliver of jealousy worms its way beneath my skin – my father never saw any of that when he looked at me – but I take another drink and swallow it. On my knee, my hand find his, lacing our fingers together.

  “Let me tell you what Julian did. He said to Neal, ‘I’ll give you one hundred thousand a year, if you stay with Lee Geon, get him to trust you, and report back to me every week.’ Now, some of you are probably thinking: that’s a great deal, I’d take that in a heartbeat. And you wouldn’t be stupid for doing so. But for those of us who know how Lee Geon operates, Julian wasn’t asking Neal to take a walk in the park. He was asking him to dance with the wolves. To betray one of the most powerful and dangerous men, not just in Chicago, but in the entire Mid-West region.”

  A few nods sprinkle through the audience, most belonging to men with their arms thrown around the shoulders of their baffled wives, perfectly groomed eyebrows knitting together. What makes Lee Geon so dangerous?

  Lee Geon suffers from the same media sickness as my father, newspapers printing every rumor their ears pick up, slandering him within an inch of his life. Growing up I read that multiple employees who promised a quote to the press, mysteriously skipped town the next day. Lee is a shadow, rarely making public appearances, where my father preferred to be the face.

  George says, “And what did you say to him, Neal?”

  Neal squeezes my hand. “I said I’d rather screw over the second most powerful man in Chicago to have the honor of working for the first.”

  A thunderous applause fills the room. Chairs knock back as guests shoot to their feet, the whole dining hall rising to a standing ovation. Neal and I are the last to stand, our fingers laced together as he places a kiss to my lips. I lean into it, that familiar warm feeling spreading in my stomach. Remember, you’re just doing it for the key, now keep smiling like the good little girlfriend you’re supposed to be.

  On stage, George passes Neal the microphone and the applause grows to deafening levels. Who knew this many people in a room could threaten to blow out your ears.

  Neal looks radiant on stage. The yellow light of the chandeliers drip gold flecks in his hair, his head ducking as a fresh layer of red covers his cheeks. He looks up and I can see the light dancing in his eyes, impossibly blue even from where I’m standing. I can’t take my eyes off him and neither can the crowd, our hands slapping together until our palms turn as red as his neck.

  “Thank you,” he says, grinning bright enough to blind. The applause won’t stop. “Oh, come on,” he says, “now you’re just trying to embarrass me in front of my girlfriend.”

  My hands lock up, fingers pressed together as the crowd shifts their attention towards me, their eyes like cameras, applauding hands, the flash. My eyes meet Neal’s and he raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth pulling outward. Smile.

  I slap on a bright grin, my cheeks flushing beneath the attention, nodding as if to say, alright, that’s enough now.

  “Okay, now we’re embarrassing her,” Neal says. “Sit down before some of you break a hip.”

  Neal looks nothing like my father but standing in the center of the stage, confidently holding the attention of the crowd, I’m reminded of him instantly. They share the same strain of charisma, captivating the audience with just a few words. The women stare at him with wide, dreamy eyes; the men wearing that proud gaze reserved for their son. He’s the husband the women wish they had and the man the men hope their sons grow up to be. The ultimate patriarchal figure, and he’s supposed to be mine.

  The hall’s door opens but no one turns away from Neal and he doesn’t miss a beat. He’s talking about my father – “He was like the dad I never had.” – when Ashleigh and Chris take their
seats.

  Ashleigh’s beautiful in a floral printed dress that shows off her slight curves. Our eyes meet across the table and she passes me a smile. She hears my father’s name and her head whips towards Neal, the corners of her mouth softening, her eyes immediately growing wide. Here we go. Chris slowly loops his arm around her shoulder and she violently shrugs him off.

  Her hand presses against her mouth as Neal says, “There was never, and will never be a better man than Julian Wheeler.” He glances at me. “That’s what I want the world to know. And I want my family to know that I will never attempt to overshadow all that he’s accomplished. I can only hope to live up to a fraction of who Julian was.”

  Another round of applause. Ashleigh’s eyes fill with tears. Across the table, I throw her my napkin and she buries her face in the silk cloth.

  A flash rings out through the dining hall, covering Ashleigh and Chris in a pale glow. Chris’s hand is on her shoulder, fingers curling into her skin as she places her hand flat against his chest, pushing him away. The edge of the flash slides over me, half of my pinched face fixated on a weeping Ashleigh. A moment captured by a camera in the crowd. Julian Wheeler’s dry-eyed daughter tends to his weeping mistress.

  No press are allowed in the dining hall. No cameras, no reporters; no one anxiously scribbling notes or recording with their cell phone. No one darting around the room with their camera hanging from their neck, snapping photos of people dancing, laughing, drinking, scowling. No one is allowed but the J.M. Wheeler family, all of them – all of us – drinking in the night with our eyes and ears. No need for recording devices, we have our memories for posterity.

  Neal snaps his head towards our table. “What’s going on over there?”

  A man’s crouched on the floor. His cheap brown suit falling off his slim form. He ducks behind Nick Rodriguez’s wife but I see him, sweating fingers cradling his camera. All eyes on him, he reluctantly stands, growing to his full, unimpressive, height. I recognize him instantly: Anthony Serafin, The Chicago Times. Mr. Eight-oh-Six.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, raising a hand in faux-apology. He’s grinning, though a thin film of nervous sweat pools at his hairline.

  Neal casts a few pointed glances around the room and one-by-one, four men rise to their feet. Two grab Anthony’s upper arms, dragging him from the room.

  “Freedom of the press, Dietrich!” he screams. “That’s what Julian Wheeler always believed in.”

  Neal stares at him as he goes. The hall door closes and I notice I’ve been holding my breath, trapping it in my chest.

  “There’s not another reporter in here, is there?” Neal asks, his eyes surveying the room.

  Everyone looks around, gazing over at their neighbors. Are you a reporter? Are you? Gilda and I make eye contact and her hand touches my arm. She squeezes and smiles.

  “I didn’t think so,” Neal says.

  Three

  Have you ever seen The Godfather? Goodfellas? Or another mob films where the entire cast are men aside from three key female roles – the mother, the wife, and the girlfriend. The ones that take hours to watch and are always at the top of those 100 Movies All Men Must See Before They Die lists. Like all men are going to find themselves in a suit and fedora, a gun pointed at their genitals as they sip coffee in a corner café.

  The rest of the night plays out like a scene from one of those films. The light grows dim and everyone’s a little looser, glasses topped off with alcohol, the stale smell of it filling the room. Neal sits next to me, his arm thrown protectively over my shoulder, his foot kicked up on his right knee as a line forms around the table.

  Everyone has something to say or give to him, their mouths inches away from his ear as they stuff an envelope in his jacket. He grins and pats their shoulders, passing the envelope beneath the table, to Martin, then Chris, who piles them neatly at his feet. I purposefully drop my bracelet and watch the exchange, three hands seamlessly working together, the pile growing taller until it topples over.

  The women cradle his face in their hands, their thumbs pressing into his cheeks as they let him know: “If there’s anything, anything, you need, please don’t hesitate to call me.” They’re pressed so close I can only see the top left of their foreheads and hair, but I have no doubt they all wink.

  If they could smoke in here, they would. Their fingers spinning cigarette boxes on the table in time with the music from the band. Jazz. So very fitting to the theme of the night: Let’s All Pretend to Be Wise Guys; though the gravitational pull in the pit of my stomach tells me, no one’s pretending.

  I imagine my father standing amongst these people – his people, his family – a drink sweating his hand as he throws his shoulders back and laughs, his round stomach vibrating over his belt, eyes growing smaller with every tug of his lips. I see him throwing a cautious glance around the room, making sure all eyes are where they’re supposed to be before he accepts an ominous envelope, stuffing it in his jacket with a serious twist of his mouth, clapping the delivery boy on his shoulder before he points him to the bar.

  My father was a crook. It’s what I’ve always heard and believed in the same way you believe everything negative about someone you hate. But it’s jarring, witnessing it firsthand. Knowing my thin suspicions have been correct all along; that my father’s tainted image is well-deserved.

  Neal laughs and I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, his tongue swiping along his bottom lip, his eyelashes curling against his cheeks. His arm feels warm, thrown over my shoulders and it’s a comfort to feel his knee bumping occasionally into mine. His way of letting me know his attention is always divided between the rest of the party and me.

  Panic replaces that warm glow of excitement spreading through my fingers.

  I’m turning to one of them. Gina. Darlene. Ashleigh. I can feel it.

  Chris nuzzles his nose against Ashleigh’s cheek and she smiles. She pulls away but he’s getting to her, digging his hook into her back and reeling her in. Much like my father. Much like Neal.

  I push away from the table and move towards the tall double doors. Neal grabs my hand.

  “Hold on a second,” he says to the men he’s talking to. Then to me, “Where are you going?”

  My jaw tightens. “Does it matter?” Neal raises an eyebrow. Play nice or else. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  “The ladies room,” Gilda says. She grabs her purse. “I should powder my nose too.”

  “No,” I say. Her eyebrows shoot to her hairline. Neal’s fingers tighten around my wrist. “I need some air, that’s all.”

  Neal releases my arm. My eyes fix on the exit, dodging glances and outstretched hands and open mouths ready to hurl conversation.

  In the hallway you can barely hear the music, though the noise of the crowd haunts me. Conversations mixing together like a poorly produced song, nonsensical and without rhythm.

  The bathrooms are around the corner, down the same hall Neal led me when we first arrived. It’s empty – thank God – and I press my back against the wallpaper, the thin mold pressing into my skin as my head tilts forward and I take a breath. In and out. In and out.

  In college I had a roommate who was prone to panic attacks. When another boy stopped calling or her mom was back in the hospital she would crawl beneath our coffee table, curl into herself, and rock back and forth as waves of panic shot through her. Her eyes were always wide and black, staring into nothingness or drawn into herself. I learned to sit with her. To touch her shoulder as I rocked along, chanting, “That’s right Donna, breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.”

  I will not turn into one of my father’s ex-wives. I will not be the woman everyone pretends to love and pity but behind my back whispers about how stupid I am. How blind. Can’t she see he’s seeing someone else? Doesn’t she know he’s about to leave?

  “Tough it out,” I say aloud, filling my chest with air. I need to stay long enough to grab the key. Then I can delete Neal’s number and never
see him again.

  The door to the men’s bathroom opens and out steps Carl. He’s wearing the same suit from the night we met at the club, a dark, grassy green with a plaid tie and brown boat shoes. His pungent odor grows thicker as he ambles down the hall, wiping his hands on his pants, leaving a slight trail of wetness. He spots me and freezes, his jaw hanging open and fingers sliding together. He slowly takes in my dress, my hair, and my mouth.

  I pull my lips inside and give him a tight smile. “Hello.”

  His mouth snaps shut. He ducks his head and a wave of heat crawls up his neck, spreading to his hairline and painting his face red. It’s much less endearing on him than Neal.

  Carl shoves his hands in his pockets and takes three large steps, leaning against the wall on the other side of me. His pelvis sticks out and I stand a little straighter.

  “You…You remember me?” He’s grinning nervously, hands jiggling the change and keys in his pocket.

  “Of course I do,” I say. “Are you enjoying the party?”

  Excitedly, he nods. “I didn’t know you were with Neal.”

  “We haven’t been together very long.”

  “But you were together at the club?” he says. He licks his lips and saliva pools at the corner of his mouth. I almost gag.

  “We were.”

  Carl shakes his head. “I would never let my girlfriend suck another guy’s cock.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “What are you talking about?”

  His eyebrows furrow. “At the…The other…You said you remembered me.”

  I take a step forward. “What happens at the club, stays at the club.”

  The women’s bathroom has a royal Indian couch made of brown leather with gold feet. It matches the mirrors, tall and gaudy, hanging above the crystal sinks by a hook.

  I can’t splash water on my face without ruining my makeup, so I turn on the cold water and wait for it to run ice cold. I stick my hands beneath the spray and watch as my skin transforms from white to red, my fingers curling into my palm, my bones chattering beneath it. It’s the shock that I need. Something to wake me up. To remind me to keep my eyes on the prize.