Ghosts of Manhattan (25 page)

“You're not your career, Nick. She may not love what you do, but she loves you. She respects you and your character. She and I have had enough conversations into the early morning hours that I know this.”

“Well, my career is still in the picture. Distinguishing it in the way you do may not be enough. She would prefer to exorcise it and kill it.”

“You already know how I feel about that. I agree.”

I do know and I don't want to retread this ground. It also isn't what has all my senses in a panic. “It's possible Julia may be having an affair.”

Susan's expression doesn't change but she leans back into the sofa, staring at me. I notice how long it's been since she last blinked, and I find myself counting the seconds and the number of times I blink before she next does. “You buried the lead. What makes you suspect her?”

I don't want to describe how I read through Julia's diary, that it was just lying out and I happened to see it and read a few pages. “We've spent some time with another couple. Julia's behavior's been a little weird, his has been weirder. And there've been some clues around the apartment.”

We both sip our drinks and sit quietly for a moment. “Nick, Julia is not the type for affairs. Of course, people who are not the type still have affairs all the time for one reason or another.”

“Meaning it takes two? Meaning I drove her to it?”

“Meaning there's no point in talking about whether she crossed the line. We don't know and I can't comment on it. It's not the most important thing anyway. What matters is why she would even consider it in the first place.”

“Look, I know I have a role in this, I'm not an idiot. But starting an affair with another man is a different matter.”

“Nick, let's leave the affair question to the side for a moment.”

Susan is treading lightly around this. My relationship with Julia is potentially till death do us part, so she may be speaking carefully about a person who is supposed to be a permanent member of the family, but it's frustrating me. “How are we supposed to put an affair to the side?”

“Because the affair itself isn't what matters. It's your relationship with Julia.”

“It's been on a slow and steady descent to unhappiness for a long time.”

“Do you want to work on it?”

“Yes, we're trying to figure out how.”

“You need to believe you're worth it. Not just Julia or your marriage, but you. Sometimes you seem a little self-loathing, whether it's you or your job.”

I'm following along with what Susan's saying and actively
weighing whether it has any relevance to what's happening. “I wouldn't be so sure.”

“I know the type of stuff you get up to at work. It's easier to be a sister to than a wife to. I also know it's not really you.”

“I don't know anymore, Susie. I've changed since you really knew me well. I'm not the person you grew up with.”

“Nick, the last thirteen years don't define you and never have in the slightest. You're the same person you always have been from the beginning.” She stands from the couch, steps to me, and pokes the center of my chest. “Before you were ten years old, the man you would become was already in there. The point is that I do know you well. You're a good person. Nothing else can be saved if you can't believe that.”

I finish my drink. “Maybe you're right.”

She smiles and her tone gets more offhanded. “If anything, you're a little closed off. You never take chances with yourself.”

She's right about that and I don't want to talk about it. It's easier to be closed off. Sometimes it's just easier to say nothing, or even to let yourself slip into a pattern of self-castigation because it's easier to accept the punishment than to try for better. Sue knows she's close to the heart of it and I'm uncomfortable, so she lets me off the hook.

“You are a good man, Nick.”

“In that case, please apologize to Ted for me. I was in a bad mood and might have been a little rude.”

Susan makes a sigh mixed with a laugh. “Oh, God. How bad?”

“Not horrible.”

She stands and hugs me.

“Thanks, Susie.” She pulls my face down and kisses my forehead. “I'm going to give Andy and Caroline a hug, then slip out.”

“I love you, Nick.”

“I love you too.”

I avoid my mother on the way out and am in Susan's driveway when I run into my dad arriving to the party.

“Hiya, Nick.”

He slips between bumpers of tightly parked cars to give me a hug. Not the kind that is slow and sentimental but the kind that means in our relationship we always hug. The thing is, this has started only since I've been in my thirties. I think the old man has always had it in him, but it wasn't until this stage of his life that he decided it's important. Maybe he got some therapy.

He looks a lot like I might in twenty years, only more professorial. He's always wearing tweed jackets and old leather shoes. He still practices as an orthopedic surgeon.

Two types of people go into medicine. Some because they manage to get tuition together and it gives them a safe and lifelong career. Even if they aren't very good, they won't go unemployed, and it's respectable enough for cocktail parties. Susan's husband, Ted, is one of these.

The others choose it because it's a noble and intellectual profession. Dr. Tom Farmer is one of these.

“How are you, Dad?”

“How's city life?” He lives only forty-five minutes away but is still fascinated by the city and can't understand how a person can live in it.

“The same. It's where the action is.”

“How's your lovely wife?”

“She's fine. She had some errands to run, so she couldn't make the party.”

“How are things at work?” Dad likes to stay in regular touch. I can tell when he's short on time because he asks the punch line questions, then signs off.

“It's a living.” It doesn't feel obnoxious to respond with punch line answers.

“Nick, what do you say we get together for duck hunting? Your mother and I fixed up the old blind this fall. We could get a hunt in before the end of the season.”

I expected some form of this. He ends every conversation trying to make a plan to see each other the next time, as though he's convincing us both this is important to him. I think he hasn't come to terms with the moment on the train platform when he saw me off to boarding school and sent the message that spending more time with me wasn't a priority. “That would be great, Dad. Maybe in a few weeks.”

“Sure. Sure. You can use my old Browning. I just had it cleaned and restored.” This is a prize possession of his that he bought while in his twenties in Belgium when he didn't have much money. He feels that a gentleman always buys the best that he can afford, then takes great care to maintain it. His gun is a classic in mint condition and a reminder to him that he has acted like a gentleman.

“It's a deal.”

“Great, then. I'll see you in a couple weeks.”

We wrap the conversation in a bow. He's a kind man, but Mom is the dominant person. I think every kid needs to like at least one of his parents, so I suppose I'm lucky to have him.

I'm back in the car and away to the city.

January 30, 2006

I CALL WILLIAM AND TELL HIM I'M NOT COMING IN AND
to cover my accounts. I don't tell him I'm sick or try to sound sick or even tired. He can probably hear that I'm calling from the car.

I had told Julia that I wanted to take the car to check on our house in Sag Harbor and stay there a couple days. She seemed to find as much relief as I did in the plan. We slept in the same room last night, though I had thought about moving to a couch to ease the effect of the silence in such close proximity, but there's something so official about dragging a pillow and blanket to the next room, like ringing the bell at a prizefight. Anyway, I was up and out the door by 7 a.m. before she was awake.

I love driving in winter with my jacket still on and the windows down, and I do it the whole distance I'm on the Long Island Expressway. It feels like camping out. There's no traffic at this hour heading in this direction, so I'm out to Sag Harbor in about two hours. I love it here in the winter. The whole town seems to be resting. Even the trees seem to be lounging with coffee and a book.

When we bought our place a few years ago, we decided on the
philosophy of buying the worst house on the best street. Even still, our house is not at all bad with its large bay windows and working fireplace. I pull into the market for ground coffee, the paper, and firewood before going there.

I stop the car at the head of the driveway and admire my house for a moment. I think how it looks old and nice and that I own it. I can claim this as my own and others can attribute it to me. It is something I use and that feels substantial.

I think how I should buy only real things and not stock in some company. When I buy stock in IBM, I never visit the offices to walk the halls of the company or sit down with management. The stock will move up or down based on the comments of an analyst, and I have no real connection to the company. The whole thing could be a fiction or a board game. It's like buying a vacation property that I know I intend never to visit or even see, then adjusting the value each day based on the weather forecast.

But this is a real home where I can step inside and get warm or shower after a day at the beach and others can drive by and admire it and decide they would pay an amount for it. It feels good to possess. Something in our nature promotes that, and I know too much about the manipulations on Wall Street to find any comfort in a paper investment.

Julia and I used to take off as many summer Fridays and Mondays as we could, pack the car and fight the traffic to get here. We'd pull in and notice the city sounds had been replaced by quiet and salt air and feel that these are the moments that make life good on balance.

I walk in the front door and slide my hand up the wood frame, admiring the sturdiness more than I have in the past. I start the coffee and a fire and sit in a reclining chair so I can feel the pulse of heat from the flames. The chair is old and leather and so worn
in places that the brown has turned yellowish. All the furniture is so rustic and otherwise uncoordinated that it creates a theme of its own that nearly works for a comfortable beach home. Or maybe Julia has put more thought into it than I know.

I pick up the paper and start reading and wait for the calmness to come.

I have the
Journal
and the
Times,
and between periods of closing my eyes for a rest and getting up to freshen the fire, I make my way through most of the articles. I turn to the crossword puzzle. Nothing signals being on vacation like spending time on a crossword. It's the Monday version, so there are some easy gimmes that help establish a whole corner of the puzzle. I find myself starting to care about completing the puzzle and it feels good to see progress and to have a corner I can count on as a foundation. It's a shame that life doesn't come with the same little victories and affirmations of correctness of a crossword puzzle.

Within an hour I've gotten all I can get without cheating, which is disappointing because it's only Monday and I used to be able to complete these. But it's been a while since I've done one, maybe since a vacation with Julia a few years ago.

I put the paper down and recline back in the chair to rest my eyes again. My mind reverts back to Oliver, as though he was there all the time under my eyelids just waiting for them to close. I have an image of accepting his invitation to play squash and crushing his slight body into a side wall as I pretend to go for a ball but angle directly into him instead. Then I stand over his body writhing in pain from cracked ribs and his broken glasses lying at an angle on top of his wincing face, and I offer him a hand up with a look that says, This is your fault because you shouldn't have been standing there. You should have stayed out of my way and not come anywhere near me. My hand comes off the armrest
of the leather chair and extends to pick up Oliver's crumpled body as though I'm on the squash court, and my body acts out the scene the way a little kid will mime a rock star in the bathroom mirror. This scene is something I can make happen in real life if I go just a little bit crazier, and it makes me happy to think that.

Then my mind races on to Julia tending to his broken body still lying on the court. She kneels beside him and looks up at me with appalled eyes that know that I wasn't trying to get to a ball at all. Then she turns back to him to straighten his silly glasses and smooth over his hair with the other hand. I drop my racquet and walk off the court, and in real life I straighten up from the reclined chair, open my eyes, and put another log on the fire.

My plan for calmness isn't working. Being so focused on acting calm never made anyone calm. I think maybe I should start a diary of my own. Maybe I can take all of this and dump it onto the pages of a journal. This wouldn't be a document to memorialize things so that years from now I could leaf through the pages and recapture the feeling. This would be the opposite. Like removing a wart, I want to cut it out of me and cast it into the pages and never see it again.

I wonder which of these roles Julia's diary plays for her. I also decide that I'm starting not to like my own company very much. Being alone strips away all the little distractions and corners I can use to hide away from my own thoughts. It unveils me to myself. I know it should be good, like shaving down a callus to bring out the virgin skin. Two days of this will be enough and three too many. Right now I'm not sure I like myself enough to be alone.

I'm a cynical bastard stuck in relationships that I should let go. Churchill said a fanatic is a person who can't change his mind and won't change the subject, and I think I'm a fanatically cynical bastard. What I need is a good crisis to help me clean house.