Barefoot Girls (44 page)

To top it off, he wasn’t interested in having children, so there was no issue of raising them Jewish. He was glad to have Hannah, though. Now he understood why his mother had always spoiled him so lavishly: it was fun. Every time he saw Hannah, he gave her a present. If he found out she needed something, he sent it to her. He only wished she’d quit that idiotic waitressing and go to college. The writing could still be a part of her life, but she could have a real career. God, he could hear his mother’s voice in his head right there – words like “real career” coming from him, the college dropout. Still, Hannah was the studious type. She would have a better time.

No, his mistake had been something he never thought himself capable of when it came to Keeley. He had been blind to her for the first time, this gorgeous sparkling woman he couldn’t tear his eyes away from since they met. Signs of her downward spiral had been everywhere and he had completely missed them. It was probably because it had all happened so slowly, though it started with a bang.

The bang had been the review. That had been bad: he had never seen her angry at Hannah, at anyone, before. It surprised him, the way it escalated, like a growing evolving storm, tornadoes appearing everywhere. Then it was gone, and the sun came out. She had sent keys and a letter to Hannah, offering up her precious Barefooter house, which had seemed like a bizarre but loving response. What that little shack had to do with their argument, he couldn’t guess. In fact, he never really “got” their relationship, how adversarial they could be at times, and wrote it off as yet another thing he didn’t understand about being a parent.

Then things were quiet for a while, Keeley busy with a charity event that she seemed excited about. She even started to be enthusiastic about their social life in New York, which she hadn’t been except in the beginning, something he attributed to her missing Fairfield. He was happy and relieved to see her flitting about at the events and parties they attended, back in her element – center stage and in the spotlight with admirers and friends gathered around her. Everything seemed fine, except what started happening with the wine.

Keeley was a drinker, he knew that when he married her. He enjoyed a drink or two at the end of the day as well, and they usually took those drinks together over a late supper, or if he returned home very late, a drink in the library followed by a drink in bed after their passion was spent. She drank white wine and stuck to one or two glasses. In the last three weeks, though, he started noticing that Keeley was already tipsy when he called her at five, giddy or, worse, lethargic sounding – words coming out in slow-mo.  The white wine was disappearing quickly from their collection and he kept finding empty bottles around the apartment. More and more lately, he arrived home to find Keeley passed out in a chair or on the bed, not in it. There was always a wine glass nearby, empty or not, and often a bottle as well.

He had brushed it off at first as an aberration, a celebration of finally having arrived socially in Manhattan. But when he got home last night and found her sprawled at the bottom of the bed snoring lightly and still wearing the same gray sweater-like dress she’d worn for the last two days, he realized how serious it was. He admitted he hadn’t been around much lately. There was always a hot new deal, something great he had to chase down: that was the nature of his business in real estate development. He worked long hours, always had. But he had also always made a priority of spending time with his wife every day over the last three years. He had to face it; the thrill of work had lured him away from home far too much lately.

He had no idea why Keeley was drinking so much, why she wasn’t changing her clothes and possibly not even bathing daily as she always had, but he was about to find out. Last night, after his decision, he’d emailed Jerry, his partner, and his assistant, Lorrie, telling them that he wouldn’t be in the office until later in the morning, possibly the afternoon. He forwarded his files on the bids he had been working on for that morning’s auction. Luckily, he was organized by both nature and his mother’s strict nurture and kept detailed files on everything as well as a spreadsheet for quick comparison of current potential purchases. If Jerry was too overloaded, Lorrie could send in the bids under his supervision. It made Ben nervous, but anytime he handed off even the least important project to someone, he felt wiggy. He would just have to deal with it.

Keeley stirred and lifted her head to look the small round silver Tiffany clock on her side of the bed, and then groaned, falling hard back against the pillow.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

She gave a little squeak and then twisted around to look at him, her blond hair sticking out in tufts around her face, eyes staring. He’d forgotten. Of course she thought she was alone. He was always long gone by now except on Sundays.

“Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart,” he said, reaching over to touch her bare shoulder. He had undressed her and put her to bed last night, noting when he lifted her that his usually feather-light wife had gained weight as well.

“What? What happened? Is everything okay?” She pulled herself up in bed and then, realizing she was nude, pulled the sheet over her exposed breasts.

“Well, yes and no.”

“What? What’s the matter?” Her sleep-soft voice suddenly became crystal clear and sharp.

“That’s what I want to ask you.”

“Ask me?”

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Something’s the matter, isn’t it?” he said, his voice gentle.

She blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“The wine, so much of it. Every day. It’s not like you.”

“I-it’s not, well, yeah. I guess. I just…it’s nothing.”

“Talk to me. Really. You always have, why not now?”

“Is that why you’re here? Your silly wife and her drinking?”

“My silly wife is in trouble. And she’s not talking to me. How can I help if you won’t talk to me?”

Her lower lip trembled and she brought her fingers up to rest on her mouth, looking away.

He leaned on his elbow and waited, muted sounds of the traffic below on Fifth Avenue stealing through the tall insulated windows and silvery-gray silk curtains. After a minute or so passed he said, “I’m not going to give up, you know. I have all day.”

She looked back at him then and dropped her hands into her lap, clasping her fingers together again and again. “I get lonely here,” she said, looking down at her hands.

“I know I haven’t been around as much. I’ll change that, I promise. But what about your friends? That Brooke person? She seems like a good friend.”

“Ha!” she barked, and shook her head with a little jerk. “No. I don’t have any friends here.”

“But-“

“No, I ruined it.”

“How?”

“Honestly, I never want to think about that woman or
society
here again,” she said, making quote marks in the air when she said society. “I miss my real friends.”

“Well, why don’t you call them back, then? Amy called me, worried about you.”

She looked up, startled. “What?”

“You haven’t been calling her back, or any of your friends. Why aren’t you talking to them?  Did you have a fight?”

“No, I…stupid. I’m just stupid. My brain’s broken and I can’t fix it,” she said, mewling the last words out, looking back at her hands as they clasped and unclasped in her lap.

“What do you mean, your brain’s broken? It’s fine.”

She shook her head again, still looking down, and two perfect crystalline tears fell from her eyes onto her cheeks. “You wouldn’t understand. Your parents loved you.”

At that, he didn’t know what to say. What could he say? That it was true, they had loved him utterly and unconditionally? Throw it in her face? He had heard little about her childhood, so little that he was pretty sure it was bad. She wouldn’t talk about it. The only things that he knew were sweeping general things: that she had grown up in Fairfield, that both her parents were deceased, that she had spent every summer of her life on Captain’s Island with her “barefooter” friends.

He spoke quietly, measuring his words. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head, her head still down, not looking at him.

“Well, something’s got to give, honey. I’m not going to stand by while you kill yourself with the bottle. I love you too much. We all love you too much to stand by: me, your friends, your daughter-“

“My daughter! That’s a laugh,” she said, her tone bitter.

He could feel the beginning of a headache between his eyes, and his temper flared. What was this ridiculous battle between them about?  They loved each other so much, it was obvious to see – yet there was this
thing.
“Will you stop it? Just stop. You know where you should be right now? At Captain’s working this whole thing out with Hannah. Just fight it out and get it out of your system. Enough of this.” He found himself raising his voice, almost shouting, and lowered his tone. “Please.”

She laughed a little and looked at him sideways. “You know it’s funny? Amy just called the night before last, some ungodly time, and threatened to come and drag me to Captain’s. Can you believe that’s where they are right now? All of them? With Hannah on Captain’s. It’s such a weird coincidence you should say that…or did you know?”

“No, I didn’t know. That’s great. Well? What’s stopping you?”

She sighed heavily and climbed out of bed. She walked, nude, across the room toward her closet. Even with the extra weight she’d put on recently, she was gorgeous, like a goddess. He was almost taken in by it, but it was one of her usual side-steps, one that always worked on him. Distract him with sex or nudity: that was the trick. Except this time. He could still see the half-full lipstick-marked wineglass by the bed out of the corner of his eye. No, not this time.

“Well?”

She pulled a rose-colored silk robe off of a hanger and slipped it on, tying it at the waist with a knot. Then she walked over to her antique vanity table with its enormous and ornately framed mirror. It was one of her favorite pieces of furniture, something she’d always dreamed of owning. He loved granting her wishes even more than he enjoyed doing things for Hannah and had delighted in her little-girl bouncing excitement when it had been delivered. She stood at it now with her back to him, pinning up her hair. She glanced at him in the mirror, still propped up on his elbow, waiting. “Oh, you don’t understand,” she said and sighed again, rolling her eyes.

“No, frankly, I don’t. You love her, she loves you - what’s the big deal? Go talk to her. Even better, your friends will be there to help.”

She spun around and put her hands on her hips, facing him. “Okay, let’s say I do. The thing is, I don’t know what I’ll say these days. I could say something I’ll regret. That’s why I don’t want to say anything. Things have a way of working out, if you just leave them alone long enough. Just let the wounds heal.” She shrugged, and turned toward the bathroom. “I’m going to shower. Don’t you have to go to work?”

“No, you don’t,” he said, climbing out of bed and standing. “Come back here.”

“What?” she said, spinning around again. “What do you want? Just leave it! God, my head hurts.”

“Oh, yeah? I wonder why.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll cut back on the wine. I promise,” she said lightly, turning away again, her tone almost condescending. It was her tone that sent him over the edge. She had never, not once, taken that insulting tone with him. If there was one vital thing he could point to in their marriage, what grew at its very root and held it all together, it was the respect they held for one another.

He crossed the room in a few strides and grabbed her by the arm as she started toward the bathroom. She gasped and turned back to him, her face so suddenly flooded with fear, he felt his heart drop. That look on her face, one of a beaten animal, cringing. Oh, he was sorry. What was happening to them?

“Keeley, sweetheart. Don’t look at me like that. I just, I’m just worried about you. Your daughter-“

His wife looked back at him, fear replaced with a wondering sad look. “My daughter. My daughter. I can’t anymore.”

“Of course, you can," he said, reaching to stroke her hair and her neck.

She shook her head slowly. “No.”

“But-“

“She’s not my daughter. Don’t you see?” She whispered and searched his eyes, looking for a spark of recognition, some subconscious knowledge, and finding none.

Chapter 40

Through the muffling fog came a repetitive piercing tweeting sound. Daniel opened his eyes a little, viewing the world through narrow slits. The small room was in shadows, unfamiliar striped pink and blue wallpaper on the wall close to his face. He opened his eyes wider, his eyes scanning the room. Where was he?

The phone, it was his cell phone, rang again and then went silent, gone to voicemail. Rain was pattering lightly and steadily against a nearby window which was covered by a roman shade with a huge garish rose pattern on it. The room smelled of perfume and stale beer. He was lying in a bed, half-covered with a sheet. Oh, no!

He sat up and then reflexively grabbed his head with one hand. Ow.

He was wearing only boxers, the jeans and button-down shirt he’d worn the night before lying crumpled next to the bed on top of his shoes and socks. He and Brian had gone out to that new club, and then that other one, and then they went to Dooley’s to shoot pool. He had vague memories of a bartender there, the sexy redhead, the one with all the sharp and witty wisecracks. He had always noticed her, but last night he had outright flirted with her. And then-