Paul Robertson: The Heir

“Of course, dear. What do you need?”

She hadn’t been at family gatherings like Fred had, but she was the one who’d always called to tell us when to come. She was the one we’d called to make an appointment if we had to see him. When we were young, she was the one we called when we had a problem or, once in a while, just for some advice.

“Pamela, I just spent the morning with Fred. He tells me the foundation is not getting the estate. I am.”

The pause was only a microsecond. “I see.” It was a different voice, disconcerting to me-first the real Fred, and now the real Pamela.

“I may want you to set up some meetings,” I said. “Could you do that for me?”

“Give me the list, dear, and your schedule, when you’re ready.”

And that was that. The only person in my life who’d ever call me “sweetie.”

That was Thursday. I decided to let the world wonder for three more days. Fred started executing that afternoon, filing papers and transferring stock ownership, and the world saw, and it did wonder. It picked up its telephone and called me.

Sometimes I answer the phone, but once was enough that day. The first time it rang was about three o’clock, and I didn’t recognize the name or number. It was a woman’s voice, hard and polished as a marble floor.

“I’m calling for Jason Boyer, please. Mr. Grainger of the governor’s staff would like to speak with him.”

Number one on Fred’s list. My survival instinct took over. “I’m sorry,” I said in some kind of deep British accent. “Mr. Boyer is not available. May I take a message?”

“When will he be available?”

It was apparently unacceptable to be unavailable. I had a sudden image of my third-grade teacher at the boarding school, glaring at my homework page with monumental disapproval. I couldn’t do annoyance and British together, so I dropped the British.

“He hasn’t decided yet. Maybe you could try again Monday.”

“I will give you a number if he could call before then.”

She did, and I wrote it down.

I thought about turning the phone off, but instead I told Rosita to take messages. She did for a while, and then Katie took over while Rosita fixed spaghetti.

There were three places set when I sat down to eat, so I figured Eric must still be around. He came into the dining room after we started, and flicked on the television.

“Check it out.”

It was the local news, Channel Five, the one I didn’t own. I don’t like television when I’m eating, and I don’t like news any time.

A head was talking. “… our special report on the family of Melvin Boyer. Freda?”

“Turn it off,” I said.

“No,” Eric said. “I want to see it.”

Freda appeared, and I could only imagine what her salon bills must be. “Thanks, Hugh. We have an update in our coverage of the death of former senator Melvin Boyer. In a surprise development, Channel Five has learned, the anticipated transfer of the wealthy industrialist’s estate to the Boyer Foundation will not occur.” She articulated every syllable so carefully, it was painful to watch her speak. “Melvin Boyer died last Saturday in an automobile accident. According to interviews with Channel Five, those associated with his many business and political interests had long understood that he planned to leave his estate to his Melvin H. Boyer Charitable Foundation, bringing an end to family control of his business empire. However, according to documents filed today with the Securities and Exchange Commission, his son Jason Boyer has been given complete control…”

“Turn it off now,” I said.

“It’s you, man.”

“Really? I thought maybe he was talking about somebody else. Turn it off so I can eat.”

He ignored me, and so did Freda. She just kept enunciating. “… twenty-eight-year-old son as the state’s, and one of the nation’s, wealthiest men.” Freda had disappeared, and another face, handsome, with straight dark hair, green eyes and perfect teeth-the same face I see every morning in the mirror-peered at us. Freda got her looks from two hours a day with an army of professionals, but there was nothing fake about this face.

It stared out of the screen, and the eyes were a mirror of that soul. I could see the driving thought behind them.

Why am I here?

“It’s you! It’s from our wedding!” Katie said, swamped with joy. “You’re famous now, Jason.”

I was out of my chair and halfway to the box to turn it off.

“And sorry, ladies, he’s married,” Freda joked in the same monotone. She would have smiled, but her face was too brittle. All she could do was show more teeth, and she had plenty.

I’ll admit my teeth are also the product of an army of professionals, but that was so long ago even the emotional scars have healed. And nothing else is fake. I lunged for the power button.

“But his younger brother, Eric, is still unattached.” I hit the button, but the damage had been done.

Eric dropped into his chair, his eyes vacant and as wide open as his mouth. “Yes.” He breathed out slowly. “I’m young, I’m beautiful, I’m unattached. I’m incredibly rich! Come get me!”

This was the wrong day for him to say that. It was time to get his attention, and I wasn’t in the mood for quiet, brother-to-brother conversation. I took his plate of spaghetti and pushed it hard enough into his face that he and his chair crashed back onto the floor.

I had his attention.

“What was that for?” He was pretty stunned.

“What do you think?” I said, sitting back down. Katie just watched.

He picked himself up. The sauce looked wretched on his bright yellow-green shirt. “Okay.” His disposition was also no longer bright. “But you could just say something, you don’t have to knock me over.”

“You want another shirt? I can get you one upstairs.”

“I’ll get it.” He was mad, but it was more that he was hurt. I’d underestimated how much of a little kid he really was.

“You can return it with my suit,” I said. “And I’ll be glad to throw that shirt away for you.” I stood up to look him straight on. “I’m sorry, Eric.”

“Next time, just tell me if you’re mad.”

“You’re acting stupid, and that always makes me mad.” We stared at each other. “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble.”

He was cooled off, and Katie started eating again. “Don’t throw my shirt away. I like it.”

“It’s putrid. Let Katie take you shopping sometime.”

“Then I’ll look like you!” That was almost worth another plate of spaghetti.

“I’d be glad to,” Katie said, calming the turbulent waters. “It would be fun. We could try something different.”

The prospect of some attention and nurturing appealed to him. “Okay. I could try it.”

“I’ll pay for it,” I said. “And it’ll give Katie something to do.”

We took the phone off the hook, and I called the phone company to change our number. No one had found my cell number yet.

Friday morning I went running. When I got back, Katie had gone out with friends, and I settled in my office and read. Bleak House, by Charles Dickens. It’s about a rich man’s death and what happens to his money.

I sailed that weekend. I spent Friday night on the boat in the marina, and Katie came down Saturday, and we went out into Long Island Sound. There was plenty of wind but the waves were short and choppy, and I faced into them to keep the boat from rocking. We read while the sky was clear, and talked about her friends and a little about maybe taking a trip to Europe later in the fall. She tried to stay away from anything to do with money, which limited the subjects.

I merely enjoyed the breeze and motion and hearing her voice and watching the waves. There are so many colors in the water.