The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1

by Douglas Kennedy

  Instead, we dodged the growing realization: we are a bad match. On the morning after fights, we bought each other expensive presents. Or flowers would arrive at my office, accompanied by a witty, conciliatory message:

  They say the first ten years are the hardest.

  I love you.

  Matt

  There were a couple of let’s-rekindle-the-spark weekends away in the Berkshires, or Western Connecticut, or Montauk. During one of these, Matt drunkenly convinced me to dispense with my diaphragm for the night. I was seriously loaded too—so I agreed. And that is how Ethan came into our lives.

  He was, without question, the best drunken accident imaginable. Love at first gasp. But after the initial postnatal euphoria, the usual domestic discontentment reappeared. Ethan didn’t believe in the restorative virtues of sleep. For the first six months of his life, he refused to conk out for more than two hours at a time—which quickly rendered us both quasicatatonic. Unless you have the disposition of Mary Poppins, exhaustion leads to excessive crankiness. Which—in the case of Matt and myself—turned into open warfare. As soon as Ethan was weaned, I wanted us to establish a rotation for night feeds. Matt refused, saying that his high-pressure job demanded eight full hours of sleep. This was battle music to my ears—as I accused him of putting his own career above mine. Which, in turn, sparked further confrontations about parental responsibility, and acting like a grown-up, and why we always seemed to fight about everything.

  Inevitably, when it comes to kids, it’s the woman who ends up carrying the can—so when Matt arrived home one night and said that he’d just accepted a three-month transfer to PBS’s Washington bureau, all I could say was:

  “How convenient for you.”

  He did promise to hire (and pay for) a full-time nanny—as I was now back at work. He did promise to come home every weekend. And he hoped that the time apart might do us some good—lessening the bellicose atmosphere between us.

  So I was left holding the baby. Which actually pleased me hugely—not simply because I couldn’t get enough of Ethan (especially as my time with him was limited to after-work late evenings), but also because I too was debilitated by all the constant bush fighting with Matt.

  Intriguingly enough, as soon as he moved to Washington, two things happened: (a) Ethan began to sleep through the night, and (b) Matt and I began to get along again. No—this wasn’t an “absence makes the heart grow fonder” situation; rather, a mutual lightening of tone. Freed from each other’s constant presence, our ongoing antagonisms de-escalated. We actually started talking again—talking, as in: being able to have a conversation which did not eventually veer into angry exchanges. When he returned home at weekends, the fact that we only had forty-eight hours together kept us on good behavior. Gradually, a certain collegial rapport was reestablished—a sense that we could get along together; that we did enjoy each other’s company; that there was a future for us.

  Or, at least, that’s what I thought. During the final month of Matt’s Washington bureau stint, a breaking story (the early days of the Whitewater scandal) kept him in DC for three straight weeks. When he finally made it back to Manhattan, I sensed that something was seriously askew as soon as he walked through the door. Though he strived to act naturally in my presence, he became cagey and vague when I asked a couple of innocent questions about the long hours he was working in Washington. Then he nervously changed the subject. That’s when I knew. Men always think they can mask these things—but, when it comes to infidelity, they’re as transparent as Saran Wrap.

  After we got Ethan to bed and collapsed in the living room with a bottle of wine, I decided to risk bluntness.

  “What’s her name?” I asked.

  Matt turned the sort of chalky color I associate with Kaopectate.

  “I’m not following you . . . ,” he said.

  “Then I’ll repeat the question slowly: What . . . is . . . her . . . name?”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do,” I said, my tone still mild. “I simply want to know the name of the woman you’ve been seeing.”

  “Kate . . .”

  “That’s my name. I want to know her name. Please.”

  He exhaled loudly.

  “Blair Bentley.”

  “Thank you,” I said, sounding totally reasonable.

  “Can I explain . . . ?”

  “Explain what? That it was ‘just one of those things’? Or that you got drunk one night, and the next thing you knew, you tripped and found this woman on the end of your penis? Or maybe it’s love . . .”

  “It is love.”

  That shut me up. It took me a moment or so to regain the power of speech. “You’re not serious?” I finally said.

  “Completely serious,” he said.

  “You asshole.”

  He left the apartment late that night. He never slept there again. And I became bitter. Maybe he wasn’t the love of my life—but there was a child involved. He should have considered Ethan’s stability. Just like he should have recognized that the separation had actually done us some good—that we had laid down our weapons of mass destruction and established an armistice with each other. An affectionate armistice—to the point where I had actually started to miss Matt. They always say the first year or two of marriage is hell. But, damn it, we’d turned the corner. We had started to become a common cause.

  When I discovered that Ms. Blair Bentley was twenty-six—and a leggy, cropped blonde with perfect skin and a cliff of capped white teeth (not to mention a local news anchor on the leading NBC-affiliate station in DC, about to be transferred to big-time New York)—my bitterness quadrupled. Matt had found himself a trophy wife.

  But, of course, the real bitterness I felt was toward myself. I had blown it. I had done everything I vowed never to do—from falling for a married man, to obeying the imperatives of my goddamn biological clock. We all talk about “building a life”—finding the fulfilling career, the fulfilling relationship, the fulfilling balance between the professional and the personal. Glossy magazines are full of spurious strategies for constructing this perfectly synchronized, made-to-measure existence. But the fact is, when it comes to the big stuff (the man who breaks your heart, the man with whom you end up having children), you’re just a hostage to fortune like the next jerk. Say I’d never joined Harding, Tyrell and Barney? Say I hadn’t agreed to that after-work drink with Peter? Say I’d never changed agencies, and Matt had never walked into our office? A chance meeting here, a hasty decision there . . . then one morning you wake up in early middle age, a divorced single parent. And you find yourself wondering: how the hell did I ever end up in this life?

  The phone began to ring, jolting me out of my extended reverie. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly nine a.m. How had I managed to lose so much track of time?

  “Is that you, Kate?”

  The voice surprised me. It was my brother. It was the first time he’d phoned my home in years.

  “Charlie?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “You’re up early.”

  “Couldn’t sleep. Uh, I just wanted to, uh . . . it was good seeing you, Kate.”

  “I see.”

  “And I don’t want another seven years to go by . . .”

  “As I said yesterday, that’s up to you, Charlie.”

  “I know, I know.”

  He fell silent.

  “Well,” I said, “you know my number. So call me, if you like. And if you don’t like, I’ll live. You broke off communication. If you want to get it started again, it’s over to you. Fair enough?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure.”

  “Good.”

  Another of his damn nervous silences.

  “Well then . . . I’d better be going, Charlie. See you . . .”

  He interrupted my goodbye by blurting out, “Can you lend me five thousand dollars?”

  “What?”

  His voice became shaky. “I’m, uh, real so
rry . . . I know you probably hate me for asking, but . . . you know that I mentioned I was up for a job . . . sales rep for Pacific Floral Service. Biggest flower delivery company on the West Coast. Only thing I could find out here where they’d even consider a guy in his mid-fifties . . . that’s how bad things are in the job market these days, if you’re well into middle age.”

  “Don’t remind me. Isn’t the job interview today?”

  “It was supposed to be. But when I got back home last night, there was a message from someone at Pacific Floral’s Human Resources department. Telling me they’d decided to fill the post internally, so the interview was off.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as me. Not as goddamn sorry as me, because . . . because . . . it wasn’t even a managerial job . . . it was a fucking sales rep . . . it was . . .”

  He broke off.

  “Are you all right, Charlie?”

  I could hear him take a deep steadying breath. “No. I am not all right. Because if I don’t find five thousand dollars by Friday, the bank is threatening to take my house.”

  “Will the five grand solve the problem?”

  “Not really . . . because I actually owe the bank another seven.”

  “Jesus, Charlie.”

  “I know, I know—but you start building up those kind of debts when you’re out of work for six months. And, believe me, I’ve tried borrowing money everywhere. But there are already two mortgages on the house to begin with . . .”

  “What does Holly say?”

  “She . . . she doesn’t realize how bad things are.”

  “You mean, you haven’t told her?”

  “No . . . it’s just . . . I just don’t want to worry her.”

  “Well, she’s going to be a little worried when you’re evicted from the house.”

  “Don’t say that word, evicted.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. What little savings we had . . . and some stock . . . it’s all spent.”

  Five thousand dollars. I knew that I had eight grand in a savings account . . . and that Mom had a money market account with around eleven-five, which was part of the estate I’d inherit once the will was probated. Five thousand dollars. That was serious money to me. It didn’t even cover a term’s tuition for Ethan at Allen-Stevenson. Or it was nearly three months’ rent. I could do a lot with five thousand dollars.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Charlie said. “After all these years, his first proper phone call to me is to bum money.”

  “Yes, Charlie—that is exactly what I’m thinking. Just as I’m also thinking how badly you hurt Mom.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “Yes, Charlie. You were very wrong.”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know what to say except, I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t forgive you, Charlie. I can’t. I mean, I know she could be overbearing and just a little interfering. But you still cut her off.”

  I could hear his throat contract, as if he was stifling a sob. “You’re right,” he said.

  “I don’t care whether or not I’m right—it’s a little late to be arguing about that anyway. What I want to know, Charlie, is why.”

  “We never got along.”

  This was, indeed, true—as one of my abiding memories of childhood was the endless arguments between my mother and brother. They could not agree on anything, and Mom had this habit of being endlessly meddlesome. But whereas I figured out a way of deflecting (or even ignoring) her encroaching tendencies, Charlie was constantly threatened by her intrusions. Especially as they underscored the fact that Charlie so desperately missed (and needed) his father. He was almost ten when Dad died—and the way he always spoke to me about him let it be known that he idolized him, and somehow blamed Mom for his early death.

  “She never liked him,” he once told me when I was just thirteen. “And she made his life so miserable that he was away most of every week.”

  “But Mom said he was away every week working.”

  “Yeah—he was always out of town. It meant that he didn’t have to be with her.”

  Because Dad died when I was just eighteen months old, I was denied any memories (let alone knowledge) of him. So whenever Charlie spoke about our father, I hung on to every syllable . . . especially as Mom constantly skirted the subject of the late Jack Malone, as if it was either far too painful to deal with, or she just didn’t want to talk about him. In turn, this meant that I bought Charlie’s view on our parents’ fractious marriage—and silently attributed its unhappiness to Mom and her meddlesome ways.

  At the same time, however, I never understood why Charlie couldn’t work out a strategy for dealing with her. God knows, I also fought with her constantly. I too found her maddening. But I would never have shut her out the way Charlie did. Then again, I did get the sense that Mom was a bit ambivalent about her only son. Of course she loved him. But I did wonder if she also silently resented him for being the reason why she ended up in an unhappy marriage with Jack Malone. Charlie, in turn, never got over Dad’s death. Nor did he like being the only man in the house. As soon as he could, he fled—straight into the arms of a woman who was so controlling, so autocratic that Mom suddenly seemed libertarian by comparison.

  “I know you never got along, Charlie,” I said. “And yeah—she had her pain-in-the-ass moments. But she didn’t deserve the punishment you and Princess meted out.”

  Long pause.

  “No,” he said. “She didn’t deserve it. What can I say, Kate? Except that I allowed myself to be wrongly influenced by . . .” He cut himself off, and lowered his voice. “Put it this way: the argument was always presented in ‘It’s either her or me’ terms. And I was so weak, I bought it.”

  Another silence. Then I said, “Okay, I’ll FedEx you a check for five thousand today.”

  It took a moment to sink in. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s what Mom would have wanted.”

  “Oh God, Kate . . . I don’t know what to . . .”

  “Say nothing . . .”

  “I’m overwhelmed . . .”

  “Don’t be. It’s family business.”

  “I promise, swear, I’ll pay it all back as soon as . . .”

  “Charlie . . . enough. You’ll have the check tomorrow. And when you’re in a position to pay me back, you pay me back. Now I need to ask you . . .”

  “Anything. Any favor you need.”

  “It’s just a question I need answered, Charlie.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “Did you ever know a Sara Smythe?”

  “Never heard of her. Why?”

  “I’ve received a condolence letter from her, saying she knew Mom and Dad before I was born.”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells with me. Then again, I don’t remember most of Mom and Dad’s friends from back then.”

  “That’s not surprising. I can’t remember who I met last month. Thanks anyway.”

  “No—thank you, Kate. You don’t know what that five grand means to all of us . . .”

  “I think I have an idea.”

  “Bless you,” he said quietly.

  After I hung up, a thought struck me: I actually missed my brother.

  I spent the balance of the morning tidying the apartment and dealing with domestic chores. When I returned from the laundry room in the basement of the building, I found a message on my answering machine:

  “Hello, Kate . . .”

  It was a voice I hadn’t heard before; a deeply refined voice with a noticeable New England twang.

  “It’s Sara Smythe here. I do hope you received my letter and I do apologize for calling you at home. But it would be nice to meet up. As I said in my letter, I was close to your family when your father was alive, and would very much like to renew contact with you after all these years. I know how busy you are, so whenever you have a chance please give me a ring. My number is five-five-five oh-seven-four-five. I
am in this afternoon, if you’re around. Once again, my thoughts are with you at this difficult time. But I know you’re tough and resilient—so you’ll get through this. I so look forward to meeting you face-to-face.”

  I listened to the message twice, my alarm (and outrage) growing by the second. I would very much like to renew contact with you after all these years . . . I know how busy you are . . . I know you’re tough and resilient . . . Jesus Christ, this woman was sounding like she was an old dear family friend, or someone on whose knee I climbed when I was five. And didn’t she have the decency to realize that, just having buried my mother yesterday, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for socializing?

  I picked up the letter she had hand-delivered earlier today. I walked into Ethan’s room. I powered up his computer. I wrote:

  Dear Ms. Smythe,

  I was enormously touched both by your letter and by your kind message.

  As I’m certain you know, grief affects people in such curious, singular ways. And right now, I simply want to withdraw for a while and be alone with my son and my thoughts.

  I appreciate your understanding. And, once again, my thanks for your sympathy at this sad juncture.

  Yours,

  Kate Malone

  I read the letter twice through before hitting the button marked Print, then signing my name at the bottom. I folded it, placed it in an envelope, scribbled Smythe’s name and address on the front, then sealed it. Returning to the kitchen, I picked up the phone, and called my secretary at the office. She arranged for our courier service to pick up the letter at my apartment and deliver it to Ms. Smythe’s place on West 77th Street. I knew I could have posted the letter, but feared that she might try to call me again tonight. I wanted to make certain I didn’t hear from her again.

  Half an hour later, the doorman rang me to say that the courier was downstairs. I grabbed my coat and left the apartment. On my way out the front door, I handed the letter to the helmeted motorcycle messenger. He assured me that he’d deliver it across town within the next thirty minutes. I thanked him, and headed up toward Lexington Avenue. I stopped by our local branch of Kinko’s on 78th Street. I removed another envelope from my coat pocket and placed it inside a Federal Express folder. Then I filled out the dispatch form, requesting guaranteed next-day delivery to a certain Charles Malone in Van Nuys, California. I tossed it in the FedEx box. When he opened the letter tomorrow, he’d find a five-thousand-dollar check, and a very short note which read: