Elevating Overman. Bruce FerberЧитать онлайн книгу.

      The Belzberg home sits high on a perch in the hills, west of La Cienega, but east of Doheny where the more mansion-like residences are situated. It is an ideal house for entertaining, a u-shaped structure on one level, built around a central pool with a grassy area just beyond it that overlooks the entire city. On a clear day one can see all the way to the ocean, and at night the lights twinkle like some magical Never Neverland. Perhaps when Overman bought the property, he had subconsciously channeled his childhood vision of a utopian Disneyland. This was to be his refuge, the sacred space to which he could always return after a hard day’s work as a vice-president of some grateful corporation. As he trudged up the drive carrying a couple of centerpieces, he reluctantly admired how lovely the garden looked. Nancy always had a knack for hiring good landscapers. The idea of putting her own hands in dirt never occurred to her.

      Overman opens the door and is greeted by Stan.

      “Ira, glad you could make it.”

      “It’s my daughter’s graduation party,” Overman reminds him. “What do you mean you’re glad I could make it?”

      “Don’t be so sensitive. I was just being polite.”

      Stan takes the two centerpieces and Overman goes to the car to get more. The guy who is living in his house is glad he could make it. How patronizing is that? Does he have any idea who he is talking to? He thinks he’s dealing with the old Overman, the Overman whose wife he stole, whose life he stole. But this Overman’s life has meaning, and a power that he is only beginning to understand. This Overman is irresistible to women and has had the best sex of his life with a knockout barely older than his children. This Overman is on a roll.

      Nancy marches out to the car to retrieve a couple of centerpieces. “Hello, Ira.” She gives him a brittle kiss on the cheek. “These are very nice.”

      “How’s Ashley?” Overman inquires about the daughter who hasn’t spoken to him in eight months.

      “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Nancy responds, never missing a chance to up the dysfunctional ante.

      “I will. I just brought it up because I hope she’s happy.”

      “If you wanted her to be happy, why were you such a shitty father?”

      The old Overman might have let such a comment slide. Those days were over. “It’s our daughter’s graduation party. Can you find a way to not be a castrating bitch for one day?”

      Then the unthinkable happened. Nancy, having never seen this assertive side of her ex-husband, said something he couldn’t ever remember hearing out of her.

      “I’m sorry, Ira. You’re right.”

      If it all ended tomorrow, he would die with a smile on his now un-spectacled face. But the way his fortune was turning, Overman wanted to go for more, whatever that meant and however it played out. The main thing was not to revert to old patterns. As he and Nancy rounded up the rest of the flowers and set them on the tables, he contemplated for the umpteenth time how he had made such a horrible mess of things. The truth was, he had been a shitty father. But he never wanted to be. He had expressed to Nancy his reservations about having children, but she steamrolled right by them, writing off his doubts as an immature case of the jitters.

      “You’re just afraid of the responsibility,” she reprimanded him. “It’s time to grow up.”

      Overman hears Stan regaling one of his friends with tales of the free cruise he and Nancy took, courtesy of the nice folks at Pfizer. The shameless internist had it down to a science. Send me to the Mediterranean; I prescribe Lipitor instead of Zocor, Zoloft instead of Prozac. The little pills that cost people thousands of dollars had sent the Belzbergs around the world two and a half times over. Through the sliding glass doors, Overman sees Ashley giggling with a few of her friends. Does he march out and say hello, casually wave, or wait for her to come inside? As he weighs the options, he feels a tap on his shoulder.

      “Hi, Dad.” Peter is there with his new girlfriend, an adorable Asian who at first glance seems far too well adjusted to be at this gathering. “This is Kiana.”

      “Pleasure to meet you, Kiana,” Overman says, shaking her hand.

      He is on speaking terms with his son, the only problem being that they have nothing to say to one another.

      “What’s new?” Peter asks, feigning interest. Overman tries to think of an appropriate response, never his strong suit.

      “I had Lasik surgery,” Overman offers, pointing to his naked face.

      “Why?” Peter asks incredulously. His father had never been one for changing appearances and hated to spend money on anything.

      “I thought it might turn me into a superhuman stud,” Overman announces. Why the hell not? He can say whatever he wants. No one takes him seriously anyway, and on the off chance he really had become superhuman, he’d be able to deal with whatever consequences there were.

      Peter looks at him like he is out of his mind, just the way Peter always looks at him. Kiana laughs politely, thinking it’s some sort of joke that Jews tell.

      “I take it you two met at Brown,” Overman interjects, moving past his outrageous declaration.

      “Yes,” says Kiana. “We’re both pre-law.”

      “Just what the world needs: more lawyers,” Overman laughs.

      Peter and Kiana don’t find this funny.

      “Nice seeing you, Dad,” Peter says, ushering Kiana over to the buffet.

      Overman shakes his head. And this was the one who was talking to him. He sees Ashley on the patio. As she turns her head to greet one of her friends, his eyes make contact with his daughter for a split second. She quickly looks away. How did it come to this? How did a well meaning, if unremarkable man land in such a place? He was never malicious toward his children: he simply lacked the tools to be a competent parent. Did that warrant such a bitter estrangement?

      Overman is struck by the urge to make things right, to repair years of miscommunication and no communication with some grand, sweeping gesture. He wonders if there is something awesome he can do, the paternal equivalent of clearing the left lane. If gorgeous Maricela could suddenly be attracted to him out of the blue, might not Ashley Overman want to repair the dismal relationship with her father? Perhaps all it would take was looking into her eyes, just like when he looked at the receptionist or the waitress at Jerry’s. Then again, what if he only had one kind of look and his own daughter mistook it for something depraved and incestuous? Trying it would be a risk, to be sure.

      “Overman, you sly asshole!” a familiar voice cries out.

      Rosenfarb is on his way to greet him when the window man is stopped by his former lover, Nancy Morrison Overman Belzberg, who kisses him full on the mouth right in front of Mrs. Rosenfarb. Rita doesn’t give a shit as long as Nancy’s husband continues to supply her with free samples of Zoloft. Overman wonders how much the doctor has been told about Nancy’s history with Jake. He also knows it’s a matter of moments before Rosenfarb comes over to hassle him about a re-match or the waitress or some other stupid thing, so he takes the opportunity to slip outside and talk to his daughter.

      Ashley and her friends seem to be involved in some kind of group text messaging.

      “Hi honey,” Overman, says boldly, the “honey” perhaps too presumptuous in light of their eight-month chill.

      “Hi Dad,” she responds curtly, immediately going back to her cell phone.

      Overman won’t be deterred. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but when you get a second, I’d like to talk to you.” Not only was this more than he had said to his daughter in eight months, it was delivered with the same assertive quality he had employed