Chapter 8: What Arthur Said
The room was small and smelled like antiseptic and the particular dry warmth of hospital air.
Arthur was sitting up in the bed, an IV line in his left arm, a tray table with a half-eaten cup of soup pushed to one side.
He looked smaller in the bed than he had looked in the shaft — or perhaps it was the other way around, perhaps he had looked larger in the shaft because of what he had been doing in it.
Marcus pulled the chair close.
Eli sat on the edge of the bed, which the nurse had already told him not to do and which Arthur had already told him to do anyway.
"The notebook," Arthur said.
"Okafor has it.
It's in evidence."
Arthur nodded.
He looked at the IV line for a moment.
"I started it in June.
After the third time I found a transfer I hadn't authorised.
Small amounts at first — fifteen thousand, twenty.
I thought it was an error.
Then it wasn't an error."
"How did she access the accounts?"
"She had my login from years ago.
I gave it to her when my eyes started going and I needed help with the statements.
I changed the password in July when I got suspicious.
She changed it back." He paused.
"I don't know how.
The bank will know."
"Deller."
Arthur looked at him.
"She told us," Marcus said.
"Tonight.
Before I left.
Raymond Deller, branch manager, Route 9.
She gave us his name."
Something moved across Arthur's face.
Not surprise.
Something closer to grief — the particular grief of being right about something you wanted to be wrong about.
"She told you herself," he said.
"Yes."
Arthur was quiet for a moment.
"How did she seem?"
Marcus thought about Susan at the window.
The watch.
The moment her shoulders finally dropped.
"Tired," he said.
"She seemed very tired."
Arthur looked at the ceiling.
"Nine years is a long time to be angry about something and not say it."
"She should have said it."
"She should have.
I should have said things too." He looked at Marcus.
"I changed that beneficiary in April without telling her.
I knew she would fight it.
I thought — I thought if I just did it and let the attorneys handle the conversation, it would be cleaner." He paused.
"It wasn't cleaner."
"Dad.
She locked you in a wall."
"I know what she did."
"That's not something you caused."
"No." Arthur looked at his hands, at the marks the binding had left.
"But the two point three million didn't come from nowhere.
People don't take money from someone they feel fairly treated by." He paused.
"That's not an excuse.
It's just — it's also true."
Marcus sat with that.
"The charitable trust," he said.
"What was it for?"
Arthur was quiet for a moment.
"Your mother's name," he said.
"She always wanted a scholarship fund.
For students who couldn't afford university.
We talked about it for years and I never did it while she was alive and I thought — I thought it was time." He looked at Marcus.
"I was going to tell you both.
I had a letter written.
I just — I kept waiting for the right moment."
Marcus looked at his father.
At the white hair at the sides, the IV line, the soup he hadn't finished.
"The letter," Marcus said.
"The one you wrote.
Where is it?"
"Desk in the study.
Same drawer as the notebook." Arthur almost smiled.
"Okafor probably has that too."
From the bed, Eli spoke.
"Grandpa."
"Yes."
"Are you going to press charges?"
Arthur looked at his grandson.
The boy was sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands in the pocket of his maroon sweatshirt, watching his grandfather with the same steady attention he had given the portrait wall.
"That's not entirely up to me," Arthur said.
"The police are involved now.
Some of it will happen whether I want it to or not."
"But the parts that are up to you."
Arthur looked at him for a long time.
"I don't know yet," he said.
"I need to talk to Susan first.
When I'm able." He paused.
"I need to hear it from her.
Not from a lawyer.
From her."
Eli nodded.
He seemed to accept this.
"She did tell the police," Marcus said quietly.
"About Deller.
She didn't have to do that."
"No," Arthur said.
"She didn't."
The room was quiet.
The IV dripped.
Outside in the corridor, someone wheeled a cart past and the sound faded.
"Marcus," Arthur said.
"The company.
The transfer document — it's void.
It was never signed.
But I want you involved going forward.
Properly.
Not just as my son.
As a partner." He looked at him.
"I should have asked you years ago."
Marcus looked at the folders he was still holding.
He set them on the tray table.
"We can talk about that when you're out of here."
"I'm telling you now so you know."
"I know." Marcus put his hand on his father's arm.
"I know, Dad."
Arthur put his other hand over his son's.
His grip was not strong yet — eleven days had taken something from it — but it was there.
Eli watched them.
Then he reached over and put his hand on top of both of theirs, small and certain, the way an eleven-year-old does something when he has decided it is the right thing to do and is not going to be talked out of it.
May you like
Arthur looked down at the three hands.
Something in his face let go.
