The Butler - 17. Chapter XVII

February 14th, 2011, Greenwich, CT

“I left an emergency number by the telephone in the study,” Greg said in the late afternoon, coming into the den. "It should also be programmed in your phone. And there's a list of handy ones in the drawer below."

As it always had been.

And yes, I had noted a dozen more numbers in my phone contact list I hadn't seen before, three of which were his, Alan's was in there and Montgomery International's main number and two secretaries. He'd been fiddling more with my phone than I had. And the constant reminder; keep it on you! Aargh!

He’d changed into a new suit, one I didn't remember picking up. It was a nice one, too; dark grey, navy blue shirt and a matching tie. I hadn’t seen it before, and it definitely hadn’t been with the batch I had…taken care of. I’d have remembered that. It wasn't from Hong Kong either, this one was Italian, hand-made. He must've had it delivered here.

Back at the dry-cleaners, I’d found out he’d been bringing his more expensive stuff there every other day. So nice to feel trusted. Well, he trusted me to pick them up. Progress, I guess.

“Oh, I left the number of the gardener; call him please. And the car needs to be filled up. The town car, not the…”

“I think I can handle it, Greg,” I cut in. “Not my first time.”

“And I told you I’d arrange things from now on..."

It still stung, the way he’d bulldozed over everything like that.

“Yes sir," I muttered under my breath. "Wanna do the groceries too, while you're at it?”

Ever since we’d talked, he’d been on my ass about pretty much everything.

“I’ll be back in two days.”

He was going to Chicago, for some business that required his presence. And he told me about it about 45 minutes prior to leaving. It had been cleared with the lawyer already.

“Okay, see ya,” I answered, absentmindedly, looking at a folder.

When I looked up, about half a minute later, he was still there. He sent me this weird look and I felt like I was doing something wrong.

“What…?”

“I thought you were going to drop me off?”

“You didn’t ask?” I replied, frowning.

He cursed softly.

“Right, I assumed…” He sighed. “I need to start asking, not assuming. Check.”

“I can do it, it’s no problem.” I put the folder down and got up. “I’ll get my jacket.”

“Thank you.”

**********

February 17th, 2011, Greenwich, CT

Three days later, I was waiting at the airport, having spent two whole full days doing…nothing. It’d been a revelation! I could actually do whatever I wanted and ended up doing absolutely zilch. And then came to the sad conclusion I had no one to talk to, except for Greg who’d called at least once hourly (starting at 7am until far into the evenings) to check up, aside from a barrage of texts he sent. He wanted to really know everything! It had to be OCD. Oh, and I found out the thing he had enabled on my phone was its GPS function; he somehow knew when I was in town, calling me and asking me to pick up three more suits for him; they were ready and waiting at Halliwell's.

If I would also select some ten new shirts, using my own judgment as to which color, since the shirts I’d gotten him, to replace the ruined ones, were actually more to his liking; he asked for buttoned-down ones specifically. He asked, he didn't order. That was new. I could put them on an account he’d opened there.

Somehow, I found I actually missed his presence; even while knowing he wasn’t here, hearing a sound had me on a room-by-room check. Once I figured out it was actually the silence I was responding to, I was annoyed with myself.

The constant checking up by him was intrusive and annoying at first, but after a while, strangely enough, it gave me a sense of not being alone. And it was rather fun, I found out, to make him wait for replies to texts he sent with this new messaging service. No reply within five minutes and he’d call. Not picking up would result in several texts, rapidly following each other, each more urgent in wording. No reply after that made the house-phone ring. Even the ringing sounded impatient.

It became somewhat of a game. I rather liked it, doing it on purpose. Even with no one here, I was still talking to someone. And it annoyed him to no end but call me stupid or no; I think he got some kind of fun out of it too. The last couple times I could hear amusement in his voice.

Sometimes I’d reply to a text saying I was in the car, driving, so couldn’t answer; he didn’t go for it because he could see I wasn’t moving. Damn GPS. I turned it off; got a phone call with a strong…request to turn it back on. Ok, that was an order, not a request. Low battery was also a fun one; he had several delivered at the house, including one for use in the car, that same afternoon.

He took the meaning of controlling to a whole new level. It was like having a parent keeping an eye on me. Weirdly enough, it felt…I dunno…safer, I guess, knowing he was watching. And I honestly didn’t actually mind it at all. It was amazing how fast I got used to it; no responsibility, whatsoever, was a nice change. Thinking I’d annoy him in turn and call or text (I was becoming quite proficient at it) incessantly about inane things, like calling because the gardener had asked for several purchases of equipment needing replacement, so he could go arrange that from afar, apparently pleased him instead of piss him off, the latter being my intent (yes, I can be petty). If he realized what I was doing, he didn’t let on. Instead, he called back an hour later, telling me the items would be delivered the next day. This morning, they had. I texted him about it. He replied he already knew.

Then the letter came.

It was delivered by messenger, from the lawyer's office. It had a seal of wax on it, very old style and handwritten. It was a bit odd, but I recognized the hand immediately.

It came from old Mr. Montgomery.

Dear Chris,

I probably am not your most favorite person right now. For that, I am sorry. However, I had my reasons for arranging things this way. Some of it harkens back to a conversation we’ve had, long ago. We spoke about a certain topic that, to me, has become a source of hope things will be alright in the end. I am convinced, more than ever that it will. If only you knew what I have known for years. But I am confident that soon you will.

Gregory is a stubborn man, but he will hopefully also soon see why I chose this way. Once he pulls his head out of the place where one should never want it, I am sure he will realize his father had his best interests at heart.

For me and him it is simply too late. Too many years wasted out of pride, stubbornness and two very strong wills. There is love still, and there always will be, but too late now to speak it out loud. But I know you can help him. From me to you I therefore have this request: try. Give him a chance to undo his wrongs to you and, by extension, to me.

As for you, Chris, I thank you very much for the time you have spent in my service, a true companion and a dear friend. We have traveled the world, you and I, and it was my honor to see it through your eyes renewed, however briefly it was.

To see again the sunset over Macao while witnessing the rapture on your face; it was a gift. Your childish excitement upon first take-off in the company jet; endearing. And your view of the world as we flew over the North Pole; you described it as beautiful and cold, frozen in time with the stars watching; never change that view, it will always remain.

Dear, dear Chris; to me, you were as a fifth son and know I have loved you as such. Thank you, my boy.

Gregory.

P.s. If you ever need a little pick me up; wine cellar, 5th rack, bottom left. The last of my stash.

The letter became blurry before my eyes and I wiped them with the back of my hand, sniffling, re-reading it and almost able to hear his deep, warm voice speak the words.

With the letter in my hand, I went down into the wine cellar and found it; Mr. Montgomery's favorite, Delamain Très Vénérable de Grande Champagne Cognac (supposed to be called Brandy outside of France). It made me smile as I took it from its hiding place, blowing the dust off the label. We'd had quite a few of these over the years and I remembered the first time distinctly; the first evening we were really alone, just the two of us, with Basil gone for good. An end and a beginning.

"Tomorrow, Chris, we will travel home," he'd said, holding out his glass to me in salute. "Your home, now."

And home it was.

I took the bottle with me to his grave near the shore, far from the main house; the grounds were extensive. There he'd been lain to rest, next to his wife who had loved the sea, and I saluted him again there, filling a glass on the headstone and then looking out over Indian Harbor, leaning against one of the trees.

"With the stars always watching," I softly said.

Slowly drinking, I looked out toward Brush Island, with Tweed Island in the distance on a beautiful Thursday morning. The skies were pretty clear and it wasn't really cold anymore. Greg would be landing in a few hours.

The letter confused me. What conversation was old Mr. Montgomery alluding to, and what wrongs of Greg? And what did it really matter?

**********

The letter stayed on my mind for the rest of that morning, it didn't really let go of me somehow. I tried to remember the conversations I'd had with old Mr. Montgomery, but there were just too many. Six years was a long time to recall; long winter evenings in the library, close to the hearth; crispy spring evenings on the terrace with heaters; balmy summer evenings near the shore, with waves lapping on the beach and fall evenings in the garden with the leaves falling. There were just too many and that wasn't even counting the trips abroad, several times a year. I couldn't think of a single one that stood out, that might help recall what he'd referenced to.

And then there was his comment about Greg. What wrongs? In my memory, there were quite a few. Some recent, some further back. All-in-all, there were more than I cared to count, going back six years, one undoing the other in terms of....

“Hello Chris,” it suddenly sounded, close to my ear.

I jumped, my thoughts suddenly halted. Looking over my shoulder, I found Greg standing behind me, an uncharacteristic smirk plastered on his face. He’d enjoyed making me jump.

“Oh…hello.”

“You were miles away,” he remarked, frowning. “I called out three times; trouble?”

“No! No…just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Issues,” I answered, noncommittally. He didn’t need to know everything even if he seemed to want to, for some reason. “Had a good flight?”

“Fine,” he replied, regarding me curiously. “What issues?”

“Nothing important.”

“When you’re that far away, it’s important enough; let’s hear it.”

Like a dog with a bone.

“It’s nothing. Just trying to make a decision that might go either good or bad.”

“Decision on what?”
He nodded in the direction of the exit and we started walking.

“Do you always push this hard?” I asked, a little irritated I’d given even that tidbit. He latched onto it and didn’t let go.

“Yes.”

And made no excuses for it, either, apparently.

“I got a letter from your father today," I divulged then.

"Mhm."

I frowned. That sounded so...not curious.

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Why would it?

"I dunno...I just thought..."

He halted, then.

"Chris, whatever my father wished to share with you beyond the grave; it's not for me. It's for you. We all received one; mine came with the will."
He sought my gaze.
"But yours bothers you..."

"No," I answered slowly, reflecting on it for a while. "That's not the right word for it. He's asking me to do something I'm not sure I want to do. Or can."

Greg's expression went thoughtful.

"Does it go against your beliefs?"

"No. My better judgment."

"Ah. Perhaps you need to determine, then, if it's worth it. If you think it is, do it. If not, don't do it."

"Yeah, that's the problem; I'm not sure which it is, yet." I sighed. "It's alright, I'll figure it out. So we all got one?"

"Yes. I didn't read it right away, I waited a while. We weren't on the best of terms, as you'll remember." Oh yes, I remembered. His jaw worked somewhat. "He gave me some...advice," he eventually said.

"Good advice?"

He slowly nodded.

"Yes. I took it to heart. We didn't always see eye-to-eye, but I respected his opinion and insight."

I couldn't help but smile.

"He was a sharp one," I answered and we continued to walk toward the exit.

"Yes," Greg agreed. "That he was..."