Emily & Einstein (25 page)

As soon as the door shut, Jordan bolted for her room.

“Good night, Emily!”

She careened into the guest bedroom, closing and locking the door just as Emily emerged.

“Jordan, we need to talk.”

“In the morning, Em. Sorry I woke you!”

“But I have good news.”

“Really, Emily, tomorrow. I’m exhausted.”

And drunk, I wanted to add, not to mention smart enough to know that her big sister wouldn’t take kindly to the slightest of staggers.

The sound of the shower coming on cut off whatever else Emily would have said.

“What’s that smell?” she asked.

“Your drunken sister,” I barked with great seriousness.

I ask, was that not helpful?

Emily glanced from the closed guest room door to me. “Don’t be a tattletale.”

Then she went back to her own room and shut the door on me.

Women.

*   *   *

When I woke the next morning, it was to the smell of coffee. Ah, how I missed morning coffee, the rising sun, and a crisp copy of the
New York Times.
For a second I started to feel sorry for myself again, missing my old life, but then I focused. I was going to be
great.
After which I felt the flare of excitement and anticipation. What would that greatness look like? I wondered. What form would it take? I could hardly wait to find out what this new greatness entailed. And let me just say, if I was destined to be a triage specialist, I would make a hell of a lot better one than the old man.

I opened my eyes and was surprised to find Emily sitting at the counter reading
Runner’s World.

Interesting.

Pushing myself up, I stretched, my head low over my front legs, my rump stretching up in the back, the muscles and sinew extending. When I stood, I shook, my dog tags jingling.

“Good morning,” she said.

Lost in thought, she gathered the leash and took me out. Once I was done at the curb and she had cleaned up, she straightened and stared at the park. This was interesting, but I wasn’t sure what she was thinking. “Use your words!” I barked.

“So you think running would help me, huh? That’s why you made me get the magazine.”

Am I impressive or what?

“Yes!” I barked.

Instead of returning indoors, we headed to the park, walking under the wisteria-covered arbor that arched over the entrance. While I could use a little dog group interaction, the dog group wasn’t there. Besides, Emily surprised me yet again when she led us to the bridle path.

“Okay, E, you’re getting what you wanted. We’re going to run.”

“Run? Already?” I squeaked.

Sure I wanted her to run, and no question I needed her to get into shape, but I wasn’t ready to start today. I had only just started my own workout routine, and was certainly in no shape to run. But she didn’t bother to ask me. She took off with me on the end of the lead.

Good God almighty. What had I been thinking when I thought running was the solution to my dilemma? As a man, yes, I had loved running. As a dog, so low to the ground and practically a hundred years old, every step was pure torture. I tried to pick my paws up high like some demented Clydesdale, because really, those cinders and rocks on my delicate pads felt … well, dirty. Did they even make hand wipes for dogs?

Fortunately Emily ran about as fast as a slug, and by the time we got through the rock-lined tunnel underneath Seventy-second Street, then about a third of the way to the Seventy-seventh Street tunnel—a distance of no more than a quarter mile—she was out of breath and staggered to a stop.

Thank God.

Sheer exhaustion made me forget about the dirt and gravel on the path. I collapsed with an umph and lay panting on the ground. To my left a tree-filled incline led up to the rock wall that separated the park from Central Park West. To the right the ground dipped away, down to the winding park road and the infamous lake where only days before I had tried to do away with myself. Despite that recent memory, I would have thought the scene bucolic had my lungs not been screaming for oxygen, and had Emily not been making a terrible racket of her own, bent over at the waist gasping for air.

Eventually we recovered. The minute my breathing eased, my nose had a chance to do its thing. Namely kick into gear and want to sniff. Emily had dropped the leash and as predicted I couldn’t help myself. I pushed up and ran from a rock to a tree, then to a big pile of horse dung in the middle of the path. I am embarrassed to say that I felt euphoric, forgetting all about the dilemmas that riddled my life. Emily had to chase me down and practically drag me home.

We had just reached the wisteria-covered pergola when my ever-sensitive ears detected the buzz of what I barely remembered was a BlackBerry in her pocket. Emily cringed when she saw the name of whoever was calling. After a second of debate, she answered. “Tatiana?” Pause. “You’re calling about the book?”

Emily tensed, though I couldn’t imagine why.

“A delivery date from Jordan. Right. I’m on it.”

She was buying the book from Jordan?

Now this was interesting. I wasn’t convinced my sister-in-law could read any better than I could, much less string together a series of words that would form a single coherent sentence—certainly not an entire book.

“No, no, I’m not backing down. There’s no problem.”

Back at the apartment I had my heart set on a Steakin’ as was our tradition after returning from any sort of walk. And excuse me, I needed a Steakin’ more than ever after that run. But Emily bypassed the kitchen and knocked on Jordan’s door. There was no answer.

“Steakin’,” I barked.

“Not now.”

The door was cracked and because I was really getting the hang of being helpful, I nudged it open. If this didn’t get me a Steakin’ I didn’t know what would.

No surprise that Jordan wasn’t there.

“Where is she?” Emily asked. “Did she go back out last night?”

In the kitchen, we found an empty cereal bowl and carton of milk on the kitchen table. I sat prettily in front of the pantry door and salivated. But still no Steakin’ for me.

“She’s already gone?” Emily asked, confused.

I expected her to say something unkind. Jordan had yet to get the hang of cleaning up after herself. I had to wonder if she did it just to irritate her sister or if her own living conditions consisted of soured milk and unwashed dishes. Had the girl never heard of salmonella?

But Emily was full of surprises that morning. She whirled around and raced out of the kitchen so fast that by the time I got up and ran after her she was already inside Jordan’s room.

“Uh-oh,” I ruffed. “Even I know snooping through your sister’s things isn’t a good idea.”

“Be quiet,” Emily snapped at me.

“You understand that but won’t give me a Steakin’?”

Emily ignored me, so I sat back and watched. Not that there was a lot to watch. Jordan didn’t have much stuff to go through. The challenge was digging through the discarded clothes and decorative pillows strewn about the floor to find anything of interest.

“There better be a book proposal in here somewhere,” Emily muttered.

If I were a betting man I would put my money on no proposal at all. More than that, I guessed that while the place looked like a disaster to Emily, there was some order to Jordan’s chaos, and the second she returned she would know that her sister had gone through her belongings.

“Ugh!”

My head snapped up to find Emily standing stock-still, a pair of Jockey briefs dangling from her finger. And not a pair that looked like Jordan’s size.

“Where did these come from?”

From one of the young males Jordan had a habit of sneaking inside while Emily was fast asleep. Like my wife, the fellow who had departed brief-less must not have been able to make sense of the chaos and find his undergarment.

“Emily? What are you doing?”

Emily and I whipped around to find Jordan standing in the doorway. She held a Starbucks cup in her hand. I sniffed. Vanilla latte with whole milk. I licked my chops.

“Are you going through my things?” Jordan’s voice was dangerously low.

“This place is a mess.”

“And that gives you permission to go through my room
how
?”

Ah, the sarcasm of youth.

Jordan walked over and snatched the underwear.

“Have you had boys in here?” Emily demanded.

“Not boys. Men. I’m an adult, Emily. An adult who has sex.”

My lips curled back at more information than I wanted or cared for. Not that Jordan was done. Her eyes narrowed with something like triumph, and she added, “Our mother would have been proud.”

Emily took a step back as if Jordan had slapped her, then regained her footing and stood her ground. “Perhaps, but look where that got her. One daughter who dreams of a father she never knew, and another daughter who wishes the father she actually has wasn’t the type who felt comfortable in a tract house on Long Island with a nine-to-five job, a wife, and two other children.”

This time Jordan stepped back. “I never said that.” But her voice was shaky.

“You didn’t have to. You come and go without a word of warning to any of us. And let’s face it, we both know why you really take those crazy gifts to his kids. It has nothing to do with making them think for themselves. You’d do anything to punish your father for leaving you and starting a new family.”

Jordan backed farther away, exhaling sharply, once, twice.

Emily sighed. “Jordan, I’m sorry.”

But her sister had already bolted. All we heard was a slam and the rattle of glass in my fabulous front door.

*   *   *

The next morning Jordan was still gone. She had called and left a message on the answering machine saying she needed some space and was staying with a friend for a couple of days. In typical Jordan fashion, she left no number where Emily could return the call.

My wife alternated between regret and frustration. Every time the phone rang and it was a number she didn’t recognize, she grabbed it up, praying it was Jordan. And every time her BlackBerry buzzed she flinched. If the mobile device rang, she no longer answered. I half wondered if she went into work wearing a disguise. Clearly with no answer as to when Jordan would deliver this supposed manuscript, and no sign of it in the girl’s messy room, my wife was avoiding her boss like the plague.

The other person she was avoiding was my mother. Over the last few days, Althea Portman had left a series of increasingly terse messages on the answering machine.

“Emily, really, you can’t avoid this.”

“Now seriously, Emily, this is getting very annoying.”

And my personal favorite,
“Emily Barlow, I’ve had just about enough of this irresponsible behavior. Call me back this instant or I’m going to … I’m going to … well, just call me back.”

My mother at a loss for words. Who would have thought it possible?

To make matters worse, my estate lawyer started calling and leaving increasingly unfriendly messages. Emily became more frantic with each call, none of which, to my knowledge, she returned.

“This can’t be happening,” I overheard her whisper.

After the lawyer’s most recent call I found my wife turning the apartment upside down.

“There have to be receipts around here someplace, proof of all the money I’ve put into renovations. Receipts and photographs of before and after, of me doing the work. Evidence to build a case.”

In a bottom drawer in her desk, she pulled out a stack of files.

“Doctor’s receipts,” she said when she opened the first. But I could tell she was hopeful.

“Old checks,” from another.

“Receipts!”

Even I felt my ratty old heart leap for her.

But it was from that same file that she pulled out a photo. The excitement seeped out of her, and she sank down next to me. I saw that it was a picture of Emily and me, the Sandy me, redoing the very first room, the two of us together, laughing, covered in paint, Emily holding the camera out in front of us, our heads out of proportion to our bodies because of the angle. I remembered that day clearly. How beautiful and full of life she had been. Yet another day when I had promised myself I would be true to my wife.

Why hadn’t I been able to stay true to my vows?

Why had the hunger really returned?

Not that my sudden questioning made me go easy on her. My job was to help her rise from the ashes.

After that one jaunt in the park, Emily hadn’t wanted to go back, forcing me to drag her out of bed and onto the bridle path. If selfishness had stood between me and salvation before, I was a little concerned that bossiness would do me in now. But good God almighty, Emily was not a particularly gifted athlete. She’d run for fifty feet then all but collapse from exhaustion. When I snapped at her butt to keep her going, she ended up sprawled out on the cinders. I was beside myself. But on the third day, my frustration turned to a bud of hope when Emily actually came out of her bedroom wearing hideous running warm-ups.

I hadn’t had to drop the leash on her face or jiggle my tags. Progress. I could practically envision the old man handing me some sort of otherworldly report card with
GREAT
stamped across the cover.

*   *   *

Jordan didn’t return for the remainder of the week. But on Friday, Emily came home from work to the smell of cleaning supplies and some exotic meal cooked up from third-world recipes.

“Jordan?”

The younger woman rushed out from the kitchen and threw her arms around Emily. “I’m sorry I flipped.”

The tension that had built up in my wife evaporated, her body easing. “I’m sorry for going into your room and saying such awful things.”

That was the pattern with these two. Fight, make up, laugh, cry, swear they’d never fight again—until the next time their opposite personalities clashed.

Over dinner at the kitchen table, Emily finally had the chance to present the book deal.

“You’re going to buy my book?” Jordan squealed.

“Isn’t it wonderful! It’s going to be so much fun to work together.”

I craned my neck to see if somehow a bottle of wine had been opened without my knowledge. Or maybe Jordan was passing around a joint. What else could account for this ridiculous self-delusion? Did anyone really think these two working together was a good idea, much less a fun one?