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The Schuyler Fortune III: Elderberry-3
Later in the evening, Loren and Selene called the new great grandmother, Carol Schuyler, visiting out in Oregon who was thrilled beyond excitement. She told them the news made her day, her month, her year!
"Keep me posted about everything," Carol said, "and if grandmothers get to be in the delivery room I want to put in my request early!"
Grandmother Blossom screamed out loud down the hall in her suite. "I'm so excited, I can't stand it, we're sending out for peppermint ice cream!" It sounded good to Selene. Something cold and sweet sounded like heaven right then.
Eric hugged Selene gently and asked her how she was, then grabbed his brother and danced and jumped with him as they had done as little children.
"You the stud," he yelled, "and you been busy doin' it! I got proof now."
Then he sobered a little and asked if there was one baby or two.
"Please, God, no." said Selene, wiping her forehead in mock horror.
Loren looked at Eric with dawning interest in the idea. "Our bio dad was a twin."
"Wow, it would be like a hat trick or something." said Eric. Selene mock-punched Eric in the arm and told him not to jinx the process.
Eric replied with a mock-serious face, "I believe the outcome may be fixed now because of my brother, well, you know."
"You know what?" yelled Loren."
"Can't say what in front of mixed company, you know, the deformity and all."
"I'm not deformed."
"So some people say, but I've been your twin for years and, well, you can fool some people for a while, but I've known for a long time now. Wonder if that's passed on to offspring or not?"
"Isn't. Go fondle your own deformity."
A loud, very loud whistle pierced the air and Selene took her fingers from her mouth. "That's all, folks. Fun time is over."
"Huh? Just startin, I'd say."
Selene got to be expert referee over the nine months. The ultrasound a few weeks later showed twins. Some weeks later, an ultrasound showed the twins to be boys. The razzle-dazzle, the jokes, the mock-fights, and comments got to be the norm through the second trimester.
At twenty weeks gestation, when the top of Selene's uterus might have just been at the navel normally, her uterus was way above it. Her nausea had disappeared in the second trimester and her energy returned to a point, but carrying around two wildcats, as Loren put it, couldn't have always been easy.
He had some new respect for Olive.
He and Selene had called Jerry and Olive who were delighted to be grandparents and Olive had called back to say she was in a knitting class, something she never had thought she would ever do in a million years.
Selene told Olive she had given her an idea to do the same and thanked her.
Selene with her security team in tow went to her first knitting group in a yarn shop on Fourth Avenue. She had a grand time and never missed a session until the boys were born.
She concentrated on two light blue blankets, one with a red SJ on the corner and one with a green SJ on its corner and had just finished the last stitch at the yarn shop when at thirty-seven weeks she felt a tug in her back and a crashing foot-block inside. Fluid poured down her legs.
The knitting instructor laughed and asked one bodyguard to call 911 and the other to find Loren.
At the hospital, safely ensconced and the ticking sound of both fetal heartbeats filling the air on fetal monitors, Loren called great- grandmothers Carol and Blossom to come and then, encouraged by Selene, called Olive and asked her to come over if she could. To his surprise, she started to cry and asked if he was sure.
"Mom," he said gently, "I called you because all of us want you there to see the twins born. You are their grandmother, the only biological grandmother here. You are important to us and also to these boys. All little boys need grannies...the more the merrier."
"On my way, Loren."
He called his biological father, Jerry.
"Dad," he said, "your grandsons are making their debut tonight. Can you come over?
"Cool beans," replied Jerry, "Everything OK so far? I'll come over as soon as I can get there. You take care."
He called his dad, Michael, and asked him to bring Darren and Tom and come on over when they could.
The delivery was head first, head first after a five-hour labor. Her cervix had effaced (got thin) early due to the weight of the uterine contents and the increased concentration of serum estrogen and progesterone floating around in the bloodstream during the pregnancy.
No matter the cause, the effect was welcome because that part of labor was shorter. The cervix had dilated (opened up in a circle) faster as a result and since the twins were a trifle early at thirty-seven weeks instead of forty weeks. They were a bit smaller and had plenty of room to travel down the birth canal.
After Selene's cervix was fully dilated, the urge to push became stronger and her obstetrician encouraged her to push gently when she felt like it. The twin's heartbeats were strong and steady without decelerations, there was no excessive bleeding and her blood pressure and other vital signs were normal.
She pushed for a while on her side, then later for a while on her back. She had ice chips to suck on, gatorade to drink in small amounts, and an IV to keep the vein open for emergencies only. She had kept her bladder and bowel empty so there were minimal blockages to egress of the twins.
Joseph Loren Marcus Schuyler-Jones was born at 11 p.m. and James Eric Michael Schuyler-Jones followed at 11:06 p.m. The placenta delivered three minutes later with minimal blood loss and good uterine contraction. There were no lacerations.
Selene took both of the boys, wrapped them in turn, Loren holding Joseph while Selene wrapped James. The two great grandmothers and one grandmother in the room had to wait to get their turn in three rocking chairs to hold the new twins. Blossom led out in prayers for them while Selene got cleaned up and her bed freshened.
Loren and Selene looked across the room at their support team, waved to Michael at the door and he came in to see his grandchildren.
While in the hospital with nurses showing her how to nurse and how to change diapers and reviewing safety information, Selene felt pretty supported, confident, and much lighter.
As the nurse wheeled her down to the hospital entrance and as she neared the limousine to go home, Loren carried one baby and she the other. Loren put the infants into the legal car seats (facing backward) and buckled and strapped them in with a light knitted blanket over each. Selene felt some feelings of insecurity about this whole mother thing, then decided to do what she had to do. Her breast milk came in on the third day after delivery. The nurses had tutored her on twin breastfeeding technique and after a couple of days they seemed to latch on well.
Loren had asked security to leave a message at the office that he wouldn't be in for a couple of days and would do what he had to do from home.
A suite had been interconnected to theirs and remodeled a bit to make a nursery for the twins close to Loren and Selene's bedroom.
Loren asked Michael to have security cameras put in the nursery and a new wrinkle Loren had seen, an RFID chip strapped around each baby's ankle like a smaller version of the hospital tags, which they had left on the boys to identify them. The chip triggered still cameras in the Museum by proximity to trace any unauthorized movement and security would know before either left the top floor and because it also triggered a GPS unit in the limousines and in each helicopter and Gulfstream, these twins were very accurately located all the time.
Each twin had the same color of hair. They weighed nearly the same with one-ounce difference. Their blood types were the same.
HLA antigens were done, and the results later showed that they were not precisely identical, but their own parents couldn't tell them apart except for Joseph, who possessed one cowlick in back. James had two cowlicks.
They slept most of the time, awoke when hungry and when their diapers needed changing.
They began to notice each other a little after a few weeks.
Selene was determined to have them bond and as often as possible had them in the same crib for periods of time while she was with them. She hummed music or played classical music on CDs for them. She had played those same CDs to them all during the pregnancy and was doing her own experiment to see if it had any noticeable effect on them. Selene's dad and her aunt came up to visit at the end of the first week. Both were thrilled.
Joe and Jamie, as they began to be called by everybody, lost a little weight, and then gained ferociously. Neither approached the upper limits of normal in weight but stayed in the lean-moderate average range.
They began to have more awake time and were rarely alone when awake. All three of the `grand' moms took turns and sometimes together, the maids had a habit of showing up often and the full-time nanny was always around.
Selene wasn't about to cede `motherhood' to anyone but wanted fulltime observation, thus the nanny. Loren and Selene loved to have the twins in their bed for a couple of hours in the evening. They would talk and sing and play with them and then do a little ritual with each, trading twins each night, but the same ritual before going to the nursery.
The evening prayer included everybody in the family, staff and all, a very short verbal non-scary story to increase the twin's verbal abilities and a gentle rub of the baby's head, chest, back, tummy and legs and arms and hands. This was followed by a gentle `good night' and the door was left open a crack for a bit of light in the room.
The night nanny slept in a room nearby, but Selene insisted that she and Loren be the first responders during the night and would call for help as needed.
The boys slept all night for the first time one night and in the morning, Loren and Selene awakened, looked at each other, looked at the monitors showing the kids were still breathing and realized they had just slept all night. Loren and Selene took the time to play house in celebration.
Late one quiet Friday evening at the Museum, Loren and Selene sat reading in their sitting room. Their boys were asleep, Selene's portable monitor at her side emitting the sounds of two little boys breathing in their sleep and the video showing the quiet forms of her sleeping little ones.
She turned to Loren.
"The kids will be five months old soon. In a few years they will start first grade. The tutors will be coming in then. Can we talk about their schooling now? I've been thinking about it and wondering if they should be in church school instead."
Loren lifted his head, smiled and looked at his wife. He had gotten to know that once she started something, she usually got her way, at least with him and sometimes, he thought, it was just easier to not fight destiny, since Selene was his destiny and he trusted her sense of rightness and good judgment.
He had not attended church school at age five. He remembered the story that Michael and Marcus had told him about Eric and his adoption at about that age off the streets and his subsequent tutors.
He knew his boys had to grow up and learn what there was to learn in a formal way to be able to function, in Joseph's case, perhaps even as beneficiary or investment manager of the Schuyler Trust one day after either Eric or himself.
He had genuine reservations about full-time tutors. He knew all about that educational system.
He also wondered whether church schools had the horsepower to rigorously help kids to learn so they could truly be educated well.
He shared his thoughts with Selene and she listened and thought for a minute. "I guess it depends somewhat on what our goals are for them. We can agree that it isn't their decision to make at this age. They don't have the background or judgment yet as kids to take on that decision. That means you and I will have to work it out."
Loren continued, "I see their young minds needing association with like-minded, kind Christian kids and teachers who have decided that each child is valuable to Jesus, that Jesus loves each child, teachers who are allowed to pray and teach religion in the school, to teach our kids to pray for strength and wisdom and courage and to praise and thank God for His blessings, to pray for their parents and family and the world."
"I know we can teach them a lot of that at home. I want them to learn that in a community of kids who see those activities as normal, not weird. They need to learn to function in a community, to get along, to solve human interaction issues, to understand that others have problems too, just different problems from their own, to learn sympathy and empathy."
"I want them to know Jesus and relate to Him personally." said Selene.
Loren listened and had an idea. "What would you think about sending them to church school?"
He grinned, and she stuck her tongue out at him a little. He went on, "And what if we supplement the classes at the appropriate time with tutors to teach art and finance so that they are well trained to take over the Schuyler Trust when and if the time comes?"
Selene looked at him and smiled. "I married the smartest man on the planet and the best looking and the daddy of my great kids and my lover, all at the same time. God bless that ruby."
Loren felt a familiar urge and they wasted no time demonstrating their agreement on the deal.
Sometime later, a whisper, "That was, nice. Very adequate."
"Nice?" he roared, "Adequate? Come back over here and I'll show you adequate!"
Michael knew that the safety of the family's wealth lay primarily in its sheer bulk. It was his responsibility, however, to consider all of the possible factors that could diminish the `pile' as he called it. Taxes, fines, fees, excessive spending and inability to keep up with inflation, lack of asset appreciation, theft, rot, rust...all of these and probably more he couldn't think of had to be analyzed.
Taxes were under control for the moment. Non-profit foundations paid very little if any taxes, but his would have to change to non-profit to achieve that. There would be expense for the transfer from profit to non-profit status and the amount would have to be accounted for in advance against the benefit.
In addition, lawmakers controlled the rates of taxation and he didn't like that variable hanging over the pile.
He was unaware of any fines.
He and Loren had discussed reducing fees by paying themselves the fees in some cases, but the return on investment for that reduction didn't always make financial sense.
Excessive spending was a fascinating concept. Most of the employee and professional expenses that other businesses would attack first increased the Schuyler Trust bottom line far beyond their cost. When several hundreds of billions of dollars of assets were managed, trimming the percentage of costs was actually a tough go.
Inability to keep up with inflation would be a potential problem with the art and gem collections except that demand inflated far faster than adjusted inflation for the quality and scarcity of the collections that he owned.
This was crucial, like his Grandfather Frank had always said, "There are no property taxes and little maintenance cost for art and gems compared to their total value."
The second that demand went to zero, however, those collections would be millstones, worth only the negative costs to dump them.
Michael had always thought that an item was only worth what someone would pay for it anyway.
He thought about the problem of a lack of asset appreciation. There needed to be an organized review, somehow, a way to more accurately assess asset worth and appreciation, but to finish that project one would have to sell some items to determine their value and that was self-defeating.
Theft wasn't probable. It was possible, but not likely. They did what they could. One thing they had not done recently was an internal security review and he made a mental note to call the NYPD Internal Affairs office and spend some time learning more about those kinds of efforts of self-auditing employees.
Gems didn't rot. Gems didn't rust. The titanium fences would have to be replaced someday if the average temperatures hovered around one hundred ten degrees Fahrenheit for a prolonged period of time, but that hadn't happened yet.
Digital money didn't rust. Art didn't deteriorate fast but did over time and teams of experts were constantly assessing and repairing and preventing what damage they could.
The most fragile of the family's wealth were its family members, none of whom, including Marcus, would escape death in this world unless Jesus came first.
Michael rarely got angry, but he woke up seething one morning for no apparent reason. He snapped at everyone, ignored every `good morning' he heard, ran twice around the park seeing mostly red, ignoring the security guys, his mood getting worse with every step.
He stood in the warm shower, amazed at feeling this way, it wasn't him and for the life of him he didn't know, couldn't focus, didn't really want to know, why.
At the office he ended up telling his secretary to hold all calls and reply `not in' to all emails and communication unless it was a life and death emergency, at which instruction the secretary raised one of her eyebrows a bit, trying to remain professional.
"Someone didn't get his malted milk this morning," she thought to herself.
As the day wore on, Michael found that he was thinking in circles, he had a headache, was more tired than he ever was and became a little alarmed. He called Blossom, described his symptoms and she beamed.
"I've been waiting for this day!"
"What on earth are you talking about? I feel awful and I'm so mad I can't stand it."
"Exactly," Blossom replied, "It's your delayed anger thing and it's about time."
"My delayed ass. I'm not angry..." Michael stood up, went over to the corner of the room, lay down with a pillow and curled up into a tight ball where Darren and Tom found him later.
"We're going to get Blossom, guys," said Tom. "She might be able to help."
Blossom listened to Tom and Darren for a moment and thanked them for telling her.
"I'm not surprised. He's going to get worse before he gets better and needs professional help. Let Michael stay where he is for now. The corner he's in is the one his mind chose as the best place, the most secure place for him to be while he fights for emotional survival, so we'll respect that until I can get the help he needs."
"Go to his room and one of you quietly tell him that help is on the way. Do not touch him, don't attempt to have a conversation with him or each other, don't ask him questions, put a light blanket over him and a pillow under his head, turn the room lights down a bit and keep the room quiet. One of you stay with him through the night and stay quiet during your alternating shifts so he can rest."
"Go with him to the bathroom, don't allow him near a knife or other sharp object, don't let him swallow pills."
Blossom told them she would summon the troops, closed the door softly, and went to her suite to call a friend. Blossom had friends. After years of private duty nursing, she had networks of friends with networks of their own.
"Hi, this is Blossom Jones. How are you, honey? Glad to hear it. Say there, I need to find Gloria Billings. It's important. Can you help? Sure thing, here's my email."
The stone had been thrown into the pond, the ripple was widening as she stared at her laptop and within a few minutes, she had email from someone she hadn't met. "Blossom, Carissa called. She said Nancy heard from Karen that you were looking for Gloria. Gloria doesn't work for Dr. Aaron anymore, she now works at Northside and her number is..."
Dr. Aaron is over at Uptown West and it's the same old story with him, always in at eight and his personal cell is..."
Blossom typed back a `thank you, dear' and acknowledged the kindness.
Dr. Aaron had been the psychiatrist who had taken care of one of her private duty nursing cases. Because of the IV pump and a few other technical things, she had to be in the room when Dr. Aaron treated the patient and she had never forgotten that doctor.
In fact, at the time Blossom had vowed that if her family or God forbid she herself ever needed that kind of treatment, she'd never get it from anyone else.
At precisely seven fifty-nine the next morning, Blossom rang Dr. Aaron's cell number and was gratified to hear his voice.
"Dr. Aaron, Nurse Blossom Jones here. Good morning and I need to bend your ear for a second. You remember that we took care of Hank Carillo together, he with the IV and all."
"My son-in-law, Michael Schuyler-Jones lies in the fetal position in his suite at the Schuyler museum at this moment and I'm concerned. Will you be able to see him today? A cancellation at eleven...I'll drag him there. Thank you, doctor."
At Uptown West that morning, bystanders would have been stunned to see a grown, disheveled white man supported by a sturdy black older woman in a nurse's uniform, white, stiffly starched, white cap with black bands and gorgeous black hair exit a limousine and security guards tucking him into a wheelchair.
`Surreal' didn't begin to describe the scene and had there been bystanders, they might have looked about for cameras filming some kind of movie.
In Dr. Aaron's office, Blossom wrote a check to the receptionist for ten thousand dollars on account, rolled her eyes as she signed and said, "Let's see how well he gets on this much."
It was like her trademark thing, this down payment in trade for professional services.
Dr. Aaron quietly assessed Michael, took his vital signs, noted his blood pressure to be normal, an occasional missed beat, warm skin, regular, though slightly fast respirations, hands uncurled, strong pulse, lips pink but no sign of CO poisoning.
Dr. Aaron didn't think he was dealing with an acute infection or cancer or a hormonal problem like diabetes or physical trauma, nothing overtly cardiovascular or orthopedic.
This was a problem he was trained to solve and sometimes, treat.
Michael lay on his couch facing away from Dr. Aaron. Blossom and security waited out in the reception area.
"Your mother-in-law called me this morning. Can you tell me what happened yesterday?"
"I woke up angry. I'm never that way and although I can afford anything in the world, I cannot afford that." The words were shaky.
"Did someone hurt you?"
"No, my husband died in an accident."
A moment passed, a long moment. "I'm sorry."
"I'm over it."
"I can see you now, Michael. Clearly. Can you still see him in your mind's eye?"
"This isn't about him."
"What is it about, Michael?" Dr. Aaron kindly pushed back a little. His goal was to get Michael to talk his way to the answer himself.
"That's just it, I don't know why I'm so angry."
"What are you afraid of, Michael?"
"I'm not afraid of...I'm angry, not afraid."
"Tell me about yesterday."
"I just woke up and he...I was just angry all day and I couldn't keep doing that."
"No, of course not."
"There are at least three things that make us angry, Michael. One is when people think less of us for some reason that we think isn't fair, another is when we, ourselves, devalue ourselves because of a mistake, a misstep or a fail to reach a goal or maintain a self-imposed standard."
"It doesn't make sense to link your husband's accident to devaluation of you, Michael. By definition, it was an accident over which you had no control."
"The third cause is tougher to identify, but it has something to do with being afraid to lose control."
"Does your business involve control, Michael?"
"Yes, I can't be like this, I just can't."
"Exactly. It is important for everyone to control what he can in his life. Some are good at it, some not so good. Those who cannot control their emotions and their surroundings and their anger over perceived faults fill our prisons. You, obviously, value control and are good at it."
"But he left me anyway. I had no say when or how."
"What happened?"
"He died in an auto accident here in Manhattan. A stolen Brinks truck crashed into him."
"I understand. I want you to imagine that you are afraid instead of angry for a minute. Is it possible that you fear a life without your husband, that you have lost your direction, your goals, your happiness for now, your raison d'être?"
"That's it in a nutshell, doc."
Dr. Aaron continued. "Imagine a coin, Michael, with two sides. One side is fear, the other anger. As the coin spins it can fall on either side at random and our brains can pivot to either very quickly and at the oddest times."
"You awoke yesterday morning without him and for whatever reason your brain didn't want to handle the loss as fear yesterday. That's pretty painful and awkward stuff, fear. Men in our culture are sometimes trained that fear is weakness, somehow not 'manly'."
"Could it be that your brain pivoted to anger to try that out for a while? That process of pivoting can be a temporary relief, can be even more awkward to handle, but it serves as a shout out to others for help, where fear is so internal that we get literally sick of handling it without clear progress toward resolving the fear."
"Intense anger, internalized, can quickly immobilize people who see themselves as basically 'nice'; externalized, that same anger can lead to violence. You have lived your adult life as a 'nice' guy, trained to be in control."
"The resulting paralyzing cessation of your ability to do the work that you value and relate to others as you wish is not crippling necessarily for all time. That's a bit of good news."
"You will recover from this anger, and as importantly, the fear. Your husband is truly gone and will not return. Your happiness will return, as he would have wished."
"Couples cannot talk about life after their relationship is over. There are no future answers or future solutions to be worked out before that point that satisfies either person very much. You could not have prepared for this process. There is no school to teach it."
"I have some time at 4:00 p.m. this Tuesday and want to talk to you again then. Good-bye."
Dr. Aaron reached out and shook Michael's hand and left the room.
Michael's eyes blinked, and he took a deep breath. He felt a small bridge to where he needed to be and a kind person to lead him across.
He suddenly remembered a picture that Blossom had in her suite, a picture that might have been in his room when he was little, of two small children crossing a rickety bridge over a rushing stream and an angel watching over them.
He imagined he was one of those kids and he wanted his grandchildren to grow up seeing that picture.
Michael told his family he was taking off for a few days and would return. A limousine drove him to the RV storage unit where the RV supervisor had expertly stocked his unit, fueled, and washed it.
He got behind the wheel and drove. He stopped in a Wal-Mart parking lot that first night somewhere north of the city off of I-95, travelling north the next morning with a supply of snacks and fruit with him from the store.
He bypassed Boston and at a campground near Hartford sat for a day or two, hiking a little, talking to a man and his wife in the next space over about this and that, chatting with a cashier at Hannaford's in Massachusetts, sharing a table with an old man in a Subway store in Maine, ending up for a day or two in Bangor where he bought a cap at an old country store just out of town on an old country road and spent the night in another Wal-Mart parking lot.
The next morning, he remembered his Tuesday afternoon appointment with Dr. Aaron, arranged to leave his RV at a park in Bangor and summoned Sweet Pea to Bangor to take him back to Teterboro the same day.
He noted, once again now as an adult, the difference between covering a long, real distance by jet and the slow, mile-by-mile journey by motor home, connecting with people and earth. He decided that he liked both and had missed out on some of the journey part of traveling.
Dr. Aaron greeted him again at 4:00 p.m. on Tuesday at his office.
"Michael," he said, "how are things going?"
"Just got back from a motor home trip to Bangor, doc."
"How are things going?"
"Well, the motor home hasn't really had any problems."
Dr. Aaron persisted. "Have you been thinking about Marcus some?"
"I try not to."
"You try not to?"
"Yeah, I feel better when I don't think about it."
"Have you been able to not think about him?"
"Not, well, no."
"When you do, how do you feel?"
"Like I can't solve it, can't bring him back, like I'll never find anybody like him."
"I think that's reasonable to assume. Why would you expect to find anyone like him?"
"I want someone to think about me the way he did and love me. I need to tell you that my husband and I were two of a throuple. We loved and were loved by a third man. Since Marcus died, the two remaining from that triad, Darren and I have begun to love a third man, Tom, who has tried to keep us together as an alpha male."
Dr. Aaron was quiet for a bit. "When my wife died, I felt a little lost and didn't know if I could find myself because I had defined myself by our relationship. Groups fill some needs or they would not exist. Inside those groups, individual crises occur. It sounds like Tom's role was the beginning of your healing process."
Dr. Aaron went on, "I grieved for the relationship mostly and perhaps, myself. I had laid my spouse to rest and the problem wasn't her or about her. The classic descriptions of grief don't mention the delayed anger syndrome. I think you may have a mild case of that."
"That's what Blossom said I had."
"She's a very bright nurse. Nurses see first-hand what many physicians never get to see, observing patients for hours on end, they have insights we typically miss."
Dr. Aaron said that grieving involves anger at some point usually prior to acceptance but the classic order of stages does not always impose on the realities of things observed.
"You will recover, although I cannot tell you how long it will take. How far your recovery progresses, I cannot tell you in advance. After physical trauma, scars and disabilities sometimes linger. After emotional loss, emotional scars and disabilities often linger as well."
"It is OK to bear a scar or a disability in honor of someone you love or loved, but if possible for you, some work to minimize the scar or disability will pay off in your work. Your relationships with your family and friends will improve if you consider turning away from where you are now and who you miss."
"Although the most remote and even repugnant idea right now, a turning away from your present ideas and longings may lead to the positive and happier life that your husband must have wanted for you."
Another long silence while Michael chewed through that, vowing internally he'd never risk marriage, still not quite able to fully surround and include a replacement, to really understand the notion that the problem wasn't Marcus or the loss of Marcus altogether, but himself and his unwillingness to give up his cries for help. Darren and Tom had been good for him, but they weren't Marcus. No one was or could be, Marcus.
"All people eventually are responsible for helping themselves forward in life, to understand what needs to be understood, to work for what is needed, to grieve while grief is helpful and to come back to living when their infant-like cries for attention and help interfere with the activities of daily life.
"The tasks of daily life for the adult may be viewed as lonely, and in some respects, like Thoreau said, to paraphrase, `the tasks are not noisy and playful', but the living of life can be effective and efficient, useful and satisfying."
Dr. Aaron shook his hand and said his next free appointment was a week hence at 4:00 p.m. if that worked for Michael, who accepted. Dr. Aaron left the room.
The next week Michael sent someone to drive the RV back down to New Jersey and concentrated on the family business again. He enjoyed sex with Darren and Tom one night and afterward told them that he had said goodbye to Marcus.
He told Tom that the alpha thing needed to be toned down, that he, Michael was in charge of his own body, asked them to sleep in their own suite at night, told them he loved both of them dearly and wanted to continue being loved.
They all decided that Tom's rules about playing outside their group worked for each of them, however.
"Tom, honey, I need to thank you for supporting me, us, at a time when my behavior wasn't lovable."
"It's a farm thing, Michael and something that us stallions just do naturally. I'm glad to see the 'mare' feeling her oats again."
Darren chimed in. "Tom, it might not be that simple. Some stallions get loved and even fucked sometimes. You've taught me what pushes your buttons and you shouldn't be surprised if one or both of us decides to give your butt some loving, possibly tender care one of these days."
The next night in Darren and Tom's suite, there sounded a knock on the door late at night. Tom had just finished brushing his teeth, Darren opened the door and Michael entered in his briefs.
"Tom, I've been thinking about what Darren said about some stallions and what they need. Please get down on the bed, honey, on your back with your head here at the end of the bed.
"No, I want you, Tom, and I want Darren to watch and join in where he wants. Here's my cock, Tom. Open up and suck me, honey."
Tom's breathing rate increased, he began to object, then thought better of it. He took Michael into his mouth, after a few gags managed to suppress them, swallowed Michael whole and sucked like a recently-repaired vacuum cleaner.
"I don't want to come yet, Tom." Michael pulled out and turned Tom over on his hands and knees, Tom's head near the pillows. He lubed himself and Tom and using his fingers, one, then two...Tom still wasn't so sure about this but remembered how the cows stood still for the bull on the farm. He stuck his ass up as best he could and awaited the assault. What followed surprised him. He felt his butt being licked and then his ass lips. It felt fabulous and sent tingles throughout his pelvis and spine. He wanted it to last forever.
Words came out of his mouth, loving, dirty, begging, pleading. "Put it inside of me, Michael..." Digging in and biting his pillow, hands on his ass and back, more stimulation of his hole...Darren quietly entered Tom and Tom knew he had found a new sexual place, top to bottom overhaul, his ass happy at last. He was through comparing bottoms to mares. He was an ecstatic male bottom.
"Thank you, Michael..." Tom looked around, "Darren!"
Michael had left the arena earlier, left the room for the professor and his ex-student to finish what Tom had started, the switch from farm to city, top to bottom.
Darren and Tom woke late the next morning.
Michael had an early breakfast in his room the morning after, served by a footman about twenty-five years old, built, good complexion, looked great in his uniform, and cheerful. Andrew, the footman, also kept stealing glances at Michael's mouth, his hands and his package. Michael smiled to himself. "Andrew, tell me about yourself."
"Nothing much to tell, sir. Born and raised in Vermont. An older sister, two younger brothers. Mom passed on. Dad is an electrical engineer, a single dad who raised us after mom died. I was very glad and lucky to find this job and have wanted to thank you in person."
"Do you have kids?"
"No, never wanted to have any, never had a girl-friend."
"Never had a girl-friend?"
"No, not my thing, I guess. I'm really close to my dad and brothers. We belonged to a single dad's club so met lots of dads and brothers at their summer camp."
"Did you..."
"Yeah. My dad, my brothers, other dads, their sons. Can I get you anything?"
"I'm good, Andrew...," a pause, "Do you miss summer camp?"
"Sure do. I'm a little busy and a little afraid to meet people here in the city. Sometimes city people think guys from the woods are hicks. I have a bachelor's degree in piano performance."
"I'm saving up money to get my master's at Rockefeller U. I don't want to finish with loans over my head. Most jobs are low-paying that involve piano unless one gets to be the world's best expositor of Chopin or something."
Michael checked with the housekeeper that day. She said Andrew was a good worker, showed up on time, was detail oriented, had a great attitude and in her opinion wouldn't stay a footman very long.
He called the trust that day to deposit the sum of tuition required for a master's degree at Rockefeller University in piano performance for Andrew with a letter promising a large endowment for the school of music on Andrew's admittance and a larger sum at his successful graduation.
The housekeeper promised to task Andrews to Michael's suite every day. After the first week of that, Andrew asked Michael one day if he knew why he was assigned there. "Sure, I like being around you. I'd like to know you better. You're cheerful."
"Thank you."
The next morning, Michael dressed in his briefs and answered the door at the breakfast knock, his body displayed. After viewing Michael up and down, and his ass when Michael turned around, Andrew laid out the meal. Andrew asked if he could wash his hands. Michael smiled and nodded, a bite of banana in his mouth.
After a few minutes, Andrew came back, dressed in a towel around his waist, a graceful black tattoo band around his upper left arm, his muscular chest decorated with light, soft curly hair and a smile on his face.
"Did you say you'd like to get to know me better?"
Breakfast forgotten, Michael stood, delighted, suddenly erect, briefs super tight. "Are you sure? Come here and tell me more."
Michael met with Loren who noted his dad's happy face again and wondered what that was all about; Loren told him the key facts and financial figures of the trust investments and the fund's investments, which were sailing far above inflation and the stock market. Risk was still moderate.
Loren mentioned that Selene had expressed some interest in currency trading, had trained in London with David as her mentor and had global network of Forex friends who did very well.
Loren's concerns about currency trading involved the classic risks.
Loss of capital from inadequate information, from slow communications, from not paying attention to trends, vacations, new or dishonest traders, not hedging or buffering transactions to minimize loss, not identifying and reducing risk, being greedy, from leveraged trading, and trading in multiple markets at a time... were all risks to be taken with risk capital only, money the trader could afford to lose.
Loren reminded Michael that currency trading at its heart was simply buying large amounts of foreign money, a `currency', paired with a guaranteed exchange rate for that block of currency.
To do that, for example, a private trader would use a software program (a cost) to access a market (another cost), find an attractive currency pair (attractive means the trader owns currency, see an offer (defined in a currency pair quote) for that currency, and decide that a profit can be made to sell in the speculation that the currency pair he buys is going to favorably change in value.
The markets would often allow traders to leverage the process, paying to control a larger sum of money in the hope that a currency would change favorably and make more than a simple sale of one's own currency. With the chance of a windfall came the risk of a huge loss in that type of trading.
Michael told Loren that the decisions about investing were his to make.
"We have only to select world-class software, get world-class global broadband communication capabilities with backup and educate our workforce to standards like yours and our chances of doing well are as good as any other traders. The basic trick is to earn more money than you lose."
He wondered out loud if establishing offices in three or four major capitals abroad to gather information that might affect currency-trading pairs would be helpful and decided it would be. The Schuyler bank has overseas branch locations that could provide physical space.
"If you were to find a group of the world's most successful traders, whether individuals or someone working on Wall Street, we might learn enough to make it worthwhile. I wouldn't mind paying for good information about trading strategies and I think that the trading stars will welcome the consultation income."
"In the meantime," Michael said, "I'll start reading up on Forex to know how to spend to get the best information."
"Ask Selene to come by with you next visit and we'll talk again."
A week later Michael, Loren and Selene made a business plan based on the business model constructed by several of the global currency-trading stars who had been paid very well for their work.
A team of programmers for the two Dell clusters worked on a new proprietary program that Loren called `STrade'. The program was tested carefully for weeks without investing any money and it performed well after several versions and bug fixes formed the final version, STrade 2.4.4. It fully utilized a large number of cores with thousands of threads very rapidly processing the current markets, a huge chunk of the market trading history and thousands of global economic factors that affected the foreign exchange markets currently and in the past.
Loren and Michael realized that the next step was to set up Schuyler Traders as foreign exchange brokers to avoid their own excessive market costs and to make commissions on other trader's orders.
Then access to foreign exchange markets was considered and the Schuyler Traders used as a vehicle to access the appropriate markets including FOREX.
Dedicated optical circuits to Great Britain, European capitals, Beijing, Shanghai, Moscow, Hong Kong, Riyadh, Abu Dhabi, Doha, Dubai, Tokyo, Toronto, Malaysia, Wellington, Perth, Buenos Aires, Sydney, Cape Town, Melbourne, and Singapore were explored. The trust and SFT already had some of these circuits leased. At that point, no trader anywhere had communication speeds faster than the speed of light.
Those circuits were switched to Schuyler Traders, who then allowed the trust and SFT to use them. Those not already leased were obtained for Schuyler Traders, the new foreign exchange trading firm.
Offices of Schuyler Traders were opened and staffed in London, Paris, Riyadh, Abu Dhabi, Tokyo, Singapore and Shanghai with more expected in other capitals. Each of the offices had comfortable, inviting environments for traders who wished to use their facilities as well as floors of traders who traded for Schuyler alone.
The opening day came. Michael asked the Trust to transfer two billion dollars to Schuyler Traders and the supercomputer that had been following the currency markets for weeks and making money on paper, smoothly and quietly actually placed the long and short orders at a rate calculated not to disturb the global markets which was easy, considering that two billion USD was a drop in the world's bucket of dollars.
`Smoothly and quietly' was important, since small changes in the exchange rates regarding currency pairs were important and with large positions, large sums of money were at risk.
At the end of one week, that capital had increased by ten percent if one counted the fees from private traders in the global offices. Michael and Loren were delighted with Selene's work educating the supervisors of the traders and her suggestion to explore the business.
They decided to not invest more capital at the moment, preferring to designate the initial contribution as `risk capital', waiting to see what other opportunities presented themselves.
Eric Schuyler-Jones sat in front of his dad Wednesday morning at 10 a.m. sharp.
He had been summoned for the appointment in his dad's office at the museum at 9:30 a.m. by his father's secretary, a recently hired graduate of `the somewhere school of indifferent secretarial skills
"Your father wants to talk to you today at 10 a.m."
Her curriculum had not included training in warmth. The `somewhere school' might not have offered the course, he thought.
Eric arrived five minutes early.
"Good morning," he said, only to immediately realize his waste of breath. She only glanced up over her bifocals.
He sat, fuming, and at ten promptly the secretary rose, walked with an obvious painful gait to the tall doors of his dad's office and managed to open them. She motioned with a flick of her ever-so-bony wrist.
"Dad," he said, as soon as the doors were closed, "what gives with the attitude in the antechamber?"
"She's getting a divorce. Spousal abuse," his dad replied. "Let's fry some fish.
Michael took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then looked at his son for a second before going on.
"I've come to a decision about the trust. Only one of you can inherit as beneficiary since there are no guaranteed majority decisions in a committee of two."
Michael went on.
"I talked to Loren earlier this morning and formally asked him to be the director of the various Schuyler funds as of today. I also have asked the Schuyler trust to establish a separate trust for Loren and his family, about four billion dollars. He will manage that fund as well and inherit the principal, dividends and interest."
It will take a little time to legally establish that new personal trust legal structure and the money from the Schuyler trust should be transferred within six weeks after that.
"Eric, I want to ask you to be the next beneficiary of the Schuyler trust after me."
"You know that this does not give you power to make investment decisions for the Schuyler trust. That's Loren's work."
"It does give you," Michael went on, "since you will own it, the right to spend it without diminishing the principal, to allow its growth along with the specific responsibility to do good and care for all of our family, immediate and extended, both the Schuyler and the Jones side, and, if they re-marry or have other children (not likely) as many of them as you see fit and that includes your own biological or partnered family through to their deaths if you so choose."
"Ever since Marcus died, I have tried to maintain interest in the trust, its affairs and business, but find my attention wandering. I want to see Marcus again. Andrew and I have become very close, I know, TMI, but Marcus was the guy with whom I was 'in love'. We adopted you together and parented you guys together."
At Eric's horrified look, he quickly went on, "I'm not considering suicide."
He told me once that he believed in heaven and I believe too, even though I don't have a lot of evidence to go on. He told me faith was the substance of things hoped for. I have a tiny bit of faith and hope that's enough."
"How say you?"
Eric wasn't shocked. He and Loren had already talked about the choices Michael might make. He had taken an art major. Loren had taken finance. The decision was expected.
Whether the Schuyler trust was shared between them or given to one was of little consequence to the twins, who had been told by their Grandma Carol long ago that inheriting from Michael was possible. The boys had trained for the possibilities.
Eric thought about future conflicts. He thought about Lena, Loren and Selene with their twin boys, Blossom, Carol, his uncle John, aunt Barbara and her family, his biological parents and his own capacity for making good decisions.
A phrase from church school flashed into his head about `being faithful over a few things prior to being made ruler of many things'.
"Sure, dad," he said. "I'll do my best." Somewhere in his head was a list. The first thing he'd do would be to transfer that secretary out of his office. He didn't get to bring his problems to work, so why did...then he felt guilty and wondered if there was a solution that would work for everyone involved. He just didn't want people to be greeted by an ice queen at his door someday.
Michael looked relieved, partly because Eric accepted and partly because the decision was made. Because Eric hadn't bolted when he mentioned Andrew, he went out on a limb and told Eric in confidence about the relationships that he and Marcus had with Darren, then Tom and the current state of those ties.
Eric seemed to want to know how his dad had known he liked guys. "I always did, I guess, but it took a long time for it to dawn on me. I never had a girl-friend, didn't like sports, liked education and art, felt an instant attraction to Marcus in college and there ya go, boom."
"Some guys don't tumble until their life is nearly over. I was lucky to know sooner, before any lives were ruined. I was also lucky that I fell in love with a real person and never fell out of love. Like most gay guys, I played, but your dad was 'it' for me. Still is after his passing."
He told Eric that both the grandmothers wanted to spend more time with Michael. Since Marcus had died, Blossom had been even more adamant, saying she only had so much time left to spend on this earth with Michael now.
"You could use more job preparation, Michael mused."
"When I became beneficiary after mom was declared deceased, some formal and advanced art training would have helped a lot," he mused. "I could have used some experience at Sotheby's Auction House and a fellowship in European Art at the Louvre.
"Just saying, Eric. You have already done the art major but the Louvre and Sotheby's Auction House?"
Michael lifted his eyebrows and Eric realized that he had been given some marching orders, good suggestions, and figured the interview was over. He figured wrong.
"Tell me about Lena."
"Well, she's pretty nice. You went to school with her dad at Grinnell and she lives and breathes art in two languages."
"What does she want in life or from you?"
Eric was a little irritated and tried not to show it. Where had that come from? Why the question and even more, why his own reaction?
"I guess I don't know yet."
"Well then," said his dad lightly, "there's another project for you. Perhaps the most immediate."
Eric hadn't talked to Lena in the last week. He wasn't sure what to ask her or say to her.
He realized suddenly he didn't have any urges to see her or be with her or for her to have his babies or anything else. He didn't know her that well, wondered where all the feeling went and felt assured that time would take care of the problem.
Eric always thought that when he fell for someone, they would fill his mind and attention...of course he would want to be with her all the time. He hadn't missed her or thought about her during the past week.
He liked the idea of a Lena in his life. He wasn't, however, sure how he felt about her at this point.
He left the office then and walked out past the cranky secretary. He didn't feel like celebrating. He wanted to cry and sleep for a while.
He did both.
Eric awoke, hungry, sometime after two p.m. He called the kitchen and the cook said she had saved a ton of food. He had a sudden urge to eat in the kitchen.
The cook told him to come on over.
At a small table in the kitchen, she served up fluffy mashed potatoes, the kind from scratch with sour cream, fake bacon bits, chives, butter and salt mixed in. There were reheated vegetarian Swedish meatballs.
She had also scraped corn from the cob and served the whole kernels with a hint of chili powder, salt and a light brush of mayonnaise, cotija cheese and melted butter. Dessert was Jell-O pie, a layered affair of graham cracker crust, above that a cream cheese and crushed pecan layer, then a lemon Jell-O and crushed pineapple layer refrigerated until firm and then the top layer, green Jell-O beaten with whipped cream and refrigerated. A little of the rich dessert went a long way.
He was really full then and asked the cook what she thought of the museum and the family. She was a simple woman, vastly talented in the kitchen, less so socially, plainspoken, homely appearance, now deep in doughnut batter, flour on her hands and apron, hair combed back and netted.
She had come to the family with great recommendations having worked for some of the Metropolitan Opera stars' households.
Eric recalled that she had brought her two single twin brothers over from the old country before the war and had not seen or heard from her parents again.
"What do you think of this place?"
"What kind of a question is that? The museum is here, and somebody has to take care of it. It doesn't really matter what I think of it."
"What do I think of the family? I think of them as my own. I feed them like I've fed them for years. It's a part of me. Part of who I am."
"My mother always said I was born to take care of people in the kitchen. She was right. I'm happy right here." She shook her head and muttered something.
I laughed and thanked her for feeding us so well. She looked at me for a moment and I saw a tiny upward flick of her face, a hint of a smile of pleasure and she turned back to her doughnuts.
I thought about it for the afternoon. Was I born to take care of my family? I prayed about it and asked for strength to do that and felt better. Then I thought for a minute about sending mixed messages to God.
If one asked Him for strength and then didn't believe He would do what He promised, what kind of message would I be sending? I asked for strength to believe like my dad believed.
I saw Loren that evening in his suite and we talked. He thought the arrangement would work well. He didn't know art and wasn't interested in it. He knew finance and markets. We were twins. No one knew us better than we did. We each trusted the other and were committed to sharing the tasks of caring for the family. Period.