R.M. was just leaving the POPS, after his interview with the Cabots. Walking back to his car, he thought he’d go take a look at the eroded bluff, see it for himself. At the risk of muddying his shoes, he would get as close as he safely could. As he cautiously approached the old lighthouse, amidst the strings of yellow warning tape, he heard his name called. R.M. looked up from the sodden ground.
“Up here, in the lighthouse window.” It was Morris Mangold, leaning out and waving to him, lit cigar in hand. Observing the flailing arm and the trailing smoke scrolling out a message, R.M. thought briefly of semaphore training exercises.
“Ah, Morrie, it’s you.” R.M., getting as close as he could, called up to the window. “Listen, my sincerest condolences on your nephew. I know we don’t always see eye to eye. But this must be a real loss for you, and your family.” Morrie glowered, pulling deeply on his cigar.
“An eye for an eye is right. Where I come from, somebody loses, somebody pays.”
“Well, you should come down from there.” RM coaxed, hoping to change the subject. He approached, as close as he safely could, toward the window.
“I still own it, don’t I?”
“But it’s unsafe. Don’t let there be another accident.” Morrie made a menacing gesture with his cigar in the direction of the POPS building.
“Accident, do you call it?” These pigs next door don’t care. They’d do anything to try and stop me. But they won’t.”
“But Morrie, it’s no secret that they want to stop you. Nobody had to die for you to know that already. Surely the best revenge, if that’s what you want, is to stay in the business and keep on building. They do say that revenge is a dish best served cold.”
“Cold? I can hear the boy’s father, crying from his grave, cold as ice, waiting for me to do something to get back at them. And I will.” But what could he do? Morrie’s threats were as empty as the air he punched. R.M. had no idea of what this reference to family meant, although he comprehended the tone.
“I know you must be angry. Anyone would be at first, angry and suspicious. But remember it doesn’t look good for them either at this point.”
“Enough stink to go around?”
“Possibly. So take it easy, come down. Be safer, not sorrier.” He looked down at his own shoes, mud-heavy from standing in one place. “I’ve got to go. I’m sorry about what’s happened.” Morrie silently dismissed R.M. away with a wave of his glowing cigar, and lapsed again into self-absorption.
He’d gone up on a whim but ever the builder, he’d noticed some of the foundation breaking away under the already makeshift wooden steps; his descent would prove tricky. If someone else fell here, would he get sued? What if he fell himself? What if he called out for help? Nobody would even hear him. R.M. was the only person he’d seen and now even he was out of earshot. No lake ferries nor fairies to whisk him out of danger, no handsome prince.
Many years ago, when he’d been learning English as a second language, the course included a long poem about a lady, a captive in a tower. Not only did she have to stay in the tower but she couldn’t even look out of the window. She could only see the outside world through reflections in a mirror. What kind of a life was that? With verses to memorize and recite in front of the class, these particular lines had stuck with him, he supposed because he’d always wondered why the glass broke. Was the framing badly done?
“The mirror cracked from side to side
The curse is come upon me, cried
The Lady of Shallot.”
Was his family cursed, too? No one had come to rescue his brother, Rusty’s father, when he was in police custody so long ago in the old country. He wondered if his nephew had cried out for help, screamed even, like Morrie was so sure his brother must have done, over and over. Could someone really watch another person die and not help? He suspected someone had, again, with Rusty. Since his brother had died in that way, Morrie had understood that any help would only ever be self-help, every decision only his. Nobody would ever rescue him from his self-imposed tower, the one he himself would build.
Southeast lake, harbor, and lagoon view. The iconic Calatrava opens on the right.
He stared at the water, waiting for something to happen. Nothing. His mind wandered. What was it about these precious lake views anyway? Not that it mattered to him, as long as customers continued to pay a premium for it. He was just curious. He supposed that it was simply that they could afford it, and show it off. Like so many other things, the value came only from possession.
As far as something to look at, he could think of other things, plenty of other possibilities. Not that he ever spent much time gazing and thinking. That wasn’t for him. He had no time to be idle. So what was he doing here now? Feeling small and ridiculous in a way he didn’t much like, he wanted to go and build something, something big, something imposing, with his name on it. That was the Mangold way. He would be proud to be the builder of his own tower, even if he became a captive to it.
He was really more angry than sorry about Rusty. If they thought drowning a kid was the way to get back at him, forget it. If anybody wanted to stop him, it was actually him they would have to stop, not his relatives. Let them try. The police had come nosing around, a pair of them. What did he know about his nephew’s friends, his habits? Could he swim? Did he know anyone in the building? Any particular reason he would have been there?
Not much. Never heard. Maybe. Don’t know. Morris Mangold, on his brother’s grave, would never trust police. Nice kid. Worked hard. Trusted family and team member. A few of the POPS residents had attended the Grand Opening of his new development. Nothing personal. As far as he knew, that was it. He maybe remembered Rusty mentioning working out at a club. He didn’t know which one, there were so many in town. Morrie never worked out. If construction wasn’t enough exercise, what was? To relax, cards and a few quick belts worked for him. He really didn’t want to relax, anyway.
He’d already spoken on the phone with Perry Frazing, his attorney. The usual advice. Say nothing, or as little as possible. Rusty was dead. It was not worth fishing around for reasons. Only revenge would suit him. But now with one less person to be a part of his life, would he build his success on hate? Go schmooze at yet another elbow-rubbing party? A passing boat drifted into his view, momentarily dipping out of sight in the swallowing waves, as if to mimic his deepening sadness. The lake mirrored back his sinking hopes for this building site, then darkened under a lowering cloud, and sealed up his soul.