Читать книгу Bulleit Proof - Tom Bulleit - Страница 16

I SIT IN THE far corner of Dudley’s Restaurant, facing the front door so I’ll be able to see her walk in. I chose this place because it’s clubby, convenient, classy, and quiet. They serve excellent food and pour generous, tasty cocktails. I’ve heard they have a good wine list, too, but I’ll take any Kentucky bourbon over even a high-end Napa red any day. Nothing against Napa or red wine. Just not my style, not my taste. I’m a whiskey drinker and remain a bourbon distiller dreamer. Yes, still carrying that with me. I’ve recently turned 43 and have not acted on that dream. Yet.

I crane my neck, peer through the dining room’s hazy atmospheric light, making sure I haven’t missed her entrance. I’m early. I’m always early. That’s another of the Bulleit Points I live by, but this one I consider a command, not a suggestion. Be on time. Which to me means arrive at least 10 minutes early. Being late is both rude and disrespectful. Speaks volumes about a person’s character. Or lack of it.

So, I’m early. Twelve minutes by my Rolex, to be exact. My Rolex is both distinctive and an extravagance, to be sure, but in my current state of mind—confused—and in the current state of my life—tumultuous—I need something I can rely on, a reminder that life can be ordered, simple, and beautiful to look at, even during the most disordered, complex, and unpleasant times. Thus, my Rolex. (Thirty-two years later, I still have it, still wear it.)

I sigh, absently adjust the silverware and cloth napkins, more to occupy my hands than out of any sort of compulsive disorder that impels me to be continually arranging and rearranging things. But I do like things in their proper place, and in their correct order. And I do believe that appearance matters. Consider my choice of attire for tonight.

I have on a single-breasted grey suit from Brooks Brothers, shading more to light grey than edging toward black, the top two buttons clasped. Some may think I’m overdressed for a first date, but I would respectfully disagree. A suit equals credibility, and I’ve noticed that women prefer men in a suit. An observation. I’ve also been told that women find a man in a suit sexy. I would call that anecdotal evidence at the moment, having done no actual research in the field to back that up. I haven’t been on a date since Stephanie and I became a couple 17 years ago. With our divorce order pending, the state of our union can no longer be considered a union, of any sort, by any stretch of the imagination.

We’ve separated, our marriage collapsing due to five years of escalating incompatibility and a legal pad full of other reasons, all boiling down to one—we can no longer be married to one another. At present, we remain frustratingly deadlocked over the custody of Hollis, who lives with me. Hollis turned 13 a few months ago and has shown brilliance in the classroom and superior ability as a competitive swimmer, setting state records, all while displaying the typical irreverence of a preteen. Make no mistake, I will fight for custody, normally a long shot for the dad. But I believe Hollis should live with me and I’m willing to go to court if I have to.

I take another look toward the door of the restaurant, then check my watch again, confirming I’m officially 10 minutes early, or as I say, right on time. I sigh softly and consider the rest of my outfit. A soft blue Brooks Brother’s shirt, no tie. Too formal, too rigid, a turnoff. Again, that’s based on hearsay, not experience. For about 10 seconds, I toyed with wearing a turtleneck, but I didn’t want to look like an egghead, a folk singer, or a phony. Now, shoes. Black wingtips. Comfortable, classy, shined to a high gloss, the color a perfect contrast to the dark grey suit. Final touch. Cufflinks. I couldn’t decide between the Marine Corps or the Georgetown, so I went with one of each. An uncharacteristically non-uniform approach, I admit, but for some reason, I have a feeling that the mismatched pair may bring me luck. More than midway through this decade, I’d call the Eighties a bumpy ride, personally. I could use a bit of luck. We’ll see how this date goes.

Yes, date.

Feels strange even identifying this as such, but I guess that’s what it is. Forty-three years old, at the end of my marriage, and I’m on a date. Or about to be. When I think about it, if I am to be brutally honest, my marriage ended long ago. We’ve been separated now for some time, possibly close to two years, time having a way of simply disappearing when life dissolves into turmoil. I have stayed in the marriage because of Hollis, wanting at all costs to avoid disruption, determined to keep her in the home she’s known for almost her entire life, believing that children need security, stability, normalcy, even if the parents have lost that loving feeling and are flailing all around them.

I surprised myself, calling Betsy, asking her out for a drink. I was even more surprised when she accepted. Of course, we’re not total strangers. Even though she’s quite a bit younger than I am, we’ve known each other for years. We’ve traveled in the same social circles and actually work in the same building, she on the first floor, where she works as a stockbroker, and I upstairs, on the top two floors, in our law office, so admittedly we don’t see each other that much. We have something beyond a nodding acquaintance, slightly. I’ll also admit that Betsy, or Elizabeth Callaway Brooks, related to Colonel Richard Callaway, a famed frontiersman, and being a descendent of Daniel Boone, is in every sense a purebred. In other words, she’s way out of my league.

I start to second-guess this whole thing. I poke around with the silverware again, realizing that I’m feeling uncharacteristically nervous. I glance at my Rolex, now registering five minutes before our designated meeting time. I begin to fidget, wondering if she will actually show up and debating whether I have enough time to duck out for a smoke.

Then a rustling at the front door, some voices, low laughter, and a kind of warm wave vibrates through the room rolling toward me. I stand up, as if launched from an ejector seat. I see Betsy searching the room, the host pointing in my direction, and I wave, dumbly, suddenly feeling a momentary sense of panic, followed by my own voice echoing inside my head, “What the hell are you doing? What made you think this was a good idea? Make a run for it.”

Before I know it, someone pulls a chair out for Betsy—it might even be me, but I’m so flustered I have no memory of making that gallant a move—and Betsy and I are sitting across from each other.

“You’re right on time,” I say, a brilliant opening line.

She laughs. “Don’t get used to that.”

I laugh with her. And then we talk … and talk … and talk. We have what amounts to a four-hour drink. I don’t remember much of what we talk about, but I remember the conversation being serious and intense, at times bordering on grave. At certain moments during the conversation, I feel as if I’ve stepped away from the table and I’m observing us, and I am appalled.

You don’t sound like you, Tom, I think. You sound so damn heavy, so serious.

At the end of the night, with the staff at Dudley’s practically putting chairs on top of each other, five minutes away from closing up and kicking us out, I invite Betsy to come over to my house the next night.

“I guess I’m inviting you out on a second date,” I say.

I don’t know if I can do this, Betsy thinks. He’s so serious.

“Sure,” Betsy says. “I’d love to come over.”

The next night I answer the door wearing Dockers and my trusty turtleneck. Betsy arrives 15 minutes late, but when I see her, I don’t care. Her smile takes my breath away.

We log another four hours, some of it with Hollis, most of it sitting across from each other at the dining room table and then moving to the couch. I don’t remember any of the exact conversation, but I remember the laughs. I remember Betsy laughing so hard she has to gasp for breath, tears streaming down her cheeks. And when the night ends, we make plans to see each other again. Soon. Maybe even the next night.

I may be in love, I think. I may actually be in love. I hope she at least likes me.

I have to plot my course carefully, Betsy thinks. Because I’m going to marry Tom Bulleit.

* * *

Four months later, my divorce becomes final and I win custody of Hollis. To celebrate, Betsy and I plan a long weekend in Carmel, California, the first time we’ve gone away as a couple. One night, sitting at a table in a restaurant overlooking Pebble Beach Golf Course, Betsy reaches over and takes both my hands.

“Tom, I’m only going to have the courage to ask you this once, so listen up.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Wait.” I pause for a very long time. “Did you just propose?”

She nods. She can’t seem to speak. Her eyes are wide and glistening.

“Well, this is all wrong,” I say.

“I know—”

“You’re supposed to get down on your knees.”

She laughs, loses it. And then she starts to cry.

“Damn it,” I say. “I was going to ask you. Once again you’re way ahead of me.”

“So, is that a yes?”

“No. It’s a YES.”

I practically shout it and then I—Mr. Order, Mr. Formality, Mr. Everything in Its Proper Place—get up from the table and take Betsy into my arms, announcing to the diners in the restaurant and to the heavens above one of the most breathtaking spots on earth, that, Yes, Elizabeth Callaway Brooks, I will marry you. Preferably as soon as possible.

So begins the most thrilling adventure of my life.

* * *

We marry on my birthday, March 14, 1987. I don’t mind sharing my birthday and my wedding anniversary. Makes it unique, special. Plus, it gives me a better chance in my dotage of remembering at least one of these two events.

“Better be your anniversary,” Betsy says.

Not a Bulleit Point, but excellent advice—

You can forget your birthday without consequence, but you will pay big time if you forget your wedding anniversary.

As my 44th birthday—and my wedding anniversary—approaches, I find myself withdrawing from social occasions, going to bed earlier than usual, and keeping more and more to myself. I feel myself shutting down, turning inward. I’m becoming reflective. One night, sitting together in our living room, nursing after-dinner drinks, enduring an unaccustomed minute or two of silence, Betsy says, “You’ve been very quiet lately, Tom.”

“Hm? Oh, yes, I know, it’s this contract I’ve been dealing with today—”

“I don’t mean today. You’ve been unusually quiet for months.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Tom.”

I go quiet.

“Tom.”

“Huh?”

“Talk to me.”

I swivel toward her, breathe in, breathe out, and then like an internal dam bursting, words, sentences, paragraphs come rushing out, ending with—

“I think I’m having a midlife crisis.”

Betsy collapses into the couch, as if she’s been shoved.

“Is it the wedding? Because we—”

“No, no, it’s not the wedding, it’s not you, it’s me. It’s my life. It’s the choice I made. Betsy,” I say with some urgency. “I have to act now. It’s really now or never. Shit or get off the pot.”

“What pot? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Bourbon,” I say. “Betsy, it takes six years to age bourbon in barrels properly. If I start now, I’ll be 50 before I even know if Augustus’s recipe is any good. I mean, I’m sure it is. I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. But I do know this. Most people don’t start all over at 50.”

“Whew,” Betsy says. “As long as it’s only that.”

“Yeah. Changing my life. That’s all it is.”

We both crack up. Then she snuggles into me.

“Tom, it’s going to be alright.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. I have no doubt.”

Then, without realizing it, we simultaneously slug back our drinks.

* * *

On our honeymoon, I confirm my decision and reveal my plan, which is both half-baked and full of passion. I realize I should probably be focusing on other things on our wedding night, but I can’t help myself. I know Betsy will understand. She’s my partner—in everything. I knew that long before we recited our wedding vows.

“You’ve noticed that I haven’t been as quiet lately,” I say.

“Yes, thankfully.”

“That’s because I’ve gone into action. I’m going to do this. I’m going to start my distilling company. I will leave the law firm, at some point. Not right away because it’ll take six years for us to have our first actual bottles to sell. So I’ll step back slowly, gradually, keep my feet in the water, continue doing legal work, both for the money and because I love it. I’m going to bring back Augustus’s recipe. That’s definite. Again, it’ll take time, and there’ll be a lot of risk, financially for sure, emotionally, probably, lifestyle adjustment, absolutely, and, again, I may be crazy, but it really is now or never. I know that we’re talking about a severe uphill battle, or to use a baseball metaphor, we’re starting out with two strikes against us. The longest of long shots. But what the hell. So, what do you think?”

“Oh, Tom,” Betsy says, leaning her head into me, probably swooning from my nearly incomprehensible rambling, “that sounds wonderful.”

* * *

My law partner, Shelby Kinkead, either seeing a golden business opportunity or taking pity on me, signs on as a founding partner in my fledging distilling company. Meanwhile, I spend hours going over the numbers with Betsy, a world-class money manager, investment adviser, and all-around financial whiz. When it comes to business and life, I run everything by her and can’t get anything past her. She is my first, best, and, often, only advisor—and remains so to this day.

We determine that to get this distilling company up and running, to partner with a functioning distillery, to put together some kind of rudimentary marketing and publicity strategy, to hire a barebones staff, and keep this all running for at least six years while the bourbon ages in barrels, will cost millions of dollars.

“I will have to take out a loan,” I say.

“You know every banker in town. They all love you.”

“I don’t know if they love me that much.”

I nod, take this in.

“I’m going to put this off, for now,” I say. “I need to have a preliminary conversation next week.”

“Which banker?”

“Not a banker. My father.”

* * *

Shortly after my marriage, my sister and I move my father into an assisted living facility in Louisville. My mother had passed away the previous year. She was the life force in our family. With quiet efficiency punctuated often with outbursts of joy, she took care of everything, including taking care of my father. She bought the groceries, cooked the meals, did the laundry, paid the bills, planned the social calendar. When she passed, it was as if the engine that ran our home had been shut down.

Right after she died, I felt disoriented, and then I felt numb. But I wouldn’t or I couldn’t allow myself any public display of emotion. I forced myself not to cry. A generational response, I suspect, or perhaps it comes down to gender. I had been raised to keep my emotions inside, in check. I was allowed a measured, stoical response to difficult things. That was the male, military, and maybe even the Southern way. But one day, months after my mother’s funeral, driving alone in the car, I saw myself as a child in the kitchen with her, the two of us laughing, and her loss overwhelmed me, and I began to sob. My chest heaved and the sobs came harder. I pulled over, leaned my forehead onto the steering wheel, and I cried.

I’ve never known a better man than my father. He taught me how to be a soldier, a fighter, and the value of work. Work defines you and work can save you. His words or my inference, I can’t be sure. And my mother? She taught me how to talk, how to interact, and how to be.

* * *

My mother’s passing does my father in. He appears lost without her. He doesn’t seem to know what to do, where to go, or, worse, who to be. He retreats into his one-room apartment at the assisted living facility. When I visit from Lexington, he appears diminished. It’s as if his whole world has begun shrinking in front of him.

He continues to drink his beer and bourbon and smoke his cigarettes, even though the assisted living place has a strict no-smoking policy. He chain-smokes two packs a day and opens the door of his first-floor room so he can blow his cigarette smoke outside. Always vain and fastidious, he’d started to let himself go, allowing his ashtrays to pile up with mounds of white ash, unemptied, untouched. Visiting him one time, for some reason, I remember when he would take me fishing. I had no talent for fishing, and less patience. But my father had a gift. I would fish. He would catch. He would wade into a pond and pull out a six-pack of bass. I could drop a stick of dynamite into the same pond, same spot, and wouldn’t pull up a single slimy catfish.

I told Dad once, “You know, you really need to exercise.”

He shot me a look of sheer disbelief. “I exercise. I fish.”

A fishing pole in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

He called that exercise. Several times a week.

When I visit him, we sit, talk some, and mostly stare at whatever vague blue image blankets us from the TV. Then, sometime after my conversation with Betsy, I visit him with a purpose, an agenda. Twenty-two years have passed since I’d told him I wanted to become a distiller. I had fulfilled every promise I’d made to him. I’d completed my undergraduate education. I’d served in the military. I’d gone to law school … twice … and earned two law degrees, become a lawyer. This day, I’ve come to tell him I have not given up on my dream.

By this point, my father has entered his dotage, although his mind remains sharp. I’m 44 years old. I don’t need to ask my dad’s permission to change careers. But he is my father. I still need his approval.

“I’ve done well as a lawyer,” I say. “But I’m going to become a distiller of bourbon.”

My father looks concerned. I can read his mind. He has often told me to follow the money. I can tell he is worried about the finances.

“You sure?” he says.

“Yes.”

“Well, Tom,” he says, his forehead furrowed, nodding slowly, “that’s between you and your banker.”

* * *

Fast-forward.

1989.

My father has suffered a stroke and my sister and I move him out of assisted living and into a nursing home. His condition worsens. When I visit, he stares at me without recognition, routinely moving his empty fingers to his lips as if he held a cigarette. I can’t bear seeing him like this, ghoulish, a shell of himself. I finally say to my sister, “This is enough. I can’t stand to see my old soldier this way. If my old soldier saw me like that, he would do something.”

Incredibly, he had been evaluated with only 10 percent disability. I tell Mary Jo that I want him reevaluated at the Veterans Administration for a 100 percent disability.

“If we move him, it may kill him,” she says.

“I can’t stand to see him like this.”

The move to the V.A., his war wounds, and the shrapnel still embedded in his brain do kill him.

The heartbreak I feel is physical, an aching that roars throughout my body that at times immobilizes me. I force myself to press on. As he would have.

The dream becoming a reality.