I feel like slapping him, but it's happened too many times. I don't need another fight.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I say.
-For real? So you think that although you are one of the main associates of the bank; even though you've single-handedly gotten over twelve million dollars in new accounts for Lapidus just by rubbing the NYU alumni magazine; And even though almost all of the firm's partners have attended one of the four business schools you've applied to, can you still explain why you've been turned down two years in a row?
-It's enough!
"Wow, I've touched the sore spot!" You already thought about it, right?
"Shut up, Charlie!"
"I'm not saying Lapidus planned this from the start, but do you have any idea how difficult it must be for him to hire someone new and train them to think exactly like him?" You have to find the right guy... preferably someone poor and unconnected...
"I said shut your mouth!" "...promise him a job that will
he will keep there a few years so that he can pay off his debt...
"Charlie, I swear to God I...!"
"...then keep fooling him until the poor jerk finally understands that he and his whole family aren't going anywhere..."
-Shut up! I yell and pounce on him. I am out of myself. My hands point directly to the collar of his shirt.
Charlie, who has always been the better athlete, slips away and runs to the kitchen. On the table he discovers a Columbia School of Business Administration catalog and a folder marked Entry Forms.
-These are...?
"Don't touch them!"
It's all you need. She picks up the folder. But when he opens a blue and white envelope he falls to the ground. He has a signature on the back, right where it is sealed. Henry Lapidus.
The signature on the envelope is required by all four schools, to make sure I don't open it. The typewritten pages inside the envelope are without doubt the most important part of any business school application: the boss's recommendation.
"Okay, who wants to play detective?" Charlie sings, waving the envelope over his head so that it brushes against the low ceiling of the basement.
"Give me that envelope back!" - I demand he.
"Come on, Oliver, it's been four years now. If Lapidus has you locked up in the dungeons, at least this way you'll learn the truth.
"I already know the truth!" I yell, lunging for Charlie to retrieve the envelope. Again, he manages to evade my attack and leaves the kitchen.
Back in the bedroom, Charlie stops waving the envelope in front of my face. For once, he has become serious.
"You know something's fucked up, Oliver, I can read it in your eyes. This guy has stolen four years of your life. Four years in shackles with the promise of a future reward. If Lapidus underestimates your ability in this letter (forget the fact that all trade schools keep it in their files) he will have ruined the whole plan. Your exit, how to pay off mom's debts, everything you had counted on. And even when you think you can start over, do you know how hard it is to find a new job without recommendations? Not exactly the ideal situation for covering mom's hospital bills and mortgage payments, is it? Why then don't we open this envelope and...
"Leave the envelope!" He exploded.
I move directly toward him, prepared to cut him off to the side. But instead, he climbs on the bed and starts jumping on it like a seven-year-old. -Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabbdddddd, the world heavyweight champion!- He Says the last part singing, then imitates a crowd that cheers noisily. When we were little, this was the moment he would throw me at his feet. Sometimes he managed to catch him, sometimes he missed, but in the end the four-year difference in age ended up prevailing.
"Get out of bed!" The Scream-. You will kill one of the springs!
Charlie stops jumping instantly. He is still on top of the bed, but not moving.
"I really love you, Oliver…but that last statement…that's exactly the problem.
He walks to the edge of the mattress and, in one graceful movement, drops onto his buttocks, bounces off the bed, and lands on his feet. No matter how dangerous, no matter how reckless... the landing is always perfect.
"Oliver, I don't care about the money," she tells me as he slams the envelope into my chest. But if you don't start making some changes soon, you'll be like that guy who hates his life by the time he turns thirty-four.
I look directly into his eyes, unmoved by his comment.
"At least I won't be living with my mom in Brooklyn.
She drops her shoulders and takes a step back. I do not care.
"Go away," I add.
At first, he stands still. "You heard me, Charlie..."
get out.
Finally, shaking his head, he heads for the door. Slowly at first, then faster. When he turns around, I swear there's a smile on his lips. The door slams behind him and I peek through the peephole. Boom, boom, boom, Charlie jumps up the steps.
"Open it and find out what he says!"
He yelled from outside. And he disappears.
Ten minutes after Charlie has left, I'm sitting at the kitchen table, looking at the envelope. Behind me, the fridge whispers. The radiator rattles. And the water in the kettle begins to boil. I tell myself it's because I feel like drinking a cup of instant coffee, but my subconscious doesn't buy it for a second.
It's not like he's talking about stealing the money. It's about my boss. It is important to know what he thinks. Outside, a car speeds by, hitting the crater-sized pothole in front of the building hard. Through the top of my windows I can see the black tires of the car. It's all I can see from the basement. The
vision of things in motion.
The water begins to boil, reaches its highest note, and squeals through the nearly empty kitchen. In one minute the shriek seems to have been ringing for a year. or two. Or four.
Across the table, I spot the most recent bill from the Coney Island Hospital: $81,450. That's what happens when you skip an insurance payment to juggle your other bills. That's another twenty years of Mom's life. Twenty years of concern. Twenty years of being trapped. Unless she can get her out of there.
My eyes drift directly to the blue and white envelope. Whatever is inside it... whatever Lapidus wrote... I need to know. For all of us.
I grab the envelope and get up so fast that the chair falls to the floor. Before I know it, I'm in front of the kettle, watching the column of steam rise into the air. With a flick of my thumb I open the lid of the kettle. The hissing stops and the column of steam thickens.
The envelope shakes in my hands. Lapidus's signature, perfect as it is, becomes a moving blur. I hold my breath and make an effort to keep the envelope still. All I have to do is place it over the steam. But when I am about to do it I am paralyzed. My heart skips a beat and everything blurs. It's the same thing that happened with the wire transfer... but this time... No. Not this time.
Gripping the envelope tightly, I tell myself this has nothing to do with Charlie. Absolutely nothing. Then, in one motion, I hold the bottom of the envelope, place the stamped side over the steam, and pray to God it works just like in the movies.
Almost immediately, the envelope wrinkles from condensation. Starting at the corners, I angle the edge towards the teapot. The steam warms my hands, but when I move it a little closer, it burns my fingertips. As carefully as possible, I slide my thumb inside the edge of the envelope and manage to open a small gap. I let it steam up and intrude with my thumb trying to pry open the lid. It looks like it's about to rip...but just as I'm about to put it down...the rubber gives way. Then I peel off the lid as if it were a Band-Aid.
I put the envelope aside and open the two-page letter. My eyes start skimming, searching for some key word, but it's like opening a college acceptance letter. I can barely read.
-Relax, Oliver. Start at the beginning.
Dear Dean Milligan. personalized. Good. I am writing on behalf of Oliver Caruso, who is running as a fall candidate for your MBA program...blah blah blah...Oliver's supervisor for the past four years...blah and more blah. ..sorry to say....sorry to say? ... that I cannot in good conscience recommend Oliver as a candidate for your school ... though it pains me ... lack of professionalism ... maturity issues ... for his own good, he would benefit from another year of professional work experience....
I can not stand it. My hands cling to the paper, tearing at the edges. Tears well up in my eyes. And somewhere... beyond the potholes... on the other side of the bridge... I swear I hear someone laughing. And to another person who adds: I told you so. I get up, run to the closet and grab my coat. If Charlie is waiting for the bus, I can still catch him. I put on my coat without letting go of the letter, I throw open the door and...
-And good? Charlie asks, sitting on the steps. What's new in Whoville?
I stop dead and say nothing. I have my head down. The letter is a ball of paper in my right fist.
Charlie studies me for a few seconds.
"I'm sorry Ollie.
I nod, burning with anger. "Were you serious before?" -you
I ask.
-You mean...?
"Yeah," he interrupts, thinking of Mom's face when all the bills are paid. to that.
He tilts his head to the side, narrows his eyes.
-What are you talking about Willis?
"Enough of the games, Charlie. If you're still interested... — he I cut myself off in mid-sentence. In my head I'm working my way through the changes. There are still many things to do... but right now... all I have to say is two words. I'm inside.