The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [113]
“I want to give notice,” Martin announced, but in an unconcerned tone generally reserved to describe last week’s weather. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he said before alluding to a deal he had recently wrapped up. “I want to leave before I get too deep into anything else.”
“Come on, Marty.” His father shook his head. “You’re one of our top earners. I know this terrorist shit has thrown everyone for a loop, but why don’t you take a few days to think it over? Take a vacation if you want—come in next week and we’ll talk about it …”
Martin hated how reasonable this sounded. “Thanks—I appreciate that,” he began slowly, “but like I said, it’s been on my mind for a while—Tuesday just kind of sealed it for me.”
“Early retirement, eh?” Hank scoffed. “So what are you going to do? Make cookies?”
“I’m not sure yet, to be honest,” Martin admitted with some candor.
“Sure you can handle it?” Hank asked. “Have you ever not worked?”
Martin understood that Hank was only trying to get under his skin, that he was embarrassed by the prospect of his son’s early retirement, as if to lead a life of leisure had a certain effete quality that did not belong in the masculine world of the corner office in which they now sat.
“I guess I’m not as motivated as I used to be,” Martin agreed somewhat evasively, feeling that this would be the best strategy, though as he said the words, he felt them resonate; it wasn’t hard to remember when he had enjoyed the prestige of working for a top firm in a city where such associations meant access to certain clubs and restaurants that had once interested him.
“Yeah, some people lose the drive,” Hank continued in a predictably dismissive tone.
This provoked Martin. “Don’t you ever get sick of this place?”
“No, not really,” answered Hank in a grave manner that offered Martin no satisfaction. “It’s actually worse when I’m not here for too long, you know, when your mother’s dragging me to all those crazy fund-raisers, or the fucking opera. I want to shoot myself.”
Martin—again resolved to move ahead with his plan—could only shrug. “I’ve never had that problem.”
“I’ve always said you cocksuckers get off easy,” Hank noted wryly as he stood up and looked through his son.
Martin recognized this to be the end of the meeting and the mark of his new beginning as someone off his father’s radar, so it didn’t seem worth arguing the point. “In that respect I guess we do.”
Surprisingly, Hank’s expression softened, and Martin considered confessing some of his real reasons for wanting to retire—which ironically enough were connected to being gay—but before he could say anything, his father spoke, softly, as though confessing a secret. “The truth is, Marty”—he smiled—“I’d give just about anything not to be so addicted to cunt.”
Martin laughed uneasily but gratefully, knowing that this was exactly the kind of comment—along with everything it represented—that he wanted to leave behind with the job. With a smile, he stood up and shook hands with the man for what he expected to be the last time, knowing that he would most likely be able to avoid him during the next two weeks, given that they were separated by two floors.
Back downstairs in his office, Martin stared at his bookshelves with relief and—to be fair—some sadness that he would never again consult Corbin on Contracts. He decided that he felt a new appreciation for Hank’s brand of pragmatism, which however crude contained an element of honesty that had long eluded Martin, at least until now. Beyond any nostalgia, he acknowledged a new desire to forgive Hank, and as the logical part of his brain asked exactly what for, it finally occurred to Martin that he was thinking not of his dead father but of himself.
THAT AFTERNOON, MARTIN arrived home in time to take Dante to the vet, where he was promptly diagnosed with ringworm and taken to the back for treatment. By now, Martin not only had acclimated to the idea of permanently adopting Dante but also was even made so disturbingly bereft by this