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week.
    “How is my son?”
    “Well, he is a trial. A trial. But I believe the Lord has a plan for that boy, Jason.”
    That made me nervous.
    I let her ring off with her usual “Bye-bye, now.”
    Sometimes doing the hard thing first turns out to be ripping the top off Pandora’s box.
    The last time Angie came to visit up at Ray Brook, she was drunk. Not falling down. Not even sloppy. Just a little louder than absolutely necessary. Louder and a lot more Bayou.
    It was eleven o’clock in the morning and she was telling me about our son’s latest round of doctors’ examinations. Four years old and barely able to speak. He communicated in grunts, growls, and snatches of ads he picked up from the television. Angie made it sound like he wasn’t trying. I lost it. I yelled at her. Told her to clean up her act. She owed it to the boy. Implicit, of course, was the accusation that all of the Kid’s problems were in some way her fault.
    She cried. Then she screamed. Then she called me a maggot and I laughed. I thought it was funny that in the midst of her histrionics she would think of the word “maggot.” And that’s when she hit me with the BIG news.
    Autism. Our son had been slow to walk, slower to talk. He never goo-gooed or giggled like other babies. He practically flinched when anyone tried to look into his eyes. If I hadn’t had my head screwed on backwards all that time, I might even have noticed.
    When I first accepted that my illegal accounting scheme wasn’t going to go on forever—and before I had felt the SEC closing in—I had set up the divorce scam. I signed over the Tribeca loft and half the assets to Angie and set up a small trust fund for the Kid. It worked. The Feds let me keep my old apartment uptown, but they took everything else. They left Angie alone. They never even looked her way.
    The plan was that we would hook up again as soon as I got out. We’d move to some tax haven and live off the interest. Of course, the whole fantasy depended upon Angie coming through—being there when I came home. Like building a mansion on a cliff, the view may be great but the foundation is the key.
    I made the assumption that my chances of getting my P.O. to approve me taking a trip to Louisiana were exactly zero. Therefore, he must never find out. I called and made my travel arrangements.
    I was due at my father’s house for dinner at six. There was nothing to do until then but drink coffee, stare out at Broadway, and write the script for what I was going to say to Angie.
    My cell phone rang, giving me a sudden shock. It was the first time. So far every conversation I had had on the little device was one I had initiated.
    “Jason Stafford.”
    “Mr. Stafford? This is Gwendolyn in Mr. Stockman’s office. Are you available to speak with him?”
    My mind was racing, trying to place the name. “I’m sorry. You’re with . . . ?”
    “Weld Securities.” A medium-sized boutique firm, I remembered, with a middle-market focus. “Mr. Stockman is our Chief Financial Officer.”
    I remembered him. We had been introduced at a Federal Reserve meeting years ago. An accountant, not a trader. A lightweight, I thought, a bit out of his depth and working too hard to impress. He dressed too well and wore cologne to a business meeting. He was also on the short side, which I didn’t hold against him, but judging by the lifts on his custom-made shoes, I had guessed it was an issue for him.
    “Certainly. Do you have any idea why he wants to talk to me?”
    “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Stockman does not always confide in me. Will you hold, please?”
    I held. I vowed to project confidence, aggressiveness, and strength. I felt desperate, unsure, and needy. Minutes dragged by, draining my strength.
    Finally. “Jason? Thanks so much for waiting. I’m glad I could get you. How are you? How you holding up?”
    So he knew my history. Now we could comfortably talk around it.
    “I’m doing well. Glad to be enjoying this weather.