When Carla came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel Max was still stretched out on the bed like Christ crucified. Her long black hair was flat against her head and down her neck, painted onto her shoulders. He had expected the morning would make her less beautiful, but she looked prettier than ever to him in the Plaza towel, rubbing at her drowned hair, and smiling with those big white teeth.
“Good morning,” she said as if it were a joke.
“How do you know Manny needs you?” Max said, resuming the previous night’s argument. He wasn’t ready to give her up.
“You don’t know him,” she said. She stopped smiling and moved toward her clothes, draped on an ugly wing chair by the window.
“They might be happier without us,” Max said, rising to his elbows.
“Maybe,” Carla said. She had picked up her red panties. She dropped the towel and quickly put them on, with hasty modesty. “But we won’t.”
Max tried to remember what had already been concealed: her whitest skin, the cheeks of her taut ass; the deep silky black V of her groin; the flat tender skin of her belly. While he made that effort more was lost. She had put her stockings on; her bra; her pale blue blouse.
“I can be happy with you, Carla,” Max argued.
“No, Max,” she said. “Think about it. You almost went crazy when you tried to run off with me. You want to be free and brave, Max, but you can’t be free of your duty to your people. Every time you try to get free of people you just get stuck to another. Like that kid you saved on the plane. Or that blond woman who came to that meeting—on a plane for Chrissake—just ’cause she might meet you.” She had finished dressing. She looked small—a young pretty Catholic girl—a stranger. “Or me.” She smiled and moved her feet together, coming to attention. “You ain’t never gonna be free of the people who love you. I’ll come see you from time to time. But no more of this good stuff.” She nodded at the bed and grinned for a second. “I got to go home now. I won’t be talking to you for a while. And don’t call me, okay? I got to make peace with my husband.”
“Wait.” Max scrambled out of bed. The looseness and strength in his body wasn’t an illusion. She had healed him somehow.
“No, no,” she pushed at his chest with both hands. They felt little and cool. “Don’t make me cry. I’m happy,” she said and he saw tears begin to well. “I don’t want to cry. Let’s say goodbye like it isn’t goodbye.”
Max saw she was determined. Nevertheless, he insisted, “I don’t want to.”
“Yes.” She touched his chest with her index finger where she imagined his heart was. “In there you do. Come on,” she moved off, almost skipping out, “say goodbye like it means nothing.” She left the room. Her voice called back. “Bye, Max. See you.”
He didn’t answer. He refused to acknowledge her going. The room felt empty. It looked ugly. She had opened the drapes before taking a shower and he could see all of the leafless park, a huge artificial rectangle of dead brown things.
“Please, Max,” she called from the sitting room. “Be nice.”
“Goodbye, Carla,” he said quickly, but not quickly enough. His voice caught on the last syllable of her name and they could both hear the choked noise of his loss as she shut the door behind her.
Carla walked home, despite the cold gray weather. She wanted to be outside and see all the people and stores and buildings. She went down Fifth Avenue, dignified and wealthy at midtown, seedier below Forty-second, and a mess south of Twenty-third because of repairs on something that had exploded underneath the street. She cried—or rather her eyes teared—for part of the journey. But although her heart was sad, it was also an easy load to carry. She didn’t feel she had lost Max; at least not the angel who had saved her. She had lied, of course, about them being able to talk eventually. If what she had done was right, if she had solved His mystery, then Max would be well again and soon forget her. That was not a loss: she had regained herself and what Max had given her she would always have.
When she reached Mulberry she went into Old Saint Pat’s and lit a candle for Bubble. She would never go to confession to be absolved for last night’s sin—that would have broken the agreement with Him. Instead she knelt and prayed to Him to allow her to conceive another child.
The Monsignor happened by and waited for her by the door. He looked at her curiously and said, “Hello, Carla. You’re looking very fit.”
“Hello, Monsignor. Did you get my message? I wanted to find out if I could volunteer for work at the Foundling Hospital.”
“I already gave them your name and phone number.” He chuckled. “You’re certainly going to be hearing from them.” He followed her down the steps to the street; she watched him negotiate the steps warily. “Did you hear the news about Pierre Toussaint? He’s a candidate for sainthood. The committee’s going to exhume his body next month. Cardinal O’Conner himself will preside. He’s going to bless the grave and dig the first shovelful. It’s very exciting. Toussaint is the first black candidate for sainthood in America.”
“What did he do?” Carla asked.
“It’s a very interesting story.” Monsignor O’Boyle lifted his right hand in a lecturing gesture. She noticed his hand trembling faintly. She felt he would die soon. She smiled patiently while he explained that Toussaint was a Haitian slave brought to the United States by the family that owned him. The family lost all its money shortly after emigrating and rather than deserting them, Toussaint had worked as a hairdresser to support them. Years later, when they had recovered their wealth, they gave him his freedom. As a freeman he devoted the rest of his life to caring for the poor and sick.
“They kept him a slave while he was making money for them to live on?”
They had reached the last step. Monsignor O’Boyle was breathing hard through his nose and his white face was even more bloodless. His eyes looked scared. He nodded.
“Are there black children at the hospital?” Carla asked.
Monsignor O’Boyle frowned at her. “It doesn’t have anything to do with race,” he said in a breathless whisper. “The hospital accepts all children with special problems who need its services.”
“Sure,” Carla said and smiled. She gave him her hand.
His trembling continued while he held it. “There are plenty of black children there,” he said softly.
She kissed him goodbye on the cheek. She had never done that before; he looked startled. She felt wild and happy, eager to get on with her life. She hurried across the street and up to her apartment. It was just after lunch and she would have plenty of time to prepare a meal for Manny when he got home.
Only he was already home. She discovered him in the living room wearing his handyman’s work pants. His shirt was off. His thick powerful chest was almost hairless, the skin dark enough so that anyone might think he had a tan. He had a fifth of rum in his right hand, dangling there as if it were a soda bottle. It seemed to be half gone. She had never seen him drink anything other than beer and never more than two.
Manny looked at her as she stood in the doorway with a mild almost uncomprehending stare.
“Remember me?” she said, trying to be cheerful.
He grunted and took a slug from the bottle. Some of it ran down the side of his mouth.
“You’ll make yourself sick,” she said. “You don’t drink.” She went over to the couch and took hold of the bottle. Manny held on and stared at her.
“Bitch,” he said in a mumble.
“Okay,” she said and gently pulled the bottle away. She put it on the coffee table.
Manny spread his arms wide, resting them on the backrest of the couch. “We’re rich,” he said. He slurred the words. “We’re as rich as those fucking tenants I slave for.” Manny tried to laugh, but the sound he made was more like a moan. His head bobbed unsteadily. “That fucking lawyer called. They made some kind of mistake—I didn’t understand. But they offered more than—” Manny tried to get up. He lifted the upper half of himself off the couch but h
ad to fall back. “We got half a million dollars.” He laughed. “Five hundred fucking thousand dollars.” He laughed again. Tears were in his eyes, his head weaved and bobbed, and he kept laughing, a sad giggling chortle. “Unfuckingbelievable. I’m a rich man,” he said and the laughter stopped. He gagged. She sat next to him, put her arms around his strong shoulders and was ready for him to be sick. Instead the gagging became sobs. “I’m so fucking rich,” he blubbered through the weeping. “I’m so fucking smart,” he mumbled and then again, “I’m so fucking rich. I’m so fucking smart.”
She hugged him and shushed him and kissed him. He didn’t cry for long. He smelled sickly sweet. After he had been quiet for a while he said in a croaked voice, “I love you.”
They were going to be all right. She coaxed him off the couch and guided him toward the bedroom. They passed his discarded shirt in the hallway.
“Stay with me,” he said as he sagged onto what used to be their marriage bed.
“I’m going to be with you from now on, Manny,” she said, sitting beside him.
“I want to have another son,” he said petulantly.
“Me too,” she said and knew that she would.
Max took his time washing and dressing to go home. He felt he was saying farewell to something in that hotel room, something more than just the sex—the unsafe sex—he and Carla had enjoyed. He felt as if he were saying goodbye to himself.
At the door, dressed and ready to go, he was afraid to leave. He tried to think of something that Americans weren’t afraid of. When he decided he couldn’t he left.
He took a cab to his apartment building. The day was cold and gray. New York’s buildings were chameleons to Max; they turned dull with cloudy skies and glittered white with the sun.
The doorman—David—seemed to be surprised to see him. “Your wife just went out,” he said after recovering from the shock.
Max went up in the elevator wondering about lunch, whether he should wait for Debby and take her out for a fancy meal. Cafe des Artistes was her favorite restaurant. Its campy design gave Max headaches, but to see her smile and feel at ease with him would be well worth it.
Jonah upset that plan. He was upstairs alone. He had felt ill at school and Debby had brought him home. She was out buying Tylenol. “I’ve got a hundred and one temperature,” Jonah said. He was very pale, dressed in a long New York Mets shirt, lying in his bed watching a game show on television.
Max shut the set off and sat beside Jonah. He brushed the hair off his boy’s forehead. He kissed his smooth brow. The skin radiated heat. They were quiet for a moment.
“Where were you?” Jonah asked fearlessly.
“I stayed in the Plaza Hotel last night. I got a room way up on a high floor and saw all of Central Park at night. It looked great. Spooky and grand.”
“Mom was scared,” Jonah said. “I overheard her calling everybody. She almost called the police!” Jonah’s face flushed at the effort of saying so many sentences.
“I’m here now. I’m not going anyplace. How’s your buddy Sam?” Max asked. Carla’s instructions about Jeff’s children had stuck with him.
Jonah shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess. He’s been kind of a pain, actually,” he said softly. He groaned and turned toward his pillow. “I’m tired,” he mumbled.
Max stroked his head. “When you’re better I’m going to show you and Sam a house his father and I did. The Zuckerman house. It was a pretty good design and Jeff had a nice idea about the patio. Anyway, I’m going to teach the two of you about architecture.”
Jonah rolled away to gain some distance on his father. He propped his pale head on a hand and blinked sleepily. “I don’t wanna learn about architecture,” he said.
“I’m teaching you anyway. I’m your father and I’m your teacher. It’s the only thing I know how to teach. You don’t have to be good at it. You don’t have to like it. You don’t have to do it when you grow up. But I have to teach it to you.”
Jonah watched his father for a moment or two. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Okay,” he said at last with a sigh. “You’re the boss.”
“That’s right,” Max said. He pulled the bed-sheet up to his son’s chin. He heard the front door opening.
“I’m back!” Debby called in. She entered Jonah’s room. She had no makeup on and she was still in her black cloak. She carried a narrow white bag from the pharmacy. She looked like a sickly child herself, pale and sad-eyed.
“I’m home, honey,” Max said to her. She had come to a halt just inside the door. She stared at him. “Peace?” he said with a smile.
Debby frowned. She threw the bag at him. “He needs this.”
Max gave Jonah a dose of Tylenol. Debby fussed around his bed, gathering used tissues, smoothing the sheets, drawing the shades. Jonah protested each action, moaning, “Just leave me alone. I’m fine.”
Max went to the kitchen and made himself coffee. Debby joined him eventually. She came in and poured herself a cup. She didn’t meet his eyes. Her mouth was tight, furious.
“I told Jonah,” Max said, “that when he’s better I want to show him and Sam the Zuckerman house.”
Debby looked at him sharply. Her eyes stared, shifting from rage to wariness. “Why?”
“I think Sam—I guess I should take Jake too, he’s old enough—they should see something their father made. I have to start spending more time with those boys. I have to spend more time with Jonah too. Teach him what I know. It’s not much, but that’s what fathers do, right?”
“Fathers stay home,” Debby said in a scolding voice. “Fathers are home to take care of their sons.”
“Not always,” Max said. “Not all fathers. You can’t expect that of every man. Jeff’s not going to be home with his children and he was a good father.”
Debby’s rigid annoyed face abruptly loosened. Her mouth buckled, her eyes softened. “What are you saying?” she pleaded, her elegant hands gesturing at him to take her, to dance with her.
He took her hands and reined them in, pulling her toward him. “Do you want me?”
“Of course,” she said in a whisper.
“I mean me! The real me, not just a security blanket.”
“You haven’t been much of a security blanket lately.”
“That’s right and you don’t like that.”
“This is not my fault. Everything that’s happened isn’t my fault.”
Max looked at her. Her anger was gone. She stared into his eyes as if he had an answer for her, as if he were her best hope.
“You’re right,” Max said. “It isn’t your fault.” It was the structure of their world, its rotting design. He had no choice but to accept its danger and fear its risks. He hugged her. She stayed in his arms, huddled in his chest as if he were a strong shelter. He wasn’t. He was a partner of her fear.
They made sandwiches and ate them together in almost complete silence. They checked on Jonah. He was sleeping heavily but peacefully. They had more coffee and then chatted in a friendly way—in the way they used to before the crash—about Debby’s current crop of students. She had one nine-year-old ballerina she thought very promising. Max proposed they rent a house with Nan and her boys for the summer. Debby agreed, but said with a sly smile, “You can be their father, but you’re not her husband.”
“That’s right,” Max said.
David the doorman buzzed them at two-thirty. Debby answered the intercom. She turned from it with a puzzled expression. “Brillstein’s on his way up,” she said.
Max opened the front door and waited for the elevator to deliver his lawyer. He thought about his options: if Nan needed money he could give it to her. Lying wasn’t necessary, was it? Well, if it was he would lie. Who was Max Klein to think he could be better than the rest of humanity?
Brillstein hopped out of the elevator in yet another new suit. This one was blue. “You’re here!” he cried at the sight of Max. The blue wasn’t a shade Max recognized. It wasn’t deep enough for true navy and
yet it seemed to want to be that dark. Max didn’t care for the color. At least the suit seemed to fit Brillstein better, although it was double-breasted and the short man seemed shorter in the wide cut.
Brillstein carried a bottle of champagne under one arm and a white baker’s box balanced on his attaché case. He bustled in. “I’m here to celebrate. I hope you like champagne. And in here—” Brillstein had put the bottle on their dining room table. He fumbled at the delicate red-and-white-striped string on the box. “—are my favorite indulgence…chocolate-covered strawberries!”
“Mmmm,” Debby said. And then she looked at Max regretfully.
“What are we celebrating?” Max asked.
“You’re not going to believe what happened. We’re settled. I can’t believe it myself. It’s an incredible story. I spoke to Gil Parker this morning—” Brillstein had the box open. “Take,” he said, offering the contents to Debby. “He’s the outside counsel for TransCon. We hondeled and we hondeled and we agreed on a figure. One million seven hundred fifty thousand. You have to understand—”
Debby said, “Wow.” She took a strawberry and said to Max with regret, “You can’t.”
“No, no, that’s not what the final figure was.” Brillstein popped a chocolate strawberry in his mouth. He chewed it furiously and spoke through its thick pleasures. “That’s not the whole story.”
“I’m going to get glasses for the champagne,” Debby said. “Speak up.”
“Sure,” Brillstein said. “I’ll talk loud.” He offered Max a chocolate strawberry. Then he quickly withdrew the box. “Oh, she said you can’t.”
Max took it. “Of course I can. Go on with your story.”
“Well, I had scheduled a lunch today with Jameson, the in-house counsel, the man Parker reports to. He’s given Parker the broad range of figures to offer us and left it to Parker to get the best deal he can. By the time Parker and I have agreed to figures, it’s time for me to meet Jameson at Gloucester House if you please. Parker doesn’t know I’m seeing Jameson for lunch but I figure he’s going to talk to him soon because our deal is contingent on Jameson approving the final figures, although it’s understood that’s just a formality. So, with a four-million-dollar deal almost finished, off I go to Gloucester House.” Brillstein angled himself to one side and then the other; with one turn he buttoned his jacket closed, and with the other he straightened his dashing yellow tie. Evidently he meant to imitate a fashionable man arriving at an elegant eatery.
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