John thought the two of them would have shared a mutual respect. They might have even been buddies—shooting pool, drinking beer. At the very least, Bertram would have been relieved that Patty married a man who wasn’t after her money—a man who not only loved her, but could protect her as well. John smiled, thinking of the private joke he and Patty shared when they were first married: She was his beauty; he was her brawn.
John's gaze passed over the marble chessboard. Bertram had been an aficionado of the game. Patty played a bit, but the girls were more interested in dance and drama. Then, of course, there was Jay who learned to play after he moved in with them. All those nights when Patty would find the two of them in here at all hours. John shook his head, willing himself not to think about Jay. For the life of him, John had never understood how his brother Tony could have thrown his oldest boy out like garbage. All because the kid didn’t want to be a cop! John didn’t have a son of his own, but if he did, he would have been relieved not to have to worry about the boy's safety! Apparently, Tony didn’t see it that way. To him, it was a disgrace, the end of the civilized world. His kid refusing to go to the police academy? Not under his roof!
“I want to be an artist,” Jay told John and Patty the night he showed up on their doorstep in the pouring rain without a jacket. His father had called him a homo and thrown him out of the house before dinner. Jay had just enough money for train fare to Arden Station.
“I'm not gay, Uncle John, I just like art.”
Of course they took him in. And gladly paid for art school too.
Tony was the only one of John's brothers—the only member of John's entire family —who still spoke to him after he married Patty, and now he was furious. How dare they interfere in his kid's life! Just because John married into money didn’t make him a God damn king!
Tony made it clear the only way he would take his kid back was if he gave up his art and enrolled in the police academy. But it didn’t take a genius to see that Jay had talent, and it wasn't firing a gun. Just two years after graduation, Jay was commissioned by the city to sculpt a piece for the grand hallway of the Academy of Music, an unheard of opportunity for someone so young.
John ran his hand along the bite on his arm. Life threw us plenty of curveballs, but sometimes they felt like pianos being hurled from tenth story windows.
When the call came in, John’s initial reaction was disbelief. Sure, Jay lived in New York City, but he didn’t work anywhere near downtown Manhattan, so it had to be a mistake! Besides, Collins was a common last name. Patty would just keep calling his apartment, his cell phone. Things were chaotic in the city; it was just a matter of time before Jay would call.
Father McCormick called just days after remains of the twenty-three year old’s body were identified among the wreckage at ground zero; but it would be weeks before John agreed to speak to him. In the very beginning, while his emotions were so raw, the last thing John wanted was to hear from the priest that Jay was in a better place or part of a larger plan. Dying on 9/11 had secured Jay a permanent place in the history books, but for those left to mourn his passing, dying publicly in this way—as one of thousands—had somehow diluted the loss, shortchanging them of their right to grieve selfishly.
It would be another two months before the mystery would be solved by the wife of a Tower One executive. Jay was there that morning to see her husband, Lilly Waxman told John when they met for coffee at a small Princeton diner. She had seen one of Jay’s pieces—an abstract wind sculpture—at an exhibit in the village. She fell in love with it instantly and talked her husband into buying it for their house in the Hamptons. Jay, it seemed, did not want to inconvenience him, and offered to meet her husband at his office. “If only they
John's gaze passed over the marble chessboard. Bertram had been an aficionado of the game. Patty played a bit, but the girls were more interested in dance and drama. Then, of course, there was Jay who learned to play after he moved in with them. All those nights when Patty would find the two of them in here at all hours. John shook his head, willing himself not to think about Jay. For the life of him, John had never understood how his brother Tony could have thrown his oldest boy out like garbage. All because the kid didn’t want to be a cop! John didn’t have a son of his own, but if he did, he would have been relieved not to have to worry about the boy's safety! Apparently, Tony didn’t see it that way. To him, it was a disgrace, the end of the civilized world. His kid refusing to go to the police academy? Not under his roof!
“I want to be an artist,” Jay told John and Patty the night he showed up on their doorstep in the pouring rain without a jacket. His father had called him a homo and thrown him out of the house before dinner. Jay had just enough money for train fare to Arden Station.
“I'm not gay, Uncle John, I just like art.”
Of course they took him in. And gladly paid for art school too.
Tony was the only one of John's brothers—the only member of John's entire family —who still spoke to him after he married Patty, and now he was furious. How dare they interfere in his kid's life! Just because John married into money didn’t make him a God damn king!
Tony made it clear the only way he would take his kid back was if he gave up his art and enrolled in the police academy. But it didn’t take a genius to see that Jay had talent, and it wasn't firing a gun. Just two years after graduation, Jay was commissioned by the city to sculpt a piece for the grand hallway of the Academy of Music, an unheard of opportunity for someone so young.
John ran his hand along the bite on his arm. Life threw us plenty of curveballs, but sometimes they felt like pianos being hurled from tenth story windows.
When the call came in, John’s initial reaction was disbelief. Sure, Jay lived in New York City, but he didn’t work anywhere near downtown Manhattan, so it had to be a mistake! Besides, Collins was a common last name. Patty would just keep calling his apartment, his cell phone. Things were chaotic in the city; it was just a matter of time before Jay would call.
Father McCormick called just days after remains of the twenty-three year old’s body were identified among the wreckage at ground zero; but it would be weeks before John agreed to speak to him. In the very beginning, while his emotions were so raw, the last thing John wanted was to hear from the priest that Jay was in a better place or part of a larger plan. Dying on 9/11 had secured Jay a permanent place in the history books, but for those left to mourn his passing, dying publicly in this way—as one of thousands—had somehow diluted the loss, shortchanging them of their right to grieve selfishly.
It would be another two months before the mystery would be solved by the wife of a Tower One executive. Jay was there that morning to see her husband, Lilly Waxman told John when they met for coffee at a small Princeton diner. She had seen one of Jay’s pieces—an abstract wind sculpture—at an exhibit in the village. She fell in love with it instantly and talked her husband into buying it for their house in the Hamptons. Jay, it seemed, did not want to inconvenience him, and offered to meet her husband at his office. “If only they
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