Looking Through Water Read online

  Parenting was a learned skill that you perfected through trial and error, William thought. Just when you thought you might be getting it right, the children were grown up and gone. Then you stored the skills away, only to bring them out, dust them off, and try them again on grandchildren.

  William loved his grandson and had wonderful memories of their summers fishing together on Loch Loon.

  He tried to remember how his grandfather had treated him. If he could draw on those lessons, he might be able to help his own grandson.

  About a hundred feet from the shoreline, he looked over his shoulder and saw his pretty daughter standing on a small dock in her bathrobe. Next to her, Kyle slouched in baggy hip-hop jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and frosted hair, engrossed in some handheld device. This was not the happy, cheerful young boy that William knew.

  “Hi, Dad,” Sarah called out.

  “Hey, Minnow,” William said, using the nickname he had coined for her years ago.

  “Say hello to your grandpa, Kyle,” Sarah said. The boy was oblivious, lost in his video game. She gave him a poke in the ribs.

  “What?” the boy said, annoyed.

  “Your grandfather’s here,” she said, louder. Kyle glanced up before returning to his game. William smiled for his daughter’s sake. “How ’bout grabbing the bowline, Kyle?”

  “The what?” Kyle scowled, not budging an inch.

  Sarah brushed by her son, grabbed the bowline, pulled the little dinghy snug to the dock, and deftly secured the line to a cleat. Stepping back, she picked up a small cooler that she handed to her father.

  “Sandwiches and my homemade potato salad. Beer for you, soda for him.”

  Great, William thought, it may be quiet out there today, but at least I won’t starve to death.

  “Thanks, honey,” he said, stowing the cooler. “How about Kyle and I meet you and your mom at the Turtle at six?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Ready to do some fishing, my boy?” William asked Kyle.

  “Nah.”

  Sarah elbowed Kyle in the ribs. “Whatever,” he said, stepping into the boat.

  “What’s that contraption in your hand?” William asked.

  “It’s a Nintendo DS,” the boy said. “People in the twenty-first century play games on them.”

  “May I see it please?”

  Kyle handed the video game to his grandfather, who examined the small device in his strong, suntanned old hands.

  “Fascinating,” he said, “but why are you attempting to bring it on my boat?”

  “It will keep me from dying of boredom,” Kyle shot back.

  William paused, looked at the device again, and a faint smile came to his face.

  “Contraband, my boy,” he said, handing the video game to Sarah. He looked his grandson in the eye. “You can do one or the other, but you can’t do both. Not on my boat.”

  The boy scowled.

  “Now get your butt on board,” William said. “We are about to embark on a great adventure.” Hearing his own words, William knew he sounded like an old fossil, or worse.

  Kyle rolled his eyes as he sat down on the small bench seat in the stern of the boat. Sarah undid the line and tossed it to her dad, who gave her a wink. He pushed off, rowing the boat into the lifting fog as Kyle slouched in the backseat.

  William rowed in silence. After fifteen minutes, the boy glanced at his grandfather, exhaled deeply, and continued brooding.

  Ten minutes later, William broke the silence. “I’ve known quite a few brooders over the years, and I can tell you with some certainty that you are a talent.”

  “I’m not brooding,” Kyle said.

  “Oh really?” the old man asked. “Then what are you doing, pouting? The Lord hates a pouter.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Of course you are, my boy.”

  “I’m not a boy,” Kyle said.

  “I can see that,” William said. “Looks like you’re almost ready to start shaving.”

  “I’m not a kid anymore.”

  “What’s on your mind, son?”

  “Why should I tell you anything?” he said. “Adults don’t understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “You say you want us to grow up to be good adults, then you lie to us every chance you get.”

  “That’s a pretty wide-ranging indictment.”

  “So you never lie?”

  “No,” William said. “I try not to; though I think we grown-ups do shade the truth sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s because we don’t want our children to be hurt and also because we know we’re not perfect and don’t want our children to see or know that.”

  “So lying’s okay then?” Kyle asked.

  “I didn’t say that,” William answered.

  The boat floated on. Grandson and grandfather stared off in different directions. Finally, William said, “Would you like to hear a story?”

  “Not really,” Kyle answered.

  “But you used to like my stories.”

  “I told you, I’m not a kid anymore,” the boy said.

  “Clearly.”

  “You’re patronizing me.”

  Impressed by his grandson’s command of the language and the fact that he seemed to be on the verge of opening up a little, William stopped rowing, letting the little boat drift silently over the calm surface of the lake. “Big word for a twelve-year-old, Kyle,” he said.

  “See, you did it again. I don’t need to hear some old fairy tale.” The boy stared down at his feet then looked his grandfather in the eye. “I’m not interested in your On Golden Pond bonding crap.”

  “Interesting movie. Did you see it?”

  “My dad did. It’s what he calls this place.” Kyle stared off into the distance. “What’s the difference? He’s just another adult who lies to kids. He didn’t even have the courage to tell me he was leaving. Left me a note and took off.”

  The boy’s sadness and anger gripped William’s heart. The boat drifted on in silence.

  “Since you’ve made it clear that you don’t want to hear a fairy tale, I think maybe a true story might be in order. I won’t tell you any lies, okay?”

  Kyle looked into his grandfather’s eyes. With a small smirk, he said, “How ’bout telling me a man’s story? What about that scar on your forehead? Why don’t you tell me how you got it?”

  William touched the old scar. “That’s a long and probably inappropriate story.”

  “We’ve got all day,” Kyle said, “and I told you I’m not a kid anymore. I can handle it.”

  “You really want to hear about it?”

  “I do.”

  “All right,” William said. “You told me the truth about how you felt about your dad’s leaving. But first you need to make your old granddad a promise. What’s said on the boat, stays on the boat. That’s the fishermen’s code.”

  CHAPTER 4

  NEW YORK CITY—1976

  By the time William had his tuxedo on, he had a little buzz on—or, as his Scottish ancestors would have said, “he was pissed.”

  He went down the elevator into the cold night air, forgetting to put on his overcoat. His chauffeur, Shay, pulled up in his limousine, and his doorman, Fritz, opened the rear passenger-side door for him.

  As the limo pulled away from the curb, Shay looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Are you okay, sir?”

  “Top of the world,” William said, trying mightily not to slur his words. “If I were any better, I’d cancel my life insurance!”

  Traffic was horrible, but William didn’t care. He had a fully stocked bar in the limo. He was late and had missed the cocktail hour, but it didn’t matter. When he arrived at the Waldorf, William was greeted by an old guy named Devon Mills, a guy who seemed to serve in perpetuity as the chairman of the chamber of commerce.

  Obviously relieved by his arrival, Devon shook his hand and said, “Good evening, William. You’re a little bit late so
I’ll escort you to the ballroom myself. Our guests are beginning to be seated, and you will be next to me on the dais. Your fiancée, Miss Bryant, is already here.”

  They walked down the hall and through the doors of one of the most beautiful ballrooms in New York. While he’d been here many times, he’d never seen it so filled with people—men in their tuxedos, women in their gowns. It didn’t matter. He knew that they weren’t here for him, but rather to hobnob—to see and be seen and maybe get their pictures in the New York Times.

  And anyway, William had a buzz on.

  He got to his seat and Stacy, looking beautiful as always, stood up and gave him an air-kiss on each cheek, being careful that their faces never touched for fear of smudging her makeup. Seated next to her, on the other side, was William’s young legal protégé, Randall Bowen Prescott. He liked everyone to call him Randall, so William, naturally, called him Randy. Randy jumped to his feet and started shaking William’s hand as if his arm were a pump handle. What a dork, William thought. Next to him was some kind of priest or bishop or rabbi or something, here to bore everyone with the mandatory pre-meal grace. Feeling rather out of focus and still disenfranchised by religion for letting his grandfather and mother die, not to mention so many of his men in Vietnam, William ignored the clergyman and what he had to say.

  The minute they were seated, Devon Mills stepped to the microphone, welcomed the crowd, and noted how happy the chamber was to honor the first son of a prior awardee. The guy with the white collar said grace. When he’d finished, Mills got up again, promised to return to the mike soon, and wished everyone bon appétit.

  The meal held little interest for William so he ordered another single-malt whiskey on ice, and then a double. He caught a look of disdain from his fiancée but could not have cared less. As people chatted on mindlessly all around him, he remembered ignoring them and scanning the Grand Ballroom itself. He’d forgotten, or perhaps never noticed, how beautiful it was, the only two-tiered ballroom in New York City, with a ceiling that must have been more than forty feet high. The beautifully decorated elegance of this iconic venue was illuminated by a huge custom-made chandelier.

  Just then, old Devon bounced to the microphone again and introduced Randall, who got up, took some notes out of his vest pocket, cleared his throat, and started to ramble. William wasn’t sure what all he said, or maybe anything he didn’t say, but he did remember Randall throwing around a bunch of big words. Perhaps his speech was designed to win him future consideration for this award—or more aptly Devon Mills’s job after the old geezer croaked.

  Smiling to himself, William tried to focus on Randall’s speech.

  “. . . businessman, mentor, leader, uncompromising vision”—blah, blah, blah—“philanthropist, patron of the arts, collector of antiquities”—blah, blah, blah—“embodies the idea of honor, teaches every day that life without honor would be useless.”

  Then finally, “And so as a symbol of that honor, I’d like to present him with this gift—which, by the way, ladies and gentlemen, I picked out for him with a little help from his lovely fiancée, Stacy Bryant. So without further ado, it is my pleasure to introduce the Under Forty Executive of the Year, Mr. William McKay.”

  William was vaguely aware of the huge well-heeled crowd exploding to their feet in a standing ovation as he himself struggled to stand up. Randall gave him a rosewood box and looked at him quizzically.

  William tried to focus as the smiling crowd settled in. First thing he did was tap three times on the microphone, just to make sure it was working. What a noise! Sounded like three gunshots echoing through the crowded hall. That’ll get their attention, William thought.

  “Well, well, well, let’s see what Randy got me,” he started out.

  He ran his hand across the smooth rosewood box, opened the lid to find two beautiful, perfectly preserved, gold inlaid French dueling pistols complete with a silver powder flask, a velvet pouch full of lead ball ammunition, cloth wadding, and a filigree tin of percussion caps. He’d seen pistols like these at West Point and even had a chance to load and fire one on the practice range.

  And at that moment, he knew where his speech was going.

  Looking out at the crowd he said, “Dueling pistols, French, eighteenth century, Normandy region I believe.”

  The urbane crowd murmured approvingly.

  “Thank you, Randy,” he said. “They are magnificent.”

  Smiling widely, Randall answered, “All original, perfectly preserved and maintained.”

  “And functional?” William asked.

  “I believe so.”

  “Fantastic,” William responded, bringing the pistols to half cock as he began his acceptance speech.

  “Father whatever your name is, all you politicos out there who got free tickets and distinguished guests who actually paid to be here. Randy spoke of the importance of honor in our lives, and these are truly the weapons of honorable men.”

  Then right in front of the crowd, still talking, he began loading the pistols, first with gunpowder, then wadding, then lead balls, and finally more wadding. Through his haze, he noticed that the crowd began to murmur more loudly.

  He continued, “Because without honor, we lose what is potentially the greatest part of our humanity . . . our ability to trust one another.”

  He primed each pistol with a percussion cap and continued, “Ladies and gentlemen, this Under Forty Executive of the Year has a problem.” He cocked both pistol hammers.

  “You see, Randall Bowen Prescott, my honorable and talented young protégé . . . is banging my lovely young bride-to-be, Stacy Bryant. He’s probably got his little hand in her panties as we speak.”

  At this, the murmur turned to a gasp. Randy glanced over to see the clergyman at the head table cross himself.

  Must be a Catholic, he thought, . . . whatever.

  The earlier beautiful Stacy looked mortified and gasped, “William, how could you?”

  William smiled at her and said, still over the mike, “I’m not talking to you, Stacy. I’m talking to your sweetie.” He thought that this was getting to be fun.

  “Now, Randy—I’m sorry, I mean Randall—said in his eloquent introduction something about my teaching by example, so watch closely now; you all may learn something.”

  The stunned crowd went deadly silent as he walked over and set one of the loaded and cocked dueling pistols on the tabletop right in front of Randy and next to his half-drunk glass of red wine.

  “Randy,” he went on, “you have disgraced both my honor and your own. Now in front of your peers, I am challenging you to a duel to the death.”

  The once arrogant and cocky Randall turned as white as his tuxedo shirt. “I, I, um . . . You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, but I am, Randall. As serious as death, and you’ve given me the wrong answer. Show these people how honorable you are. Pick up that gun and show ’em what you’re made of. Or are you some kind of . . . lesser man?”

  “I, I, I don’t know what to say,” Randall whispered.

  Feeling his anger boil again, William said, almost shouting, his face now but inches from Randall’s ear as he stared straight ahead into the crowd, “Where is your honor now, pal? Did you think it was just a word? Pick up the fuckin’ gun. Now!”

  William’s drunkenness disappeared in an instant—he felt the way he had in the army before combat. He watched as sweat beaded up on Randall’s forehead and his lower lip began to tremble.

  At the other end of the head table, Devon Mills jumped to his feet and up to the microphone.

  “Mr. McKay, as chairman of the chamber of commerce, I must demand that you stop this outburst!”

  “What’d you say to me?” William asked, still in a cool rage.

  Dropping his voice, Devon said, “I understand that you believe there may have been some type of indiscretion, but this behavior is inappropriate.”

  “Some type of indiscretion?”

  “Please, William,” Devon said in a loud wh
isper, “you’re making a terrible spectacle of yourself.”

  “Fine, Devon,” William said, tucking the rosewood box under his arm and walking off the stage with a cocked dueling pistol in each hand. “Give your award to someone else . . . I’ll keep the guns.” And with that, he headed down the center aisle for the exit. When he reached the big double doors, he turned around and shouted, “Oh, by the way. Randall, you’re fired, and Stacy, the wedding’s off, but I’ll send you a copy of the detective’s report. I’m sure you’ll love the pictures.”

  And with that, he turned away from the beautiful women and handsome men, and walked out the door.

  Shay was waiting for him in the car. Oblivious, Shay said, “Did you have a pleasant evening, sir?”

  William chuckled despite himself.

  “Yes, thank you, Shay, it was satisfying.”

  “Home then, sir?” Shay said.

  “No, Shay, I’d like you to drop me off at my office.”

  Arriving at the building, William carried the dueling pistols, now back in the rosewood box, through the lobby, waving to Luis, the nighttime security man, as he walked by his counter behind which on the wall were the burnished bronze letters MCKAY AND SON. At the eighteenth floor he was greeted by the hum of a floor buffer as the cleaning crew went about their nightly routine.

  As he reached the double doors to his office suite, he fumbled a bit with his keys, then walked through the darkened reception area, past Arnelle’s desk, and into his office, never bothering to turn on the incandescent lights. The phone on his desk was ringing. He put the rosewood box on his desk and turned on the soft background lights of the aquarium and the light in his bar. That was all he’d need.

  He thought about ignoring the ring, but realized that he’d ignored too many things in his life. He picked it up and growled into the receiver, “What?”

  The sweet Bajan-flavored voice of Arnelle said, “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yeah, Arnelle, I’m fine,” he said, “just had to get a few things off my chest.”

  “Do you want me to come over?” she asked. “Is there anything I can do for you?”