The driver brought in his trunks, thumping them on the gleaming floor and likely scratching the tiled foyer. This brought Mrs. Gilder, the housekeeper, clucking out of the kitchen asking that his things be taken up right away. The commotion managed to flush out his father from the library.
Ambrose felt his two years away when he saw his father. Israel Quincy’s lean, flinty face resembled his Scottish ancestors. His clothes were impeccably starched and spotless per usual, but he stooped forward now on his cane, a new paunch around his middle.
“I see you’ve become a bohemian,” his father said with no hello.
“It’s a beard,” Ambrose said with a laugh, and stepped toward his father, who drew himself up on his cane and extended his hand, precluding a hug. Ambrose shook it, both his hands grasping his father’s. Israel grunted at this show of enthusiasm and led his son into the library, muttering, “It’s a bushy one.”
The cut glass bowl of the peppermints his father kept in the library sat where it had since Ambrose’s boyhood—his father’s sole vice, sugar. The minty scent mixed with the decaying smell of his father’s Moroccan leather–bound volumes—a smell from childhood, from being called to the library and scolded for some misdeed. That sameness—as if he’d never left town, never left this room—should have comforted.
Israel lowered himself into an armchair next to the cold fireplace and began a nearly impenetrable monologue about business—a discrepancy in accounting, a concern over a recent acquisition in the Upper Peninsula, a diatribe about labor relations at the mines.
Ambrose took deep draws of Mrs. Gilder’s overly sweet lemonade as he listened. His father’s wall of speech required him to respond little. It wasn’t until Israel had been prattling on, never mentioning the mine fire, that Ambrose realized the source of his father’s chatter. Israel was nervous. Ambrose’s time away had given him the power to make his father uncomfortable.
“The fund for the widows and orphans now that the fire’s out in Sandusky—how does that work?” Ambrose decided to try his hand at getting them on a topic of interest. He had ideas for how the fund should be structured, about the appropriate level of help for the families. He didn’t want to overstep bounds early, but having worked for his father before his trip, he knew how the company compensated the unfortunate.
“That’s a bit premature.”
Ambrose’s brows furrowed. “They must know who’s . . . affected,” he said, reaching for delicacy.
“Premature you being concerned with it. But I’m sure you’ve read in the papers, the fire’s still burning.” His father grazed the tip of his mustache with his fingers. “They sealed the shaft. It was your brother’s decision, and it seemed the least . . . the least I could do. It has to burn itself out. Unfortunately, it has a nearly endless supply of fuel.”
“It didn’t smother?”
“Apparently it has a source of oxygen or it wouldn’t still be burning, now would it?” Israel snapped, and then continued. “We made the best decision we could at the time. The temperature readings at the surface, in the non-sealed part of the mine . . . That can happen with seam fires.”
Ambrose wondered how many bodies had been trapped inside. By the time they’d made the decision to close it off, there’d have been no chance of survivors. But the families of the dead, surely they’d have wanted the remains?
“I figured you’ve been reading about it in the newspapers. That you’d want the latest news,” his father said. “The local authorities found nothing wrong. But some people are never satisfied, are they?”
“Cleveland news isn’t reported in Srinagar.”
“Well, I meant New York, when you landed,” his father said, annoyed. “Certainly in the weeks you spent in the city, you read the papers.”
Ambrose had read rumblings in the New York papers, murmurings that shortcuts had been taken at the mine, that the number-two escape shaft had been poorly engineered.
“How many dead?” Ambrose asked.
“Twenty-six.” His father didn’t hesitate, certain.
Ambrose leaned back, wishing he had something much stronger than lemonade.
“Your brother,” Israel said, following a private train of thought. “He’s had a rough time of it since the injury.” Israel studied the tip of his shoe. “He’s shown incredible resilience, Ethan has.” He leaned down to brush a speck of invisible lint from the leg of his trousers. “It’s time for seriousness now.”
Ambrose felt the implicit judgment in his father’s statement. Ambrose hadn’t returned home when summoned, a definite outrage in his father’s mind, and he had yet to demonstrate sufficient responsibility. To counteract the familiar feeling of inadequacy creeping up on him, he told himself it wasn’t yet decided that he was staying, let alone joining his father. These were Israel’s assumptions based on Ambrose’s return. They needn’t be facts.
Ambrose had forgotten the exhaustion he’d felt resisting his father’s manipulations and attempts to control outcomes. Only now, being returned to his father’s stifling presence, did he fully appreciate the freedom and ease he’d felt while not constantly guarding against these maneuvers. Ambrose had been right to resist his father’s demands that he come home. He’d been right to listen to his brother urging him onward, though now Ambrose knew Ethan’s generosity came from self-interest and hidden motives concerning May.
“He’s coming with May for dinner tonight. To celebrate.” Ambrose reminded himself to appear unaffected at the sound of May’s name. “And of course your aunt Clara, too; she’s most eager to hear of your trip. She convinced me to invite a few more people as well.” His father continued on, giving Ambrose an update on each of the evening’s guests.
Ambrose had left his anger somewhere in the jungles of Asia—anger at May, tinged with exasperation at her flightiness; anger at Ethan, tinged with competitive rage; anger mostly at himself. It rarely surfaced anymore, but this was not the same thing as being resigned. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he thought when he saw her. Maybe, as May had said, in the end their actions revealed more than any other thing between them—his own actions as well as hers. Maybe he’d had enough time and distance to become comfortable with both.
He wondered how much his father knew about him and May. From the paternal perspective it wouldn’t look too unusual. May had known Ambrose first, but had ultimately fallen for Ethan. Such things happened, perhaps more often in his father’s day, when social circles were smaller.