The Family Hightower by Brian Francis Slattery Page B

that helped so many people get out of Europe when they had to, and if Rufus and Henry could ever talk about it with each other, they would lament, together, how they failed in not giving it to their children. That conversation will never happen, though, because the things that make them so similar are the same things that drive them apart.
    Henry still lives in New Canaan, in the same house Peter found him in nine years ago, and it’s been an interesting decade for him. In 1992 , a premature heart attack puts him into semiretirement. His doctor shrugs, can’t diagnose what caused it, but says maybe he should stop working so hard. His wife is more specific: She tells him he has to work on eliminating the things from his life that are causing him stress. So he divorces her. Cuts back on his hours, starts doing everything by phone, starts talking about being bought out. He’s done. He throws out all his old clothes, buys new ones, dresses casual, or at least more casual. No cufflinks, no ties, blazers only when necessary, though the cut of his pants, the style of his shirts, give away that he’s got some money. That’s intentional. Henry’s too aware of the signals himself, knows that he can’t hide everything and can’t be bothered working so hard to try. He’s seen too many rich people try to pass themselves off as middle-class; everyone he knows, his neighbors, his former coworkers, all think they really are middle-class. It’s laughable. They fail to pass and don’t know they failed. People who don’t have their kind of money can get the right order of magnitude of their wealth just by looking at their European-sized shoes, the angle of the collar of their designer T-shirts. Maybe that’s why the rich are always building walls and fences around their houses, Henry thinks. If they didn’t, everyone would be able to see right through them.
    He meets Holly, a woman from Winsted, not six months after the divorce is final, marries her in 1994 . Alex seems to understand. She’s nice, she says to his father, and Henry’s glad that Alex is comfortable around her. But deep down, at the time, Henry doesn’t think about that too much. He’s too busy putting another life together for himself, wants Alex in it only if she wants to be in it, too. He’s not being callous; just loosening the rules, trying to give his daughter her freedom. When Henry was young himself, he used to think that the family bond was iron. After their father died, he never made that mistake again. He understands now that it’s just a question of keeping the lights on, the door open. Doing what you can to help that doesn’t kill the other’s pride. Though now and again he forgets, and has to relearn the lesson all over again.
    It’s 1995 . Henry’s smiling when he sees the taxi pull up at the front of the house, sees Peter get out, squint down the driveway. The boy’s leaner, sharper than he was 1986 . A decent haircut, the hang of his clothes more suitable to his frame. Still not a shred of America in him. The taxi driver must have asked him some questions, or maybe he was afraid to. Or maybe he already knew what Peter was all about, being the same way himself.
    â€œYou could have called first,” Henry says. “I would have picked you up at the airport.”
    â€œYour phone number changed,” Peter says.
    â€œGood thing I didn’t move,” Henry says.
    He’s in trouble, Henry thinks, but doesn’t ask how. Figures Peter will get around to it. It takes five hours, after a tour of the property, the things that have changed since Peter last saw it. The first wife’s office is gone; it’s a study now, with a loom folded in the corner. They’ve filled in the pool and let the land go, let all the land go around their house. They like the way the trees are taking over. Soon we’ll have our own little preserve here, Henry tells