Ghosts of Manhattan (15 page)

“Nicky,” she pleads.

“It was because she knew she was going to college the next year and she wanted to have that experience before she went. The whole thing was a logically laid-out plan to prepare herself, and she knew a guy well enough to do the job.”

The table is rapt with awkward attention, like watching a crystal vase teeter on a shelf but standing at too far a distance to do anything about it. I march on. “Does this sound like a woman driven by her passions? Like a woman who has been out of control for even a moment of her life? Julia is probably the least romantic person I've ever known.”

I say this with a smile and in the most pleasant tone I can manage, as I watch the horror in Julia's eyes. There is a sociopathic disconnect between the smile on my face and the crime of my words.

For the first time I realize that if Julia starts anything with Oliver, it isn't about any passionate love affair with him. She has a need and wants to fill it. She evaluates options, sees that fixing me isn't working, and decides Oliver can do the job.

Everyone is eager to leave the table and the restaurant. My attempted pleasant tone didn't mask the malice and I'm also visibly drunk. We skip coffee and pay the check. After a mumbled good-bye to Sybil and Oliver, I take Julia's coat off the hook on the wall and help her put it on. Without turning to look, I notice Oliver doing the same for Sybil on the other side of the table. Julia and I walk straight for the door first. No one looks back at anyone.

I wonder what kind of asshole can turn as cruel to his wife as I do if threatened and angry. I tell myself I have a little mean streak, which plenty of good people do. Nothing more to self-analyze
than that. I'm too drunk to have a conversation with Julia about it tonight, and that's my rationale to leave it alone for now, though I know damn well we'll never address it. It's too easy for us to avoid things and I hate that kind of conversation anyway.

We hail a taxi and ride home in silence.

December 16, 2005

WITH A CLEAR HEAD THE NEXT MORNING, MY GUILT IS
more acute. Julia lets me out of the apartment without showing any signs that she's awake, and our avoidance is successful. I make it back in the office with a hangover no worse than normal. I take a coffee, a bottle of water, an egg sandwich, and two Advil back to my desk and begin to get my head straight. This is our version of an athlete warming up for a match.

I realize that I crossed a line with Julia. I compromised private information and used it in a sinister way. I don't even believe the awful judgments I made about her, but I had felt cornered and the instinct to be lethal. She and I are in new territory now. I don't know if there is a way to recover or if there is an urge to anyway.

I feel so unhappy that it's hard to keep a grounded view of what's happening around me. It's possible there's nothing even close to the beginnings of an affair. It's just an innocent flirtation that I've blown out of proportion because I view it all through the haze of my own morally bankrupt lifestyle and increasingly lonely
marriage. It's hard to depend on my eyes when my imagination is out of focus.

William walks by. He still has his three-button suit jacket but he has at least taken it off and put it over the back of his chair. Progress. “Breakfast of champions?”

I nod, indicating I'm not in a mood for conversation.

“Farmer!” It's Jerry from his desk behind me. “Knicks game tonight?”

“Christ. No way. They suck and I'm exhausted.”

“You'll be feeling fine by noon.” Jerry will occasionally get the cocaine going in the office if the hangovers are really bad. It works, but I always feel lousy about it and don't want to do it today.

“Hey, Nick.” I look across at Ron, who has a phone to his ear and is seated next to William. “It's for you on line four-four-two-oh.” Anyone I know calls my direct line. If a person comes in through the general line for the desk, it is either someone I don't know or someone I know and don't want to talk to.

I pick up the receiver and press the flashing button for 4420. “Hello.”

“Hey, Nick. Oliver.” His voice sounds cheery, like an old friend I haven't seen for months who just got in town for a visit. Oliver. Jesus, what is this guy up to?

“Oliver who?”

“Funny. You dragging a little after last night?” I think he references last night just in case I was serious about Oliver who.

“No, I'm fine. Slept like a baby.”

“Good. Good. We had a great time with you two. And Sybil really adores Julia.” Really. This is the Sybil that managed about twenty words all evening.

“Sybil seems very nice.” My Spidey senses are tingling. I feel like a field mouse being circled by a hawk.

There is a pause just longer than normal. “Say, Nick, I'm calling to see about that squash game. I have a court reserved at the Racquet Club. Six p.m. on Thursday. Can you make it?”

Incredible. He's like a Mafia don. Keep your enemies closer. “No, can't make it on Thursday. Got some stuff going on.”

“Okay.” He maintains his cheery tone. “I'm there all the time, so we can find a time that works soon.” For a moment I worry that he's going to propose a bunch of possible dates to get together, making a casual brush-off more difficult, but he lets it go.

“Sure.”

“And let's look into another dinner soon with the gals. That was a lot of fun.” That is an impossible description. I had thought all four of us were having a bad time before I got drunk and especially bad after. His motivation can't be fun for the four of us. He seems like a tactician without conscience or remorse. I wonder if he spoke with Julia to contrive this plan to call me and befriend me and draw me in, but I dismiss it as paranoia. Julia doesn't have that in her.

“We'll take a look at calendars.”

“And tell Julia we may want to contract her to do the interior design job for our Hamptons place.” I can't imagine that will fly with Sybil.

“You can tell her yourself.” If he is already talking with Julia, I hope he interprets this as a statement that I know what he's up to.

“Okay. We'll talk with you soon.”

“Bye, Oliver.” I hang up and dial Julia's cell phone. “Hi.”

“Hey. What's up?” Her words are clipped and angry. The only reason she would pick up would be to hear an apology, and the edge in her voice says an apology over the phone won't cut it.

“I just got a call from Oliver.”

“Really?” It feels like genuine surprise, and without alarm. I'm relieved.

“He wants to set a squash game with me.”

“What'd you say?”

“I'm not interested in finding new ways to spend time with the guy. I told him I'm busy.”

“All right.”

“He wants the four of us to go out to dinner again. I would have thought last night was enough to put a stop to those.”

She doesn't respond.

“Julia.”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry about last night. I'm sorry for what I said about you. I don't feel that way, I was just drunk.”

“Nick, I don't want to talk about this now. Certainly not while you're sitting at your desk.”

This was only getting her angrier. What I said last night was bad enough and the implication that it could be handled by this form of apology was taken as an insult and making it worse. “I know. I'll see you tonight.”

“Bye.” I hear the phone click off.

I replay the tone of her voice again to try to determine any hint of guilt or nervousness about Oliver. Julia's an uncomfortable liar and something would show. I know I should be fixing the root of the problem, but now I'm too focused on how acute the symptoms have become.

I can hear her voice again in my head and I think she is too calm to be a person who has crossed the line. Julia could be just trying to get me to show signs of life in our relationship. And she could be trying to feel alive herself. To feel desired and sought after. A flirtation just enough to feel the emotional charge of what is possible but short of committing any act. Had she not forewarned me of her unhappiness, even this flirtation could be
a betrayal. But it is within the bounds of her honesty and is innocent. She may have taken phone calls from Oliver and she may have allowed his adorations to go beyond what is appropriate, but I don't think she has started an affair. Although I do think she is starting to entertain the promise of something else.

I have an awful tightness in my stomach and groin. I know the feeling has nothing to do with Oliver. He's irrelevant. He's a single utensil at a great banquet. He can fawn on Julia all he wants, but he's not of her caliber.

My tightness is around the scale of the problem with Julia. What on the surface seems so simple to fix feels so out of control beneath the surface. I can't think of what to say when I get home. Like trying to stop a fire with only my own spit, I feel like I haven't even got the right tools for the job. But I know I need to get home tonight, even if I say nothing. Going to a Knicks game and avoiding home until the early morning hours would be a finger in her eye. I might as well send Oliver to my home in my stead for a candlelight dinner. Oliver who shows no conscience and moves like a cancer.

The phone rings again. “Nick, it's Fred.”

“Hey, what's up?”

“You still planning to come to the meeting with Dale? It's going to be in January after year-end.”

Jesus, this is a month out and he's calling me. I feel sorry for him. There's no reason to go except to offer moral support, which he obviously needs. I have no other role to play except to stick my neck out, and I'm starting to think it could be more dangerous than I previously had thought. But I said I'd do it. “Sure, Freddie. I'll be there.” Damn.

“Okay, buddy.” It's Jerry standing behind me and slapping my shoulder. “Drinks at Pastis, then we have courtside tickets for the Knicks. You can rest your toes on the hardwood.”

I've already decided that I need to get home. If I show Jerry that I'm wavering at all or show any appreciation that it could be a fun night, he'll be relentless. I need to be defiant. More than defiant, I need to be angry. “I can't do it.”

“Nick, c'mon. These guys love you. They've been asking if you're coming. We need you.”

I turn my chair so my shoulders are square with him. “Jerry, I'm not going. Not tonight.” I do sound a little angry and it feels good to release it. I'm ready to raise my voice if there's another iteration, and I want to. Jerry's smart enough to recognize this isn't just about me being tired and needing to rally. Something else is going on.

“Fine, fine. You pansy.” I see he's disappointed by the way he shifts his bulk. I don't blame him. It feels strange to be the only thirty-something in a group of twenty-somethings.

“I'll make the next one. I've just got some stuff I need to do.” I start to turn my chair back to my desk.

“Everything okay?” This has the tone of being a reflexive response rather than a reflective one. A human obligation to check in when another human appears to be struggling. Something most of us learn in our formative years or maybe is genetically coded, but is a noncognitive trigger response. I imagine the horror on Jerry's face if I turned to him and said, “Actually, I'm having a really difficult time. Do you have a few minutes that we could go somewhere and talk?”

“Everything's good. Thanks.” I wonder if trying to solve problems at home will create more problems at the office. I don't know that I can make both work, or if I want to.

January 11, 2006

WITHOUT KIDS, THE HOLIDAYS CAN PASS RIGHT BY IF
you want them to, and if you aren't happy, you want them to. We told our parents that we decided to celebrate alone in the city. I bought a tree, which we decorated without any ceremony and with the TV on. We kept it for a week, then I dragged it down to the sidewalk for trash pickup. I don't think we watered it once. I was relieved when activity picked back up at work.

Come January I'm on the trading floor hung up on a trade of casino bonds. The market for them is going the other way. The UBS salesman had asked me to wait on him, thinking he had a bid. By the time he confirmed he didn't have a bid with his trader, the whole buy side had dropped away and I'm screwed holding the bonds. If I sell at the current bid, I take a six-million-dollar loss to our books and Jerry won't shut his fat mouth.

But I'm not thinking about the bonds and I'm not thinking about Jerry. I can't get the squirrelly little bastard Oliver out of my head.

He's always walking around smiling and shaking hands, but
his eyes are never smiling behind those phony, prescriptionless glasses. The eyes are always thinking and working and making the smile work for them. The smile is never for the person he sees, because he isn't motivated by friendship. He's motivated by money, advancement, and power, so the smile is only for what that person can do for him. He acts nice because he knows it's better for him to have people say he's a nice guy. He's pleasant only for a purpose.

I recognize this sort of people around Bear. The ones who appear to dislike no one and to like everyone. But it isn't so much that they like or dislike anyone as it is that they are indifferent to everyone.

It's healthy to dislike some people. It's natural and honest. I've come to hate Oliver.

“Nick, goddamn it. Tell UBS they better make us whole on this. They hung us out!”

I don't turn around. My personal line rings and I'm relieved, thinking I can hide behind the phone against my ear.

“Hello.”

“Hey, big bro.” It's Sue's playful voice, and I feel calmer as though I've been transported to a comfortable wicker chair on a porch with lemonade on a sunny day.