The Unforgiving Minute (2 page)

Chapter 2

I sat in the luxuriously wide first-class seat, sipping a

vodka on the rocks. My heart was pounding at a furious rate and

I could feel the fear welling up in my chest. I had efficiently

disappeared and made sure my note would be found by Julie.

Hundreds of things buzzed through my head. I was very

apprehensive over not seeing my children and abandoning them, in

a sense. I thought that perhaps I should have gone through

psychotherapy instead of what was now seeming like an utterly

insane idea.

The first-class compartment was almost empty, so I had no

seat-mate. This situation left me alone with my thoughts. I

don’t think we were more than fifteen minutes in the air when I

was on my second drink. The alcohol effectively masked the fear

in my chest and I pushed the seat recliner button and leaned

back, drink in hand, and relived some of the events that led me

to this day.

The affair with Laura began rather harmlessly. The

building my business was located in had its own parking lot. I

started late and worked late each day, so driving into the city

was not the hardship it was for most people who live on Long

Island.

One hot summer night in August of 1980, I was waiting for

my car in the lot when I saw a tall, red-headed woman in her

thirties speaking with one of the attendants and standing next to

an ancient Chevrolet spewing steam out of its hood. Automobiles

have always interested me and I know a little about auto

mechanics, so I walked over trying to be of some help. One of

the hoses had sprung a leak and it was a fairly simple repair.

However, it certainly couldn’t be accomplished until the next

morning. I overheard the girl tell the attendant that she lived

in Jackson Heights and that it would cost her a fortune to take a

cab home and the bus and subway were unacceptable at nine o’clock

at night.

I introduced myself and offered to drive her home. I am

certainly a non-threatening-looking man. I’m five feet ten

inches tall, one hundred sixty-five pounds, dress well, and have

been told many times that I have a kind-looking face. She

accepted with no compunction and when my Town Car pulled up, slid

into the passenger’s seat.

I tried desperately to make conversation but only found

out the barest of details. Her name was Laura Morrisey and she

lived in an apartment in Jackson Heights, Queens, with her two

children. No husband was mentioned. She worked as a secretary

in a law firm in our building. I kept looking at her and thought

she was lovely but the conversation just didn’t click.

My first thoughts in relation to Laura were that if she

was not downright dumb, she was certainly the most unexciting

woman I had ever met. The drive to her neighborhood in Queens

was interminable. The woman was boring me out of my mind. I

dropped her off to polite thanks and was sure I would never see

her again in my life, nor did I want to.

One month later I was returning from lunch when I spotted

her on the elevator. She was standing in the corner, obviously

weeping. I sidled over to her and said, “I don’t know if you

remember me; I’m Bob Boyd. It seems I pop up whenever you’re

having a problem. Can I help?”

“It’s nothing,” she said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Okay,” I said, and moved away. I was surprised when she

got off at my floor. It seemed that her firm was located a few

offices from mine. As I walked toward my door I heard her say,

“Wait, please. I feel so rude and you’ve been so nice to me.” I

turned toward her and listened as she explained.

“This morning as I was on my way to my car, I found a

scrawny puppy so weak that he couldn’t stand. I didn’t know what

to do. I didn’t want to call the ASPCA. I was afraid they would

put him to sleep. I took him back to my apartment and tried to

feed him. I tried milk, solid food, cereal, everything I could

think of. I was so preoccupied that I didn’t even call my

office. I finally decided to drive him to the Spyer Animal

Hospital in Manhattan. I wrapped him in a blanket and put him in

the back seat. When I arrived, I took him into the hospital but

he was already dead. I went out to my car and found a forty—

dollar parking ticket on it. I called the office and got bawled

out royally for not calling.” She reached out and took my hand

and said, “Thank you so much for being concerned.”

I was so touched that I asked her to have a drink with me

after work. She explained that she was way behind in her work

but that she would take a rain check for the following evening.

I said in that case we should make it dinner. Surprisingly, she

accepted. I suggested that she not bring her car the next day so

that we could be more flexible in our dinner arrangements. She

agreed and we adjourned to our respective offices. I remember

vividly asking myself what in the hell I had in mind. I recalled

how boring she was that night in my car and knew that I was not

in the market for a one-night stand. I was surely not in the

market for a serious romance.

I am in the habit of laying out my clothes for the next

day before I retire. I found myself being extra selective that

evening and picked out a blue summer-weight suit, a voile off—

white shirt, and an Armani tie which I was particularly fond of.

I combined these with a pair of black ostrich shoes which I had

purchased in London the year before. I don’t know why I was so

excited, but I had great trouble getting to sleep that night.

I could scarcely wait to call her the next morning. When

I dialed her office she had indeed come in via public

transportation and was ready and eager to dine with me that

evening.

We departed the city at seven and drove across the

Queensborough Bridge to Long Island City. I took her to a lovely

seafood restaurant overlooking the East River and Manhattan

Island. It couldn’t have been a lovelier evening.

We ordered drinks and commented on the lovely view. She

was much more animated that she had been at our previous meeting.

She told me of her failed marriage to a postman, who, at the age

of thirty, had left her for an eighteen-year-old. She briefly

discussed her two children, Jeff and Jeanine, ages seven and

eleven respectively, and the difficulties of being a single,

working parent.

After having one drink and ordering another, I commented,

“I hope you’re not insulted, but that first night when I drove

you home I really thought you were dumb. I felt that I just

couldn’t get an intelligent conversation started.” She answered

by shrugging her shoulders and smiling weakly. “See,” I said.

“You clam up. I just can’t figure you out. I know you want to

be with me because you accepted my invitation tonight.” She

flushed and seemed to stare into space interminably. Finally,

she got the words out.

“I’m very shy and I don’t think I’m terribly bright. Men

seldom ask me out and when they do it’s never someone like you.

I’ve also never dated a married man, and I keep thinking of the

woman who broke up my home and I don’t want to be her.” Now it

was my turn to stare into space. I just didn’t know how to

address all those things at once. Laura turned to look at the

view and slowly sipped her drink. Her next statement was a real

puzzler. “Good-looking men never ask me out.” Now what the hell

did that mean? It could have meant that I was the latest in that

line or it could have meant that I was the first good-looking man

who ever asked her out. I looked her straight in the eye and put

on my most tender, understanding look.

“I understand. We can just have a nice dinner and chalk

this evening up to experience. I really don’t want to screw your

life up. You seem to be a nice person and I’m really not a

habitual woman chaser. In fact, I really don’t know what I’m

doing here tonight. It would probably be a relief if we ended it

right here, so just relax.” Her face took on a look of immense

relief and her attitude softened immediately.

The rest of the dinner was most enjoyable. We chatted

about everything from movies to music and politics. It turned

out that she was not formally educated but read voraciously.

While her choice of books was not my own, I always feel that

anyone who reads a lot picks up a command of our language. She

also read the newspaper from cover to cover every evening.

By the time we finished our coffee, we had each had,

including wine and Sambucca, about four drinks. I paid the check

and we walked out onto a steel pier which jutted into the river.

There was a warm breeze blowing and the lights of Manhattan were

exceptionally clear on an unusually dry summer evening for New

York. We stood silently looking at the skyline and, as if

through a prearranged signal, turned toward each other and

embraced. I kissed her ever so tenderly and we held each other

for a long time. I had the feeling that this girl was taking me

somewhere I had never been before. I remember thinking to myself

that I was in deep trouble.

***

The Swissair stewardess shook me out of my trance when the

first course of a sumptuous dinner was served in flight. It was

a delicious pat´e and I wolfed it down, realizing that I hadn’t

eaten all day in nervous anticipation. I drank heartily of some

excellent red wine and felt curiously cozy and content as opposed

to my trepidations of an hour before. While eating my dinner, I

read the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times. When dinner

was over I did the Times crossword and dozed off to sleep. I

don’t think I’ve ever slept so soundly on a plane.

When I awakened, the sunrise was showing itself over the

horizon. I walked to the toilet and made myself as presentable

as possible, brushed my teeth, and felt pretty good for a lonely,

screwed-up guy on the run who couldn’t quite comprehend why he

was on the run. When I got back to my seat I checked my

briefcase in a panic. I had forgotten the check for one million

dollars that I had left there. I breathed a sigh of relief when

I found it and decided to transfer it to my jacket pocket. The

stewardess sat down next to me after bringing an ice-cold glass

of orange juice and some coffee. I was considering making a play

for her for my first adventure of the trip, when her conversation

immediately alluded to her husband and two small children who

were meeting her on arrival. Instead, I discussed Swiss banking

with her and she suggested that I visit the Banhofstrasse,

Zurich’s main shopping street, in which were situated hundreds of

banks. I explained that I wasn’t looking for a small branch

bank, but for the main headquarters of a reputable bank. She

left me momentarily and visited a prosperous-looking gentleman in

the front of the cabin. She returned with the name of a bank

written neatly in her precise, feminine hand. In less than an

hour we landed in Zurich. I changed some money in the airport

and took the most expensive taxi ride of my life to the Baur au

Lac Hotel.

Night flights to Europe are a tiring experience, to say

the least. The best part is that your hotel room is always ready

for you, even if you arrive at nine in the morning. The hotel

was as I remembered it, decorated with old-world luxury and not

in the least bit garish. Upon arriving in my room, I immediately

took a hot shower and slithered naked in between the sheets for a

three-hour, dead-to-the-world nap. When I awakened it was about

one o’clock. I hurriedly dressed and left the hotel to do my

banking. I opened an account and arranged to have a supply of

temporary checks. I was assured that my permanent checks would

be ready by the next afternoon. I returned to my room, realizing

that beyond this I had no plans at all. I sat down at the desk

to write a letter to Ann Marie. As I wrote, my mind wandered to

the beginnings of our relationship.

***

Julie and I had moved into a small apartment on Tenth

Street in the Village. I had a job on Wall Street and Julie

worked as an account executive for a polling company in mid-town.

In those days, a subway ride was a clean, pleasant, safe, and

inexpensive way to get around, and the convenience was wonderful.

We were deliriously happy. Our combined income was quite

comfortable and we led a romantic existence beyond compare. I

thought that I had never been so happy. About a year after we

moved in, Dominic and Ann Marie Lipani moved down the hall.

Dominic worked for the city and was a coarse, homely man with a

potbelly, whose personality matched his looks. His wife, Ann

Marie, looked like Anna Magnani, the Italian movie actress. She

was ten years older than I was and had an earthy sensuality and a

soft manner that was the very antithesis of her husband. They

had a son, Michael, who was ten years old and extremely

introverted.