The Collectibles (28 page)

P
reston woke early, checked out, and drove to Joe's office where Alice had coffee and the files waiting.

Preston drove to Charleston, then north along the route Alice had given him to Corey's house. He made good time, arriving shortly after ten, rang the doorbell, and at last knocked on the door. No response. Checking the number of the house against his notes, he could see Corrigan Yachts' faded name painted against the old barn behind the house.

Preston hoped he had not come this far to miss Corey Corrigan. He decided to check the entrance facing the waterway, but again no one answered. He did notice a cigar in an ashtray, still lit, with smoke, on a porch table in front of two rocking chairs.

He noticed that a large sliding door to the barn was open. Preston strolled in. It was quiet, the smell of wood and sawdust permeating the air. Past an impressive selection of saws and power tools to an open door, the strong, cool breeze came through the building.

“It's nice in here, ain't it, young fella?” A man in blue denim overalls seemed to come out of nowhere. “What can I do for you, young man?”

“Hi, are you Mr. Corrigan?”

“One and the same,” Corey replied. “People around here call me Corey. What's your name?”

“Preston. Preston Wilson,” he said, shaking Corey's hand. “You have a nice place here. I knocked at your house looking for you, but no one answered, so I came out here to find you. I hope you don't mind.”

“Why would I mind?” Corey said. “Always glad to see young people. You like wood?”

“I do,” Preston replied, glad that Corey seemed so willing to take him in and show him around. “I like the smell of it in here.”

“If you like the smell, that's a good first step,” Corey said. “Come with me; I'll show you around.”

Corey pointed out various pieces he had made and pointed out different features – the fit, the grain. He explained the equipment, the tools, the lifts. Preston liked Corey immediately; he found the man charming. And he was impressed with his work.

After the tour, Corey told Preston it was time for a cigar and suggested that they go to his porch and sit for a while. Corey shuffled to the rocking chair on the left and sat down, motioning for Preston to join him. Corey reached in the breast pocket of his crisscrossed coveralls and pulled out a cigar. He bit the end off and spat it out, felt in the right pocket of his coveralls, and pulled out a box of wooden matches. He lit the cigar and turned to Preston. “Barbara tells me I'm not supposed to have more than one of these a day,” he said with a smile. “Want one?”

“Yes, actually, I do,” Preston said. “Thank you.”

Corey reached in the same breast pocket and pulled out another cigar and handed it to Preston, then gave him the box of wooden matches. Preston bit off the end the same way he'd watched Corey do, spit it out, and lit his cigar. Far from the quality of the cigars he had had in Vegas with Tommy, and it made him want to spit, but he kept the comparison to himself.

The two men sat on the porch, rocking and smoking as if they had known each other thirty years instead of thirty minutes. Corey never asked Preston why he was there or what he wanted; he simply accepted him. He did ask if Preston wanted some iced tea. Preston said yes, so Corey went into the house and returned with two glasses of iced tea stuffed with a bunch of green mint.

“That mint's what makes it good,” Corey said, as they sipped their iced tea and smoked their cigars, watching boats go up and down the waterway.

“Are you doing a lot of woodwork these days?” Preston asked.

“You bet, young fella. I'm keepin' busy.”

“Is Barbara your wife?”

“My wife's gone,” Corey said. “Barbara's my daughter. Looks after me. She's a fine girl.”

“Can you give me her address and phone number, Corey?”

“She's a fine girl. Whaddya do, young fella?”

“Call me Preston, please. I'm in the automobile business,” Preston said. “And I own some real estate. I know Joe Hart, and he suggested that I get to know you.”

“Joe Hart?”

“Yes, you know Joe Hart, I believe, Corey.”

“We used to make big yachts, you know, right here – wooden yachts – real boats, not like today. My daddy taught me to make boats. He was good. Real good. His daddy taught him. You like boats?”

“I do, generally,” Preston replied. “I don't know a lot about boats. I've been on some really big boats, cruise ships, that kind of thing, and not long ago, I was on Joe Hart's boat in the Bahamas.”

“A wooden boat?”

“It's fiberglass, I believe,” Preston said. “But I know it's got a lot of fine wood inside.”

“Tell me about the wood inside, young fella. What kind of wood? Cherry? Teak? How is it fitted?”

“I think it was cherry, but I'm not sure. There were curves in it and different kinds of wood, or different colors, at least, all made together, very smooth, first class.”

Corey just listened and smiled. “You feel it with your fingers?”

“No, I just looked at it.”

“Should've felt it with your fingers. Remember that. Always feel it with your fingers. Can't just look good. Got to feel good. Remember that, young fella.”

They watched more boats pass by and Corey commented on each one. “That's a cruising hull. That's a planing hull. That one's fiberglass. That one's wood. She ain't got enough power, she's too low.”

“It sure is nice out here,” Preston said.

“I like it here,” Corey said. “Don't want to leave. It gets a little lonely sometimes. Barbara comes out when she can, but she's busy, and she's got a husband, too. He don't come around much, and when he does, he can't wait to leave. My friends are all gone. I've outlived them all. There is one young fella who comes around now and then. Sits right here where you're sitting, and smokes cigars, too. He always brings good ones for me to smoke. And he brings ice cream.

“He knows boats, too. Knows 'em real good. And he loves wood. He don't just like it. He loves it. I can tell, you see. He tells me I've done work for him. I really like that young fella. He'll be back.”

Preston figured he was talking about Joe.

“I'm sure he will,” Preston said.

Then silence for a while. “What do you do, young fella?”

“I'm in the automobile business.”

“Do you like boats?”

“Yes, I like boats,” Preston replied.

Silence.

“Say Corey, you ever think of selling this real estate? It's probably worth a lot.”

Rising, and turning to face Preston, Corey's eyes became coal black as he stared at Preston for what seemed like an eternity.

“This land has been in my family for a long time, son. Longer than you been around. We're boat builders. You understand? Been good at it for years and years.
Skilled
at it. That's what made us free. My great-granddaddy worked with Frederick Douglass.” Corey slowly sat down. “Would you like me to get you some more iced tea?”

“No, thank you, Corey. I'm sorry if I offended you.” Preston paused, and slowly put his hand on the old man's knee. “I really am sorry.”

Corey nodded. “That's all right, son. You didn't understand.”

“No, I didn't. I'm going to leave you now. I've got to drive back to Charleston and then fly to New York City to meet my wife.”

“What's your wife's name?” Corey asked.

“Marcia.”

“I bet she's a nice lady, ain't she?”

“She really is.”

“You love her?”

“Yes, I do.”

“That's good,” Corey said. “Real good. Would you like some more iced tea?”

“No, thanks,” Preston said, getting up. “I enjoyed talking with you, and I'll come out and talk with you again sometime. What kind of ice cream do you like?”

“The same kind that young fella always brings me. I forget the name, but it's real good.”

“Okay. I'll bring you some of that and a couple of cigars, too.”

“That'll be awful nice,” Corey said, walking with Preston to his car. “Maybe I'll have a little piece of wood made for you next time. Maybe one of those fancy canes, or a nice little wooden box. You like boxes?”

“Sure I do. Thanks; you take care,” Preston said, getting into his car, waving goodbye, and making a note to see if Alice had Barbara's address and phone number.

Preston drove back to Charlotte and boarded a plane to LaGuardia, glad to be heading home. He could now understand why Joe was so fond of Corey and why he would be saddened that the old man's mind is slipping away. He wondered how long Corey could continue to live there alone and what would happen to his home, his woodworking art, when he was gone.

Preston felt a real sense of accomplishment since he had left Joe in the islands. He'd covered a lot of ground, and he would be home in plenty of time to get the apartment ready for Marcia on Friday.

 

While Preston was surprisingly impressed with Charleston and Braydon, New York City's landscape felt good. With the help of the doorman, Preston brought the files into his condo, where he spent the next three days reading them and thinking about Johnny . . . and Marcia.

He was also surprised by his own interest in Johnny's files. He'd spent hours reading Automotive News and other trade magazines and articles, and endless time studying real estate, but he could care less about fiction or other writing not relevant to his business. After meeting Johnny, and now reading all of his background, he had to admit it was not only of interest but compelling.

Preston thought Marcia would enjoy reading these files. He'd regarded her as an intellectual but considered her input to be of no practical use. Yet here he was trying to understand all of this, figure out how to help Johnny. He knew that Marcia would be able to make sense out of what he was looking at and not be intimidated or overwhelmed. She would sort it out, organize it, and love doing it. He knew nothing about mental illness, and had, until now, avoided any involvement with other people's problems. He found this type of information confusing, and disturbing.

In reading Ashley's comments regarding Johnny, he could see how upset she was with the failure of people to recognize his needs and give him the right kind of help. She was incensed that Johnny's parents had dumped him in an institution for mentally challenged patients in a small village in upstate New York, and she hated the fact that the institution was for the mentally defective. She questioned whether Johnny was actually mentally retarded and could only imagine how horrible it must have been for him to only know the institutional environment as a child.

It was unclear whether Johnny's IQ had been established and, if so, at what age, but in any event his IQ scores would have been affected by many factors including how thorough the testing was. One of Johnny's early reports showed an IQ of 80 to 85 and he was termed mentally retarded. Then mildly retarded. Johnny was transferred to another state institution in the mountains in the western part of North Carolina bordering on Tennessee, and the next reports from the later institution reflected a cognitive and intellectual impairment; in other words, borderline intellectual functioning. Like the state school in New York, the North Carolina institution also suffered a lack of funds and paid limited attention to the developmental or educational side.

A memo from Joe indicated that if Johnny was not considered mentally retarded, he would not be eligible to receive the education and help that he needed. At the same time, there was a big push to refer to patients like Johnny as mentally challenged, as a more politically correct term. Labels such as these, according to Joe's view, were commonly used as a means to avoid the expenditure of time, energy and dollars to give a patient like Johnny the kind of special education he needed. It was clear from their files that Joe and Ashley were disturbed by the way Johnny had been treated, and were focused on what educational opportunities could be realized now.

Preston could see that Joe was exploring programs including tutoring, but his efforts appeared to have ended when Ashley died.

Preston wished Marcia was there to help him. He admired her ability to make sense out of research and connect raw data to practical results. He thought of other areas in which Marcia had helped him and others throughout the years. He had either taken that for granted or been too self-centered to notice it.

He realized that he had never told her that.

M
arcia walked in to the penthouse she and Preston had shared for years and picked up the envelope he'd left for her in the foyer alongside a vase of red and yellow roses. Unaware that Preston had arrived earlier, she put her suitcase down, took her jacket off, and read the note.

 

 

Her first impulse was to rip the note up and throw it in the basket. Instead she turned it over, left it on the table, and glanced toward the expansive living area.

“Preston?”

The sound of her voice apparently gave Preston hope.

He crossed the foyer and tried to pull her into his arms. She gave him a slight hug, and at the same time gently pushed him back.

“Flowers and this note?” She said, “Straight out of the soaps. Did you really cook dinner?”

“Well, I did cook lunch, but my timing was off. I got here a few hours ago, so I ordered dinner and had it delivered. Are you hungry?”

“Actually, I'm starved.”

“Then let's go,” Preston said, pulling her toward the table by the window. “Sit. You sit, I'll serve.”

“Come on Preston, cut it out,” she replied.

 

Preston was worried that she was not buying any of this, but he did see her take in the candles flickering on the table. When he came out wearing an apron, his hands loaded with dishes, Marcia burst out laughing. He served her a salad while she poured herself some water. Then he offered her Peking duck, garlic chicken, rice, pepper steak. He even set out the wooden chopsticks Marcia had bought him years ago, which he had never used.

“I should leave you more often,” Marcia said with a smile.

“I hope you never leave again. So much has happened to me in the last couple of months – to us. I want to tell you all about it. But first, tell me how you're doing. How are you feeling?”

“Hmm . . . that's different. I'm okay, Preston. It was good to see Mother, for a while. And it was good to see Ann. She's great.”

“What's she doing now?”

“Well, she's an editor for a newsletter. She's meeting a lot of interesting people, and she tells me she feels good about using her skill sets to the fullest.”

“That's good,” Preston said.

“It's been a long time. I never felt I could take the time to go see her.”

“I probably contributed to that feeling,” he said. “Stupid of me.” Preston thought about his conversation with Johnny.

Marcia put down her water glass, disbelief registering in her eyes. “What in the world has happened to you? Is it real, or is this just to put you in my good graces again?”

“Long story. I hope you'll hear me out.”

“Okay,” Marcia said, sitting back in her chair. “Go ahead. I promise I won't interrupt, or at least I'll try not to.”

Preston began with the search for Joe Hart to save his business. Joe, a lawyer who specializes in turnarounds, was not available. In fact, no one knew where he was because his wife had been killed in a drive-by shooting.

“How awful!” Marcia exclaimed.

Preston told her how Joe had withdrawn to the mountains. He explained how he'd actually met Joe when he was fifteen, how his father had dragged him into the mountains for forced vacations, and the story about his falling in the crevice and how Joe got him out.

“You never told me any of this.”

“I know. It was all wrapped up with my father, what he was and what he wasn't. I never realized how much that and his breakup with mother affected me. Didn't want to talk about it. Guess I was scared I'd end up the same way.”

Preston went on to tell Marcia how he'd found Joe up in the Adirondacks, how they camped there, the fire, the wilderness. He eventually explained the three conditions Joe required to help him and his unequivocal acceptance.

“You agreed to do whatever he asked, not knowing what it would be?” Marcia asked incredulously.

“I did. I was afraid of failing and,” he said, reaching across the table and taking his wife's hand in his, “I was afraid of losing you. Joe said things to me up in the mountains I will never forget. He told me that sometimes in life you have to have enough faith to make an irrevocable commitment, and how some people can and some can't. How it's about personal integrity, who and what you are. No one ever spoke to me like that, and I'll tell you, Marcia, it went into my head and heart like a laser beam.”

Preston then described the detailed turnaround plan Joe drew up, the meeting in Charlotte where he and Casey were not allowed to say a word, not even gesture.

“You kept quiet the entire meeting?”

“You had to be there. The bank's lawyers were attacking us like crazy, and it sounded like we had no defense. For the first time in my life, I was not in control, and I knew it. Also, you had to see Joe, the way he responded to the attacks, the way he reasoned with the bank, brought out errors on their part, the whole thing.

“But Marcia, he really had faith in me.” He swallowed around a lump forming in his throat. Other than Marcia, no one had ever shown that faith in him. “He gave the bank his word that I would keep mine.”

He described the moment when Joe had asked him to speak to the bank, how he had no idea what he would say, what he should say. How he went to the window and looked down, and it came to him. He described as best he could what he told the bank.

“I don't remember what I said exactly, but I know it was the absolute truth. I told how I felt, how I had screwed up and knew it, and that I knew what I needed to do to fix it. I came right out and told them that I was afraid to fail, and that I was not going to, that they could count on it. I remember how clear it seemed to me at that point.”

 

After they finished dinner, they carried the dishes to the kitchen, and, for the first time in their married life, washed the dishes together, Preston talking the whole time. They made coffee, strolled to the living room, sat on the floor before the low table in front of the sofa. He told her about Joe directing him to give 15 percent of Wilson Holdings to Casey, and another 15 percent to Alex.

Marcia's eyes grew wide.

“You gave 30 percent of your company away?”

“I did. Seventy percent of something is better than 100 percent of nothing,” he echoed Joe. He explained what the new success meant to Marcia and to him, his eyes tearing up as he spoke.

He told Marcia about the phone call from Joe asking him to fly to Marsh Harbour, that Joe wanted to talk to him. How he flew there, spent time with Joe on his boat. He told Marcia in detail about their conversation that night.

After several hours of discussion, Preston realized he'd talked too long. “Are you tired? You just got home. Do you want to rest?”

“Not on your life. Keep talking. Forgive me, but you've never been this open . . . this vulnerable.”

Encouraged by Marcia's enthusiasm, Preston went on, explaining how horrified he was at the thought of taking responsibility for Joe's ‘collectibles.' He thought Joe was crazy to ask him to look after these people who had become so important in his life. It still puzzled him somewhat.

Preston stood up and wandered around the room, fired by the enthusiasm he already had for his new friends. He told Marcia about Missy, about Johnny, Tommy and Corey. He told her how worried he was about what he would say to her, to Marcia, what they would have to talk about. He had been such an ass where Marcia was concerned.

He described going to dinner with Tommy, what a character he was, how he got a phone call from Missy, how her ex-husband had beaten her up because of seeing her talking with Preston. How Tommy went to Missy's apartment to make sure she was okay, and how Tommy told him that night she wouldn't have to worry anymore. How he was glad to hear that, but also afraid that he could somehow be drawn into whatever would happen. He talked about shooting craps, the cigars.

“You shot craps in Vegas,” she said, “and smoked cigars? Are you sure you're my husband?”

Preston gave her a kiss on the cheek and went on. Told her about his trip to San Francisco. What he was feeling when he called her from there, how glad he was to hear her voice. His trip to Braydon, how stupid he was to have thought of Braydon as some hick town. He described its beauty: the trees, the streets, the architecture, the flowers, and most of all, the people. He recounted his time with Alice, going to the Home Dairy and meeting Johnny, getting soaked. At that point, Marcia was laughing hysterically.

“I would have given anything to see you soaking wet, in an apron, washing dishes with Johnny!” she exclaimed. “Absolutely anything!”

Preston sobered and added, “There's more I want to . . . need to tell you about Johnny. Marcia, you'll understand what I want to talk to you about better than I do. I'd like to ask you to help me on this . . . and a lot of other things.”

Preston could see from Marcia's expression that she was trying to process all of this. He had to get it out, and he was thankful for her willingness to listen. Reaching over and gripping her right arm, he smiled warmly at Marcia.

He then detailed his trip to Corrigan Yachts, his time with Corey. He described what a neat man he was.

“I still have two of Joe's collectible's to meet – a bi-polar guy named Harry, and one other. I need to talk to Joe about those two, but he's in the Bahamas and can't be reached by phone right now.”

Several cups of coffee later and way into the night, Preston reached the end of the story. Marcia simply sat and stared at him.

“What?” Preston asked.

“Well . . . wow . . . what a story. It's been a long day. I'm tired. Let's go to bed . . . . ”

“Really?” Hope and a surge of male hormones sent a rush of blood to Preston's head.

“Really, as to the sleep part. We need to go slow here, Preston. But it has been a good night.” Marcia said, taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom.

 

Preston woke smelling coffee, feeling great. Until he saw Marcia, already up and dressed, packing. “What are you doing?”

“I told you I needed some things here, Pres. I'm going back to Mother's.”

“But what about last night? You aren't staying? Marcia, please. I need you.”

“Last night was wonderful,” Marcia said, clicking her suitcase shut. “And I do love you. You slept like a baby. I woke up around four, with a lot on my mind. It takes time to build trust, Preston. Even more to rebuild it. There's a lot of scar tissue to deal with.”

She bit her lip and turned away. “To be honest, I'm not sure I want to come back. I need time. Time to think about what I want, for a change. What I need.”