would be off to New York.
“It's all about the money, isn't it, Kyle?” John said. “You were raised better.”
“I'm not here to be insulted, Dad. I've made my decision. I ask you to respect it. A lot of fathers would be thrilled with such a job.”
John McAvoy stopped pacing and stopped smoking, and he looked across his office at the handsome face of his only son, a twenty-five-year-old who was quite mature and unbelievably bright, and he decided to back off. The decision was made. He'd said enough.
Any more and he might say too much. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. It's all you. You're smart enough to know what you want, but I'm your father and I'll have some opinions about your next big decision, and the next. That's what I'm here for. If you screw up again, I'll damned sure let you know it.”
“I'm not screwing up, Dad.”
“I will not bicker.”
“Can we go to dinner? I'm starving.”
“I need a drink.”
THEY RODE TOGETHER to Victor's Italian Restaurant, John's Friday night ritual for as long as Kyle could remember. John had his usual end-of-the-week martini. Kyle had his standard drink--club soda with a twist of lime. They ordered pasta with meatballs, and after the second martini John began to mellow. Having his son at the largest and most prestigious law firm in the country did have a nice ring to it.
But he was still puzzled by the abrupt change in plans.
If you only knew, Kyle kept saying to himself. And he ached because he couldn't tell his father the truth.
The Associate
Chapter 9
Kyle was relieved when his mother did not answer the phone. He waited until almost eleven on Saturday morning before calling. He left a pleasant little message about popping in for a quick hello as he was passing through York for some vague reason. She was either asleep or medicated, or if it was a good day, she was in her studio thoroughly absorbed in creating some of the most dreadful art never seen in a gallery or an exhibition. Visits with his mother were painful. She rarely left her loft, for any reason, so the suggestion that they meet for coffee or lunch was always dismissed. If the meds were in sync, she talked incessantly while forcing Kyle to admire her latest masterpieces. If the meds were out of order, she would lie on the sofa with her eyes closed, unbathed, unkempt, often inconsolable in her gloom and misery. She seldom asked about his life--college, law school, girlfriends, plans for the future. She was much too absorbed in her own sad little world. Kyle's twin sisters stayed far away from York.
He left the message on her recorder as he was hustling out of town and hoped she didn't return the call anytime soon. She did not;
in fact, the call was never returned, which was not unusual. Four hours later he was in Pittsburgh. Joey Bernardo had tickets for the Penguins-Senators hockey game Saturday night. Three tickets, not two.
They met at Boomerang's, a favorite watering hole from their college days. After Kyle quit drinking (Joey did not), he avoided most bars. Driving to Pittsburgh, he had hoped for some quiet time with his old roommate, but it wasn't to be.
The third ticket was for Blair, Joey's soon-to-be-announced fiancee. By the time the three of them settled into a tight booth and ordered drinks, Joey was gushing with the news that they had just become engaged and were looking at wedding dates. Both were glowing with love and romance and seemed oblivious to everything else. They held hands, sat close, even giggled at each other, and after five minutes Kyle felt uncomfortable. What had happened to his friend? Where was the old Joey--the tough kid from South Pittsburgh, son of a fire captain, accomplished boxer, all-conference high school fullback, tremendous appetite for girls, a cynical, smart-ass wisecracker who believed women were disposable, the guy who'd vowed he wouldn't marry until he was at least forty?
Blair had turned him to mush. Kyle was astonished at the transformation.
They eventually tired of
“It's all about the money, isn't it, Kyle?” John said. “You were raised better.”
“I'm not here to be insulted, Dad. I've made my decision. I ask you to respect it. A lot of fathers would be thrilled with such a job.”
John McAvoy stopped pacing and stopped smoking, and he looked across his office at the handsome face of his only son, a twenty-five-year-old who was quite mature and unbelievably bright, and he decided to back off. The decision was made. He'd said enough.
Any more and he might say too much. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. It's all you. You're smart enough to know what you want, but I'm your father and I'll have some opinions about your next big decision, and the next. That's what I'm here for. If you screw up again, I'll damned sure let you know it.”
“I'm not screwing up, Dad.”
“I will not bicker.”
“Can we go to dinner? I'm starving.”
“I need a drink.”
THEY RODE TOGETHER to Victor's Italian Restaurant, John's Friday night ritual for as long as Kyle could remember. John had his usual end-of-the-week martini. Kyle had his standard drink--club soda with a twist of lime. They ordered pasta with meatballs, and after the second martini John began to mellow. Having his son at the largest and most prestigious law firm in the country did have a nice ring to it.
But he was still puzzled by the abrupt change in plans.
If you only knew, Kyle kept saying to himself. And he ached because he couldn't tell his father the truth.
The Associate
Chapter 9
Kyle was relieved when his mother did not answer the phone. He waited until almost eleven on Saturday morning before calling. He left a pleasant little message about popping in for a quick hello as he was passing through York for some vague reason. She was either asleep or medicated, or if it was a good day, she was in her studio thoroughly absorbed in creating some of the most dreadful art never seen in a gallery or an exhibition. Visits with his mother were painful. She rarely left her loft, for any reason, so the suggestion that they meet for coffee or lunch was always dismissed. If the meds were in sync, she talked incessantly while forcing Kyle to admire her latest masterpieces. If the meds were out of order, she would lie on the sofa with her eyes closed, unbathed, unkempt, often inconsolable in her gloom and misery. She seldom asked about his life--college, law school, girlfriends, plans for the future. She was much too absorbed in her own sad little world. Kyle's twin sisters stayed far away from York.
He left the message on her recorder as he was hustling out of town and hoped she didn't return the call anytime soon. She did not;
in fact, the call was never returned, which was not unusual. Four hours later he was in Pittsburgh. Joey Bernardo had tickets for the Penguins-Senators hockey game Saturday night. Three tickets, not two.
They met at Boomerang's, a favorite watering hole from their college days. After Kyle quit drinking (Joey did not), he avoided most bars. Driving to Pittsburgh, he had hoped for some quiet time with his old roommate, but it wasn't to be.
The third ticket was for Blair, Joey's soon-to-be-announced fiancee. By the time the three of them settled into a tight booth and ordered drinks, Joey was gushing with the news that they had just become engaged and were looking at wedding dates. Both were glowing with love and romance and seemed oblivious to everything else. They held hands, sat close, even giggled at each other, and after five minutes Kyle felt uncomfortable. What had happened to his friend? Where was the old Joey--the tough kid from South Pittsburgh, son of a fire captain, accomplished boxer, all-conference high school fullback, tremendous appetite for girls, a cynical, smart-ass wisecracker who believed women were disposable, the guy who'd vowed he wouldn't marry until he was at least forty?
Blair had turned him to mush. Kyle was astonished at the transformation.
They eventually tired of
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