The Newman Resident (3 page)

“The Yamashita that owns almost half our bonds? That owns pretty much half our country?”

“You got it.”

“I’m impressed. Sorry to spoil it for you, but I can tell you how the case ends.” He sat on a couple of magazines near the edge of his desk. “You win.”

Carol didn’t say anything, but he could sense she was smiling.

“I’m still preparing for a deposition that’s in less than an hour.”

“I just wanted to see if we could grab some lunch.”

“Isn’t it a little early for lunch?”

“How about one?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve just got too much to do.”

“How about dinner tonight? Your favorite restaurant.”

“I’ll be home late tonight. And, if I don’t get off the phone, I won’t be home until midnight.”

Richard paused. “Do you really have that much to do, or is this about something else?”

“You know how it is,” Carol said, “everyone has to bill just one more hour than everyone else. I’ve got to go. Don’t wait up for me.”

Richard was about to say something, but she hung up. He paused for a moment, then said his parents’ names.

“Hello,” his father answered, “how’s the weather there?”

“How’d you know it was me?” Richard asked. “You haven’t gotten Voice Recognition, have you?”

“Richard! Good to hear from you. I figured whoever was calling was somewhere near weather.”

His father laughed. Richard didn’t know anyone who enjoyed laughing more than his father.

“The leaves are starting to change.”

“Summer hasn’t even started yet, let alone fall,” Richard said. “How could the leaves be changing?”

“You’ve got to be very observant, and sensitive. Imagination, faith, and a touch of prophecy help as well.”

Richard smiled. “How’re you doing, Dad? Used to being retired yet?”

“Oh, I still go down to the English Department every now and then and raise some Cain on campus. You know, they don’t like someone who thinks the books mean something. They don’t care about the author and the meaning—they only care about the latest theory.”

“Hang in there, Dad,” Richard said. “Don’t give up the fight.”

“Son, you know me, I don’t give up fights. And I’m even willing to start a few.”

Richard laughed. “How’s Mom?”

“That old woman? Younger than ever,” his father said. “Beautiful. Smart. She’s thinking she’ll retire in a couple of years, but I doubt the Physics Department will let her. Besides, I don’t know what I’d do with her underfoot. She’ll be filling the tub and trying to demonstrate wave theory to me all day. You want to talk to her?”

“No, I was actually calling you.”

“You ought to at least say hello.”

“Okay, put her on.”

“Can’t, she’s at work.”

Richard heard the laughing again.

“Dad, I was wondering if you’d read this new book,
Death of the Innocents
.”

“By Fry? I have. About a couple of boys growing up in Missouri.”

“That’s the one. The reviewer says the book is flawed. That they grow up too quickly to be believable.”

“No, I disagree. I think their childhood is taken from them. They never had a chance to grow. You ought to read it, son, it’s a good book.”

“That title haunts me,” Richard said, looking down at the picture of the book’s cover.

“It should. Herod…the babies he had killed out of fear for the future…it’s a horrible story that continues to this day in all sorts of ways.”

His father paused, but Richard sensed he should leave the silence alone.

“How’s Christopher doing?” his father asked.

“Fine. We downloaded another video yesterday. I’ll send you the link.”

“I’m so tired of all the links I have in my life. For once I’d like to hold something in my hands.”

“Ah, the good ol’ days of DVDs,” Richard said.

His father laughed. “Send me that link and we’ll click on it until it wears out. We love to see that little boy. If he could just somehow get out of that blasted uniform.”

Richard nodded. “I know.”

“I don’t know which is worse—watching those videos, or not watching them,” his father said.

Richard could feel the void left now that the humor was gone from his father’s voice.

“I guess I better get back to work, Dad.”

“All right. Give our love to Carol. And our grandson, next time you see him. And keep some for yourself, son.”

His father hung up without saying good-bye. Richard sat on the edge of his desk, staring down at the review.
Death of the Innocents
. He hoped he could find such a good title for his book. Of course, the boys in the book didn’t really die, did they? They might as well have, though, because what life was worth living if its spirit has been robbed? No, no. It was better to be alive, even if things weren’t exactly the way you wanted them. Nobody lead the life they were meant to. At least, not completely. “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” Thoreau said, and he was
right. But a man could live such a life and still call it good, couldn’t he? It was a type of sacrifice. It was the price you paid for being an adult.

But should a child have to pay that price?

Richard got up from his desk and opened the door so hard it hit the wall. He almost ran down the hall, bumping into a first-year associate.

“Sorry, Steve,” Richard said, not stopping.

“It’s all right, Mr. Carson. I mean, Richard. I was wondering if we could meet about—”

“Sorry,” Richard shouted from the end of the hall, “it’s time I did something.” He ran past the receptionist and out the door.

CHAPTER SIX

T
he subway was crowded. No matter what time of day it was, the subway was always crowded.

Richard climbed the stairs out of the subway stop and walked down the sidewalk. When he rounded the corner, there it was: The Newman Home. The building had housed the Essex & York Private School years before, but Newman had completely transformed it. Like most buildings in the area, there had always been bars on the windows, on the first floor to protect against intruders, and on the other six floors to protect against small children falling out. But Newman had special decorative railings made—with sculpted animals: the first floor had orange railings with giraffes; the second, gray with elephants; the third, brown with gazelles; the fourth, black and white, with zebras; the fifth, black, with gorillas; the sixth, yellow and black, with leopards; and the seventh, gold, with lions.

The dark sandstone on the front wall of the building, previously blackened by years of cars driving by, had been sandblasted weeks before “Newman” had been carved into granite. And the massive, cracking doors were replaced by two oak doors carved with jungle scenes.

“Welcome to the Newman Home,” a pleasant, but computerized, voice said from somewhere near the front door, “where
we develop minds for the future. Please wait here for security purposes.”

Richard stood still on the porch, listening to the quiet whirr of the scanners making sure he was unarmed and healthy. He’d given up trying to see any cameras or microphones.

“Welcome, Mr. Carson.” This was a real person’s voice this time. “Please come in.” A clicking sound indicated the door was now unlocked.

He grabbed one of the large door handles, shaped like a smiling python, and pulled open the door. A faint, robotic noise signaled some camera moving and refocusing. He stepped into the lobby and felt the cool breeze from the air conditioning wash over his face.

The only person in the lobby was a man in a safari outfit sitting behind a rounded counter, looking at a computer screen image projected above. Next to the counter was an oak door that led to the rest of the school. The walls were covered with bamboo, and massive African plants reached out from pots on the floor along the walls and from baskets hanging from the ceiling.

“Someone will be here to help you in a moment, Mr. Carson,” the man said.

Richard took a few steps away from the counter and glanced around the lobby. The first time he and Carol had come here, she was still expecting, and the lobby had been crowded with other expectant parents waiting for the school tour. They had all been placed on the short list for their children’s possible enrollment, and that visit had been the parents’ first—and last—chance to meet the famous Dr. Newman. And it was the only time Richard had been through the oak door. He had been in the lobby a number of times, usually at the end of a quarter, when he and Carol and some of the other parents came to pick up their children for
the quarterly visits home. The spring and fall visits were three days each, and summer and winter each had a week. Dr. Newman had explained that any longer would disrupt the entire education process. The parents always believed the experts. Hunter loved to repeatedly point out to him how some parents had even quit bothering to take their children home, wanting their children to make the most of their time at Newman.

The oak door opened and a man with a stern, square face, entered the lobby, followed by a much taller woman, six feet at least. The man stood off to the side.

Richard recognized the woman. He smiled when he saw her, not to be pleasant, but because he always found the way she moved amusing. Even though she was thin, she walked like a bear, awkwardly on its hind legs, looking for something it wasn’t sure it would find. She and the man both wore safari uniforms.

“I’m Ms. Garrett,” she said, “one of the Parent Representatives here at Newman.”

“I need to speak to the superintendent.”

“We told you yesterday the superintendent isn’t available.” Her lips quivered as she smiled. “Let’s give me a try, shall we?”

Richard took a couple of steps back. “I want to talk with him about taking my son out this summer, for the quarter sabbatical.”

Ms. Garrett looked at the man behind the computer. He’d been listening, but quickly resumed manipulating the projected computer image.

“No one has ever taken the sabbatical,” Ms. Garrett said. “In fact, soon the policy will be written out of the book.”

“Well, for now, it’s written in, and I want to take advantage of it.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I’m not taking
you
home for the summer.”

She turned and walked toward the oak door. “The superintendent’s schedule is impossible. I’m sure you understand, Mr. Carson.” She stopped at the door and faced Richard. “I’m sorry.”

“No problem, I understand. Let me speak to Christopher then.”

“Who?”

“My son.”

She looked at the man behind the counter, but he was busy not looking back.

“Your son?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible. Here at the Newman Home we—”

“It’s a school, not a home.”

“You can’t just come and meet anyone you have a whim to. Pulling him out of his class would disrupt everything.” She opened the oak door. “I’m sorry, but we have the other residents to think of.”

“And I only have one to think of.” He walked up to within a couple of feet of her and heard the man behind the counter stand up. “Let me see him.”

She shook her head. “Call the superintendent’s secretary, Mr. Carson. Maybe you could meet with him sometime within the next couple of months.”

“Look, Ms. Garrett, I’m an attorney. Don’t get me mad.”

“Everyone in Manhattan is an attorney,” she said, “and they’re all mad.”

She slipped around the door and closed it after her. Richard turned the knob, but it was locked.

CHAPTER SEVEN

R
ichard left the school and headed for the playground. He wasn’t worried this time about whether they knew where he was going or not. When he made it around the corner, he saw a man down the street, standing on the crate and staring over the wall. Richard stopped cold. The man was about his age, balding with a bit of a stomach. He looked like he’d never been outside before. He wore a gray flannel, double-breasted business suit.

Richard walked toward him. “What are you doing here?”

The man had been concentrating on the playground and almost fell off the crate when he heard Richard’s voice. He jumped down and tried to straighten his suit.

“What were you doing?” Richard asked.

“I’m a child psychologist. I consult here. I was observing the children.”

“No, you’re not. I know the head psychologist here—he doesn’t have people going around watching the kids from over a wall.”

“No, I really—”

“Who are you?” Richard took a step closer.

The bald man looked behind him, then across the street. “I have a boy here. I just wanted to see him. That’s all.”

The man straightened his suit jacket.

“One time I think I might have seen him. But he was so far away, I couldn’t be sure. That was a year ago, when he was three.” The man pointed to the crate. “Here, take a look. Maybe you’ll see your son today.”

Richard climbed up on the crate and peered over the wall. Twenty or so children in their uniforms crowded in a circle, sitting on the grass and participating in some activity that involved clapping their hands in rhythm and reciting something he couldn’t hear. No sign of Christopher.

“Wait a minute,” Richard said, “how’d you know—”

He looked down and saw the man was gone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
t was hot in Richard’s office. Something was always wrong with the air conditioning. He leaned back in his chair and stared at his office ceiling, thinking. He had been out of the office much of the day, and now his door was closed. Some of the other attorneys would be wondering—and talking—about what was going on, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t even worried how he was going to explain a day with absolutely no hours billed.

He sat upright in his chair and looked at the photo in the brass frame on his desk, a picture of Carol, Christopher, and him, several years ago. Christopher was just a baby, sitting in his daddy’s lap. Richard was smiling big, squeezing his baby, and the baby was giggling. Carol stood behind them both, arms down around his shoulders and holding her baby’s hand. The Brooklyn Bridge dominated the background. Richard had always loved that bridge for some reason and had insisted the picture be taken there.