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But my favorite fantasy is the simplest: I take apart an engine in my mind and put it back together. I take my time (I have plenty of it). Feel the weight of the tools in my hands. Smell the grease and oil. Lay out each component in my mind, from the smallest bolt to the hefty crankcase that holds all the innards together. Polish them. Admire them. Assemble them again, piece by piece.
This is how most of my meetings with Mother transpire. Usually.
Today I have a more pressing distraction, and it’s not one that brings peace to my mind in the face of Mother’s anger. It’s the separate disapproval of a completely different woman. So instead of calmed by tranquil scenes of freedom from this bank and this city, I’m annoyed and combative. It’s not a good time to be either.
“You realize you could have killed someone, right?” There’s a pause, like it’s an actual question and not rhetorical and meant to shame me.
When she stares at me expectantly, I answer, “Yes?”
Did I realize it at the time? I can barely remember. The whole night was a blur, right up until my face smashed against the handlebars. That was enough to pull me out of the pool I’d been submerged in for the entirety of my twenty-eighth birthday.
Mother presses her hands to her face and sighs with the force of a gale wind. Her hands are noticeably more wrinkled than the last time I cared to pay attention to them. Mother is sixty-three; she’d had me mere weeks after her thirty-fifth birthday. It was planned, I’m sure, for the perfect age, at the perfect time. Create an heir. Another box checked. Sadly the technology doesn’t exist to predetermine which parent a child will take after.
“Look, I don’t know what the big deal is,” I lie. “Nothing happened. A stupid video of me got out, but I’m the only one who was hurt. I’m fine, by the way.”
“I know you’re fine,” Mother snaps, turning toward the window. “Your doctor called me right after he saw you. Don’t try to guilt me.”
“Sorry, Mother,” I drone, making no effort to hide the repetition in the phrase. “So we’re good then?”
“No!” she says, rounding on me again. “We’re not ‘good’. I thought you were growing out of this shit. You’re almost thirty for god’s sake. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.” Mother paces the length of her window. It’s a long walk, end to end. Her office is larger than most two-bedroom apartments.
“I gave you a world-class education. A wonderful job on a silver platter. One that ten thousand people in this city would commit unspeakable crimes for. I pay for your apartment, for all your toys. Is it too much? Have I just been too easy on you? Your father—”
“Don’t go there.” I’m a professional at being yelled at by Mother, but there are some points it would be wise not to push me past. Especially today.
Thankfully, Mother knows this and stops. She sighs heavily and puts her hands on her hips. At last her voice softens, though with her, it never can quite lose its boardroom boom. Mother has spent too long in this world. Being the boss has become her entire existence. After losing my dad, I think she embraced it. What’s the difference anyway, between a parent and a boss? Give orders, expect results. Still, love doesn’t exist within this bank and therefore it doesn’t exist between us. I’m sure there’s something here, deep down. A vague affection. An affinity for similar things. I look like my father, that has to help. And Mother has always been there for me, financially if not emotionally.
“You need to change, Rhett,” she says flatly. “And I’m tired of waiting for you to figure that out. You need to take some responsibility for once. God knows you’re allergic to it.”
I bristle at the slight. “That’s not fair. I could have gone to the Navel Academy, been an officer.”
Mother squeezes her eyes shut. “Are you ever going to let this die?”
“I could have had a career.”
“Stop.” For a moment her face is strained. But then she says, “Your talents would be wasted there.”
“Would have been,” I mutter the correction. Twenty-eight. Too old now. Not that there was ever a hope of changing Mother’s mind once it was made up, or even going behind her back when it never did. I’d tried the latter when I was twenty-two. The recruiter had been eager and talkative until I put my full name down. Then he’d gone to talk to a supervisor and returned with a very different tune. As usual, Mother had gotten there first, always a step ahead of me. They’d held me at the recruitment center until she sent a car. Our following fight isn’t a happy memory for either of us.
“You’re a Westing,” Mother continues. “You’re destined for more than a life of following other people’s orders. You don’t need to answer to anyone.”
“Other than you.”
“Well, of course. I’m your mother. And once I’m gone, everything that’s mine will be yours.”
And you want to make sure I don’t fuck things up. I don’t voice my thoughts though. Liz Slate’s words are echoed in Mother’s sentiment. Everything I own, everything I am, it all trickles down from the top. I can’t even claim ownership of my own face; it came from my parents just as much as the cars and clothes. What is mine then, really? Who am I without the Westing name?
I don’t try to find an answer. The question just leads to further irritation at that combative woman, Ms. Slate.
Things had started off promising. I’d turned away from Wallace and had been struck by a spark that burned a hole straight through my suit jacket.
I never hit on employees. That hadn’t been a lie. It’s a recipe for an entire feast of shit. Why shoot myself in the head when I live in a city full of women with zero connection or loyalty to my mother? But this girl was interviewing, she wasn’t committed here, technically a free agent. Or at least that’s the measly excuse I’ve since made in my mind.
The truth? My brain had been paralyzed and my feet had kinda just made the decision for me. She was striking — light brown hair and gray eyes so piercing they’d briefly lasered her initials onto my heart. Most people fidget in Mother’s waiting room. They sweat and mutter to themselves. But Liz Slate looked like she chose to hang out there on her off hour. She seemed completely relaxed, in control and calm, exuding an aura that was as intriguing as it was intimidating.
Which may be why things got off to a bad start. I’d felt off from the get-go, too distracted by her beauty, and she was giving me absolutely nothing to work with. Maybe I’d come off a bit too arrogant. Or maybe she’s just a judgmental asshole. Maybe she heard all about Sloane Westing’s loser son and is now treating him accordingly.
The thought brings me back to Mother. She’s been talking but I haven’t been listening. Something about responsibility. Maybe even something about great power.
