And my father knows this, which means that agenda my mother spoke of him having was solidified in that fact. It also reminds me of Emily’s warning. I do need to retain a clear mind and judgment.
Almost as if everyone in the room comes full circle to the same “enemy” conclusion at the same time, there is a sharp shift in energy, and action waves around the table. My father lifts his glass and downs his water. Derek follows with his whiskey. My mother then lifts her newly filled goblet, and drinks. Emily and I, in tune in that incredible way we always seem to be, are in unison as we simply set our spoons down, her hand going to my leg, settling there, and I read her message. There is a divide in the room, but not between us. And just that easily, this group is no longer one, but many. As easily as family can become enemies, life for my father could become death. And in sickness there is weakness, and in death, defeat, which he’s not ready to accept, even in the grave.
And that weakness is like bait to the sharks that Derek and Mike, and perhaps even my mother, represent and will exploit. Death might still be the endgame he faces, but defeat in that death is not his intention, or mine. In other words, my father is staking his claim on the company, backing Derek and Mike off, and buying time to destroy the bastards. All the things I’d implied to Emily outside and then forgotten the minute I’d gotten inside again. Instead, I was thinking of tomato soup and damn near convincing myself there was a group-fucking-hug in our future.
Firmly seated back in reality, I look at my father and, no longer seeking the truth, at least not tonight, I prompt him to deliver the message we need Derek to hear, and my mother to repeat to Mike. He’s still king. “When do you start treatment, Father?” I ask. “And can you give us any details?”
His gaze meets mine, his expression hard, unreadable, seconds ticking by that I expect are all about the games he plays. But time stretches, and I become aware of the white lines and tightness around his mouth. He reaches for his empty glass, and Emily grabs hers and sets it in front of him. “I haven’t touched it,” she says.
My father’s reply is a cough, then another, that turns into deep, harsh grinds from his chest; I feel like my own lungs are being pulled up and from my throat. Weakness that becomes death, I think, my gut telling me that my father is already gone, that there is no salvation for him, and somehow I find my eyes locked with Derek’s. And with that connection, there is a bond that is both old and new, an understanding we don’t want to exist. We both hate and love our father, and yet, despite that love, it’s Emily who is now squatting next to him, handing him a napkin he’s now soiled with blood. Not me. Not Derek. Not my mother, who I glance over to find pale and as frozen as her sons.
“He needs hot tea with honey,” Emily calls out to the waitress who’s returned to refill his glass with water. “Quickly, please,” she adds.
“I don’t need a goddamn hot tea,” my father snaps, clearing his throat, the coughing abating. “And get back to your damn office.” He grimaces at his out-of-character misspeak, and corrects himself. “Chair. Get back to your chair.”
Emily hesitates to do as ordered, something few would do with my father, but when he gives her a stare that equates to a proverbial punch, she acts, quickly pushing off her knees and settling back onto her chair. And apparently knowing my father well enough to understand that one look in my direction would read as if she were undermining his authority, she smartly faces him, while my hand settles on her hip, silently thanking her for once again being the kindness in a madhouse of ugliness.
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” my father says, flattening his hands on the table, and somehow my gaze is on his fingers that are now unrecognizably thin and frail, the knuckles knotty and jutted. “Forty-eight hours from now,” he continues, “Maggie and I will be in Germany, where I will undergo treatment for two weeks before returning here to complete another two weeks under local care.”
“Go with you?” my mother says, sounding stunned. “You want me to go with you?”
“You’re my wife,” he replies, his words simply spoken, without inflection, while his expression is hard, two collaborated qualities that in my father equal displeasure. “Of course you’re going with me.”
“David,” my mother tries to reason. “You know that I have—”
“You’re going with me,” my father states, his tone as absolute as his added “End of subject.” He glances around the room to continue with, “Tomorrow morning the board will be individually notified that I have every reason to expect a full remission and will be maintaining control over the company indefinitely.”
“Do we dare believe that means remission is absolute, Father?” I ask, giving him the chance to drive home his claim of control and expecting fully that he will.
“Eighty percent of everyone who enters the program,” he says, giving me a more believable answer than I’d expected, but I do not allow myself to assess the validity of his claim. He is, after all, the man who taught me to paint a picture with exactly the right colors to receive the reactions I needed from a jury or an opponent.
“I don’t have to ask what happens to the other twenty percent,” Derek interjects, “but the board will, and they’ll want a plan in place if something goes wrong.”
“You mean you want a plan in place,” my father says. “You want to know how likely it is that vote for CEO you want really takes place.”
“I don’t want you to die,” Derek says, his voice tight, but there is a hint of grimness to it. “But this isn’t just about family. We have a board of directors to deal with, with or without you. They will demand a plan and a precautionary vote.”
“Should anyone so choose to make such demands,” our father states, “I’ll simply refer them to Amendment A1 of the charter.”
“What the hell is A1 of the charter?” Derek asks of a document I know well, considering I wrote the charter.
“You signed it, son,” Father says, of the legal clause that gives him a motivation to fake a cancer treatment, if that’s what he’s done. “You don’t know what it says?” He flicks me a look. “Enlighten your brother.”
Derek’s gaze rockets to mine. “You wrote it.”
“When we didn’t know if you were going to prison or not,” I state.
“And trusted my brother enough not to read the damn document.”
“I went over it with you.”
“Just tell me what the damn document says,” he snaps.
“If at any time the active CEO is incapacitated, I will be claiming control, until which time the CEO is legally, and medically, capable of resuming his or her duties, for a period of up to six months.”
Derek’s eyes sharpen, darken, flecks of red-hot anger in their depths, but to his credit, he stares at me, the lines of his face hard, his expression stormy. “And at six months?”
“The board will rule on my retaining control, or there will be nominations and a planned vote.”