The Two Endersons - 3. A Night To Remember

Enderson stood, a tight grip on his elbow crutches, while Carlson finished brushing off his suit coat and ensuring Mr. Tate was 'fully presentable'. When the butler stepped back, Enderson sat and handed the crutches to his butler. "Thank you, Carlson. I would be lost without your support."

"Very good, Mr. Tate. Will there be anything else?"

"No, I'm good. You should return downstairs at any rate; I imagine the boys will be here soon, followed shortly by their fawning entourage."

Carlson bowed his head and left the room. Enderson checked himself one last time in the tri-fold mirrors before heading for the elevator. As the door was closing for his descent, the front door bell rang. Must be the boys, he mused.

As he exited the elevator on the ground floor, his son and son-in-law were waiting. Michael spoke first, followed closely on by Byron.

"Good evening, Father."

"Good evening, Mr. Tate."

Enderson smiled, extending his hand to his son first. "Hello, boys. I trust you're both looking forward to tonight."

"Definitely," Michael responded, shaking his father's hand.

Byron nodded his head. "We want to thank you again for letting us hold our party here. It's very generous. Your home is just much more roomy for a bunch of people."

"I'm glad you like the place, Byron, as someday it will be my son's and your home. Along with any children you have…"

"Don't go there, Father – not tonight. We're just not ready to make our decision. Plus, I'm not crazy about any discussions around you not being here."

Enderson chuckled. "I understand, but you can't blame a man for looking forward to his first grandchild. Besides, no one lives forever, not even your father."

"I'm not so sure of that either," his son retorted with a grin.

Enderson rolled into the dining hall, followed closely by the two men. "Carlson managed the setup well, I think you'll be pleased."

The dining table had been moved to the back wall and setup as a buffet. There were chairs and small tables around the room which was brightly lit, casting a warm glow on the wooden floor. Opposite the opening from the entrance hall, sliding doors had been opened to the large parlor, adding seating for many. The west end of the parlor housed the grand piano, its black finish shined to perfection. The French doors on the east end of the room were open, giving access to the patio area. A light breeze wafted in from the grounds on a beautiful late spring evening.

Byron looked around in complete awe. "It's perfect. This is better than anyplace we could have rented for tonight, Michael." He turned his attention back to his father-in-law. "Thank you again, Mr. Tate. This is splendid." He giggled and turned around admiring the layout.

Michael grabbed his husbands hand as if to calm him. "Yes, it is wonderful. If I don't get the chance, please let Carlson and Mrs. Everly know they have outdone themselves." The doorbell rang, getting his attention. "Excuse us, Father – that's probably the start of our guests."

Enderson watched as Michael met Carlson at the front door, admitting six arrivals. The noise began to grow instantly, exclamations of congratulations, admiration of the house, and loud giggles, not all from Byron. Enderson shuddered slightly and rolled himself into his den, closing the heavy door behind him. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, then sat straight and shook his head. "Boys," he exclaimed, then chuckled and rolled himself around to his desk, He lit a cigarette before pouring himself a brandy. Having prepared himself for business, he began weeding through the stack of unread mail.

He had barely started into the pile when the phone rang.

"Tate here."

"Enderson, this is Brad. I'm just curious how the meeting with Michael went."

"As best as could be expected, I suppose. He has to 'think about it'."

"Understandable."

"I must thank you for an excellent job with the Matthews investigation."

"Really? The information paid off?"

"It's beginning to. Knowing about young Byron's mother's issues gave me an opening to offer him some cash in return for him not being negative about the adoption."

"Ah – he gobbled it up?"

Enderson paused. "I wouldn't say he 'gobbled it up', he was actually hesitant, but in the end he took the money. And that's what matters."

"May I ask how you broached the subject?"

Enderson laughed. "Actually, he did that. He wanted some change to help pay for a surprise he's getting for Michael. I just gave a bit more than he asked."

It was Calloway's turn to laugh. "Always a pleasure watching you work. Well, that's all I was curious about. Hey – isn't the boys' party tonight?"

"It is, going full swing, from the sound of it."

"You're an enigma, Enderson Tate. Have a good evening."

"Thank you, Calloway. Tate out." Enderson put down the receiver, smiled to himself, and lit a fresh cigarette, getting back to the task at hand.

Several hours later, having finished the unread mail quest, Enderson was sitting back in his chair, relaxing as the clock in his den struck eleven. Soft classic jazz played in the background and his eyes were closed. Unexpectedly the phone rang, shattering his reverie. He sat up and grabbed the culprit, anger flashing in his eyes as he spoke. "Tate here. This best be good."

"Mr. Tate, Doctor Kemp here. I'm sorry to interrupt your evening, but you have asked to be notified immediately if there were any changes with your grandson's progress."

"Yes, of course. What is it?"

"The mother just went through a bout with the flu. I didn't see anything of note, but have had a nurse on duty around the clock since she first felt ill. This evening the nurse reported the fetus had an elevated heart rate. Fetal distress is not something to be casual about; I am at the woman's residence right now."

"And? What is the prognosis? Am I losing my grandson?" Enderson's voice rose with his anxiety.

"No, things are under control. I have brought the heart rate down, both the fetus and its mother appear to be resting comfortably, though it took some convincing to get the woman to lie on her side."

"What does that have to do with my grandson?"

"It's a precaution against fetal distress – lying on her left side. It may not be necessary, but I thought caution warranted it."

"Of course. So my grandson is stable now?"

"Yes. Once things calmed down here, I called to give you the update."

"You gave me quite a start, Kemp. I almost thought…" Enderson sat back, gasping, his hand to his chest.

"Mr. Tate? Are you there?" The doctor's voice rang in alarm. "Enderson, answer me!"

"Can't … can't breathe…" Enderson managed to lean forward and slap the button on the side of his desk top. Almost instantly Carlson burst into the room, followed closely by Michael. Michael rushed to the man's side and grabbed the phone.

"Hello, who is this?"

"Doctor Kemp. Is this Michael? What's going on there?"

"Father appears to be having problems breathing. His hand is on his chest, his color is bad. You need to be here. I'm calling 911." Michael hung up the phone then dialed 911 and began talking to emergency services.

Carlson had managed to wheel his employer to the large sofa in the room, lift him, and lay him on the cushions. He loosened the man's tie as he continued to speak to him. "Mr. Tate, try to relax. We are getting help."

Enderson began to breathe a little slower, his hand still a fist over his heart. "Difficult to breathe, Carlson. Need Doctor Kemp."

"Yes sir. Your son has already advised the doctor and is calling emergency services."

"911? I don't need 911. Hang up with them, son."

"Father…"

"I said hang up the … phone …" Enderson arched back, gasping again for breath.

Michael began to give more information over the phone when the front door bell rang. Carlson moved quickly out of the den and to the door, opening it for the paramedics outside. He brought them into the office as Michael was hanging up the phone.

"You have to save him," was all he could manage.

"We haven't lost anyone yet," the one woman of the group responded. "We don't expect Mr. Tate to be the first. Are you his son?"

"Yes. You have to save him." Michael turned to his father who was laying more peacefully, his breathing a little fast, but much calmer. His skin color had returned and he didn't look like he was in pain. He stepped a little closer as his father began arguing with one of the technicians.

"I tell you, I do not need to go to any hospital."

The taller male replied. "Sir, I strongly suggest you let us take you to Mercy General. They'll check you over and if everything's fine, send you home."

Enderson tried to sit up but was stopped half way by the technician's hand on his shoulder. He frowned as he laid back. "And I said I do not need …"

"Father, stop being stubborn. You need to listen to them. They are trained to know."

The older Tate turned his face to his son, a mask of surprise. "Are you now ordering me?" he asked in shock.

Michael paused only a moment. "Yes, if that's what it takes for you to stop arguing and go have the experts check you out."

Enderson looked back to the taller technician. "Incredible. What's a man to do when his own son begins to order him around?"

The technician laughed. "Listen to him, would be my guess."

Enderson laid back, looking at the ceiling and sighed. "Alright. Let's get this over with."

Michael relaxed and glanced at Carlson who gave him a positive shake of his head. The younger man smiled in return before looking at his father. "I'll let our guests know; I was getting ready to end the party anyway."

"Michael," Enderson said – his voice beginning to return to one of authority. "You do not need to stop your celebration. I'm not going to die, just see a bunch of nosy doctors who will tell me to stop smoking, don't drink so much, get more exercise and on and on and on."

Michael chuckled, relieved to hear his father sounding more himself. "It's alright, Father. It's time anyway. And I want to be with you at the hospital."

Enderson just shook his head. "I give up. I've lost control."

"I'm glad you realize that, Father." Michael said as the emergency technicians lifted his father onto the waiting gurney.