Undone

A NOVEL

To Donna and Johnny,
and to my mother

Dedication

Epigraph

PART ONE

1

2

3

4

5

6

PART TWO

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

PART THREE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

PART FOUR

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

PART FIVE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Advance praise for Undone

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

F
or two days the girl did nothing but lie in bed and cry. It was driving Dez crazy. The sobs, the shuddering intakes of breath, the sudden wails of “Why, God?
Why?
” before the diminuendo of sniffles and nose blows; then the whole process repeating itself. True, she had just lost her mother—abruptly, violently—in a car crash. But how much was a man expected to take? He was on the point of yelling at her to
Get a grip
when, on the afternoon of the third day, she lifted her head from the pillow and said, in a blurry, tear-muffled voice, “I’m hungry.” Dez found this an improvement over her blubbering, but he wished she could have chosen a better moment to start talking to him. His show was about to start.

He was slouched on the sofa—really just a narrow padded bench—that ran along one wall of the trailer where he had been holed up, like a fugitive, for almost two months, ever since losing his job (or, rather, fleeing from it). The trailer, a three-decades-old Tartarus model, sat among other sagging relics much like it in a clearing in the woods of northern Vermont. With its cracked concrete parking areas, ill-tended grass and communal bathroom hut, the trailer park made a sharp contrast to the privileged neighborhood in Raleigh, North Carolina, where Dez had grown up, to say nothing of the ivied quadrangles of Duke University where he got his BA, or the stately lawns of the Massachusetts School of Law at Andover where he earned his legal degree. But there were compensations. His neighbors were mostly retirees on a tight budget, a low-key community ignored by the local authorities, and thus the perfect place for Dez to be sojourning until he figured out his next move.

The day was hot and humid, the trailer stifling. He was dressed in a pair of jeans, no shirt or shoes. His skinny torso might have been that of an underfed eighteen-year-old, but Dez was, in reality, thirty-one, a fact betrayed chiefly by the triangular areas of balding above his temples, and the deeply carved smile lines (pentimenti of more carefree days) bracketing his lipless, downturning mouth.

“Come and make me feel better,” Chloe whimpered from the sleeping nook at the end of the trailer.

“Can’t,” he said. “Show’s started.”

He kept his eyes on the television’s small, static-riddled screen. He’d bought the set for eight dollars at a swap meet in
Sayer’s Cliff and was running it on a pair of bent rabbit ears (couldn’t afford satellite, if such a luxury were even available in these godforsaken woods). Despite the abysmal reception, he never missed
Tovah in the Afternoon
, the top-rated daytime talk show that specialized in true tales of human fortitude, the endurance of the human spirit, the likely existence of Angels, and the healing powers of love. Dez considered Tovah’s show the crystallization of all that was pitiable in the American character: the sentimentality, the infantilism, the dithery-headed optimism, the lust for success disguised as a quest for the spiritual. (He particularly loved those episodes devoted to the perils of material desires, which ended with each member of the studio audience practically wetting herself with joy over receiving a
100% genuine Rolex watch
!) The show always buoyed him; it was living proof that his own dramatic fall from a life of comfort and respectability (a fall precipitated by the most natural and insistent of all human impulses) was anyone’s fault but his own: it was the fault of a sick, silly, hypocritical society, a society in its death throes.

To the sound of the show’s raucous theme music—a blend of balalaikas and soft rock guitars—Tovah burst from the wings, a short, heavyset woman with a mannish, square face and tear-misty brown eyes behind her trademark pink-framed glasses. She strode to the lip of the stage and threw her arms wide, as if to embrace the studio audience, which unleashed a storm of cheers and clapping. When this died down, she swept her gaze over the crowd and said, in an accent flavored by her native Queens, “Welcome all! Today, we bring you a story of inspiration. A tale of hope and courage and survival; of choices made,
of hurdles crossed, of deep loss and terrible sacrifice, and—
always
—the power of Love.”

Dez’s favorite guests—the ones who best lent themselves to his sardonic ridicule—were the spirit mediums, the life coaches and ghost-whisperers, the angel-summoners and “relationship experts.” Alas, today’s show featured a mere memoirist, author of the book
Lessons from My Daughter
, the true story of the catastrophic stroke suffered by the writer’s wife while she was giving birth to their only child, the titular daughter, now almost five years old. The episode promised to be a dreary bore.

“Please,” Chloe said, drawing out the word. “Come.”

Dez did not budge. He felt an uncharacteristic pang of self-reproach at his disinclination to console the child in her grief. But he was at a loss for how to do so. Partly this was owing to that simple lack of human empathy which Dez freely and unapologetically acknowledged in himself. Then there was his
own
experience of parental loss, clearly so different from Chloe’s. (When his despised father, a judge, died last year, Dez was ecstatic—not because the old man had left him any of his considerable fortune; he hadn’t, not a penny, which explained in part, but only in part, Dez’s current reduced circumstances.) Finally, there was Dez’s fear that any tenderness he might display toward the girl would be mistaken for an overture toward a different kind of intimacy—the sexual intimacy that had been his reason for pursuing her in the first place but which, lately, had become a physiological impossibility, ever since his job loss and the subsequent depression that had settled over him, rendering him, humiliatingly and for the first time ever, impotent.

“Well, then, I’m getting up,” Chloe said.

He turned toward the sleeping nook and watched as she threw back the sheet and climbed from the bed. Dressed only in a pair of white Y-front underpants and a shrunken T-shirt, she stood in profile to him, lifting her elbows high as she swirled her hair into a ponytail, the gawkiness of her elongated limbs contrasting with the roundness and resilience of her womanly curves. At seventeen, she had not fully left childhood, but neither had she fully entered adulthood, and it was the teasing, teetering balance between the two states that so stirred Dez—or used to, before this gloom killed all desire.

She tiptoed into the living space and curled up beside him, pulling her feet onto the sofa and cushioning her head in his lap. He kept his eyes on the television.

“Look at me,” she softly admonished him.

He glanced down into her upturned face—a round, pertly pretty face that still retained a cushioning layer of baby fat but through which the angled cut of her cheekbones was just beginning to show. There was some puffiness under her wideset green eyes, patches of pink raw skin around her delicate nostrils, and her lips had a more swollen quality than usual, from all that crying. But none of this could mar the overall impression of youth and freshness in her face. She was peering up at him, Dez noted, with an expression of unsettling emotional ardency and need.

“Feeling happier?” he said, turning his eyes back to the TV.

“I guess,” she said. “But know what I was thinking, just now? Before I got up?” Dez made no response. She went on,
undaunted: “Now that my mom is gone, you’re the only person I have left in the world.”

This was, unfortunately, quite true. She had told him, when they first met, of how her father had drowned when she was an infant: slipped below the ice on frozen Lake Sylvan during some bibulous antics with friends. Dez had expressed the conventional condolences over her loss, but had secretly applauded it: he knew from bitter experience that when courting a girl as young as Chloe it was best there be no potentially enraged father in the picture. But now, with her mother having contrived to join her father in violent, untimely death, she was officially an orphan, Dez her sole protector. He did not relish responsibility even at the best of times, and these were hardly that, with his bank balance fast dipping toward zero and no plans for how to replenish it.

He had thought more than once about ditching her—packing his few possessions into a bag and slipping out while she slept, lighting out for California, Florida, Mexico—anywhere but here. But he had somehow not been able to do that. There was something about this one that had gotten under his skin. The same thing, apparently, that had made him risk everything by seducing her in the first place, despite the warnings, the legal threats, the second chances, the therapeutic interventions, the sober promises to reform.

“See what I mean?” Chloe said.

“Hmmm?”

The television show, despite its dismal guest, had started to interest him. With her usual breathtaking invasiveness, Tovah had
just asked the hapless memoirist about his sex life—inquiring how he “managed,” given that his wife was confined to a wheelchair, unable to speak or to move any body part, save for her eyelids. The guest, a tall, sandy-haired man of around forty with bulging blue eyes and a diffident smile, was staring at Tovah in apparent shock, evidently having failed to anticipate her question.

“I’m saying,” Chloe repeated, “all we’ve got is each other.”

“Absolutely,” Dez said, his eyes on the screen. He was straining now to catch the answer produced by Tovah’s guest, who had begun mouthing some platitudinous euphemisms about how he missed “physical closeness of that kind” with his wife. “But,” the man went on, “having resolved to take my marriage vows seriously, I’ve been forced to accept that love is about more than the purely physical act, an act that partly—but only partly—defines marriage.”

“Dez?” Chloe said.

He grunted rudely, dismissively, in reply.

“Oh, forget it,” she said, giving up and rising from the sofa.

She stepped across to the kitchenette—an arrangement of camp stove, icebox and sink beneath an overhang of shallow cabinets—and began to hunt for something to eat.

Dez sat up now and leaned toward the television screen, where Tovah continued to badger her guest about the demands of his frustrated libido. “You’re only forty-one years old,” she said, “still in the prime. Yet you’re saying that you remain
faithful
to Pauline?”