The rest of dinner proceeded in a state of arrested tension. Conversation became formal, a series of Courtesy platitudes regarding weather and remote relatives, a thin varnish for the chasm of philosophical emotion that had newly opened in the middle of the table. Junior chewed with stiff formalism, jaw set, taking pains not to look towards Ezra. Alta picked at her food, her eyes darting towards her husband, her brother, her father, as she tried to make sense of a new and dangerous dynamic newly generated.
Jason, on the other hand, ate in quiet content. He had thrown his grenade. Now, he would let his shockwave spread. He did have Senior's focus, however, which was reward enough.
When finally the meal concluded, the family arose to circulate into the salons nearby for coffee and subdued repartee. That was when Junior assumed his pose. Standing to offer his arm to Alta, his brother-in-law stood in front of him, his stature unwittingly in his way. He was a big man, a man who stood on his height by standing on his presence as a means of intimidating, his shadow surrounding Ezra.
"A word," Junior stated. It was not a request.
He brought him a short distance from where they stood, into a recess that was bordered by two colossal urns, a bubble of seclusion from the general hum of family. The face of the self-righteous giver was gone. Cold steel was his face.
"I don't know what game you think you're playing, Ezra," he began, his voice a low, harsh hissing, stripped of its usual resonant politeness. "But let me tell you now. Don't get my father's head full of these.... these vulture philosophies."
He took a step into Ezra's personal space. "He is an old man. He is weak. He spent his first half of life forging an empire with techniques both of us have read about. He spent his second half, with my steady guidance and with God's grace, making amends for it. We build hospitals, fund universities, cure disease. We clean, for generations to come, the name of Rockefeller. I will not," he emphatically underscored with a stiff, imperceptible thrust of his finger into the space between them, "allow you to drag that name back into the gutter for the sake of a handful of dollars."
The threat was indistinguishable, set in the very assurance of a man who truly felt he was divinely superior. The old Ezra would have crumpled, apologized, and backed down. Jason Underwood, however, had been threatened by men who owned armadas of lawyers and pet senators. Junior, with all his might, was a rank amateur at terror.
Jason did not flinch. He did not speak louder. He met a gaze of hot, impassioned scrutiny with Junior's fiery gaze.
"With all due respect, Junior," he said in an even tone, "we're both looking at the same monster, only you and I look at two very different entities. You look at a legacy that needs to be polished. I look at the world's best economic engine being left to rust for PR's sake."
Junior's nose wrinkled. "Public relations? That's what you call our family's sacred duty?"
"I call it managing sentiment," Jason said with a grin. "And as you are delicately managing the sentiment of the population, this empire's founding pillar is eroding. You speak of atonement. Good ideals for a priest. Bad strategy for a king. You care about what's on the building; I care about what it's standing on. The world is changing, Junior. And sentiment will not be enough to save us when the earth gives out."
He took a step back on purpose, reclaiming his space and ending the confrontation on his own terms. "Now, if you'll excuse me, my wife is waiting."
He left Junior standing in the alcove, his own face a formidable face of anger. Jason returned to Alta, his face expressionless. He could feel her shuddering a little as he took her arm. He moved her from amidst the crowded salon, out a double set of French doors into a vast stone terrace bathed in the harsh, white light of a full moon. It was a sharp, clean autumn evening.
They stood for a very long time without a word, listening to the cricket sounds as well as a rustling of leaves somewhere in the distance. Finally, she turned to him, pale in moonlight, her eyes scanning his face.
"Ezra," she began, her voice not quite a whisper, a fragile being in interminable darkness. "That man at dinner... I've been your wife for ten years. We've lived in a home, a life. And I've never, not ever, seen that man until tonight."
Her voice trembled with a deep, terror-filled disorientation. "Where did this come from? This... chill; this certainty. When you talked to my brother... you sounded like a completely different person!"
This was the riskiest negotiation of all. Reason would not suffice to convince her, nor economics. This was an emotional front, and he was walking a minefield. He couldn't tell her the truth, the absurd, impossible truth. He would have to fashion from his lies of that morning, create from them something she could, if not believe, at least live with.
He rose to his full height, facing her, his hands enveloping hers in both of his. He was unexpectedly gentle in his grasp, a stark contrast from the cold-blooded murderer she'd only recently witnessed.
"Alta," he said, his voice soft now, with sincerity he did not feel but could well transmit skillfully. "You remember this morning? I told you that I felt as if I awoke from a long confusing dream."
She assented, her eyes still locked onto his.
"Perhaps that dream... perhaps it woke something in me up," he continued, his words chosen with surgical precision. "Or perhaps watching the world fall apart, watching good men lose everything, woke me up to an abhorrent truth. The man I once was—the quiet husband, the content lawyer—he is a good man. But, he was not a man who can get us through what is coming. He was a peacetime man, Alta. And war is what comes next. An economic war more vicious than any fought with guns."
He clinched his hands around hers. "I am not unfriendly. I am explicit. I am not harsh. I am realistic. Everything that I've done in there, everything that I'm going to do from this point onwards, is for one reason, one reason only: to create a fortress for this family, for us. A fortress so high, so strong that no storm, no depression, no war can ever touch it. You must believe in me."
He was weaving her a new identity, one third of the truth of his urges, one third a fabrication of his motivation. He saw the battle in her eyes. The terror remained, the suspicion. But now, it was combined with something more: a glimmer of hope, a heady mixture of strength and absolute safety in a universe that offered none. She ached to believe him. She needed a rock to clutch as a storm building on the horizon drew near, and this new strong destructive husband very likely was.
She stood there, immovable and mute, as a figure emerged from under the shade of the door. It was one of the house servants, his back bowed in deference.
"Mr. Prentice," he said softly, not desiring to interrupt. "Mr. Rockefeller Sr. would like you to step into his private study."
The servant hesitated, and then said the one word that would change everything.
"Alone."
Alta's eyes grew wide. She gave a sharp intake of air. An audience with her father was a privileged, rare occasion. A private audience, without Junior as a censor and a guide, was next to impossible. It was a call to the inner sanctum.
It was not going to be a lecture.
It was a war council. Old King wanted to speak with young usurper.