Chapter 7
Arthur Caldwell sat in his dark,
unheated living room in Quincy,
staring blankly at the stack of legal notices piled on his cheap coffee table.
The house,
which he had lived in for forty years,
felt like a tomb,
the walls closing in on him,
the silence suffocating him.
He was sixty-five years old,
a man who had worked with his hands his entire life,
building brick walls,
laying concrete,
trying to carve out a decent life for his arrogant son.
He had thought Preston's marriage to Eleanor Whitmore was a blessing,
a golden ticket out of the blue-collar struggle,
a guarantee of security for his old age.
He had trusted his son,
he had signed the papers Preston put in front of him,
believing the lies,
believing the promises of massive wealth and corporate expansion.
Now,
his company was gone,
liquidated for a single dollar,
his trucks seized,
his bank accounts frozen,
and his pension completely wiped out.
The phone on the wall rang,
a harsh,
jarring sound that made him jump in his worn armchair.
He walked over slowly,
his joints aching,
his heart heavy with dread,
picking up the receiver with a trembling hand.
Hello,
he croaked,
his throat dry.
Dad,
it's me,
Preston's voice came through the line,
sounding small,
broken,
terrified.
Arthur gripped the phone tighter,
a mixture of anger and profound sorrow washing over him.
Where are you,
Arthur asked,
though he already knew the answer.
I'm in the federal lockup,
Dad,
they denied my bail,
they said I'm a flight risk.
Arthur closed his eyes,
leaning his forehead against the cold plaster wall.
You ruined us,
Preston,
Arthur said,
his voice breaking,
tears welling in his old,
tired eyes.
I didn't mean to,
Dad,
I was just trying to get ahead,
I was trying to make Brielle happy,
I thought Eleanor was stupid.
You thought Eleanor Whitmore was stupid,
Arthur let out a bitter,
hollow laugh.
That woman's father destroyed unions,
crushed rivals,
and bought politicians,
and you thought she was a naive little girl because she let you wear a fancy suit.
Dad,
please,
you have to help me,
you have to find a lawyer,
Preston begged,
his voice dissolving into pathetic sobs.
I have nothing left,
Preston,
the marshals took the deed to the house,
they took the retirement fund,
I'm packing my bags to go live in your aunt's basement.
There was silence on the line,
only the sound of Preston weeping,
a sound that brought Arthur no comfort,
only a deep,
abiding shame.
You made your bed,
son,
Arthur whispered,
his heart breaking for the final time.
Now you have to lie in it.
He hung up the phone,
cutting the connection,
turning away from the wall,
May you like
leaving his son to face the dark alone,
just as his son had left him to face poverty in his final years.
