Cliffhanger

Chapter 2

Chapter 2By the time Alex got home, Antonio’s shift had ended, and the night doorman was on duty. Since his relationship with Ralph was simply courteous, he managed to get into the elevator and up to the apartment without fanfare. Knowing that his father wouldn’t be home from the hospital for at least an hour, Alex went to the kitchen to say hello to Frances, who was reading a magazine while something delicious simmered on the stove. Then he went to his room to put away his hat and sunglasses. He kicked off his dress shoes and stepped into a well-worn pair of fleece-lined slippers. Then, using the connecting door from his bathroom, he went into the library.

His family’s apartment building had been built in the 1920s, and their flat had probably been occupied by an older couple downsizing from a brownstone somewhere in the Upper East Side. There were just two bedrooms, one for his father and one for him, but the third room on this side of the apartment had always been fitted out as a cozy paneled library, complete with built-in bookcases and a fireplace that his parents had converted to gas logs when he was a child. All you had to do was turn it on. Alex did just that and settled down with his k****e on the dark-green leather chesterfield facing the fire. He was an adult now—with an actual job. He didn’t have homework. He could just read for fun. The feeling was weirdly liberating.

Within minutes he was fast asleep, his k****e open on his chest, the firelight flickering on his face as the evening summer sun wound its way through the canyons of Manhattan’s side streets and across the oriental carpet.

* * * *

“Alex. Alex!” The voice, soft but urgent, dragged him out of a dream peppered with thoughts of anger and despair. A strong hand gripped his shoulder and shook him gently. Sloughing off the anxiety whirling through his brain, Alex fluttered open his eyes to find himself staring into his father’s concerned face.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

Alex blinked a few times, focusing on the handsome features of the father who had helped him through his own sadness more times than he could count.

“Yes, Dad, I’m fine.” He started to smile but was interrupted by an enormous yawn that he tried vainly to cover with a hand, knocking his k****e onto the carpet.

“You were talking in your sleep,” his father said.

“Talking?”

“Well, sort of groaning. Like you were in pain, or afraid or something.”

Alex thought for a moment. Nothing specific of what he’d dreamed remained, but a lingering feeling of disquiet shimmered on the edge of his consciousness.

“Sorry, Dad. Thanks for waking me.”

“Frances says dinner’s almost ready. I’m going to wash up. I’ll meet you at the table in five?”

“Sure.” Alex sat up and stretched, putting his k****e to the side as his father turned off the gas fire and went out into the foyer. Then he stepped into his bathroom, washed his face and hands, tried to shove his sleep-mashed hair back into place, and joined his father in the big living room.

Hamilton White was sitting in a velvet-covered wing chair by the dark fireplace, reading what looked like a medical journal. Unlike his son, he never lit either of the two gas fires unless it was full-on winter. Only Alex loved the fire for its soothing light, regardless of the temperature outside. He looked up at his son’s quiet step and smiled.

“Hungry? Frances made stew.”

Dr. White rose and they moved together into the dining room, where the table was set for two—Dr. White at the head, with Alex to his left. There were linen placemats and matching napkins, gold-rimmed porcelain dishes, his mother’s wedding silver, and two glasses at each setting, one empty and one filled with water. A bottle of red wine sat in a silver coaster by his father’s place. Two white candles in porcelain holders cast unnecessary light onto the mahogany tabletop.

Dr. White poured his son a half glass of wine, then filled his own. This was an old ritual for them. Alex was not much of a drinker, but he always got a half glass at the start of dinner. If he drank it, he got more; if he didn’t, no matter. Even before he was allowed to drink, from the time he could sit at the table with his parents, his mother had always put a little bit of wine into his glass. Alex had understood that it was both courtesy and symbol. Accepting that first offer of wine was a courtesy to one’s host, while having it in one’s glass showed that one was part of the group, welcome at the table. For Alex it had always meant that, even as a child, he could add his voice to the conversation without fear of being interrupted or dismissed. When he was an infant, his highchair had been placed at the side of the table, between his parents, a rubber mat below it to protect the rug. The doctors White had always talked to him as they talked to each other, regardless of whether he could understand their words. Alex had no memory of what they said, only that they were always talking to him, always including him.

Frances pushed her way through the swinging door from the kitchen and set down the first of two covered dishes on rattan trivets in front of Dr. White. Silver serving spoons lay on the table by each trivet.

“I think it’s extra good this evening, Doctor. I know it’s Alex’s favorite.” With a smile, she returned to the kitchen, brought out a second covered dish and, after setting it down, lifted the lids off both dishes with a flourish, and disappeared back into her domain. Through the kitchen door Alex could hear her starting to hum as she settled down to her own dinner not twenty feet away.

“Smells fantastic,” Alex said, as his father served him a generous helping of the stew, rich with carrots and fingerling potatoes. He handed Alex his plate, leaving him to serve himself buttered green beans. Each of them had a still-warm crusty roll on a smaller plate, a substantial chunk of butter by its side. Frances didn’t bother with butter knives for family meals.

The two men dug into their meal without talking, each making appreciative noises as they savored Frances’s excellent cooking—an Irish stew with a French accent she gave it with a good amount of red wine in the broth. The beans were simple and perfect, cooked to the right degree of tenderness, and tossed in an herbed butter.

After a few minutes, Dr. White took another swallow of wine, added some more to Alex’s near-empty glass, and sat back in his chair.

“So?” he asked, expectantly.

“Oh, it was fine,” Alex answered flatly, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face when he saw his father’s open look of dismay. He laughed and took a long gulp from his water glass.

“It was amazing.” He grinned and reached out to squeeze his father’s hand in his excitement.

“My supervisor—that’s Stephanie Carr—is really nice. She’s got a big plan in the works to build the American Department’s jewelry holdings, and I’ll be working with her to research what’s already there, and to work with her on potential donations and purchases. There’s a whole research library there, plus the Watson Library—that’s the main library for the whole museum—and my office has a view of the park—sort of—and I’ve met all the other curators in our department.”

Alex stopped, nearly out of breath, still beaming at his father.

“So, it’s okay, then,” Dr. White deadpanned.

Alex rolled his eyes, choked out another short laugh, then put his face into his hands, elbows on the table.

“Oh, Daddy, it’s so f*****g incredible.” He raised his face to look at his father, eyes shimmering behind his glasses, the pale blue irises wide and striking as the soft light of a late-summer evening turned his corona of white hair into a golden halo.

“It’s only a start, but it feels so overwhelming—in a good way.”

It was his father’s turn to take his son’s pale hand in his ruddy one, holding onto it tightly.

“Your mother would be so incredibly happy to see you right now.”

Alex smiled wistfully. “I know.” He paused, swallowing. “I wish I could share this with her. She always knew I’d be okay.”

The two men continued with their meal, exchanging little questions and answers about each other’s day. Refusing Frances’s offer of ice cream and berries for dessert, they adjourned to the library, where Alex turned on the fire as his father turned on the flat-screen television mounted on one wall. Alex read his romance novel while his father watched the Yankees win again, as the sun set and twilight spread across the city.

At ten o’clock, Dr. White rose with a yawn, and leaned over to kiss his son on the forehead.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Alex smiled up at him. “‘Night, Dad.”

His father paused. “How are the dreams these days?”

Brow furrowed slightly, Alex seemed to ponder his answer. “Not too bad.” His eyes lifted to his father’s look. “The Xanax helps. A lot, I think. There are still the nightmares, but they seem vague, unnerving, but not terrifying.”

“Sorry to pry, but you seemed sort of upset when I woke you before dinner.”

Alex paused again, thinking back on his unexpected afternoon nap. “I hardly remember anything. It’s strange, I clearly felt a sense of despair—but it wasn’t mine, didn’t seem attached to me at all.”

His father just stood, looking at him with love and worry in his eyes.

“Don’t worry Dad. The anxiety is a lot less now. I’m getting used to Mom being gone, and all the rest of it, well, it just seems less. It’s weird because the dreams are like a separate thing. They can freak me out sometimes, but they’re definitely not part of my old anxiety. All day long today I never came close to panicking. Everyone was so nice, and it was all so interesting…”

Seeing his father’s relieved smile, Alex stopped and smiled. “I’ll take one tonight, just to see how well it quells the bad dreams. Okay?”

Dr. White didn’t answer this time, but simply reached down to ruffle his son’s hair before turning and leaving the room.