Kitabı oku: «The Manny», sayfa 2

‘Alexander’s daddy is a violinist and Alexander lives in a hovel.’

‘Phillip, please! Grown-up time out. Come with me.’ I grabbed his hand and pulled him back into his dressing room and closed the door.

He winked at me. I crossed my arms. He clenched his hands like two big suction cups on my bottom and pulled me into him. Then he kissed me up and down my neck.

‘You smell so good. So clean. I love your shampoo,’ he whispered.

I wasn’t having any. ‘You have got to listen to yourself this morning.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s the client meeting. It’s gotten me nervous. And now you’ve gotten me hot.’

I slapped his hand. ‘You can’t say Chinese people are little idiots within earshot of the kids. It’s so offensive to me, first of all, and if they ever heard you …’

‘You’re right.’

‘And if Alexander lives in a small apartment, you don’t need to use that as a criticism against his father, who happens to be a world-class musician. What the hell kind of message do you think that sends?’

‘That was bad.’

‘So what are you thinking? You’re driving me crazy.’

He tried to unzip my shirt. ‘You’re driving me crazy.’ He tickled the back of my ribcage.

Gracie banged on the door.

‘Mommy!’

‘Stop.’ I laughed, despite myself. ‘I can’t take it. I’ve already got three children. I don’t need a fourth. It’s a cuff-link hole, OK? Can you try to get a grip?’

‘I love you. I’m sorry. You’re right. But those shirts cost me a lot of money and you would think …’

‘Please.’

‘Fine. Let’s start again.’ He opened the door for me, gallantly motioned for me to go through it and carried Gracie back into the study like a bundle of wood under his arm.

Dylan was staring out the window, still furious. Phillip sat down at his desk chair and concentrated once again on his son. ‘Dylan. I know the homework’s hard. I suppose if you can give me some time and not ask when I’m rushing to the office.’

‘You weren’t here yesterday, or I would have asked you to help then.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Phillip grabbed Dylan’s hands and tried to look him in the eye. But Dylan pulled away. ‘You’re a big boy now and you’re old enough to do your own homework without your mother or father. If you need a tutor, then we can discuss it, but it is almost seven thirty and I have my car waiting and you have to get to school on time.’

Dylan flew on to the sofa in abject frustration. ‘Oh, maaaaaan.’ He laid spread-eagle on his back, his eyes buried in the crook of his elbow. He was too old to cry easily, but I know he wanted to. I also knew that if I went to hug him, his fragile composure would crumble and he would lose it. I kept a safe distance.

‘All the moms can’t do the math homework, and all the dads in my class have to do it for everyone. It’s not fair that you won’t help me.’

‘Were you spending too much time on your Xbox?’ Phillip looked at me. ‘Jamie, we’ve got to start monitoring his time with those screens, it’s just too …’

‘Dad, you’re the one who bought me Madden 07!’

‘He doesn’t play video games until he’s finished with his homework. He knows the rules,’ I answered. ‘You know, today’d be a good day to ease up on the rules around …’

‘Dylan,’ he said tenderly, now sitting on the edge of the couch. ‘It’s just that Daddy has a hard time understanding sometimes. I love you very much and I am so proud of you and I will figure out some time tonight to get this done.’ He tapped him on the nose. ‘You got it?’

‘Yeah.’ Dylan stifled a smile.

Gracie appeared at the doorway of Phillip’s office with a small pink pair of plastic Barbie scissors and raised them in silent offering.

Phillip looked at her. Then at me. Then he laughed out loud. ‘Thank you, honey.’ He pulled Gracie over and ruffled her hair. Then he picked up Dylan and gave him a huge bear hug. Just when I was convinced Phillip was a real monster, he would do something that would make me think that maybe I could still love him. In my moments of deep honesty, I tell my friend Kathryn I might leave Phillip at some point down the road. We drift, he’s impossible, and then he acts responsible and fatherly and I think I’m going to try to make this work after all.

‘Dylan, we’re going to get through this together. As a family.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Give me the old shirt. I’m late. Call Mr Ho for me and tell him he’s got twenty-four hours to fix all ten shirts. If I have to deal with him, I’ll call in a hit squad.’

We rode down in the elevator together with backpacks and cell phones and jackets flying everywhere: my husband, Dylan, Gracie and baby Michael, Carolina the housekeeper with our Wheaten Terrier Gussie, and our nanny Yvette. The fact that Phillip had moved beyond his buttonhole tantrum didn’t mean he was actually going to engage with the rest of us. Dressed in his lawyer suit and shiny black shoes, he was readying himself for a client meeting and successfully ignoring the chaos around him. Jamming his cell-phone earpiece into his ear, he started dialling his voicemail with his thumb while he pressed a thick bunch of folded newspapers into his hip with his upper arm.

I picked up Gracie with one hand and put a clip in my hair with the other. Yvette, filled with pride over her well-kept charges, dressed my two little kids like every day was a Sunday church day in Jamaica. And since she’d been with us since Dylan was born, I didn’t interfere. Gracie was wearing a red gingham dress with matching red Mary Janes and a huge white bow the size of a 767 on the side of her head.

‘Mommy, are you going to pick me up or is Yvette?’ Gracie started whimpering. ‘You never pick me up.’

‘Not today because, you know, Tuesday is a work day, sweetheart. I have to go to work all day. But remember I try to pick you up on Mondays and Fridays.’ ‘Try’ being the operative word there: though I worked at the network part-time, my hours were erratic and increased to full-time when a story broke. This lack of consistency wasn’t easy on the kids. Gracie’s delicate face began to curl up in that look I knew so well. I brushed her hair down with the palm of my hand and kissed her forehead. I whispered, ‘I love you.’

Dylan’s backpack was bigger than he was. He pulled it around to find the Tamagotchi on his keychain and began poking at it like a mad scientist. Just like Daddy with his BlackBerry.

‘I can’t do a conference call at 3 p.m.’ Even if we’re in an elevator, Phillip insists on returning voicemail messages the second he hears them. ‘Call my secretary, Hank, she’ll work it out. Now let me give you a full report on the Tysis Logics litigation …’

‘Phillip, please, can’t that wait? It’s just so rude.’

Phillip closed his eyes and patted me on the head and then put his finger up to my lips. I wanted to bite it off. ‘… It’s just going to be a hell of a crapshoot for the following three reasons – let’s start with the stock split; we don’t even have enough shares authorized …’

Michael grabbed at my skirt from his stroller and dug his nails into the inside seam, tearing a few stitches out.

Carolina pulled tighter on Gussie’s leash as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor. Phillip shot her a scary look; apparently he hadn’t recovered from the missing nail scissors.

The elevator door slid open for a white-haired, seventy-eight-year-old man wearing a striped bow tie and a beige suit. Mr Greeley, a stuffy Nantucket old-timer from apartment 4B, had recently retired, but still wore his suit every morning to get his coffee and papers. Somehow he mustered the courage to step into the packed elevator only to have Gussie begin feverishly scratching and sniffing at his groin as if he’d found a rabbit hole. Carolina yanked at the leash and now the dog was standing on his hind legs with his front paws on the door. Phillip was still barking into his cell phone about battle plans. I nodded at Mr Greeley with an apologetic smile and a pleading look in my eyes. He, meanwhile, focused on the elevator’s descending numbers, pointedly ignoring us all. In the two years we had lived in this building, he had never once smiled back at me – all I ever got was a discreet nod.

The door slid open again and we poured into the marble lobby. Clutching his overflowing, Dunhill briefcase, Phillip waved goodbye and rushed ahead, jamming his earpiece further into his ear. In his distracted mind, his meeting had started five minutes ago. ‘Love you!’ he yelled without looking back. The doorman, Eddie, offered to carry something, but Phillip paid no attention and bolted into his waiting car. As his Lexus peeled away, I could see the Wall Street Journal snap open in front of him.

Yasser Arafat’s motorcade had nothing on ours. With Phillip’s car out of the way, my driver, Luis, pulled up in front of the awning in our monstrous navy-blue Suburban. Luis is a sweet, forty-year-old Ecuadorian man who works at our garage and speaks about four words of English. All I really know about him is that he has two kids and a wife at home in Queens. For fifty dollars a day – all cash – he helps me drop off Dylan at eight and Gracie at eight thirty. Three days a week he also waits while I come home, change and play with Michael, then he takes me to work at the television network by ten. It doesn’t escape me that for two hundred and fifty dollars a week in Minneapolis, my mother could feed us, pay all the utility bills and still have some left over.

Eddie helped me place Gracie into the car seat as Dylan climbed clumsily over her, brushing her face with his backpack. ‘Dylan! Stop it!’ she yelled. I kissed Michael in his stroller who reached out for me and tried desperately to yank off the shoulder straps binding him to his seat. In an instant, Yvette put a tiny Elmo doll in front of his face and he smiled.

In the rear-view mirror I watched Gussie’s Doggy Daycare van take our place. On the side of the van it read ‘The Pampered Pooch’. The doors slid open magically for Gussie, and Carolina managed to get in a big kiss on his head before he disappeared inside to greet his slobbering pals.

I closed my eyes as we drove the twenty blocks up Park Avenue to Dylan’s school, grateful to be out of eye-contact range with everyone. Luis never spoke at all, just smiled his warm Latin grin and concentrated on dodging the taxis and delivery trucks around us.

Gracie was young enough that the motion of the car made her sleepy, so she stuck her thumb in her mouth, her eyes fluttering like butterflies as she resisted slumber. Dylan grabbed some electronics from the back of the seat. His thumbs sped over the keys of his Game Boy as he knew I’d let him continue if he put the sound button on mute.

‘Gracie, stop! Mooooooooom!’

My head ached. ‘What is going on?!’

‘Gracie kicked my hand on purpose so I missed the last few seconds and now I’m back at level three!’

‘Did not!’ Gracie screamed, suddenly very alert.

‘Dylan. Please,’ I pleaded.

‘Why are you taking her side?’ he screamed.

‘I’m not taking sides, it’s just that she’s five and I think you can move on. We’ve talked about this.’

‘But it’s so wrong what she did, Mooooom. She made me lose my game.’ He threw the Game Boy on the floor and stared out his window, his eyes welling with tears. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for him to take a break from Dr Bernstein. He hated going to the psychiatrist and said that all they did was play Monopoly and build model airplanes. I felt forcing him to go was stigmatizing him, as he didn’t even have a formal diagnosis such as the ubiquitous Attention Deficit Disorder. And, I didn’t want to pathologize a situation which seemed primarily to be about sadness and loss of self-esteem, more than likely due to an absent dad, and, yes, maybe a harried, distracted mom too – though it pains me to say that.

I looked back at my son and his Game Boy on the car floor. Dr Bernstein said it was important to show empathy with Dylan, to acknowledge his feelings. ‘I’m sorry, Dylan. That must be really frustrating. Especially when you were about to win.’

He didn’t answer.

CHAPTER THREE The Waffle

‘Hurry, we gotta talk.’ My Korean colleague, Abby Chong, had spotted me across the crowded newsroom as our colleagues completed a live newsbreak of a space shuttle landing. I passed the rows of cubicles and said hello to some of the twenty-something PAs inside, most of them looking like they hadn’t slept in days. I navigated round the portable screening machines lined up outside the cubicles with tapes piled precariously on top. In my ears was the familiar cacophony of ringing phones, the tapping of computer keyboards, and the audio of dozens of televisions and radios going at once. As Abby grabbed my elbow and pulled me towards my door, I managed to pick up three newspapers from the pile.

‘You almost knocked my coffee on the floor!’ I looked down at a few drops on my new blouse.

‘Sorry,’ Abby answered. ‘I’m tired. I’m frazzled. But you’ve got bigger problems now.’

‘Really big? Like your Pope problems?’

‘No. Crazy Anchorman’s off that. Now Goodman wants a Madonna interview.’

‘How do you get from an exclusive with the Pope to an exclusive with Madonna?’

‘The cross thing. The crucifixion stunt at her concert from a while ago. He went to a dinner party last night. Sat next to someone who convinced him she would appeal to the eighteen to forty-nine demo. He decided she was edgier than the Pope. But only after we were here till 4 a.m. doing research. He used the fresh word. Everything had to be fresh. He wanted Pope references in the Bible so he could write a letter to the Pope and quote them. I told him there weren’t any. He said, “He’s the Pope for Christ’s sake, find them!”’

‘Well, I won’t be working on Madonna either. I don’t produce celebrity profiles. It’s in my contract.’

‘Well, you’re not going to get another contract when you hear what shit you’re in.’

I figured she was overreacting. Abby was always calm when we were live and rolling, and a nervous wreck the rest of the time – like now. Her black hair was clipped on the top of her head like a witch doctor and she was wearing a bright violet suit that looked simply awful on her. She pushed me into my office and closed the door behind her.

‘Sit down,’ she said, while she paced around the room.

‘You mind if I take my coat off?’

‘Fine. But hurry up.’

‘Just give me two minutes please?’ I hung my coat on the hanger behind my door, sat down and took my cranberry scone and coffee out of the bag. ‘OK, Abby. What’s got you so wound up this time?’

She leaned over the top of my desk with her arms straight out. She didn’t hesitate, no niceties, just delivered the fatal news.

‘Theresa Boudreaux granted the interview to Kathy Seebright. They taped it on Monday in an undisclosed location. It’s airing this Thursday on the News Hour. Drudge already has it on his website.’ She sat down and her left knee bounced uncontrollably.

I laid my head face down on the desk with a thunk.

‘You’re screwed. No other word for it. I’m sorry. Goodman’s not in yet, but apparently our fearless leader called him fifteen minutes ago to give him the news. So the two big cheeses already know.’

I struggled to look up. ‘Is Goodman trying to reach me?’

‘I don’t know. I tried your cell, but it went straight to voicemail.’

I fished my cell phone out of my purse by pulling the cord for my earpiece. The ringer had been in the ‘off’ position since last night and I had forgotten to switch it back. Six messages. I plugged the phone into the charger on my desk. Nausea roiled up inside me. It didn’t help that I’d swallowed a bunch of vitamins on an empty stomach. I ripped apart the cranberry scone, picked out a few berries and lined them up while I thought about my next move. ‘Give me a sec to figure out how to handle this disaster.’

‘I’m here waiting.’ She leaned back in her chair with her arms across her chest. Abby was a very pretty woman who, at forty-two, looked young for her age with her straight hair and creamy Asian skin. She was head researcher on the show, and during live broadcasts always sat off-camera five feet from our anchor Joe Goodman. On the console in front of her were thousands of index cards with any fact and figure a pompous newsman could want in an instant: type of armoured tank most commonly used in the Iraq War, number of passengers killed on Pan Am flight 103 and biographies of important historical figures like Kato Kaelin and Robert Kardashian.

I rattled off some options. ‘I could just apologize to Goodman right now before he comes charging in here. Preemptive action is always good.’ Deep breath. ‘I could listen to my messages to see if that Boudreaux lawyer bothered to give me a head’s up that his client was talking to another network. He only promised me the interview on Friday. No wonder he didn’t return my calls over the weekend.’ I moved the piles of broadcast tapes to create some space on my desk and they slid on the floor like a mudslide.

‘I thought the interview was yours.’ Abby was trying to help. ‘Really I did, especially after your charm offensive trip last week – I thought you’d nailed it down. Goodman’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Check your messages first so you sound on the ball, even though …’

‘Even though what?’ Even though I had lost the biggest ‘get’ of the year to a perky blonde: Kathy Seebright, America’s official cutie-pie. As insiders, we knew her as the woman with the sugary smile who would chomp a man’s testicles off and spit them in his face. ‘Why did I tell Goodman on Friday that we had a done deal? I should have known it doesn’t count till the tape is rolling.’ Even Abby didn’t know I’d left work early on Friday to take my daughter to her ballet class. They’d probably assumed I was out greasing the wheels for the interview.

Sometimes sexy women like to act stupid because it helps them get exactly what they want. Theresa Boudreaux was one of those types: a bodacious waffle-house waitress with a devilish streak. Unfortunately for a certain high-ranking elected leader, she had the wits to go to RadioShack and buy herself a nine-dollar phone-recording device. She then used it to tape her dirty phone calls with US Congressman Huey Hartley, a powerful, sanctimonious, married-for-thirty-years politician from the solidly red state of Mississippi. When network news anchors lose interviews like this one, they get mean and scary. That’s why producers call them anchor monsters, whether they just lost an interview or not. They’re scary people even when they’re trying to be nice. But no one was being nice to me that day.

For a moment, I thought I’d be fired. In my defence, I really thought we had it. I grabbed my cell phone.

Message number four was in fact Theresa Boudreaux’s lawyer calling at ten last night. What a sleazebag. Just after the Seebright interview was in the can, he thought he should tell me that things had changed.

Jamie. It’s Leon Rosenberg. Thank you again for the flowers on Friday. My wife thought they were beautiful. Uh, we need to discuss some changes in the plan. Theresa Boudreaux has had some concerns. Call me at home tonight. You have all my numbers.

I dialled Leon at work, fury raging inside. His irritating assistant Sunny answered. She never knew where he was, didn’t know how to reach him, but always put me on hold to ‘see’. I waited two full minutes.

‘I’m sorry, Ms Whitfield. I’m not sure where he is right now, so I can’t connect you. Is there a message?’

‘Yes. Could you please write this down verbatim: “I heard about Seebright. Fuck you very much. From Jamie Whitfield.”’

‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to write that down.’

‘Mr Rosenberg won’t be surprised. He’ll think it’s appropriate given the situation. Please pass it along.’ I hung up.

‘That’ll get his attention.’ Charles Worthington gave a nod of approval as he strode into my office, found a place on my couch and grabbed a newspaper. Charles was a fellow producer who did all the investigative work on the show. A thirty-five-year-old fair-skinned African American, he grew up as part of the black Creole elite in Louisiana. He was short, thin and always immaculately dressed. Charles spoke in a soothing voice, with a discreet Southern drawl. We’d worked together for ten years, growing up in the business side by side. I often referred to him as my office husband, even though he was gay.

The phone rang thirty seconds later.

‘Yes, Leon.’

‘Jamie. Really. That’s so rude; she’s just my secretary, and she’s all shook up now. And very embarrassed.’

‘RUDE? RUDE? Why don’t you try unethical? Unprofessional? Fraudulent?’ Charles leapt from the couch with two fists clenched, giving me the rah-rah sign. ‘You said we had a done deal. How many letters did I write that little sex vixen client of yours? How many times did I bring big Anchorman Goodman to try out her soggy pancakes? What’d you do, grant the interview to Kathy Seebright at ABS and shoot the Theresa Boudreaux No Excuses jeans ad the same day? And, why did she go with a woman anchor anyway? Doesn’t fit the bill.’ Vixens like Theresa always go for the male anchors who can’t concentrate on the proper follow-up question because they’re discreetly rearranging the bulge in their pants.

‘Jamie, try to calm down. It’s just television. At the last minute, Theresa decided that Kathy would lob easier questions in the interview. She got scared about your guy. He does have a reputation for going for the jugular.’

‘And I’m sure it was all her decision, Leon. You had no input whatsoever.’ I rolled my eyes at Abby and Charles.

‘Now look,’ said Leon. ‘I promise I’m going to make this up to you. I’ve got some O.J. Simpson sealed court documents that would blow the roof off that little network of yours and I can sure …’

I hung up on him.

‘What was his excuse?’ asked Charles.

‘Same thing every time we lose one to her: “Seebright seems so much sweeter than Joe Goodman.”’

How had I let this interview slip through my fingers when we had it solidly in the bag? Why hadn’t I taken extra steps to secure her? And why were we doing this interview in the first place? Just because Hartley was a controversial, pro-family politician with four children? Did his prurient behaviour deserve all this media coverage? Absolutely.

Hartley wasn’t a deeply entrenched Christian conservative, but his ferocious anti-homosexual, pro-family oratory singled him out as one of the most outspoken Southern politicians. About eighty pounds overweight and six feet four inches tall, he usually walked around the lectern to speak so he could tower over the audience, rattling his fist in the air as his jowls jiggled. His grey moustache and goatee highlighted his enormous mouth and protruding lower lip. He had crystal-blue eyes and a perpetually sweaty bald spot that reflected the camera lights. He helped win the 2004 elections for Mississippi and the White House by supporting the drive to put the anti-gay-marriage referendums on ballots in twenty-four states. That White House strategy brought all the mega-church crowds out in their Greyhounds and was a major factor in the triumph of the Republican Party. Now he’d already jumped on the anti-gay bandwagon again for 2008: lobbying to put the ancient anti-sodomy laws on the ballots in the thirty-odd states where they weren’t already on the books.

I tried to accept the magnitude of my screw-up before I walked into executive producer Erik James’s office. That way, I wouldn’t argue. Arguing was never a good idea when Erik was angry. He was behind his desk finishing up a call when his assistant showed me in. I stared at the dozens of Emmy Awards lining his top shelf. He had worked for NBS for almost twenty years, at first executive-producing the Sunday news shows and then launching the multi-award-winning ratings bonanza Newsnight with Joe Goodman.

He hung up the phone and stared me down. Then the diatribe began.

‘You talk a big game.’

‘I don’t mean to.’

‘And your follow-through is lacking.’ He pushed his chair back, walked around to the front of his desk and took off his gloves. At five feet six, Erik had a pot belly like a pregnant woman two weeks past her due date. Even though he was standing a safe distance away, his stomach was almost touching me. ‘YOU! SUCK!’

‘I do not!’

‘DO TOO!’ He waved his hands in the air like King Kong. One of his suspenders popped and he furiously clawed at his back trying to reach it. Now he was really pissed off.

‘Erik, Leon Rosenberg assured me …’

‘I don’t care what he assured you! How many times did you go down there? What were you doing, shopping?’ That was low. No question I was the only Newsnight producer with a rich husband, but I’d worked my behind off for over ten years for this guy and I’d broken more stories than any producer on his staff.

‘That’s really unfair. You know I’ve killed myself to get this story.’

He flared his nostrils. ‘Last I checked, you didn’t get me any story, F-fuckin’-Y-I.’

‘I, I …’

He sneered at me. Then he reached into a huge glass jar on his desk and gobbled a fistful of jellybeans. ‘Get out o’ here,’ he mumbled, and some of his Kelly-green spit landed on my shirt, next to a coffee stain.

The battle was over for now. We’d start fighting for another angle on this Theresa Boudreaux story together as a team again in the morning. This wasn’t the first time I’d gone through this. Not that my defeat didn’t depress me, but I refused to let it derail me. The pressure was intense to break some news and advance the story. Every tabloid in the country had published cover photos of Theresa, many with a question mark, ‘Hartley’s Heartthrob?’ Right-wing radio talk shows chimed in with their unwavering support of Hartley while they trashed the bloodthirsty members of the liberal media elite.

Ultimately, as the story played out, Theresa gave nothing away to Kathy Seebright, she’d merely gotten her to confirm that she knew Hartley, that they were ‘close’. So, at that moment, my bosses and I were having a meltdown over nonsense. But histrionics over nothing are the price of entry in the network news business.

Back in my office, I applied some lipstick very carefully as I tried to take control of my day. I stopped for a moment with the compact in my hand and stared out the window at the Hudson River. The anxieties piled on: a major professional screw-up, my insufferable husband, Dylan and his troubles. My watch read eleven o’clock – Dylan had gym before lunch: perhaps the exercise had already cheered him up. He had asked me to cancel his play dates that week. Obviously the humiliation at the game made him want to hide behind his door after school and get lost in a Lego robotics trance, but I told him I wouldn’t cancel anything, believing that interaction with his friends was curative. I felt bewildered about what else to do with him except follow the routine and make sure he didn’t close in on himself. When I get very depressed, I eat KitKats. As I tore the wrapper off with my teeth, my cell phone rang.

‘Honey, it’s me.’ I heard honking and car brakes screeching in the background.

‘Yes?’

‘I want to apologize.’

‘All right. Let’s hear it.’

‘I’m sorry about this morning. I’m sorry I was difficult.’ A siren whizzed by.

‘Difficult?’

‘Sorry I was impossible.’

‘You were.’ I took a bite of chocolate.

‘I know. That’s why I’m calling. I love you.’

‘Fine.’ Maybe I could forgive him.

‘And you’re going to love me more than ever.’

‘Oh, really? And why would that be?’

‘Well, you know my success with the Hadlow Holdings deal has had some ripple effects.’

‘They owe you big.’

‘And they’re giving me something big.’

‘OK. And what might that be?’

‘The question is, what are they giving my wife?’

‘Phillip, I have no idea. It’s not cash, so what is it? How can they repay you?’

‘They asked me that very question.’

‘And …?’

‘How does pro bono work for Sanctuary for the Young sound?’

My charity. The board I had served on for a decade that supported foster children. The organization was broke, almost going under, they could barely serve the desperate kids. My eyes welled. ‘You didn’t.’

‘I did.’

‘How much help?’

‘Lots.’

‘Like how much?’

‘Like they’re going to treat it like a regular account.’

‘I can’t believe you did this. It’s going to change everything.’

‘I know. That’s why I did it.’

‘I don’t even know what to say.’

‘You don’t need to say anything.’

‘Thank you, Phillip. It’s totally amazing. You didn’t even tell me you were considering this.’

‘You give them a lot of your money, and a lot of your time, but I wanted you to give them something even more substantial. I know what they mean to you.’

‘So much.’

‘I know.’

‘I love you back.’

‘Item two: there is something you need to do for me before my flight to Cleveland.’

‘Where are you, anyway?’ I asked. ‘I can barely hear you with all those horns honking. Are you in Times Square?’

‘I’m actually rushed as all hell. Are you going to pick up the kids?’

‘Just Gracie. I couldn’t deal with her expression this morning. I’m going to pick her up in her classroom, but ask Yvette to meet me outside to take her home. Then I’m hightailing it back to the office.’

‘Perfect. I need you to stop at home before you get Gracie.’

‘I won’t have time.’

‘This is critical.’ Phillip suddenly sounded like a British boarding school headmaster. ‘I need you to go home. Go into my office. Turn on my computer. Get the code for my new safe. The screen will automatically ask for my password.’

‘Phillip, can’t this wait?’

‘Please do as I say, for God’s sake!’