Then I remember how Addison, alone among the children, argued with our father. When the Judge would take over the dinner table for one of his lectures on what to do and what to avoid doing, Mariah and I would sit dutifully, mouthing all the right responses, Yessir, No sir, Whatever you say, sir -and Addison, even as a teenager, would look him dead in the eye and say, Bullshit, Dad. He would be grounded for a week, of course, but we could see the pride in his handsome eyes, and even in the Judge’s. I like the boy’s chutzpah, he would tell our mother, even if it’s misdirected.
Well, his chutzpah has carried him a good long way. Let’s see how far.
“So, what happened to the report?”
“What do you mean, what happened to it?” Combative.
“Did you read it? Did Dad take it with him?”
Addison’s voice is suddenly slow. “No, I took it with me. I promised him I would look at it.” I hear his ragged breathing as he tries to control his anger. “And it’s gone, Misha. Don’t even ask. I got rid of it.”
“How? You mean, you threw it away?”
“It’s gone. That’s all.”
I believe him. Whatever was in Villard’s report, Addison did not want anybody seeing it. And he is not about to tell me why.
“Okay, Addison. Forget about what happened to the report. Forget about why the Judge was spooked. Let me tell you the other reason I’ve been trying to reach you.” Addison, likely relieved that I am changing topics, offers no objection. “I want to ask you about something the Judge could not have sworn you to silence about, because he didn’t know about it.”
“Fire away,” he says indulgently, guessing that I have no ammunition left.
And so I tell him about my meeting with Sally. I describe the night the two of them were in the house together, making love, and were interrupted by the Judge’s furious argument with Colin Scott.
“Yeah,” he says when I am done. “Yeah, Sally told me she talked to you and that she kind of let the cat out of the bag. Poor kid.”
“Addison…”
“You have to understand, Misha, Sally’s been through some rough times. You have any idea how many times she’s been in and out of rehab? Sometimes she embellishes things a little bit, okay? It wasn’t necessarily the way she makes it sound.”
The sex, he is talking about, not the argument.
“Addison, that’s fine. I don’t care about you and Sally. I really don’t.” A lie, but I see no reason to remind him how wrong it was, especially when I have him cornered. “What I care about is what the Judge and Colin Scott were talking about. Sally said you overheard part of the conversation. That’s what I need to know about. What you overheard.”
Silence.
“Come on, Addison. You heard the whole thing, I bet. Or most of it.”
“I heard most of it,” he finally concedes, “but I can’t tell you about it, Misha. Really. I just can’t.”
“You can’t? What do you mean, you can’t? Addison, the Judge isn’t your property. He was my father, too.”
“Yeah, but there are things about a father that…” He hesitates, then tries again. “Look, Misha. There’s stuff you don’t really wanna know, believe me. About Dad. I know you think you wanna know, but you don’t. I mean-look, bro, he did some bad shit, okay? We all do, but Dad-well, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you, and I’m not gonna tell you. No way.” Another pause. He is sensing my pain, perhaps. Or my bewilderment. Or my simple need. He grunts: Addison really cannot bear the pain of another human being, which is an element of his personality I have always loved and envied. I sometimes think it is this aspect of his character, not mere carnal desire, that has led my brother to rampant promiscuity. He cannot bear to say no. Perhaps that explains his frequent mysterious disappearances from the family for months or years at a time: in order to stay sane, he has to find a path to refuse what others, through their neediness, demand of him.
I play, shamelessly, to his weakness.
“Addison, come on. You have to tell me something. I’m going to go crazy if I don’t have some hint of what’s going on. Of what happened that night.” I lower my voice. “Look, Addison, I can’t go into the details now, but this is destroying my life.”
“Get serious, bro.”
“Seriously. Remember when Uncle Jack came to the cemetery? Ever since then… well, you wouldn’t believe what’s been going on. But it’s wrecking my marriage, Addison, and it’s driving me nuts. So, please, anything you can tell me. I have to know.”
My brother goes into another long think. I am supposed to be finishing another article, trying to work my way back into the respect of my colleagues, but I am prepared to wait all afternoon to get this one answer. And Addison, bless him, seems to sense the truth of my need, and so compassion draws out of him what argument would not.
“Well, okay, Misha, okay. You’ve got a point. Listen. Tell you what. I can maybe tell you one little fact, but that’s gotta be it, bro. Seriously. This is, like, a sacred trust.”
“I know, Addison, I know. And I respect that.”
My brother’s silence bespeaks a certain suspicion, and why not? I am lying through my teeth. Addison continues to make me wait. Even sitting a thousand miles away in his Chicago townhouse, holding my sanity in his large hands, he has a way with silence. I try to be patient, try not to put a word wrong, try not to speak at all, because I respect the fragility of the moment. Underneath my brother’s silence, I sense bewilderment, even fury. He never wanted to tell me anything; he wanted to talk me out of my search. He failed, and he is furious about it.
I sense something else, too, something I faintly scented at the beginning of our call and can now confirm. My brother is afraid. I only wish I knew what of.
At last he deigns to speak: “One fact, Misha, that’s all. Please don’t ask me to tell you any more, because I won’t. One fact, and then I’m not answering any more questions.” He sounds like a politician refusing to talk about his personal life.
“One fact. I understand.”
“Okay. Listen. When Colin Scott was at Shepard Street that night? Yeah, Sally is right, I heard the whole thing. Every word.” My brother lets out a long sigh. “Sally told you she heard Dad say, ‘There are no rules where a dollar is involved,’ right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I heard it too. And I was a lot closer.” A final pause, perhaps trying to find a way out of this, a phrase, an argument, a warning that will make me stop. Evidently, he cannot come up with one. “Sally got it wrong as usual, bro. The word Dad used wasn’t dollar. The word was daughter. ”
Click. Dial tone.
Morris Young makes time for me later that night, because he can tell that I am desperate. We meet at his church around eight, and he hears me out patiently. When I am done, he offers no advice. Instead, he tells me a story.
“In the Old Testament-in Genesis-there’s the tale of Noah.”
“The flood?”
His pocked face softens. “No, no, of course not the flood. There is much more to the tale of Noah than the flood, Talcott.”
“I know.” As though I do.
“I am sure you do. I am sure you remember the account, in Genesis 9, of the time when Noah got drunk and was lying naked in his tent. His son Ham went looking for him and found him naked and went and told his brothers, Shem and Japheth-remember? And Shem and Japheth went into the tent backward, so they wouldn’t see their father naked, and covered him up. Noah, when he awakened, cursed his son Ham. Ham, you see, did not respect his father. He wanted to see his father naked. Wanted his brothers to see. What kind of son is that, Talcott? Do you
