“I’ve always found Monet’s work kind of cloying,” Daniel said one Saturday afternoon as we wandered through MoMA. “That obsession with the cathedral in Rouen—those endless, turgid waterlilies. I visited Giverny with my wife once—years ago. It smelled like a cesspool, frankly. And it was overrun by busloads of Japanese tourists.”
Because he’d said it so offhandedly, merely in passing, I almost didn’t pick up on the fact that Daniel had just mentioned a wife. This was the first real—unasked for—piece of personal information he’d given me. I wondered if it represented a chink in his armor, a willingness to have us go a little deeper with each other. And I wondered if our lovemaking the night before—the most intense it had ever been—had anything to do with it. He’d angled the full-length mirror on the door of the bedroom closet so that he could have a view of us on the bed. Afterward, as I lay with my head on his chest, staring up at the ceiling, he’d said:
“We make a good pair.”
I didn’t know what he meant by that exactly, and I wasn’t sure that I liked his tone of voice. But I was still too hungry for his approval to call him on it. I closed my eyes, savoring the feeling of physical release. It was only in his presence—especially when we were making love—that I experienced that sense of oblivion I craved. It was only then that I felt truly safe.
Uncertain of his motives, I decided to let the mention of his marriage go for the time being. Later, though, toward the end of an early dinner at a Northern Italian place he liked on upper Madison Avenue, I leaned across the table and said, simply:
“Wife?”
“So you were paying attention,” he replied. “Yes. Two, actually. Both exes now. You’re not surprised, I hope?”
“No,” I said. “Curious, though.” In fact, I’d been having a hard time trying to imagine Daniel in the role of anybody’s husband.
“It was before I realized that I didn’t have to play by other people’s rules. Life is far more pleasurable if you make up your own.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That sounds a little lonely somehow.”
“Better than a little suffocating,” he said. “No, scratch that. A lot suffocating.”
“Which is how you feel about marriage?”
He gave me a half smile as he took me in across the table.
“It’s how I feel about any relationship that comes with strings attached. That’s why I think we get on so well. We both want one thing from each other—and I think we both want it pretty intensely.”
“But when you decided to get married, didn’t you know—”
“Hey, now, stop that,” he said, reaching across the table and touching his right index finger to my lips. “Digging around in the past is a waste of time. You know how I feel: life is meant to be enjoyed . . . reveled in . . . savored. It’s been wonderful watching you let go of your inhibitions these past few weeks. I feel that I’ve been witnessing you come into your own—physically, sexually—as I think you’ve never allowed yourself to do before. Don’t ruin it all by trying to analyze it—or me.”
But it was Daniel who reveled. I was only trying to hide. Surely he knew that. He was savoring life, and I was doing everything I could to run from it. I realized now that he’d told me about his marriages, not to bring us closer, but to make sure I understood that, emotionally, at least, he intended us to remain at arm’s length. He still exerted an almost narcotic effect on me, but—like all drugs, I suppose—the potency began to wear off.
I hardly noticed it at first. Just the slightest wave of irritation when he suggested a new position. Or a ripple of distaste when he asked me to do something that suddenly seemed a little demeaning. But soon I found myself having to actively work to respond to his probing fingers, his tongue, the length of his body arching over mine. Finally, one night, when he insisted we leave the lights on, I was able to see him for what he was for the first time: a middle-aged man, intent on his pleasure, admiring our reflection in a full-length mirror.
21
Cal
“Let Lester handle him,” Eddie told me as we were driving up to Albany for the EBT with Gannon. The meeting was going to be held at the Stephens, Stokes offices in the big conference room where I first met Lester and his team. “Him” was Kurt, our brother, whom Eddie has been calling every name in the book except his given one since we learned that Gannon would be deposing him as a nonparty witness in that morning’s proceedings.
“The son of a bitch,” Eddie went on. He’d been ranting on and off since he picked me up earlier. “What does he think he’s going to gain by this? I still can’t figure it out. I hope Lester has it nailed.”
I was only half listening to what Eddie was saying. It sounded to me like the same old vitriol he’s been spewing out for the last few days now: our brother is a traitor. A spoiler. A holier-than-thou horse’s ass. Eddie really is furious, I know, but I also sense he’s trying to fire me up. Get me back on the bandwagon. Because I think he must suspect that I’m starting to slip off. Eddie sees Kurt’s decision as a betrayal, a complete turnabout. But I know better, and I tried to tell him so the night we first heard the news.
“It’s that he covered for me,” I told Eddie. “It’s because he wouldn’t let the chief do a Breathalyzer at the scene—otherwise I probably would have been arrested on a DUI. And everyone would have automatically held me responsible for what happened to Betsy. Kurt saved me from that.”
“Bullshit,” Eddie replied. “You don’t know what went on. You had a concussion. You were in shock.”
“Don’t you remember after the game—when you and I had that fight?” I asked him. “And you accused me of putting away the ‘old brewskies’? You were right. We’d been drinking beer all afternoon.”
“So everyone had a few beers, right? That means Kurt and Denny, too. Practically the whole EMS, for chrissakes. It’s like the pot calling the kettle black.”
This was the line of attack that Lester decided he was going to use when he cross-examined my brother: How many beers had Kurt himself consumed? Did he make a habit of going out on emergency medical calls under the in fluence? Did he know he could lose his certi fication—and worse—for that? And wasn’t that actually the reason he was so against the idea of the lawsuit from the beginning? Wasn’t it that he’d been worried that the scrutiny might expose his own questionable behavior that night? In fact, wasn’t that concern really motivating Kurt all along? Not the truth about my sobriety level—but about his own?
“Lester will make it work,” Eddie said, glancing sideways at me. I felt that I’d done a pretty good job of pulling myself together. I’d gotten up early and taken a cold shower and shaved. I’d put on a jacket and tie. Only I knew how much booze was still sloshing around in my stomach. That the fumes were stinging behind my eyelids and fogging my brain. I’d managed to get down some black coffee before Eddie picked me up, but now I wished I hadn’t. Every time Eddie switched lanes, I felt queasy.
“I’m not so sure,” I said, noticing how the eighteen-wheeler in front of us swayed sideways under its weight. I had to look away, out across the fields that had been beaten flat by winter. Now the last of the snow had melted away, and the horizon seemed to shimmer with a greenish haze.
“Lester will do his number on Kurt,” I told Eddie. “But it still won’t really explain why he decided to speak up now. Because if he’d just kept quiet, he wouldn’t have to worry about his reputation—or any of this.”
“Then why won’t he keep his mouth shut?” Eddie demanded. “That’s my question. What’s he up to? What the hell’s he trying to prove?”
“It’s like I said: he won’t break the law. He bent it pretty hard for me the night Betsy was killed. He bent it, thinking no one would ever have to know what he’d done. But he’s not going to break it—for me, for anyone—by lying under oath. He’s just not made that way.”
“Well, he’s a fool! You realize that, don’t you? He’s never going to get anywhere in life.”
“Yeah
,” I said, “he probably won’t.”
“Hey—are you going to be okay?” Eddie asked, turning quickly to give me a closer look. “You’re not wavering again, are you? Because I hope you realize how much everything today really depends on you. We’ve gotten this far, Cal, and we’re so incredibly close right now. You just need to stay focused for the next few hours. You just need to keep your eyes on the prize.”
“I’m fine,” I told him, because I know it’s what he wants to hear. But that’s about as much as I feel capable of doing these days: going with the flow, following the path of least resistance. The sense of outrage and purpose that drove me to pursue Gannon at all is basically gone now. I don’t know why. Kurt’s decision has something to do with it. But I think that it has more to do with how I’ve changed. I’ve lost my way somehow. In fact, I no longer even remember what it was I thought I needed so badly. What was the point of it all? I’m just living on impulse now: moment to moment, drink to drink. Eddie continued to mouth off, but I didn’t pay him much attention until we were crossing the bridge into the city.
“So anyway, I think you have to admit that you owe me,” he said.
“Sure,” I replied, pulling down the visor to block the sun that kept glancing off the cars in front of us.
“And, the thing is: I could use a little help right now. A cash infusion. I’m hardly alone in this, but I’ve been getting really hammered in the market.”
“You’re in the stock market?” I asked. It wasn’t that I was particularly surprised by the news. Edmund has always been more interested in money than the rest of my family. It was more that, in all the time we’ve spent together since Betsy died, he’s never mentioned it. I’ve never heard him on his cell with a broker, or even caught him reading the business pages. But, then, my older brother does tend to have a secretive side. Even in terms of the family, he treats a lot of things on a need-to-know basis. He was already engaged to Kristin before he decided to introduce her to the rest of us.
“Of course I am,” he said. “It’s the only way to make any real dough. Don’t get scared off by all the crap they’re putting out there. The market’s not about to collapse. If anything, this is actually the best time to buy in decades. There are some incredible deals to be had.”
“So?” I asked, looking over at him. His tone seemed offhanded, but he was gripping the wheel like he was driving through a storm. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
“Just what I think you’ll agree is my fair share,” he told me. “I’ve been checking into this. We can get an advance on the settlement once we’ve reached an agreement with Gannon. A number of lending institutions are already interested.”
“What’s the big hurry?” I asked, on the alert now. Something wasn’t right. Eddie rarely showed his hand. But his tone had turned wheedling.
“We might have to wait months for the payout,” he said. “Considering current market conditions, that means I could end up really missing out. I’d prefer to take advantage of some of these buying opportunities right now.”
I knew him well enough to realize that he was lying. He needed the money—and he needed it bad. The queasiness I felt before washed over me in a wave.
“And how much were you thinking was your fair share?”
“Well, let’s be honest: you wouldn’t be here without me. At first, you didn’t even want to go ahead with any of this—I was the one who really showed you how important the lawsuit could be. And it was me who did all the research to find us the best—”
“Eddie,” I said, shaking my head. “Just cut to the chase, okay? How much are we talking about here?”
“I think I’m being reasonable when I ask for a quarter of our take. Last time I talked to Lester, he told me he’s projecting that we’ll be offered at least three million, and he’ll get a third. So that means about half a million for me.”
“You need five hundred thousand dollars?” The nausea hit me so hard, I had to close my eyes.
“No,” he said, slowing down for the exit ramp. “I don’t need it. I deserve it. At least that much. But I’m not asking for more. Just my fair share.”
“And how long have you been planning this?”
“What?”
“I’m just curious,” I said, swallowing hard to keep down the bile. “When did you start working all this out in your head? Before or after Betsy’s funeral?”
“That’s just plain—”
“Pull over,” I told him.
“What?”
“Just pull the fuck over. Now!” I barely got the door open before I vomited onto the side of the highway. The contents of my stomach—a brackish liquid—splattered against the concrete shoulder, splashing back up onto Eddie’s upholstery and my pants. There wasn’t all that much to throw up, but I kept heaving anyway. Until there was nothing left but a sour aftertaste—and an awful aching in my throat and rib cage. I leaned back against the headrest, closing my eyes against the pain. Against the day ahead. The speed with which—as jarring as whiplash—I was being forced to face my own stupidity.
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie muttered. “What a mess.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, but I knew he had no idea what had just happened. “You can say that again.”
I cleaned up in the private bathroom attached to Lester’s office. I used the mouthwash in the medicine cabinet and combed my hair. I leaned over with a wet paper towel to try and do something about my pants, but the movement made me feel dizzy. I had to hold on to the sink as I straightened back up. Fuck it, I decided, balling up the paper towel and tossing it into the trash. I felt so sick and exhausted, I wondered if I was going to be able to make it. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. The expensive lighting was designed to flatter, but it couldn’t hide the circles under my eyes, the spot on my chin where I’d nicked myself earlier. I looked like hell, no question. My eyes were totally bloodshot—but it was the first times in months that I’d been able to really look at myself. That was a start.
The conference room was filled with people, some of whom I recognized from Stephens, Stokes—Janet and Carl among them—and at least half a dozen others I figured were a part of Gannon’s legal team. The two groups had migrated to opposite sides of the conference table, though all were still standing when Eddie and I walked in. Except for Lester, who was sporting his signature bright suspenders and a polka-dot bow tie, dark suits predominated on both women and men. A side table was set up buffet-style with urns of coffee and tea, coolers of soft drinks and water, platters of bagels and fruit. Though everyone was speaking in hushed tones, the air felt charged. I glanced around for Kurt, but he wasn’t there. Perhaps he’d had a change of heart, I thought. Perhaps he’d decided to let things ride after all.
“Okay, here’s our man!” Lester announced as we walked in. I’d seen him earlier, and he knew I wasn’t feeling well. He hadn’t asked me any questions, just told me to take my time pulling myself together. He’d patted me on the shoulder.
“Remember, it’s all just a big show,” he’d said. “We’ve rehearsed your part more than enough times. Just stick to the script, and you’ll be fine. And don’t let this business with Kurt rattle you. Trust me—I have the whole thing under control.”
Lester made me take the seat near the center of the conference table to his right. Eddie, who had no official role in the proceedings, went around to the other side of the room and took a chair against the wall, facing me. When everyone was settled, Lester—ever the master of ceremonies—suggested we go around the table and introduce ourselves. A tall, fit man with a brush cut seated across from me announced that he was William McCarthy, of Whiting, McCarthy and Freed, defense counsel for Gannon Baby Products. There were two other younger male lawyers from Whiting as well as an older woman named Sylvia Lansing who introduced herself as Gannon’s general corporate counsel.
I hadn’t noticed the court reporter at the end of the table until Lester suggested we “get the ball rolling” and a pudgy, balding man began quietl
y typing on the black stenotype machine in front of him.
Leaning across the table, William McCarthy looked at me and began the questioning:
“Gannon Baby Products is terribly sorry for your loss, Mr. Horigan. I know those words probably sound a little hollow to you at this point, but they are offered with the utmost sincerity. Gannon does not think—and, in fact, will prove in court, if necessary—that the company’s Lodestar Baby Safety Seat Model 13401 failed in any way to do its job. Gannon firmly believes that other factors were in play. In order to reach a better understanding of this tragedy, we need to thoroughly review the series of events that led up to the accident last April. So let me start by asking you . . .”
I’d been over this ground so many times with Janet that I was able to answer his questions about the warmth of the day, the decision to play ball, the game itself, without much thought. Instead, I found my gaze drifting again and again to the court reporter at the end of the table. There was something about the fluid movement of his fingers over the raised keyboard, documenting my responses, that I found disconcerting. There was no escaping it now: what I said really counted—and could no longer be changed or retracted. All those long months of discussion, planning, testing, and research had come down to this: my word. Eddie was right—everything depended on me.
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