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“That was the wrong decision. I knew it in my heart at the time, and I know it for damned sure now, but I let my business interests and ego get the better of my conscience. It’s something that weighs heavily on my heart to this day, and it’s a regret, among others, that I’ll take me with me to the grave.”
That was one hundred percent different from Victor. I doubted he’d ever admitted to a mistake in his life. He was a “no retreat, no surrender” kind of a guy, even in the face of clear evidence that he was wrong.
“Then workers started to become aware of the risk around the substance they’d been working with for years, and comparing notes on their illnesses and symptoms. Some had even started looking at legal representation, and we were headed toward a bunch of lawsuits, or a class action suit, for sure.”
He paused while our server topped up our coffees.
“By this point I’d come to my senses, and I put together a proposal for the board with suggestions about how we could tackle the situation in order to do right by those affected, in the best way we could—bearing in mind that the company was already in hot water, like I said before.” He stared into his coffee as though drawing the strength to carry on speaking.
“Chritonium had been our supposed magic bullet for success, and while we’d been focused on that, we’d taken our eye off the ball in terms of other ways to evolve and innovate—transportation, logistics, all of those things.” How to fuck up a business 101.
“By the time we realized the extent of our mistakes and just how much shit we were in, it was too late to turn things around. We just couldn’t keep up with the smaller, more nimble competition who’d innovated in ways we hadn’t and offshored most of their manufacturing, while we’d kept ours here. They were too lean and slick, and we were big lumbering dinosaurs in comparison. This was also right around the time that Cavanagh Corp came knocking, looking to buy us out.” Enter stage left, the villain of the piece, Victor Cavanagh.
“I never in my wildest dreams would have thought that I would even have considered selling the company that my family had worked for generations to build, but I wasn’t too blinded by nostalgia to see that it was either sell it, or see it go under completely. There just wasn’t any other way to turn its ailing fortunes around quickly enough to save it.
“As part of the sale, I was honest with your father about what was going on surrounding chritonium—I even compiled extensive reports with data about it, as well as my recommendations regarding the legal situation.” Again, definitely not something Victor would have done. He’d have been all about doing what he had to do to get the deal across the line—lying, deception, theft. I was sure his moral compass had no end point.
“Your father was young, and ambitious, and yes, had a reputation for ruthlessness, even then. But I still trusted him when he looked me in the eye and said that the company was in safe hands with him, and that he would make the situation right with those workers who’d been affected.” Grampsie’s laugher definitely didn’t signify happiness. It was a brittle cackle that died almost as soon as it had begun.
“I look back now and wonder what the hell I was thinking. Your father didn’t even have the grace or finesse of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He was a rabid dog, with fangs dripping blood, and everyone knew it. Still, I think I just wanted to believe that there could be an end to the saga that didn’t mean I’d screwed things up beyond repair. Again that was part ego, part optimism.” Definitely different from Victor. He wouldn’t know optimism if it clubbed him over the head.
“Then there was your mom,” Grampsie continued, his voice even more melancholic than before.
I sat forward in my chair. “What about her?”
“Well, she fell for your father’s sales pitch in a big way. She was very young, and he was handsome, charming when he chose to be, and very persuasive, always. He swept her off her feet. By the time I had any idea that his intentions—for the business, me, your mom, all of it—were less than honorable, it was too late. He’d already slipped the golden handcuffs on her, and they’re still in place now.”
“Golden handcuffs? What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to go into too much detail—that’s your mom’s story to tell, not mine—but suffice to say that he’s put us both in a position where our options are very limited, and he has us right where he wants us, with no room to maneuver without his say so. Essentially, she had little choice but to marry him, and I had no recourse to stop it.”
What the fuck? That was some epically cryptic shit.
“Not only that, but contrary to his word, once he was steering the ship, he made it clear that he had no intention of doing the right thing about chritonium. Quite the opposite, in fact. Nothing has ever been publicly mentioned regarding Cavanagh Corp’s use of it, and though I haven’t been within the business to see it for myself, there’s some pretty strong evidence to suggest that people have been silenced by any means necessary to keep it that way. Paid off, bribed, threatened, and who knows what else.”
“Jesus. What a mess.”
“And that’s putting it mildly. Worse, it’s a mess I had a huge hand in creating, and that knowledge gnaws at me every day. I acted out of pride, and selfishness, and now countless people are paying for that fact with their lives, in one way or another. I include you, your mother, and Bella in that. I can’t tell you the pain it causes me to see the shadow he casts over you all.” It was a great analogy.
He was exactly that—a shadow that loomed ever-present in everything we did, no matter which way the sun shone. And like plants denied proper light, we had withered as a result—my mom particularly. Though she never suffered directly, being around his abusive vitriol and physically heavy-handed form of discipline, had clearly taken its toll on Bella, also. She could be depressive at times, challenging in her behavior at others, and was as skittish as a moth near a flame—especially when my dad was around. I hated seeing it, just like I hated witnessing the effect he’d had on my mom.
Grampsie carried on as though reading my mind. “It breaks my heart to see how he’s broken her down over the years. She was a gregarious, positive, effervescent young woman with her whole life ahead of her. She had hopes, dreams, and plans, and he single-handedly snuffed each and every one of them out, crushing her spirit in the bargain.”
I knew this—I’d seen the decline with my own eyes—but that didn’t make me any less murderous at the thought of how that bastard had ruined so many lives, including my own.
I nursed my own wounds—both physical and emotional—inflicted by a man who I knew had never truly loved me, and had maybe never loved anyone. But at the same time, I felt like a living advertisement for the old adage, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” and if anyone could go up against my father’s wrath and survive, it was me. But before that, I had other fish to fry.
Chapter 19
Kik
As I bustled through the front door of the apartment, I stopped in my tracks as I heard voices coming from the living room—one was Dad’s, naturally—and the other definitely wasn’t Mrs. Martinez’s from down the hall. She was the only person I’d ever expect to see, without prior arrangement. In fact, she was the only person I’d ever expect to come over, period.
She was older than time, but fit as a flea, and she was sometimes the only contact Dad would have with anyone, given he could barely leave the apartment without assistance. Mrs. Martinez would cook or bring over some food she’d already prepared, do a little light cleaning, and generally keep Dad entertained by regaling him with stories of her torrid past as a young hooker in Harlem.
I could not make this shit up. The stories she told would make even the most hardened of people’s toes curl—probably more so because they were delivered in such a comedically matter-of-fact fashion by someone older than most people’s grandmothers. Albeit, with her brightly dyed hair—pink, blue, orange, blood red, green—and crazily over-the-top clothes, not only did she not sound like the average great-grandmother, but she didn’t look like one either.
The voice didn’t belong to Mrs. Martinez, but I knew exactly who it did belong to. After several run-ins, I’d recognize the gravelly richness of it anywhere, as it interwove with my father’s faintly accented tones. Like me, he’d grown up in the Bronx, yet had somehow picked up a shade of a Puerto Rican accent from being brought up by parents who’d arrived with him as a babe in arms, and for whom English was most definitely a second language.
