Hey, everyone. I would just like to inform you I have a rabbit, a beautiful, furry potato, who lives in my house and brings me great joy, just like your comments on the last chapter. Thank you kindly for taking the time to leave a review. I appreciate it, in my lonely, mid-pandemic state of being. - ED
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Scott's phone buzzed on the counter where he'd left it—short, droning bursts like Morse code spelling out the end of all things. The universe was calling—Dad, Kyrano, Gordon—and they would know now, because Scott was going to tell them. It would all be out in the open. At long last. John could feel the universe shift in preparation, hefting this new age into a different spot on its aching shoulders, the new dawn burning away the last foggy tendrils.
The phone buzzed again.
Probably Kyrano.
The End incarnate, the hellish flame by which to separate the metal from the dross.
Perfectly reasonable for him to check in, thought John. Perfectly necessary for Kyrano to update himself on whether or not John was a liability worth the saving. That thought cut unscrupulously through the malaise, and John felt suddenly, maliciously clear-headed. How much time had Kyrano spent tracking down a leak that couldn't be found? How much money?
There was an odd satisfaction in trying to calculate the cost from the spectrum available—more than bailing Scott out of his press faux pas; less than covering up Gordon's youthful indiscretions, which, by the by, seemed suddenly very ordinary in their scope, the run-of-the-mill rebellion of the discontented middle child—an understandable sowing of his wild oats, what with the years of focus preceding it—the relatable coming-of-age tale of a young man swept up in the whirling dervish of Fame Too Soon, Money Too Young—but John on the other hand—older, wiser—what excuse was there for the marathon he'd run? The blatant and regular use of a Schedule II controlled substance. Perhaps he should brace himself, cold Reason suggested—henceforth John Tracy would be merely an epithet, a talking point about Adderall use in higher education, the aggregate mean of the many rich kids escaping Consequence with the help of daddy's money—a catalyst for questions, every show host having their own hot-seat take on Jeff Tracy's parenting skills—concerned single parent or absentee father?—and John, just another statistic, a handy primary source to be used in someone's mediocre post-grad thesis on the socio-economic stratification of drug use in modern America—his personal choice of uppers the outcome of variables in logistic regressions—an extrapolation of parental education, wealth, and income during his formative years.
"We should tell him," John announced, shutting the refrigerator door with an awful finality, and faced Scott completely. "He'd want to know."
Scott didn't reach for the phone.
"Kyrano," John clarified, almost light-headed at the word. "Do you think it would help? I mean, Robin's already shown his hand. He doesn't have any cards left to play."
The buzzing died away.
"I can call him," John offered again, casually, "sort things out. Follow that infamous Harvard motto: Veritas." He felt a nauseating, giddy sadism at the word. "Truth. And truth be told, I was feeling a bit left out, between you and Gordon getting all of Kyrano's attention over the years. Because you're not really one to talk, are you, Scott?"
"This isn't about me."
"Sure it is. It's about all of us. Because as much as Dad would like us to be those stand-up, all-American boys with our can-do attitude and good, old-fashioned values—that's not who we are, is it? Or at least, that's not who I've been in a very long time." He felt deliriously sick. What was he saying? "I mean, what's the point of a family fortune if we can't buy someone's silence once in a while?"
"Don't be like this."
"Like what? I'm feeling very much myself." John leaned against the refrigerator, crossing his arms lightly over his chest in imitation of Dr. Lapin's bearing, the soft cadence of his office voice. "Why does that upset you, Scott? Did you want first dibs on burying Robin in a salt mine?"
"For fuck's sake, John—it's not even about Robin. You should have told me how you were feeling—we could have figured something out together, instead of you going AWOL and messing with shit you don't understand."
"Really, Scott?"
A split second of regret, a grimace. "You just—this makes things more complicated than they needed to be."
"You sound disappointed that I'm an anal-retentive ass. Where have you been the last few years?" Stop it. "Oh, I forget. Somewhere else. Doing your part for God and Country. Your manifest destiny. Aim High. Fly-Fight-Win." John felt like he'd vomited—he was almost sure he had—because why else would Scott be looking at him like that? "We are all laboring under the banner of a greater cause. Because as Tracys we know Image Is Everything."
Take it back, John.
The phone buzzed again, another incoming call.
Please.
"So let's tell him," John nodded at the phone. "I'm ready. Fuck me up."
Scott was stone, eyes like granite slits, and finally he sighed, a deep weariness, and reached for the phone, picking it up and holding it out to John, delivering the only two words that could have ended this conversation. "It's Alan."