Mikalo's Flame (15 page)

“And how can that be?” he asked, leaning
forward, his eyes on mine. “When already they have no respect for
you or for the hours in your day?

“Then there were those who were nice at
first. And then you say ‘no, I do not want to work with you’ and
they were then not so nice. Not so respectful.

“And there were more I could not imagine
trusting my father’s business to. My father’s wealth and all he had
built.

“Maybe I ask too much, my Grace? But I need
to like the people or I do not trust them.

“And Macfarlane with Rainier and this Blazen,
these are people I liked.”

He sat back and watched me as I listened.

“It was not because of you,” he then said.
“Not just you. No. It was something more. When I said ‘no, this is
not a job I want’, they thanked me and invited me to return should
I ever change my mind. You know this.”

Actually, I didn’t.

“My hope,” he continued, “as it has always
been, would be that the work they offered me, the job I said no to,
would go to someone deserving, someone who would be very excited
and appreciate it. It did not happen. They gave it to that little
man who causes many problems.

“So now that this man is leaving, this
Marcus, they can try again and work with someone, give the job to
someone, who will be wonderful.”

“This seems like a lot of work just to see if
a Firm would be easy to work with, Mikalo.”

Another shake of his head.

“No, it is not,” he said. “It is necessary.
To say it is a lot of work to see if one is better for you than
another, it is like you to say that it is a lot of work to read
these documents and find the reasons why one path is better than
another for those people, those families, who put their trust in
you.

“My father, my mother, what they built, what
they sacrificed to give to me, to my brother, it is worth the
effort, worth the time. It is even worth the lie of needing a job.
To look behind their curtain and see the true face, it was worth
the small lie.

“And the work I will do with Macfarlane, with
Richardson and Blazen and perhaps you, or those you work with in
your department, it will be wonderful, I have no doubt.

“Is not a small lie worth that much?” he then
asked me.

“Yes, it is,” I said. “I see your point. And,
honestly, it’s pretty darn smart.

“But if you have any worries about whether or
not I’m upset by this or by the little lie you needed to use in
order to choose Macfarlane or whatever, stop.

“I’m not upset or angry or anything. I’m
happy. Happy because you made a wise choice, a wise decision, and I
know we’ll take very good care of you. Protect you. And I’m happy
because I see why you did what you did and, frankly, it makes
sense.

“So don’t worry about it, okay?”

He nodded.

“Okay.

“My Grace,” he then said, a slow smile
peeking through, “I think this is a thing to celebrate, no? Perhaps
a dinner out would be nice.”

“Sounds good,” I quickly said, “on one
condition.”

“Say it and it will be yours,” he teased.

“Your father and mother built this company,”
I began. “Worked very hard to make sure you and your family would
be secure and never have any worries or wants.

“But right now, right here, this company,
these companies, are yours. They gave them to you, your parents,
because they trusted you would take care of them. Make the right
decisions. Do the right things. Respect all the hard work and
sacrifice it took to build them into what they are today and
continue to honor that with the decisions you’d make.

“These are no longer your ‘father’s
companies’, Mikalo. They’re yours. It’s time you started claiming
them as yours.”

He started to argue, but I interrupted.

“In your heart, you know this is very much
your mother and father. But you can’t continue playing the son when
it comes to the leadership these companies will need.

“They need to be yours and you need to claim
them as yours. Otherwise you won’t earn the respect you need to
have in order to make those tough calls you’re going to need to
make.

“I’m not saying forget your parents,” I said.
“All I’m saying is accept what they gave you. Accept their gift and
their generosity with all the love and respect it deserves. With
all the love and respect they obviously had for you.

“They loved you, Mikalo. And they knew you’d
make them proud.”

He sat quiet for a long moment, his head
bowed as he listened, his eyes closed.

“Ronan,” he then said as he raised his head
and looked at me. “What you say, it makes sense. I know this. And
you are right, of course. I know this, too.”

Pausing, he took a deep breath, his eyes
looking toward the city outside as he swallowed and then cleared
his throat.

“But ...” he began before stopping.

I waited and then, gently,

“What?”

He watched me again, his eyes shining with
tears.

“They are alive when the company, it is
theirs. To now take it from them would be to kill them. To take the
little bit of life they still have. The memory of them being alive,
it would stop if they were no longer the company.

“Do you see?” he asked.

“I cannot, my Grace,” he then said. “I love
my father, my mother, I love them too much to silence them forever
by taking from them the last thing they have.”

His cheeks were wet with tears now, his hands
clasped and jammed into his lap, like a small boy, his chin
trembling as he spoke.

“I need them to be living, to be alive,
still, in my heart, in the companies they built, if I am to do what
must be done.

“And this I cannot do if I let them go.”

We escaped to Soho, Mikalo and I.

Abandoning the familiarity of our Upper West
and Upper East Side lives, we barreled downtown for the throbbing
excitement and slippery chaos of those high-end stores and
restaurants lingering below Houston Street.

And yet, Mikalo being Mikalo, we still ended
up in a place of quiet luxury, the woody paradise of The Mercer
Kitchen.

A polished, shining, rustic wood ceiling
above us, gleaming wood tables under our elbows, a small bit of
green cradled in red terracotta in the center with gentle spots of
glowing amber hanging over our heads, this had been a favorite of
mine long before I fell in love with Daniel, my exquisite jewel-box
of culinary perfection uptown.

There was something quite wonderful about
being here, I thought as I quickly washed my hands in the rest
room. There was a youth and vitality down here in the Village, in
Soho, you didn’t often find above 59th Street.

Yes, there was an energy up there, too, as
well. But it felt very commercial, very business-like, on the Upper
East Side. And, on the Upper West Side, it was a sometimes
confusing mix of family and commerce. A gentrified hodge-podge
still struggling to find its rhythm.

In Soho, the rhythm drove you, not the other
way around. It was inescapable. It was electric. And over near
Broadway, it was loud and messy and noisy and absolutely
thrilling.

Even in the restaurant, with the chef’s
kitchen open to view, there was a sense of excitement not often
found in those restaurants uptown.

It really was one of the reasons I still
found New York so beautiful, I thought as I checked my reflection
in the mirror while shaking the water from my fingers before
reaching for a small soft hand towel.

From behind me, hidden within the privacy of
an almost ridiculously luxurious stall, came the sound of a sharp
sniff. And then another.

And as I stood there dabbing my hands dry,
the door opened.

Out she stumbled in an avalanche of perfume
and teased blonde hair and tighter than tight jeans.

Mara Byzan.

She listed to the mirror and stood alongside
me, her scratched and scuffed Prada bag rudely shoved into the sink
as she ripped it open and started digging.

I held my breath, aware she hadn’t noticed me
yet. That somewhere in that drunk, cocaine addled mind of hers, she
had failed to either notice there was someone standing next to her
or wasn’t yet aware it was me, the No One. The nothing. The help
that you either kick or fuck or fire, as she had so eloquently put
it nights ago.

Sneaking a peek at her reflection, I saw the
tell-tale white powder on her nose. The hard lines in her face
hinting at a life lived too hard and too fast by someone too young.
I noticed the dark roots, too, struggling to take over the peroxide
blonde. And the blemishes on her cheeks near her ears and along her
jaw creeping up to her chin, all those tiny red dots not quite
hidden beneath her heavy make-up.

And then I saw her seeing me, her eyes
watching me as I watched her.

Shit.

I ducked my head and stepped back from the
sink, desperate to make a quick exit.

She stepped back, following me, her eyes
still on me, still not quite picking up why she had an interest,
but certainly aware that she did.

“Oh,” she said, the syllable one long,
breathy sigh. “I know you.

“Yes,” she continued, the memory of who I was
gaining traction. “Yes, you. I know you. You’re the ...”

She stopped, suddenly confused.

Raking her hands through her hair, her
fingers cruelly pulling at the tortured and teased locks, she
gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to
remember.

“Who the fuck, who the fuck ...” she repeated
as she bounced on the balls of her high-heeled feet.

“Excuse me,” I quietly said as I attempted to
walk past.

Her hand shot out and caught my shoulder, the
diamond-covered claw finding me though her eyes were still
shut.

“No,” she said. “I do not think so.”

She was looking at me now, her hand still
holding me tight.

“It is here, the memory,” she then said. “And
you and me, there is much to say.

“So you, you will listen.”

I held my breath, ready for the inevitable,
childish outburst, aware my options for escape were few and far
between.

All I could do was wait. And then suffer the
onslaught.

She leaned forward, her face inches from
mine.

Her sparkly lip gloss was smeared in the
corners of her snarling mouth, her eyes still unfocused, her
eye-shadow caked and flaking in the creases of her large eyelids,
the deep lines of her crow’s feet almost shocking in someone so
young.

And her breath smelled of wine and gin and
bourbon and scotch.

My eyes watered.

I swallowed, willing the lump in my throat to
go away.

It didn’t.

She pursed her lips as she chewed the inside
of her cheek, her mind searching for something to say, her hands
clawing at the fur jacket dangling from her elbows and hanging
half-way down her back, pulling the well-worn mink up to cover her
boney shoulders as she tightly gathered it around her.

Finally, she spoke.

“You and Mikalo, yes? That is the place I
know you from?”

I nodded.

A small laugh, her lips sliding into another
sneer.

“Ah, yes. The marriage. And you think that
somehow you are the special girl for him? This stupid thing is what
your stupid mind stupidly, stupidly thinks?”

I bit my lip, refusing to answer, knowing it
would only enrage her.

“He has had many women,” she continued. “Many
women who, like you, thought they would be special. Would be the
one he would be with and love and spend forever with. Many women
who cried and then cursed his name.

“There were many who had dreams. Like you.
Many who loved him. Like you. And many who had their hearts broken
when he left. Like you.

“You do not believe me?” she then asked.

“No, I don’t.”

She laughed, the sound cruel and harsh.

“I have known him for many years,” she said,
the laughter disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. “I have
seen with my own eyes this thing he does.”

“I thought you and he were to be married?” I
couldn’t help but ask.

I was opening a can of worms, but I didn’t
care. She was pissing me off and, damn it, I was hungry, dinner was
waiting, Mikalo was waiting, and I had neither the time nor the
patience to put up with Mara Byzan’s special brand of annoying
bullshit.

“He made me the promise, so, yes, we were to
be married,” she said quietly and unconvincingly.

“You’re lying,” I said.

She stopped and stared at me, her mind
deciding whether to deny the obvious or slide into a familiar
delusion and pretend I hadn’t said anything.

Choosing delusion, she continued.

“And then one day it was ‘no, we are not to
be married’. And I moved on.”

I stepped to the side, trying once more to
get by.

She stepped with me, her hand rising to my
chest to stop me.

I looked down at her hand and then looked up
at her.

For a moment, there was fear in her eyes. The
sudden sense that perhaps I would strike. That perhaps maybe she
wasn’t in control here. That maybe this No One might actually be
Someone, robbing her of her Specialness. Her power.

And, again, she chose delusion.

She smiled.

I noticed her teeth, then. Perfect and
straight, but not as white as they seemed at first glance, the
years of alcohol and drugs dulling their shine, thick particles of
food stuck in the crevices.

In all honesty, I suspected she rarely saw a
toothbrush, was a stranger to floss, and considered Jack Daniels
mouthwash, each morning beginning with a quick swish, a swallow,
and on with her day.

Looking away, I spoke.

“Please, Mara, I don’t have time for this.
I’m here for dinner and Mikalo will wonder where I am.”