Afterward, his mother comes to him as she always does.
“Your father isn’t a bad man. Do you understand?” his mother asks as she dabs away the perfect red pearl resting in the corner of her lips.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He’s frustrated, that’s all. Things aren’t going as well as he’d like.”
“Mom, he knocks you around like he’s Jimmy Connors and you’re a tennis ball. Look at your mouth. Let’s get out of here.”
His mother grabs his shoulder and gives him a shake, as if he were a television on the fritz. “Don’t talk about your father that way.” Cowardice has made him his father’s accomplice. Any slight against his dad is taken as a slight against himself. “We have your education to think about. Bishop Manulis is a fine school. You’re such a good student. We can’t jeopardize that. It’s your career that matters now. Your father’s right. With your intelligence, you can make a lot of money.”
“Come on, Mom. You can get work somewhere. You’ve got a degree. You’re a CPA.”
“What’s important is you. You’re our star. You’re going to take the world by storm. Earn yourself a million dollars by the time you’re thirty. I know it. Now, come on, let’s get cleaned up. After dinner, we’ll walk down to the ice-cream store.”
“With Dad?”
“Of course. Your father adores his mocha nut.” She squeezes him to her and meets his eye, demanding his cooperation. “Did you know that they serve ice cream every night in those fancy dining clubs at Harvard?”
The lights dim. Adam drifts to the sounds of Atlantic Avenue on a summer night. A boom box plays Michael Jackson singing, “Billie Jean is not my lover…” Kids shout and screech, playing stickball in the street. A siren whoops in the distance. From the living room, J.R. accuses Sue Ellen of conspiring with Cliff to steal Ewing Oil from beneath him.
“What do you want to do with yourself, son?” his father asks him. “You know, when you get out of school.”
“I’m thinking of joining the police force.”
“A policeman? What? Are you kidding?”
It is an idea that Chapel has nurtured for a year. “Yeah. A detective. I want to help people.”
A smile to console the misguided. “You know what a cop earns? Twenty-five thousand dollars a year. How’re you going to support your family on that? How do you plan on buying your boy a Rawlings Reggie Jackson mitt? Or a Walkman? A Polo shirt… all that Ralph Lauren stuff your mother’s always picking up for you?”
“I’ll make do. Besides, I’m not planning on getting married. Police work’s interesting. You’re doing a service to the community. Solving crimes, murders, and stuff. I’d be good at that.”
“Nah. It’s a crummy idea. No cash. They’re always on the take. Looking for a little extra on the side. Bunch of crooks, really.”
“But, Dad-”
“Ever seen a cop’s shoes, Adam? Florsheim’s at best. Cheap brogues with rubber soles and Dr. Scholl’s inlays to kill the athlete’s foot. That isn’t the way to go. Not for you. You’re too smart. You’re going to wear Lobbs. John Lobb of Jermyn Street. London, England. Nothing finer on the planet. Custom fitted. The best leather. Topstitching on the vamp and sole. Soft as a baby’s bottom. Fit you like a glove. Make you look like a million bucks.”
“But, Dad, policemen need practical shoes because they’re running all the time. Lobbs are great, but you’d ruin them in a second. Policemen need-”
“No buts!” his father shouts, saliva speckling his face, the breath thick with Marlboros and Maalox. “You-you’re going into business. Hear me? And I don’t mean to pull down a commission check like me. Unh-unh. I’m thinking Wall Street. A young man with your brains-you’re going right to the top. You’ll be pulling down a mil a year easy in no time. Right up there with Felix Rohatyn.”
“It’s not just about money. There’re other things in-”
The cuff comes from out of nowhere, a glancing blow that takes him on the ear.
“What do you know about money? Nothing. Not a goddamned thing. Listen to me. Money is the only thing that matters. Money comes first. Wife, family, friends-all of that comes afterward. Get your priorities straight. No kid of mine is going to be a policeman. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy. Now what do you wanna be?”
“A businessman.” Adam corrects himself immediately. “I mean a banker.”
“What kind of banker?”
“An investment banker.”
“That’s right, kid. You’re aces all the way.” Tenderly, Robert Chapel touches the red spot where he struck his son. “Better lose some weight, too. You don’t see too many fatsos in the executive suite. No wonder your friends are always making fun of you.” He taps his boy on the cheek. “Who knows? Might help you get a date.”
His father’s image fades. The noises die off.
A new image forms itself in Adam’s mind… a single gunshot punctures the darkness.
Adam sees the body sprawled in the easy chair, the legs splayed, but the Lobb brogues are sparkling, and over the whiff of cordite and blood, he can smell his father’s Kiwi polish.
It is the day Adam Chapel made partner at Price Waterhouse.
The memories faded.
The past disappeared.
Hating himself for having met his father’s exacting standards, Chapel allowed himself to drift toward a healing light.
There was only now and he was floating.
“Monsieur Chapel, wake up, please. Wake up. We must check your vital signs.” A hand tapped his cheek. “How are you feeling?”
Adam opened his eyes and saw that the doctor was a woman. “All right, I guess,” he said, starting to sit up.
“No, no. Better to stay still for a while. My name is Dr. Bac. I took care of you when you arrived yesterday afternoon. Your ribs, they are bruised. If they were broken, you would feel something, even with the drugs we give you.”
Forcing the world into focus, he saw that she was pretty in an academic kind of way. Not a trace of makeup. Frameless glasses. Pale skin, and if hospital doctors were treated anything like they were in America, overworked. She wore a purple blouse, blue jeans, and white clogs. Were it not for the stethoscope around her neck, he would have taken her for a political activist, not his attending physician.
Bending slightly, she pressed a button that commanded the head of the bed to rise. Adam held his breath, waiting for the pain to arrive, but mercifully, he felt only a general soreness, as if he’d worked out particularly hard the day before.
“If you don’t mind…” Dr. Bac opened his gown and placed the stethoscope on his chest. “Good,” she murmured. A hand gently took his wrist. “Your pulse is forty-four. You are an athlete?”
“I run a little bit. Swim. Bike. You know.”
“You do the triathlon? We had one in Nice a week ago.”