Chapter Text
1965
Monica huddled deeper into her coat, trying to escape the droplets trickling from the narrow awning above and splashing onto her shoes, which by now were already soaked through. She was trapped in front of an appliance store, with nowhere to go in either direction. To both her right and left, the storefronts offered no cover. On a sunny spring afternoon, it's not exactly predictable that the clouds would close in out of nowhere and a torrential downpour would break loose; that was why she had stepped out so carefree, carrying only her purse and no umbrella.
While waiting for a taxi to miraculously appear, or for the storm to decide to let up, she found herself staring at the window display across the street. Through the glass, she could see a young couple picking out toys for their baby. The plump little figure rested peacefully in its mother's arms. Monica's heart melted, drawn to the child's apparent coziness within that family fold, lost in a daydream of the day when she would be that woman, holding her own baby against her chest, wrapped in her husband's loving embrace.
Before she knew it, the family was leaving the toy store and the rain had been reduced to a scant drizzle, giving her the chance to step out onto the sidewalk and wave frantically at a passing taxi. Settling into the corner by the left window, Monica stared at the store's sign once more: Enchanted Dream. She noted it down and tucked it away in the 'important things' drawer of her mind, promising herself that, in a not-so-distant future, she would ring the bell hanging over that door, carrying in her arms the life she had always dreamed of.
The car wound through the streets of Huntington toward Lloyd Harbor; Monica's head occasionally bumped against the glass, lost in thought, while her eyes wandered over the shimmering puddles on the asphalt reflecting a sky that was turning blue once again. She searched the back of her memory for some reference of what it meant to be a mother or a wife, but the faint recollections of her own mother were mere flashes—lost, blurred fragments that didn't form a story at all. Well, it didn't matter; she would find a way to learn.
It wouldn't be so different from taking care of her father and brother, would it? Of course, it would be more fulfilling—infinitely so. To feel the purpose of her dedication and care every time her baby reached a new milestone: the first smile, the first words, the first steps, the first returned hug, the first exchanged "I love you". To feel the reciprocity of the affection given to her husband, in the lingering squeeze of held hands, in the exchange of secret glances during dinner, in loving words of praise or comfort, in soft goodbye kisses, and in the sweet, dewy kisses between the sheets of their bed.
Closeness and belonging. The greatest longing of her life. If, despite her efforts over the years, she hadn't found it in the family she was given at birth, she would conquer it in the family she would build.
The taxi finally pulled up in front of the beautiful house, as grand and elegant as the neighborhood demanded—an area that, being further removed from the regular suburbs, was home to the city's high society. In better years, that house had been the most luxurious in the vicinity; however, hard times had carried away much of the wealth that once filled it. Now, with the paint peeling for years, the lawn less green, and almost no servants left to handle the heavy lifting, the Geller mansion stood obsolete, overshadowed by newer, larger modern constructions.
Monica stepped out under a now clear and bright spring sky, skipping uselessly between the puddles. There was more water inside her shoes than in the puddles themselves, she could tell. Stopping in front of the main door, she took off each of her loafers and turned them over to drain the water. Bracing herself against the doorframe as she balanced on one foot to put them back on, she heard her name being called. It was her father. Old Jack Geller sat on a wooden garden bench, smoking a cigarette.
"You've soaked your trousers," Monica replied to the call, stating the obvious, since he had sat right on the remnants of the rain. She knew that whenever her father was found in that spot, in that exact way, a new problem was weighing on his mind—and she also knew that the reason for her trip downtown would displease him.
"How many times do I have to tell you about this?" he grumbled without taking his eyes off the horizon.
"Dad, I'm just trying to help!"
"And you think a few measly cents from selling cakes and cookies makes any difference? It doesn't solve our problems, and it creates new ones for me." Jack finally looked at her, huffing. "The whole neighborhood already knows you're selling to the bakery. It only tarnishes our image with these gossiping old folks, and you know how word travels. No one wants to do business with a bankrupt man!"
She rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm sorry if I make it look like our family is on the brink of a precipice, but considering we actually are, I don't think there's much to be done."
"Don't you take that tone with me, young lady!"
Monica sighed, her shoulders dropping. "Dad, I like to cook! And you know the pocket change I earn with the cakes helps with the household expenses. If you're so bothered by what the neighbors are saying, tell them it's a hobby of mine. It's not far from the truth."
She stared at him for a moment of silence, hoping that this time her father might give in. However, unyielding, Jack returned his gaze to the horizon, blew out a thick cloud of smoke, and concluded: "No daughter of mine works. Use your hobby to feed me and your brother while the two of us handle the financial matters."
Tired of this argument, Monica closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then slid on her other shoe, ready to head inside.
Just as she opened the door, Jack spoke again.
"Rachel is here. She's in the kitchen with Marge..." he took another drag of his cigarette. "...and Ross."
Monica's face twisted into a grimace. "Oh! Poor Rachel!"
As the brunette approached the kitchen, she spotted Rachel sitting at the wooden table with a plate of cake in front of her, trying her best to feign interest in the subject Ross was rambling about. He stood beside her, leaning his hip against the table, words practically spilling out of his mouth.
"They can laugh all they want, but just look at the map! Africa and South America fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Wegener said they drifted apart, and I believe the fossils prove it. There are no magical 'land bridges' that just sank into the Atlantic," he huffed with disdain.
Monica came up from behind, teasing him. "Oh, what a shame! I was hoping that during a dry spell, we could just drive to Europe."
She received a sharp, annoyed look from her brother, which she promptly ignored.
"Rach!" She greeted her friend with a warm hug. "I thought you weren't coming back until the end of the month!"
"Oh, Mon!" Her friend gave her a tight squeeze and a fond rub on the back before pulling away. "Montauk isn't the same without you! Seriously, I was dying of boredom."
"And so your parents decided to come back just because you missed me?" She arched an eyebrow, hardly convinced that was a plausible reason.
"Well, Mother's bronchitis decided to flare up too. Anyway, I'm just glad to be back!"
Monica laughed. "Don't tell me you didn't enjoy yourself at all. Look at that tan!"
Ross's eyes wandered—rather indiscreetly—over Rachel's bare shoulders and collarbone, lingering a bit too long on her neckline, which earned a roll of the eyes from his sister.
"I missed you, but I was still at the beach."
Just then, Marge walked in through the back door, coming from the yard with a basket of fresh vegetables. "Look here, Monica, that rain made a real mess of your flower beds! The sheets fell off the clothesline, and now there's more mud on them than anywhere else."
"I'm sorry, Marge!" Monica went over and hugged her. "I promise I'll take care of it myself!" She plucked a few leaves from the basket, brought them to her nose, and then chewed on a piece. "Cilantro? What are we cooking today?"
"I will take care of it. You know your father doesn't like you doing the cleaning. And I'm making steamed sea bass." The sturdy old woman shook off the hug and headed to the sink.
"My father doesn't like anything. I'm going upstairs to change and then clean up the yard, and after that, we'll get dinner started." She breezily passed by Rachel and grabbed her arm. "Come on, Rach, I want to hear all about the hunky lifeguards."
This comment caused Marge's eyes to widen and drew a grunting protest from Ross. "Monica! Rachel and I were in the middle of a conversation!"
The young woman stopped and looked back at her older brother. "You know, I don't think Rachel is interested in what happened millions of years ago." She crinkled her nose and furrowed her brow. "It's a bit before our time." She walked off laughing, arm-in-arm with her friend, who silently thanked her for the escape.
Ross angrily pulled out the chair where his crush had been sitting and sat down with a frustrated thud.
Marge rushed to the kitchen doorway to shout: "Don't you dare go into that bedroom with those shoes on!" She then turned to the man at the table. "Did that girl wade home through the gutters?"
.
.
The rain that had moved on from Long Island began showing signs of its imminent arrival over New York City, crossing the bridge and reaching Todt Hill. The overcast sky darkened the late afternoon over the Burke estate.
Berta hurried back and forth, snatching white linens from the clothesline and draping them over her shoulders before the gusting wind could hurl them to the ground.
"Tim! Timothy, boy! Get that ball and get inside! Can't you see the storm that's brewing?!"
The boy, with his brown hair windswept, kept kicking the ball against the wall. "I can't play ball inside!"
"And you can't play out here either! Find something else to do. Inside! Now!"
"Oh, Berta!" he pointed, laughing. "My father's shirt!"
The wind carried the garment as if it were weightless, and the woman, desperate, took off running as fast as her stout, tired legs would allow. "Lord have mercy! The Egyptian cotton one!"
Tim kept kicking the ball, laughing at the bumbling Berta. The poor woman was chasing the shirt like a cat after a laser pointer. He kicked the ball harder and harder until it bounced violently back toward him. A skilled Englishman, he trapped it with his chest and then his thigh, taking advantage of the perfect way the ball dropped to deliver a powerful laces-out kick, not even bothering to look where he was aiming.
Richard was climbing out of the car, struggling with his briefcase and a heap of papers that the wind insisted on blowing away, when he was greeted by his son's ball slamming violently against the Jaguar's door.
"Tim!" he shouted, standing up quickly to inspect the petrol blue paint, which—thank God—remained intact.
The kid came running over. "Sorry, Dad! I didn't see you pull in."
"It's alright, but until you have the aim of Bobby Charlton, keep your games away from the car."
His son chuckled.
"Here, take these papers for me." He handed the stack to the boy, who obediently clutched them. "Careful not to lose any; they're important documents." Then he spotted, in the distance, the maid returning with a mountain of fresh clothes, struggling to carry it all. "Why didn't you help Berta with the wash?"
"I offered, but she said my hands were filthier than the floor." And off he went, those very hands clutching the papers.
Richard simply watched his son's figure walking casually into the house. Knowing there was no use crying over spilled milk, he sighed, shook his head, and followed close behind.
"Put those on my desk and come right back." The man gave his son the command once they were in the center of the living room, and Tim looked at him curiously. At that, Richard reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter, displaying it with a wide grin. "It's from Chandler."
Tim flashed a toothy grin before racing off toward the study.
With a tired groan, Richard sank into the living room sofa and elegantly crossed his legs, turning the letter over and over, re-reading the details.
"Are you really going to let him go to Europe?" Ruth, the trusted housekeeper and a longtime family friend, approached her employer. She promptly served him a glass of neat whisky, just the way she knew he liked it after a long day.
"If he wants to go back, what can I do?" He took a sip.
"He's too young, Richard!" the woman lamented with pity. "A lad his age needs a father figure around constantly."
"He'll be with Chandler."
Ruth let out a mocking laugh. "Oh, you know I love Chandler, but he isn't exactly a paragon of maturity. Especially not since he started running around with that party-animal friend of his..."
The master of the house smiled as he finished his drink and handed the glass back to her. "Joey is a good lad, Ruth. And don't you worry..." He tilted his head slightly to check the hallway where Tim was expected to appear; seeing it empty, he whispered, "Chandler doesn't plan on staying in London much longer; it'll be a quick adventure. But let's not disillusion the kid."
Just then, Tim's fast legs and noisy shoes appeared near the staircase. In a second, he was leaping onto the sofa beside his father. "What is it, Ruth? Trying to sabotage my move again? Don't listen to her, Dad, she thinks I'm still a child."
"Well, I don't see any whiskers on your face," the woman teased, turning her back to put the glass away.
The retort was on the tip of his tongue before Ruth even finished the sentence. "But I can see it on yours."
She whipped her head around to face him with fake indignation, pure mockery, and the kid stretched out a slow, mischievous smile.
Ruth was treated like family; she slept upstairs in one of the main bedrooms and could speak freely with her employers. She sat at the table with them and, second only to Richard, hers was the final word in the house.
"Show some respect to Ruth, young man!" Richard gave his son a playful swat on the head, well aware of the spirited banter between the woman and the boy.
"Come on, Dad! Open the letter!"
As the man opened the envelope, Berta appeared from the kitchen, accompanied by Leonard, the driver.
"Is it from Chandler, Mr. Burke?" She clapped her hands. "Oh, I'll make that cake he loves! Leonard will go to the market for some good bananas!"
Richard put on his glasses and settled in comfortably to read the manuscript. Before he could begin reciting it aloud, Ruth returned to the room, and the small circle of people stood gathered, anxiously awaiting the sender's words. The group waited, yet the man never began reading it out loud; a quick scan was enough to grasp the essence of what was written.
"Well, Dad?!"
Richard lowered the letter and pressed his lips together with regret. "I'm sorry, son, but he's not coming anymore."
A collective groan of disappointment filled the room.
"Did something serious happen, Mr. Burke?!" Berta asked, worried.
"It's nothing major, just work matters. He can't leave London for the next few weeks." He took off his glasses and handed the paper to his son, who took it, devastated.
Tim spent a few seconds reading, then turned a frustrated, tearful gaze toward his father.
"It's not fair! He promised he was coming!"
"I'm disappointed too, pal, but it's not Chandler's fault."
"Then take me to London!"
"Tim... You know we can't just hop on a plane and go to England."
Fighting the lump in his throat to keep from crying, he stood up, thrust the letter back toward his father, turned his back, and began a heavy-footed march toward the stairs, wanting only to lock himself in his room where he could cry like a baby to his heart's content. While he was still on the first few steps, Richard called his name, and he turned around.
"Don't take it so hard, champ! You saw what he wrote. Maybe he'll come in the latter half of the year, and then you can go back to London with him."
All his father's attempt at comfort did was make the disappointment feel sharper in his throat, harder to swallow. Unable to contain himself any longer, Tim ran the rest of the way up the stairs, already in tears. To hell with it!
Berta shook her head ruefully. "It's a crying shame!" she lamented, clapping her hands against her apron, flamboyant as ever.
Richard looked with regret at the disappointment on his staff's faces. Since he had returned to America three years ago, the rare occasions when Chandler came to visit always turned into a celebration. He was a living reminder of the happy days that once filled this home, when Nora was still alive and would visit her parents every weekend, bringing little Chandler along to get tangled in Ruth's legs, steal ingredients from Eleanor, and play with Berta and Leonard's son. That was a long time ago.
"Leonard, go after those bananas tomorrow," the master of the house ordered. "Chandler won't be here, but we are. I'm certain there won't be a crumb left on the cake stand, Berta."
The couple smiled, happily heeding the command, and headed for the kitchen.
"It really is a shame. I had already confirmed Chandler's attendance with Pete Becker," he said to Ruth, who remained behind.
"Was this Becker fellow that insistent on Chandler being there?"
"They became very close in college... The two of them came up with the idea for the landscaping business together, but you know how Chandler is when it comes to following through." Richard waved his hand through the air, gesturing to his nephew's flighty nature.
"In any case, you shall represent him at the grand opening. This Becker won't have anything to complain about; it's an honor to have Richard Burke gracing any event."
He laughed. "Oh, no, no! I'm not going."
Ruth let out an indignant huff.
"I wasn't going anyway; I was going to give my invitation to Chandler so he could bring a friend, or some girlfriend. These parties end late, it's in Manhattan... too exhausting. That's for young people."
"Oh, come off it! You're not walking with a cane! Please, Richard, I'm the old one. You're still in the prime of your life. And if you want to know, you're still quite a catch." Her drawling voice made it clear just how suggestive she was being.
"What's this, Ruth? Are you hitting on me?" He laughed again.
"Oh, you mind your manners, young man! I used to help you with your schoolwork!"
"Young man?!" He arched his eyebrows.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about! Fine, you're a mature man, but that gray hair only makes you more charming, and your experience makes you wiser. Richard, you could still meet someone! A good woman, who would love Tim..."
They had already had this conversation dozens of times, and Richard had always made his disagreement clear.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ruth!" He stood up with a scowl.
"Richard, it's been nine years! Barbara would never have wanted you to live so all alone."
He looked at her, a little less defiant. A little sadder.
The woman sighed and walked over to her employer, tenderly patting his arm. "I know you feel lonely."
Richard lowered his head and sighed. "Look, I know you care about me. I know everyone in this house cares. But I've built my life this way. I chose to dedicate myself entirely to the boys, and I don't regret my decision for a second. But it came at a price. My time has passed; it's too late to think about starting over with someone now."
The housekeeper's eyes searched his deeply. Then, she spoke: "Fine. You know your own life best."
"Thank you, Ruth." He smiled and took her hand in his, then brought it to his lips and kissed it. Afterward, he headed for the stairs. He was dead tired and needed a good soak in the tub.
"But think about going to that party! Please!" the woman pleaded in one last attempt. "All you do is work; it'll be good to go out and clear your head!"
Richard turned around, finding his friend's desperate persistence somewhat comical. She wouldn't leave him alone. "Fine!" he said, continuing up the steps.
"You're going to the party?!"
"I'll think about it," he replied without turning back, continuing until he disappeared onto the upper floor.
Ruth remained where she was, reflecting on how her employer's stubbornness kept him from breaking the monotony of his days and giving a new meaning to the years he still had, clinging uselessly to the past.
It was then that a sudden crack of thunder and the sound of heavy rain falling shook her from her thoughts. "There it is. It's started," she concluded, raising an index finger.
.
.
"Come on, Mon! Please!" Rachel insisted. They were at the table, having dinner. "If you don't go, I won't have anyone to talk to!"
Hearing this, Ross finished chewing his mouthful as fast as he could so he could chime in: "I'll be there!"
However, his offer of company was quickly cut down by Jack. "It's not a party for us; it's a business opportunity! Keep that in mind, Ross. You aren't going there to make small talk. Save your silver tongue for convincing investors."
"Silver tongue... Pfft!" Monica scoffed under her breath.
"See?! Come on! It's a party in Manhattan, in a penthouse overlooking Central Park. Who would say 'no' to that?!"
"Exactly why I'm saying no. It's far! We'd have to drive back in the middle of the night, and you know I don't like being on the road after dark. It's dangerous, not to mention exhausting. And it's a Monday the next day, in case you've forgotten."
Her friend tilted her head with a bored expression. "Cool story, Grandma. How old are you? Eighty? We're two women in the prime of our lives! We need to do our hair, put on some pretty clothes, and enjoy ourselves!"
Jack cleared his throat at that last part, making it clear with a stern look that she shouldn't overdo the "enjoying herself" bit.
Rachel shrank back a little, wrinkling her nose and giving the patriarch a sheepish smile.
"Mon..." she lowered her voice, taking advantage of the side conversation Jack was starting with his son to keep their subject more private. "I know you think you have to handle everything around the house and sell your cakes, but you have the right to have some fun, too! You're only twenty-one; it won't last forever."
Monica understood that, and she appreciated her best friend's eagerness to share the best moments with her. And truthfully, she wanted to go to the party. However, there was a point—the main point, for that matter—which she didn't want to bring up, but now there was no other way out.
"Rach, I don't have a dress good enough to go."
Caught off guard by the question that always brings embarrassment—the lack of money—Rachel flushed and let out a disconcerted "oh." Not knowing how to continue the conversation or pivot to another, the young woman thanked God when Jack praised the steamed fish and caught Monica's attention.
"I was the one who seasoned it. See how it can be useful for me to work?"
"My dear, I will never object to you cooking. It's a very collaborative factor in securing a good marriage, which, in fact, would be useful for the family."
One of the brunette's eyebrows shot up. "What is this now? A marriage of convenience? Is that it? Are we that desperate?" A hint of irritation was already showing in her slightly raspy voice.
With little elegance, Jack slurped the last bit of broth from his plate and shrugged. "It was just a comment. But don't be deluded; every marriage is one of convenience. For some, it's emotional convenience; for others, financial. Lucky are those who find both joined together; pity those who have to choose and opt for the less intelligent one."
Just as Monica was opening her mouth to retort, Ross stood up from his chair and pushed his dishes away, praising the dinner they'd had and pointing out that it was time to walk Rachel home—thus pouring oil on troubled waters to end the argument.
.
The next day, Monica was setting the table for lunch when Rachel burst in, looking all flustered and carrying a huge white box adorned with a crimson bow.
"What's this?" the brunette asked, intrigued.
"Your early birthday present!"
"What?! My birthday isn't for another month."
"That's why I said early. Come on! Aren't you going to open it?" With quick steps, she moved toward the living room, sat on the sofa, and waited for Monica to join her. Then, she carefully placed the box on Monica's lap, wearing a grin that stretched from ear to ear, as bright as the sofa's white upholstery.
"Rach, I know what you're doing, and—"
"Hey! Do me a favor and don't say a word yet. Open it first and see what you think, alright?"
With a hesitant tilt of her head, Monica showed she would comply, though she was unlikely to accept—which, for the time being, Rachel considered a good enough response.
Monica's pale, delicate hands ran over the stiff cardboard. When she reached the boutique's seal—a faint, gold-embossed crest—she traced it with her fingers. When was the last time she'd been able to shop at that store? She couldn't remember. She could hardly recall the last time she'd bought any piece of clothing at all. The years of plenty had left her with a full wardrobe, and she made good use of it without complaint. It's just that repeated use requires constant washing, and constant washing dulls the shine, fades the color, destroys the lace, and frays the embroidery...
She shook these thoughts from her mind. Monica didn't allow herself to wallow. Wallowing didn't make things better.
Pulling the red ribbon, she unwrapped the package and lifted the lid, and there it was: luxurious silk satin in a deep, shimmering pewter. She hadn't even taken it out of the box yet, and she already knew it was stunning. Monica slid her hands under the garment to lift it; the fabric was cold and slippery. As she raised it, the dress didn't hold any structure or shape; it flowed through her fingers with a heavy fluidity, as if it were made of water rather than fiber. She held it by the straps—two threads so thin and delicate they seemed incapable of supporting the weight of such expensive silk.
"Oh, my God, Rachel!" It was so wonderful she wanted to cry.
"I know! I know! It's going to look perfect on you! I hope your father doesn't make a fuss about the bare back. But did you see the high neckline? It makes up for the back being out. Or do you think it's too much?"
Still holding the dress in the air, Monica looked at her friend, her jaw dropped and her eyes glazed over. "It's perfect."
"I'm so glad you like it!"
"But I can't accept it." She laid the garment back in the box.
"Oh, no! No, no, no! Don't you dare come at me with that stupid false modesty."
"It's not false modesty! I have an idea of how much this dress cost. Accepting it would be wrong and humiliating!"
Rachel took Monica's hands and squeezed them tightly in hers. "Honey, do you know what's wrong and humiliating? Me spending the entire night listening to Ross talk about how a dinosaur's dentition differs from another's. Because that is exactly what will happen if you leave me alone."
Monica laughed. "Then stay away from him."
"He'll find me."
Monica laughed harder. That was the truth.
"Mon, what is your problem? Do you want to hear me say that I want to be glued to your side because everything I do is only truly fun if we're together? Is that what you want? Fine, I'm admitting it!"
A cute little pout formed on Monica's lips. "Aww..." she murmured, pulling Rachel into a hug. "Come here! You know I feel the same way."
"Then accept my gift! If I can do this for you, then let me! It's not charity; it's a token of my affection."
The expression on the brunette's face made it clear that her resistance was now mere formality; she was one argument away from giving in.
"Oh! Enough with the drama! It's written all over your face that your pride isn't bigger than your desire to wear this dress."
Monica grabbed the dress and pressed it to her chest, slumping against Rachel, closing her eyes and moaning in the sheer happiness of owning the piece. "Oh, Rachel! Why is my pride so weak?!"
The other girl laughed. "Pride is the deadly sin of men, darling; leave it to them. Ours is vanity."
...
Just as the bad weather that had lingered over the region was swept away by the wind, the rest of the week flew by, and Sunday arrived in a breath.
Monica twirled in front of the mirror, inspecting the fit of the dress on her body for the thousandth time, touching up her makeup, readjusting her hair. Rachel had managed to get her excited for the event; it had been the only thing she could talk about for the last four days.
If Rachel, who still lived in the sweet delight of her family's fortune, was this thrilled about the night, imagine Monica, who was having to relearn how to live.
Looking back on the past year, this was one of those rare opportunities to see well-dressed, sophisticated people; to laugh carefree with her friend, as if the pantry at the back of the kitchen weren't becoming emptier by the day; to dance with handsome boys born with silver spoons in their mouths; to be at the top of the city, in the center of the lights, almost touching the sky, at a moment when her dreams seemed so tethered to dry and infertile ground... Such opportunities would be even scarcer in the future, she could tell.
And, in the end, it would also be a family outing. Ross and her father often went out together, whether for work or to drink over their decaying business deals. Not her; she was the daughter. She spent her days helping Marge keep the house in order, working miracles to maintain a pleasant standard of living with fewer and fewer resources. Her free time was spent on daytime activities with Rachel. Once night fell, there wasn't much to do but watch TV alone in the dark living room or read a book until bedtime.
Tonight would be different. Tonight, the three of them would go out together—the Gellers. Monica was happy.
Downstairs, in his study, Jack's feelings were the complete opposite. He was arguing on the phone with Heckles, his chief accountant.
"...they returned the entire lot, Jack. Four hundred rolls of Prince of Wales worsted wool. The truck is heading back to the warehouse this very moment," Heckles wheezed, his voice panicked.
Jack pressed the bridge of his nose between his fingers, lowered his head, and sighed heavily. His mind was a step away from collapsing, searching for a way out, searching for an exit... there didn't seem to be one. "They returned it? That's absurd. That fabric is impeccable."
"It's not the quality. It's the contract. Brooks Brothers said they specified a 60/40 blend. Sixty percent wool, forty percent Dacron. They wanted the synthetic, Jack. They wanted permanent press. We delivered one hundred percent pure wool!"
"You know we weren't in any position to fulfill that contract! What were we supposed to do after losing the polyester supplier?! It was an emergency measure. And besides, I did them a favor! That's not fabric, Heckles, it's a petroleum derivative! If they want to dress their clients in garbage bags, let them buy from the Chinese."
"Jack, for God's sake, wake up! Nobody cares! The customer wants to throw their suit in the washing machine. The Brooks Brothers order was what was going to pay the factory's electricity this month. Without that check, we don't have the cash flow for Friday's payroll."
Silence followed. Jack sat on his desk, abandoning the weight of his body just as luck had abandoned them.
"Pay the men," he said, his voice drained of strength.
"With what? The coffers are empty. The bank froze the revolving line of credit this morning. The manager said your assets are 'too illiquid.' It's over, Jack. You and I both know it."
Heckles' words entered his ears like a blade of fire, enraging his soul. He stood up again, raising his voice. "No! I will never allow it! I went to a private bank this morning and mortgaged the house."
"Y-you... you what? The mansion? Jack... that house is the only thing standing between you and the street! And what could a mortgage possibly do for us? It's putting a bandage on a patient who's hemorrhaging!"
"I bought time. That's what we need—time! Right now, I'm heading to the grand opening of the Beckers' new business. I'll get new contacts there! You know how good Ross is at networking. He and I will—"
A deep, painful sigh from Heckles interrupted his speech. "You won't do anything."
Jack went silent.
"If I can still give you any advice, Jack, use this party to arrange good marriages for your children while you still have a name. Secure a roof over your heads."
"It's not the end, Heckles! We'll find a way!"
"Don't count on me anymore. I'm out."
An exhale of surprise and indignation erupted from Jack's lungs. "I can't believe you're doing this. I can't believe you're jumping ship!"
"There is no ship left. You're adrift. I'm sorry, Mr. Geller."
With that, the line went dead, leaving Jack desolate. He slammed the phone onto the hook and brought his hand to his eyes, pressing his eyelids to keep from succumbing to tears. There, hunched over, ruminating on the abandonment of his right-hand man, a bitter memory haunted him. For obvious reasons, this moment took him back to the day Judy left him, and he suddenly felt a sharp pang in the left side of his chest—an intense pain that almost made him howl.
He clutched his heart and, barely able to walk, dragged himself to the armchair, collapsing into it. Jack inhaled deeply, gasping for air, and despite everything, he didn't call for help. It wasn't the first time that pain had squeezed his chest; he knew it would pass. So he stayed still, sunk into the upholstery, until the pain finally subsided. Breaking into a cold sweat but feeling better, he adjusted himself in the chair, pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and wiped his forehead. Judy's face wouldn't leave his mind; her image felt seared into the back of his retinas.
Jack wrinkled his nose and went to the drinks cabinet, poured a generous amount of brandy into a glass, and downed it in one go. He couldn't succumb to the pain—to any kind of pain—because tonight he couldn't show weakness. That factory, that company... they weren't just bricks and machinery; it was his entire life's work, his ultimate triumph, the material proof that Judy was wrong and that he would survive despite her.
Tonight, he would not break. Tonight, he would save his business. He would save his life.