I glanced at my watch. Six forty-eight. I was tempted to jump a cab downtown to Matt’s place. But then I saw myself loitering like a deranged stalker outside of Matt’s building, waiting for them to emerge. I also feared running into Her, and maybe losing my much-heralded cool (ha!). Anyway, Ethan might be rattled to see me outside his dad’s building—and might think (as he has intimated recently on several occasions) that Mommy and Daddy were getting back together. Which is not going to happen. Ever.
So I went into my bedroom and stripped off my disgusting suit, and stood under a very hot shower for around ten minutes. Then I put on a bathrobe, wrapped my hair in a towel, and went out to the kitchen to make coffee. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I rewound the answering machine and listened to yesterday’s accumulated messages.
There were nine altogether—five from assorted friends and people at work, offering solace and all finishing up with that standard what-do-you-say-to-a-bereaved-person line: if there’s anything we can do. (Which, though formulaic, was still rather touching to hear.) There was a message from Matt—at eight thirty last night, telling me that Ethan was just fine, that they’d had a great day out, and he was now tucked up in bed, and . . . “if there’s anything I can do.”
It’s too late for that, chum. Far too late.
Naturally enough, there was a call from my aunt. It was classic Meg.
“Hi, it’s just me, thinking you might have finally gotten some sense and come home. I thought wrong. Now I’m not going to bother you at your mom’s place, because (a) you might chew my ear off, and (b) you probably want to be left the hell alone. But if you have decided that you’ve done enough penance for one evening, and have come home, give me a call . . . as long as it’s a reasonable hour. Which, for me, means anytime before three a.m. Love ya, sweetheart. Kiss Ethan for me. And keep taking the medicine.”
Medicine being a Meg synonym for whiskey.
Finally, there were two messages where the caller failed to leave a message. The first came (according to the answering machine, which electronically tags the time of the call) at 6:08; the second at 9:44 PM. Both were marked by an eerie moment or two of silence . . . when it was clear that the person on the line was deciding whether or not to say something. I hate it when people do that. Because it makes me feel vulnerable, spooked. And on my own.
The kettle began to whistle. I turned down the gas flame, grabbed the cafetière and a vacuum jar of freshly ground, extrastrength French Roast, and shoveled enough coffee into the cafetière for seven cups. I added the boiling water and pushed down the plunger. I poured out a large mug. I drank it down quickly. I poured out another cup. After one more charring gulp of coffee (I have an asbestos mouth), and a quick glance at my watch (7:12 AM), I decided I could face calling Matt’s place.
“H . . . e . . . l . . . l . . . o . . . ?”
The voice at the end of the line sounded half awake, and female. Her.
“Uh, hi . . . ,” I said, stumbling badly. “Is, uh, Ethan there?”
“Ethan? Who’s Ethan?”
“Who do you think Ethan is?”
That woke her up. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Ethan. Of course I know who . . .”
“Could I speak with him?”
“Is he still here?” she asked.
“Well, I don’t really know the answer to that question,” I said, “because I’m not there.”
She now sounded totally flustered. “I’ll just see if . . . Is that you, Kate?”
“That’s right.”
“Hey, I was going to write you . . . but now that you’re here, like, I just wanted to say . . .”
Cut to the chase, doofus.
“Like . . . I was real, real sorry to hear about your mom.”
“Thank you.”
“And, well, uh, if there’s anything I can do . . .”
“Just put Ethan on, please.”
“Uh . . . sure.”
I could hear Her whispering in the background. Then Matt picked up the phone.
“Hi there, Kate. I was just wondering how the rest of yesterday went.”
“Terrific. I haven’t had such fun in years.”
“You know what I mean.”
I took another sip of coffee. “I got through it. Can I speak with Ethan now, please?”
“Sure,” he said. “He’s right here.”
I heard Matt pass the phone over to him.
“Sweetheart, you there?” I asked.
“Hi, Mom,” Ethan said, sounding half awake. My heart immediately lifted. Ethan, for me, is instant Prozac.
“How are you doing, big guy?”
“The IMAX movie was cool. These people were climbing a mountain, and then it started to snow, and they got into trouble.”
“What was the name of the mountain they were climbing?”
“I forget.”
I laughed.
“And after the movie, we went to the toy shop.”
Figures.
“What did Daddy get you?”
“A Power Rangers CD-ROM.”
Great.
“And a Lego spaceship. Then we went to the television station—”
Wonderful. Just what I needed to hear.
“—and Blair was there. And she brought me and Dad into the room where they talk to the cameras. And we watched her on television.”
“Sounds like a terrific afternoon.”
“Blair was real cool. Then we all went out to a restaurant afterward. The one in the World Trade Center. You could see all the city at night. And this helicopter came by. And a lot of people came to our table to ask Blair for her autograph . . .”
“You missing me, sweetheart . . . ?” I blurted out.
“Yeah, sure, Mom,” he said, sounding deflated. I suddenly felt like a needy idiot.
“I love you, Ethan.”
“Bye, Mom,” he said and hung up.
Jerk, jerk, jerk. You should never expect a child to make you feel wanted.
I stood by the phone for several minutes, willing myself not to break down again (I had done enough of that in the last twenty-four hours). When I felt myself under control again, I refilled my mug of coffee, walked out into the living room, and flopped down on the big cushy sofa—the last major domestic purchase that Matt and I made before his dramatic exit.
But he hasn’t really vanished from my life. That’s part of the problem. If we didn’t have Ethan, the breakup would have been far easier. Because—after the initial period of shock, anger, grief, and mourning—I could have at least taken solace in the fact that I would never have to see the guy again.
But Ethan means that, like it or not, we must continue to interact, coexist, acknowledge each other’s presence (take your pick). As Matt said during that predivorce horse-trading process known as “mediation”: “For everyone’s sake, we really have to establish a little détente between us.” By and large, this détente has been achieved. Five years after the event, we’ve long since stopped screaming at each other. We deal with each other in (more or less) a correct manner. I have decided that the marriage was, from the outset, a huge mistake. But, despite my best efforts at so-called “closure,” the wound still remains curiously raw.
When I recently mentioned this to Meg during one of our weekly drunken dinners, she said, “Sweetheart, you can tell yourself over and over again that he wasn’t the guy for you, and that it was all one big blooper. But the fact remains that you’re not going to totally get over it. It’s just too big, too consequential. The pain will always be there. It’s one of the many rotten things about life: the way it becomes an accumulation of griefs, both big and small. But survivors—and, sweetheart, you definitely fall into that category—figure out how to live with all that grief. Because, like it or not, grief is kind of interesting, and kind of essential. Because it gives things real import. And it’s also the reason why God invented booze.”
Trust Meg to articulate a cheerful Irish-Catholic view of life.
For everyone’s sake,
we really have to establish a little détente between us.
Yeah, Matt—I do think that. But after all this time I still don’t know how to pull it off. Whenever I sit in this living room, the thought strikes me: everything is so random, isn’t it? Take the interior decor of this apartment. A large, cushy Pottery Barn sofa in stylish cream-colored upholstery (I think the name of the actual shade was Cappuccino). Two matching armchairs, a pair of smart Italian floor lamps, and a low-slung coffee table with a collection of magazines fanned across its beechwood top. We spent a significant amount of time deliberating about all this furniture. Just as we also debated the veneered beechwood floors that we eventually had installed in this room. And the high-tech gray-steel kitchen units we chose at IKEA in Jersey City (yes, we were so serious about this life we were building together that we actually made a trip to New Jersey to size up a kitchen). And the oatmeal knit carpet which replaced that dreadful aquamarine shag which your grandfather lived with. And the Shaker-style four-poster bed which set us back $3,200.
That’s why the sight of the living room still astonishes me. Because it’s a testament to a lot of rational discussion about that thing known as “a joint future” even though the two people involved secretly didn’t believe in that future. We just happened to meet up at a certain juncture in time when we both wanted to be attached. And we both quickly convinced ourselves that we were compatible, worthy of being spliced together.
It is extraordinary how you can talk yourself into situations which you know aren’t durable. But neediness can make just about anything seem right.
The house phone rang, interrupting my reverie. I jumped up from the sofa, crossed over to the kitchen, and answered it.
“Hi there, Miss Malone.”
“Yes, Constantine?”
“I’ve got a letter here for you.”
“I thought the mail didn’t arrive until eleven.”
“Not that kind of a letter . . . a hand-delivered letter.”
“What do you mean, hand-delivered?”
“What I mean is: a letter that was delivered by hand.”
Urgh!
“That part I get, Constantine. What I’m asking is: when was it delivered, and by whom?”
“When was it delivered? Five minutes ago, that’s when.”
I looked at my watch. Seven thirty-six. Who sends a messenger around with a letter at this hour of the morning?
“And by whom, Constantine?”
“Dunno. A cab pulled up, a woman rolled down the window, asked if you lived here, I said yes, she handed me the letter.”
“So a woman delivered the letter?”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of woman?”
“Dunno.”
“You didn’t see her?”
“She was in the cab.”
“But the cab has a window.”
“There was a glare.”
“But surely you caught a glimpse . . .”
“Look it, Miss Malone—I saw what I saw, which was nothin’, okay?”
“Fine, fine,” I said, wanting to put an end to this Abbot and Costello routine. “Send the letter up.”
I stalked off to the bedroom, pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then ran a brush through my tangled hair. The doorbell rang, but when I opened it (keeping the chain on in true New York paranoid style), there was no one there. Just a small envelope at the foot of the door.
I picked it up and shut the door behind me. The envelope was postcard-sized and made of good-quality paper. A grayish blue paper with a ridged surface that made it exceedingly tactile. My name and address were written on the front. The calligraphy was small, precise. The words By Hand were written in the upper right-hand corner of the envelope.
I opened the envelope with care. As I lifted up the flap, it revealed the top part of a card with an embossed address:
346 West 77th Street
Apt. 2B
New York, New York 10024
(212) 555-0745
My first thought was: that’s close to home. Then I pulled out the card.
It was written in the same precise, controlled handwriting. It was dated yesterday. It read:
Dear Ms. Malone,
I was deeply saddened to read of your mother’s death in the New York Times.
Though we’ve not met face-to-face in years, I knew you as a little girl, just as I knew both your parents back then . . . but sadly fell out of touch with your family after your father died.
I simply wanted to express my condolences to you at what must be a most difficult juncture, and to say that I’m certain someone is watching over you now . . . as he has been for years.
Yours,
Sara Smythe
I read through the letter again. And again. Sara Smythe? Never heard of her. But what really threw me was the line “someone is watching over you now . . . as he has been for years.”
“Let me ask you something,” Meg said, an hour or so later when I woke her up at home to read her this letter. “Did she write he with a capital H?”
“No,” I said. “It was a lowercase h.”
“Then we’re not dealing with a religious nut here. A big H means the guy upstairs. Mr. Almighty. The Alpha and the Omega. Laurel and Hardy.”
“But you’re sure you never heard Mom or Dad mention a Sara Smythe?”
“Hey, it wasn’t my marriage—so I wasn’t exactly privy to everybody your parents met. I mean, I doubt if your mom or dad ever knew Karoli Kielsowski.”
“Who was Karoli . . . how do you say his name?”
“Kielsowski. He was a Polish jazz musician I picked up one November night in fifty-one at Birdland. A catastrophe in bed—but good company, and not a bad alto sax player.”
“I’m not following this . . .”
“My point is a simple one. Your dad and I liked each other, but we didn’t live in each other’s pockets. So, for all I know, this Sara Smythe was one of their best friends. Of course, as it was all around forty-five years ago . . .”
“Okay, point taken. But what I don’t get is, why did she drop the letter off by hand at my apartment house? I mean, how did she know where I live?”
“Do you have an unlisted number?”
“Uh, no.”
“Well, that answers that question. As to why she dropped it off . . . I dunno. Maybe she saw the funeral announcement in yesterday’s Times, realized she’d missed the planting, didn’t want to appear overdue with the condolence note, and therefore decided to drop it off on her way to work.”
“Don’t you think there’s a lot of coincidence at work there?”
“Sweetheart, you want a hypothesis, I’m giving you a hypothesis.”
“You think I’m over-reacting?”
“I think you’re understandably tired and emotional. And you’re blowing this perfectly innocuous card out of all proportion. But, hey, if you need to know more, call the dame up. I mean, her phone number’s on the card, right?”
“I don’t need to call her up.”
“Then don’t call her up. While you’re at it, promise me you won’t spend another night alone at your mom’s apartment.”
“I’m ahead of you on that one.”
“Glad to hear it. Because I was starting to worry that you might turn into some deranged Tennessee Williams character. Putting on Mommy’s wedding dress. Drinking neat bourbon. Saying stuff like, “His name was Beauregard, and he was the married boy who broke my heart . . .”
She cut herself off. “Oh sweetheart,” she said. “I am one dumb big mouth.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
“Sometimes I just don’t know when to shut the hell up.”
“It’s a Malone family trait.”
“I’m so damn sorry, Katie . . .”
“Enough. I’ve forgotten about it already.”
“I’m going to go say three acts of contrition.”
“Whatever makes you happy. I’ll call you later, okay?”
I refilled my coffee cup, and returned to the big cushy sofa. I downed half the coffee, then parked the mug on the table and stretched out, putting the heels of my hands against my eyes, in an effort to black out everything.
His name was Beauregard, and he was the married boy who broke my heart . . .
Actually, his name was Peter. Peter Harrison. He was the guy I was with before meeting Matt. He also happened to be my boss. And he was married.
Let’s get something straight here. I am not a natural romantic. I do not swoon easily. I do not fall head-over-heels at the drop of a dime. I spent most of my four years at Smith without a boyfriend (though I did have the occasional fling whenever I felt in need of some body heat). When I hit New York after college—and picked up a temporary job at an advertising agency (an alleged one-month gig which accidentally turned into a so-called career)—I was never short of male company. But several of the mistakes I’d slept with during my twenties accused me of First Degree Aloofness. It wasn’t that I was a cool customer. It was just that I had not met anyone about whom I could feel truly, madly, deeply passionate.
Until I met Peter Harrison.
Oh, I was so stupid. Oh, it was all so damn predictable. I was edging toward my midthirties. I had just joined a new agency—Harding, Tyrell and Barney. Peter Harrison hired me. He was forty-two. Married. Two kids. Handsome (of course). Smart as hell. For the first month at the office, there was this curious unspoken thing going on between us; a sense that we were both aware of each other’s presence. When we did meet—in the corridors, in the elevator, once at a departmental meeting—we were perfectly pleasant with each other. Yet there was an undercurrent of nervousness to our trivial chat. We became shy around each other. And neither of us was, by any means, the shy type.
Then he poked his head into my office late one afternoon. He asked me out for a drink. We repaired around the corner to a little bar. As soon as we started talking we couldn’t stop. We talked for two hours—gabbing away like people destined to be gabbing to each other. We connected, spliced, fused. When he eventually threaded his fingers through mine, and said, Let’s get out of here, I had no second thoughts on the matter. By that point, I wanted him so desperately I would have jumped him right there in the bar.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 5