The Suite Life (33 page)

In the meantime,
A Gay Day
had a spirited debut in front of a packed audience that included Alec and the Stavros brothers. He fidgeted in his seat, more interested in the after-party than in the play, as I said every line to myself along with the actors.

Our limited run was a modest success as show business goes. To me, however, it was a smash because it glorified love between two human beings, and I couldn't think of being involved with anything more important than that. I patted myself on my back for the work I had done bringing it to the stage—I was filled with a sense of purpose, a sense of true accomplishment, and for the first time in a long time, I felt happy.

Gianna and Gary tied the knot later that spring as scheduled, but that splash faded quickly, too, in the shadow of Franco's continuing slide into divorce. Monica and the children were no longer present at family gatherings in either Brooklyn or Long Island, and Franco swung back and forth between wallowing in depression and extolling the virtues of his impending bachelorhood. He was most animated, however, telling tales of the entertaining adventures with Alec in which he was now included.

Alec's fixation on material possessions and power was only growing more urgent. I didn't even raise an eyebrow when he mentioned the private jet he had his eye on. These trappings were just part of my life, as was the nagging feeling that I'd never really belong in my husband's world and the nagging fear that I'd never reconnect with the man I'd married. He added a second summer home in Quogue because he just had to be closer to the social scene in the Hamptons, and he continued entertaining not only clients but also his new friends, the ballplayers and their wives or girlfriends whom he'd met thanks to his legendary seats behind home plate at Yankee Stadium, and who appreciated his intimate knowledge of restaurants and clubs, including the ones where tits were exposed. To return these favors a couple of the players introduced him to Kevin O'Brien, a former EMT who was a fabulous personal trainer and advisor on the very latest approaches to exercise and peak performance.

Unfortunately, the positive side of my husband's new
interest in working out was far outweighed by something else—the inclusion of human growth hormone (HGH), testosterone, and steroids in Kevin's training regimen. Although these drugs were strictly forbidden by Major League Baseball, the players swore by their merits, and Alec-the-experimenter as well as Alec-the-experienced-needle-man jumped right in. That Kevin insisted on a doctor's supervision and monitoring of doses did little to alleviate my fears. Nor did running Alec's program by Dr. V, a world-famous internist with his own morning TV show, who told me there was a risk of potentially serious side effects.

Kevin was a likable guy who knew a lot about alternative and natural medicine, which had been an interest of mine all my life. But that didn't change the fact that Alec's headfirst dive into designer drugs—a marvelous new service he discovered his money could buy—was causing him to have the worst mood swings I'd ever experienced. His eyeballs would suddenly seem to be bulging out of his head and he would fly into a rage and snap at me or, worse, at Isabella, for absolutely no reason. The drugs may have been legally prescribed by the top anti-aging doctor in Manhattan, and according to my husband they made him feel great, younger and more alive. But no matter how good he felt after a back adjustment and an injection from Kevin, I was walking on eggshells whenever he was around, as I waited for the next explosion. It was becoming more than I could handle, and for the first time in my marriage I suddenly began longing for a way out.

Luckily for Hercules, he had stayed with the dog walker after the WTC bombing and was now living with her on a permanent basis. I hated the fact that Alec hadn't made any plans for his inclusion at the Luxe Regent palace he was building and I still blamed myself for not having defended him, because both Isabella and I loved Hercules very much, but at least I could be sure that he was now safe from Alec's fury.

My only escape from Alec's increasingly erratic and volatile behavior was my work—as a producer, I felt like I could truly be myself. Doris Bernstein and I became good friends as we worked together on another play, and I also struck up a friendship with Debbie Warren, who was married to the Yankees pitcher Presley Warren. I accepted her invitation to join her animal rights charity board and felt blessed that I could add these nurturing relationships to the ones I had with Marvin and Gregory. Being with these people kept me connected to Sam Bonti, rather than the increasingly submissive Mrs. DeMarco, who had taken to tiptoeing around her husband and shrinking into the background of his life.

Alec took care of the special needs of anyone who could help him on his rise to the top, and it broke my heart that he didn't believe me to be of any use at all. All that mattered to him was an adoring child and a dutiful wife he could show off to colleagues and clients at social functions. In truth I got ten admiring looks from those colleagues and clients for every one my husband gave me in the bedroom or anywhere else. It broke my heart, too, that the home life I always wanted—a child safe asleep and a husband at my side on the couch as we watched TV and ate popcorn—remained only a dream.

Alec fell into a routine of hitting the liquor cabinet as soon as he walked through the door, smoking pot constantly, and popping the occasional pain pill, particularly Percocet, which he obtained courtesy of his doctor connections. You'd think that all this self-medication would have at least relaxed him enough to communicate, but he kept all of his feelings bottled up despite my many hints that I would be more than receptive to his opening up. I racked my brain thinking about what I could do to hold on to my husband, and I had more time to do that than I would have liked.

Alec didn't call home often, and when he did it was usually
because he had some function that involved me. When he was home, if he wasn't watching a Yankee game in the den or playing with Isabella for the couple of minutes he allotted to that activity, I wouldn't even have known he was there. The rest of the time he was holed up in his study, assumedly working on his deals, or in the place he'd rented on Wall Street, initially because he needed a private place to shit. He hated shitting at the NYSE bathrooms; he needed room to spread out. This had become his part-time residence, which he and his buddies called the “lair.” They used it as a recreational pad where they banged their girls on the side, stored the weed that was dropped off weekly at great expense, and made their chocolate-covered mushrooms. He also kept all his Yankee memorabilia there, along with suits for work. He had developed another life outside the home, our home.

He did, however, manage, with Caryn doing all the work, to plan a fifth birthday party for Isabella at Disney World, complete with fire-eaters on stilts, for family and close friends. At the same time he was working toward opening a company of his own that would be a major player on Wall Street. As usual, getting by was all I could do. I went to meetings with my team, attended charity events and board meetings, spent time with my delightful and insightful little girl, who was well on her way to becoming her own person, and did everything I could to keep my dream alive.

Before I knew it, another year was just around the corner.

More than seven years already since I met Alec.

I wasn't ready for Broadway, but my second and third plays had done better than the first and I was earning at least entry-level respect from the show business crowd. That was the topic of discussion when Marvin and Gregory invited me to their Rhode Island home early the following April.

“At least you're making a name for yourself,” Marvin said,
as we sat bundled up on the deck with a salty ocean breeze wafting over us. “You don't need Alec to do that.”

He was the steady, sensible half of the couple and I appreciated his encouragement, but his words didn't change the fact that my marriage was crumbling under my feet. Of equal concern was the fact that the “name” I was acquiring wasn't the one I really wanted—author of
The Blessed Bridge
.

“You just keep doing what you're doing,” Marvin said, “and let the chips fall where they may.”

“I'm on board with that,” Gregory said. “Plenty of people would kill to have what you have,” he continued, and then a devilish smile appeared on his face as he pointed to the seven-carat yellow diamond on my ring finger. “Especially Precious there.”

“You're just talking about material things,” I said.

Gregory laughed. “I will admit plenty of people would trade it all for a good screw at least once a week.”

“Don't mind him, Sam,” Marvin said. “You've got an awful lot going for you.”

“And we sure as hell don't mind going along with you,” Gregory said.

“I'm just not sure producing plays is the right path for me,” I said softly.

“What—you've got a better one available?” Marvin asked.

“Maybe,” I mused, and the shrill cries of seagulls flying low were the only sounds to be heard for a long moment.

Gregory leaned forward. “Give it up, Sam. It's just us girls here.”

The three of us laughed freely. I was amazed at how different I felt around them—how at ease—as opposed to the tension I felt at home.

“I really want to be a writer.” There, I'd said it.

“I should have known,” Marvin said, “what with all the little touches you've contributed to our scripts.”

“How long have you had that dream?” Gregory asked.

“Ever since my grandma gave me a portable Smith-Corona for my fourteenth birthday.”

“Whoa.” Marvin whistled. “That's quite a long time.”

“Don't remind me.” I frowned.

“Good for you for sticking with it,” Marvin said.

“Doesn't surprise me,” Gregory said. “If we've learned anything from working with you, it's that dogged determination is your strong suit.”

“And what, pray tell, have you been secretly creating lo these many years?” Marvin asked.

“A novel about a girl growing up in Brooklyn.”

Gregory frowned. “I can't believe you didn't mention it before now.”

“You two already know everything that's in it,” I said. “Growing up poor and being abused in and out of my home, and wanting to make my mark in the world.”

“But you conveniently forgot to tell us how you intended to do that,” Marvin said.

My eyes traveled from one to the other. “Forgive me?”

“Of course we will,” Gregory smiled. “As long as we get to read your manuscript.”

I delivered my novel to my friends with renewed hope for its publication. By the spring of 2005, the time for Alec to open his own business was approaching, as was the completion of our Luxe Regent apartment. I still didn't control our checking account, although I had opened one of my own for the small sums I was earning as a producer, and I didn't get to make any major decorating decisions, but I did get to choose among the options Alec's decorator laid out.