As always, the most impressive part of the office to V.T. was the view of Central Park. The gray crowds of trees stretched away to the north in the dimming light outside, but within a couple of months would be leafing out, an oasis of green in gray old Gotham. Even in winter, the scenery before him reminded V.T. of how the contrasting views from his father's and his uncle's offices matched their personalities.
His father spent many of his lunch hours walking in the park; he called it "getting in touch with sanity." Winter mornings sledding with his son gave way to summer mornings playing catch or taking a stroll with his wife while their boy wobbled ahead on a new bicycle.
Dean Newbury's office, on the other hand, faced south. Still a fantastic view, but one dominated by edifices of granite, concrete, glass, and steel. Fitting, V.T. thought, for a man with the emotional capacity of a rock.
Then again, he knew that his father also had reaped the benefits of a big-money law firm without complaint. He'd never had to worry about how to pay the mortgage or send his son to the finest boarding schools and Europe for "fine tuning."
His wife's family, who were quick to remind the Newbury side that they could trace their American beginnings back to the Pilgrims, were wealthy New England bluebloods. But the Newbury family was richer still, though considered by their in-laws to be "newcomers," having only reached America sometime around the Revolutionary War.
Neither side was known for its warmth. Public demonstrations of affection were frowned upon. But the New Englanders were puppy dogs compared to the Newbury branch. In fact, V.T.'s paternal grandfather, a one-eyed monster named Haldor, made Uncle Dean Newbury seem warm and cuddly as a koala bear. Not once could V.T. remember having received a pat on the head or a kind word from the time he was born until the old man's death. In fact, his most vivid memory of Grandfather Newbury was how the family patriarch would follow him with that one eye as he walked past, like a vulture sizing up a dying rabbit.
When V.T. asked his father why Grandfather Newbury didn't seem to like him much, his father laughed. So you noticed that, too, eh? he'd said. Don't let it bother you, it's just the way he is; he treated me the same, and I don't think he knows any better.
The only person who ever really seemed to matter to Grandfather Newbury was Uncle Dean, who, V.T. gathered from his mother, spent much of his time after adolescence in his father's company. But I daresay there's little affection between them, she'd added. It's more like they're in business together. Just remember you have a mother and father who love you very much.
V.T. had considered himself lucky that he got his pair of parents.
While still patrician in many respects, they were odd ducks in their respective families, with all sorts of unsavory habits like laughing out loud and kissing in public. Their child was considered insufferably unruly-likely to speak before spoken to, and loud. But his parents ignored their families' admonishments to take him in hand before it was "too late."
When V.T.'s grandfather passed away there was a large funeral on what was a fittingly gloomy, misty day, attended by a host of severe, important-looking men and their dour, faded wives. But he couldn't remember anybody actually crying except for his dad. The others simply stood or sat beneath umbrellas with their faces unmoving, as if set in stone. And when the brief service was over, they simply turned away, got in their limousines, and returned from wherever they came.
V.T. and his father were the last ones left at the grave site.
They'd stood there holding hands and looking at the casket as raindrops struck it and rolled off. The boy had looked up at his father and been surprised to see tears also rolling from his face. Good-bye, Dad, he'd said at last. I wish I could have known you.
With the passing of the old man, V.T.'s uncle had been next in line for what his dad called the throne… And he's welcome to it.
Dean Newbury was a chip off the granite block that was his father. He made it clear at every opportunity that his brother was a disappointment to the family and argued incessantly with him about taking on pro bono cases on behalf of indigent people or causes Vincent supported, such as Greenpeace.
One such argument V.T. overheard when he was twelve or so. It was one of the few times he ever heard his father raising his voice, and the exchange stuck. Pro bono, Dean, do you know what that means? For the good, Dean, for the good. I'm trying to save the soul of this firm, if there was ever a soul to be saved.
Dean Newbury shouted back. This firm doesn't need a soul. What it needs are billable hours, big settlements, and huge fees. And senior partners who remember their responsibility to their family.
Damn this family's responsibilities, Vincent shouted A murky tie to the past that for all I know was full of pirates and scoundrels, and now full of secrets that even its members are not privy to know.
The argument ended when V.T. poked his head in the door. The two men glanced at him, then glared at each other, before dropping the argument. However, V.T. got the clear impression that the battle was not over, merely postponed.
Like Haldor, Dean Newbury spent a lot of time with his son, Quilliam, particularly after the boy became an adolescent. But that, too, seemed to be a relationship that lacked any connection beyond that of proctor and pupil.
After Quilliam went away to college, V.T. only saw him at the obligatory family gatherings at Thanksgiving and Christmas, which were for the most part quiet, joyless occasions more for show than substance. It was easy to see at such times that the relationship between Quilliam and his father was growing increasingly strained, and they could often be seen off by themselves on the grounds, gesturing and arguing.
The final breaking point between father and son occurred when Quilliam refused to go to law school after graduation and instead joined the U.S. Marine Corps. In a private moment before Quilliam shipped off to boot camp, V.T., a freshman at Harvard, asked his cousin why he would join the marines with the unpopular war in Vietnam picking up steam. This family has always taken from this country and sacrificed nothing, he'd replied bitterly. Sooner or later, all bills come due.
Whatever bill he thought the family owed, Quilliam paid when he was killed by a sniper in Danang shortly after the start of the Tet offensive in January 1968. His body had been shipped home for services complete with a flag-draped coffin and a marines honor guard. At the conclusion, the honor guard folded the flag into a triangular bundle and tried to present it to Dean Newbury with the condolences "of a grateful country." But Dean had turned away and refused to take it, so his brother Vincent accepted it from the confused marine sergeant.
V.T. had at first misinterpreted his uncle's reaction as a political statement regarding the war. But when he saw his uncle's face, the expression wasn't one of sorrow or even bitterness over the loss of a son in an unpopular war. It was anger. Anger directed at the coffin. Anger at his son for disobeying. Later, when their eyes met at the reception hosted by his parents, V.T. got the distinct impression that his uncle was thinking: If someone had to die, it should have been you. The firm could have done without you.
That impression had gone a long way toward V.T.'s choice of law careers after he graduated and passed the bar. Not that corporate law had ever interested him, but he didn't feel that he belonged at a family firm in which billable hours became the litmus test for good lawyering, and whose leader couldn't mourn the death of a son.
There had been plenty of tears at the funeral for V.T.'s father the previous month. But most of those were shed by Vincent's friends and the employees of the firm who'd worked closely with him. Those in attendance from his mother's side at least looked sad, but those who attended from the Newbury side were as emotionless as ever. And when the memorial service was over, they turned away, got in their limousines, and drove back to wherever they came from.