Ghosts of Manhattan (30 page)

He looks like he's coming out of shock and looking for more conversation with less violence. “Nick, I'm not sleeping with Julia.”

His face is angled up to me just so, and I wind around with an open hand that catches his head flush and sounds like a gunshot. It's as hard as I can hit and he doesn't expect it at all. I can feel the weight of his head go from heavy to light as I swing through, the way hitting a baseball or golf ball just right has the sensation of transferring beautiful energy.

My swing rips him out of his chair. His body knocks over the coffee table and he lands crumpled over his knees in a ball with his
forehead on the ground. He doesn't make a noise and I'm not sure he's conscious.

I jab his hip with the bottom of my shoe to topple him on one side and I can see his face. One hand is covering where I made impact. His eyes are a watery mess and staring at me, both accusing and pleading.

I lean over him with my hands on my knees. “Don't ever come near me or her again.”

He chokes out a few words. “I swear I didn't sleep with her.”

“No? Not last night? Sybil didn't just kick you out of the house?”

“That was a hooker, you asshole. Not Julia.”

He's indignant and definitely not lying to me. I stand up straight and breathe a few times. I don't have a chance to feel relief that Julia didn't sleep with Oliver, because a new awful feeling has taken hold and this time I'm not on offense. Jesus, this is bad. I got this very wrong. It's not a slow realization—I see it and feel it right away. I crossed a line almost as bad as sleeping with someone else. This is humiliating to me and more so to Julia. I can't think of a single word to say.

“I've talked to Julia many times but never slept with her. It wasn't like that.”

It wasn't like that because she wouldn't consent to it. He's sort of guilty, so I don't feel as bad about hitting him. What I've done to Julia is far worse.

I walk to the door and open it. I can hear him rustling to his feet. I step into the hall and Oliver steps to the doorframe behind me. He has found new courage now that he knows I'm leaving and won't strangle him.

“She was unhappy, Nick!”

I turn around. Oliver is outside his office door and takes a half
step back in. One hand is still holding the side of his face, streaked with tears. He takes a quick glance around to be sure there are enough people immediately nearby that he's safe. There are about a dozen gawkers, but I'm leaving anyway. I turn back around for the elevator.

“Unhappy, Nick! You hear me?”

February 2, 2006

I TAKE THE ELEVATOR DOWN, AND OUTSIDE THE OFFICE
there's an open taxi at the corner as though it knew I'd be coming. I burst into the back seat and out of the cold and give the cabbie my address. It's nine fifteen in the morning.

What I've done is a betrayal of faith, and I did it publicly. Instead of going to Julia, I condemned her and looked for retribution. I need to get to her quickly to tell her what happened, to let her know it was my insecurity that blinded me. If she hears about what happened with Oliver from anyone else, it will be much worse. I picture entering the apartment, interrupting her from something, and holding her hand while I confess.

When I open the apartment door, I find her sitting at the breakfast table with her coffee just a half room away, surprised to see me. I felt prepared and ready only moments ago. Now I'm like a sprinting dog yanked to a stop by the limits of his tether. I stare at her while still standing in the open doorway.

“Nick, what are you doing home?”

It feels absurd to say,
I just punched out the guy I thought you
were sleeping with, so I came home early,
but it's the truth. “I had an incident today. With Oliver.” I pause. “I heard some things. Some rumors. And I made some assumptions. Some very bad, very wrong assumptions.”

“Oh, God, Nick. What did you do?”

“I confronted Oliver. I'm sorry. I thought you were sleeping with him.”

“Nick.” She puts the coffee down and brings her hand up to her face.

“I hit him. He was sleeping with someone other than Sybil, but obviously it wasn't you. I should have known that. I should have just known that, but I thought maybe you were.”

I'm expecting anger but there is none. She's just slowly shaking her head and not looking at me.

“I'm sorry, Julia. I'm so sorry. And I'm sorry it was so public. I should have come here first.”

“Oh, Nick.” Her voice is resigned, which is much worse than angry. “I wish you knew I'd never do that. You used to know that.”

We're silent and unmoving. I'm standing and looking at her; she's sitting and looking away. My arms hang at my sides feeling useless and needing instruction.

“When did everything change?” she asks, as though she is trying to work out the answer herself.

She's right to ask. But it's hard to pinpoint. Our connection has faded, so slowly we didn't notice it happening until we started feeling unhappy and asked why. My job is the easy scapegoat. I'm away a lot, distracted when I'm here. We don't know each other anymore. She asked an important question and I'm working it out, but because of my silence she treats it as rhetorical and goes on.

“At least you still care enough to be angry that I might have slept with someone else. We've still got a pulse. I guess that's something. Or was it just your bruised ego?”

There's not much I can say.

She brings her hands to her lap and shakes her head one firm time. “I can't do this anymore. I can't be your wife anymore, Nick.”

“Julia, wait a minute.”

“It's not about what you did today. That's just an example of what's so wrong. You don't know me, we don't talk. Our relationship is broken.”

It's broken but I know we can fix it because I know what's changing in me. I want to tell her that I've found myself again and that I'm right here with her. I hope it's not too late.

I'm coming up with my plan and she says, “We should have made this decision a while ago. We could have saved ourselves some pain.”

“There're a lot of things I should have done a while ago,” I say. “I'm going to do them now.” It's all clear. I know I can never work another day at Bear Stearns. Keeping Julia, getting her back, is the only thing that matters.

She's only half listening.

I stand. “Julia, we're broken, but not beyond repair.” I squeeze her hand.

“Nick, I want you to get out. You need to leave this apartment, or I'll leave, I don't care which, but I can't be with you.”

I want to ask if she means forever or just for right now. Even if she means just for now, once I'm gone, she'll probably feel such relief that she'll realize she means forever, so it's better not to ask and make her face the question yet. I want forgiveness and to make amends, but she doesn't want me in the same room. I know
enough about Julia and any woman that being pushy now will blow things up.

I feel motivation and suddenly clarity—the
Wonderful Life
moment I had thought was possible only in a movie. I just don't know how to share it. I need a plan that will give me the opportunity to prove to Julia that I can change in a true and permanent way. I can start by proving it to myself.

“Okay. I'll go.” I walk to the bedroom to pack a bag and whisper a wish that she doesn't leave me alone to do it. I pull a suitcase from the closet and start to put a half dozen of everything into it.

Julia walks as far as the doorway but doesn't come in the room.

I stop packing for a moment and look at her. “I'm going to go to the office tomorrow for the last time.”

She leans against the doorframe and crosses her arms. She's evaluating my statement and seems to conclude that it's not too little but it is too late. She smiles through tears. “I'm happy for you.”

My instinct is to hug her and lift her from the ground, to tell her everything can be okay now, but I know I need to give Julia room to come to believe in me rather than to try to persuade her with words. She needs to have enough time to want to see me again, at least a little.

“Julia, don't answer me now. I want you to know that I love you. Those aren't just words. You're everything that matters to me and I feel that with my whole heart. I have no right to ask for it, but I want a second chance. I want to give us a second chance. If you feel anything for me still, if you think there's a chance for us, meet me tomorrow. I'm going to buy two tickets to somewhere quiet, some island in the Caribbean. At nine a.m. tomorrow I'm going to quit and I'll be outside the office by nine fifteen and I'll wait for you. We can go to the airport together and we can try a new start, away from here.”

Julia nods. Tears are running down her cheeks and falling from the line of her jaw. They're not tears of happiness. She's too exhausted to wipe them and she won't make eye contact with me.

“Julia, I'm still the person you fell in love with and married. I hope you'll give me the chance to show you that.”

February 3, 2006

THE TAXI TAKES PARK AVENUE AND I WATCH THE FEW
trees that are planted in the median as we pass by. I can look up through the naked branches like cracks in a windshield. We turn on Forty-sixth Street toward 383 Madison. My breath comes easy. I'll walk through these doors for the last time.

When I was twenty-two coming to work, I never did things with a plan. I didn't do things based on how I wanted my life to be. I never stopped to think about what that life would eventually look like. I was paying the bills and living life. It all felt like a dress rehearsal and there would be plenty of time to get things exactly right.

But then the years go by and only belatedly do I realize there never was a dress rehearsal. It's all been happening in a single take and it all counts.

I'm halfway across the lobby to the elevators and I hear, “Hi, Mr. Farmer.”

She's a small, middle-aged woman and I know the face. It's round and happy. Her clothes are inexpensive but neat and her
hair is permed in a way that went out in the 1950s. “Hi, how are you?” My smile is real. There's something comforting about her. I remember that she works in the back office, processing trade orders. She's been at Bear for about two decades and might make fifty grand a year. She probably thinks I have the world at my feet, though right now I'm the one envying her happiness.

“Great. I like a little chill in the air. I'm going to get a coffee. Can I get you anything?” She smiles.

“No.” I wish I knew her name. I'd love to be able to say it to her now. I'd love to be able to go back thirteen years to tell myself that it's an important thing to know and those are important things to care about. “But thank you.”

For thirteen years I haven't been in my life, I've been hovering above it like a phantom, all the while with the nagging feeling that something isn't right, that I'm not real. Jack Wilson is a phantom too. A ghost who still thinks he belongs among the living. He can't understand the source of his confusion, why the only people who can see him are other ghosts, but he doesn't know that they're ghosts too. He knows only that they resemble him in some way.

With my mind made up and certain, I feel more powerful. I have nothing to lose anymore and everything to gain. I'm as eager to get upstairs as a child reaching to open a present.

In the elevator I press 6 for the executive offices, stopping short of the trading floor on seven. I roll my shoulders in a way to release tension and I find that I'm not tense at all and it occurs to me that the most dangerous person is not the one with the most strength or weaponry. The most dangerous person is the one who feels he has nothing to lose. I've tapped into this strength. I feel it flow through my body. My fingertips tingle with it. Nobody has a claim on me and I care nothing for a claim of my own on anything
else. There is no consequence left for me to fear. It's liberating, exhilarating.

I exit the elevator doors onto the sixth floor, as though concealing my weapons through a security checkpoint. The sixth floor is nothing like the trading floor. Here there are actual hallways and partitions and offices with doors to close them off. There is no line of sight from one end to another, but there is a main hallway that runs the perimeter of the floor, connecting all the executive windowed offices like an old post road. On the one side sits the executive in an office with sofas and an expensive desk, artwork, and lavish furnishings and with a view of the city. Steps across to the other side sits the secretary in the more humble setting of a cubicle, wishing she had enough privacy to pull up solitaire on her computer.

This is where Dale Brown comes to work. I don't want to see Joe Sansone because my immediate boss might treat me as a friend, try to persuade me to change my mind and give me time to do so. I want this to be official, cold, and friendless.

I haven't seen Dale since the meeting with Freddie. I don't know if he recognized me then or will now. I know his office is in the southwest corner, though I've never been there. I get on the post road and start my journey south, then west.

When I get near to the corner, I strain to see the office nameplates out of the corner of my eye without appearing as though I need them to find my way. I see “Dale Brown, President” across from an alert secretary who is watching me coming. She's cute but not stunning and she seems to sense the danger in my gait. Dale hardly knows me and she certainly doesn't know me at all. She starts to rise, then hovers inches above the seat of her chair as though she's decided it's best to get in a ready position.

“Is he in?”

“Do you have an appointment?”