Eventually I subsided. I let go of Eric and fell back against the pillows. Eric reached out and stroked my face. We said nothing for a long time. I was still in shock. Finally, he broke our silence.
“So . . . ,” he said.
“So . . . ,” I said.
“My sofa’s not the most comfortable bed in the world, but . . .”
“It will do fine.”
“That’s settled then. While I was waiting for you to wake up, I spoke with one of the nurses. They think you’ll be ready to leave in about three days. So—if it’s okay with you—I’ll call George and arrange a time to go to your house in Old Greenwich and pack up your things.”
“It was never my house.”
“George was pretty emotional on the phone. He begged me to get you to reconsider.”
“There is absolutely no chance of that.”
“I intimated that to him.”
“He should marry his mother and get it over with.”
“Why didn’t I think of that line?”
I almost managed a small smile.
“It will be good to have you back, S. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve fucked it up, Eric. I’ve fucked everything up.”
“Don’t think that,” he said. “Because it’s not true. But do keep using language like that. It dents your refined image. And I approve.”
“I landed myself in this entire disaster.”
“That’s an interpretation—and one which is guaranteed to cause you a lot of useless grief.”
“I deserve the grief . . .”
“Stop it! You deserve none of this. But it’s happened. And, in time, you will find a way of dealing with it.”
“I’ll never deal with it.”
“You will. Because you have to deal with it. You have no choice.”
“I suppose I could jump out a window.”
“But think of all the bad movies you’d miss.”
This time, I nearly managed a laugh. “I missed you too, Eric. More than I can say.”
“Give us two weeks together as roommates, and I’m sure we’ll end up never talking again.”
“An asteroid will hit Manhattan before that happens. There’s a pair of us in it.”
“Nice expression.”
“Yes. The Irish have all the right lines.”
He rolled his eyes and said, “Yez lives and yez learns.”
“Too damn true.”
I glanced out the window. It was a perfect summer day. A hard blue sky. An incandescent sun. Not a single hint of an inclement future. It was a day when everything should have seemed limitless, possible.
“Tell me something, Eric . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Is it always so hard?”
“Is what always so hard?”
“Everything.”
He laughed. “Of course. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
“Sometimes I wonder: will I ever figure anything out?”
He laughed again. “You know the answer to that question, don’t you?”
I kept my gaze on the world beyond. And said,
“Yes, I’m afraid I do.”
PART Three
* * *
Sara
TWELVE
THE FIRST THING I noticed about Dudley Thomson were his fingers. They were short, stubby, fleshy—like links of Polish sausage. He had a large oval face. His chin was augmented by two tiers of fat. He had thinning hair, round horn-rimmed glasses, and a very expensive three-piece suit. It was dark gray with a thick chalk pinstripe. I guessed that it was made to measure, as it carefully encased his bulky frame. His office was wood paneled, with heavy green velvet curtains, deep leather chairs, a large mahogany desk. It struck me as a small-scale approximation of a London gentlemen’s club. In fact, everything about Dudley Thomson reeked of Anglophilia. He looked like an overweight version of T. S. Eliot. Only unlike Mr. Eliot he wasn’t a poet, dressed in the raiments of an English banker. Rather, he was a divorce lawyer—a partner at Potholm, Grey and Connell, the white-shoe Wall Street firm of which Edwin Grey Sr. was a senior partner.
I had been summoned by Dudley Thomson to a meeting at his office. It was three weeks after I had been discharged from Greenwich Hospital. I was staying with my brother at his apartment on Sullivan Street, curling up every night on his lumpy sofa. As one of the senior nurses at the hospital had warned me, I would probably go through a period of depression and grief after my release. She was right. I had spent most of the three weeks inside Eric’s apartment, only occasionally venturing outside for groceries or an afternoon double feature at the Academy of Music on 14th Street. I really didn’t want to be around many people—especially those friends of mine who were married with children. The sight of a baby carriage on the street chilled me. So too did passing a shop which sold maternity outfits or infant paraphernalia. Curiously, I hadn’t cried since that outburst in Greenwich Hospital. Instead, I had felt constantly numb, and wanted to do nothing more than sequester myself within the four walls of Eric’s place. Which, with my brother’s tolerant encouragement, was exactly what I had been doing—squandering the days with a stack of pulp thrillers, and working my way through Eric’s extensive record collection. I rarely turned on the radio. I didn’t buy a newspaper. I didn’t answer the phone (not that it rang very much anyway). Eric—the most patient man on the planet—didn’t worry out loud about my solipsism. Though he made subtle enquiries about my well-being, he never once suggested a night out. Nor did he pass a comment about my dazed gloom. He knew what was going on. He knew it had to run its course.
Three weeks into this period of self-incarceration, I received a letter from Dudley Thomson. He explained that he would be representing the Grey family in the divorce settlement and asked me to arrange an appointment with him at my earliest possible convenience. He said I could have my own legal counsel present at this meeting—but suggested that I not go to the expense of hiring a lawyer for this preliminary discussion, as the Greys wanted to settle matters as quickly as possible.
“Hire a lawyer,” Eric said after I showed him this letter. “They want to settle for as little as they can.”
“But I really don’t want anything from them.”
“You’re entitled to alimony . . . or at least a sizeable settlement. That’s the very least those bastards owe you.”
“I’d rather just walk away . . .”
“They exploited you . . .”
“No, they didn’t.”
“They used you as a battery hen and . . .”
“Eric, stop turning this into a class warfare drama. Especially as the Greys and ourselves are basically from the same damn class.”
“You should still take them for every penny possible.”
“No—because that would be unethical. And that’s not my style. I know what I want from the Greys. If they give it to me, then this entire matter can be settled without further grief. Believe me, what I want more than anything right now is no further grief.”
“At least find some tough divorce lawyer to have in your corner . . .”
“I need nobody. That’s my new credo, Eric. From now on, I’m depending on no one.”
And so, I made an appointment to see Mr. Thomson, and walked into his office without a legal entourage. He was rather surprised by that.
“I actually expected to see you here today with at least one legal counselor,” he said.
“Really?” I said. “After advising me that I needed no counsel present at this interview?”
He flashed me a smile, showing bad dental work (a true sign of his deep Anglophilia). “I expect no one to really follow my advice,” he said.
“Well, I have. So—let’s get this over with. Tell me what you are proposing.”
He coughed a bit, and shuffled through a few papers, trying to mask his surprise at my directness. “The Greys want to be as generous as possible . . .”
“You mean, George Grey wants to be as generous as possible. I
was—am still—married to him, not his family.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, sounding a little flustered. “George Grey wants to offer you a most reasonable settlement.”
“What’s his—and your—idea of a ‘most reasonable settlement’?”
“We were thinking of something in the region of two hundred dollars a month . . . payable up until the time you remarry.”
“I’m never getting married again.”
He attempted a benevolent smile. He failed. “I can understand you’re upset, Mrs. Grey, given the circumstances. But I’m certain an attractive, intelligent woman like yourself will have no trouble finding another husband . . .”
“Except that I’m not in the market for another husband. Anyway, even if I was, I am now, medically speaking, damaged goods—to use my mother-in-law’s kind words.”
He looked deeply embarrassed. “Yes, I heard about your . . . medical difficulties. I am dreadfully sorry.”
“Thank you. But back to business. I’m afraid two hundred dollars a month is unacceptable. My salary at Saturday Night/Sunday Morning was three hundred a month. I think I deserve that.”
“I’m certain three hundred dollars a month would be agreeable.”
“Good. Now I have a proposal to put to you. When I told you that I am never planning to marry again, I’m certain you realized that George will, in effect, be paying me alimony for the rest of my life.”
“Yes, that thought did cross my mind.”
“I would like to simplify matters in that regard. I am willing to accept a one-off payment from George. Once that is made, I will ask for no further financial maintenance from him.”
He pursed his lips. “And what sort of sum were you considering?”
“I was married to George for almost five months. I was with him for two months before then. Let’s call it a total of seven months. I would like a year’s alimony for each of those months. That works out at . . .”
He was already scribbling figures on his desk blotter. “Twenty-five thousand two hundred dollars,” he said.
“Precisely.”
“It’s a large sum.”
“Not if you consider that, all going well, I should be alive for another forty-five or fifty years.”
“That is a point. And is that sum simply an opening offer?”
“No—it’s the final offer. Either George agrees to pay me that amount up-front, or he can support me until the day I die. Are we clear about that, Mr. Thomson?”
“Exceedingly. Naturally, I will have to discuss this with the Greys . . . sorry, with George.”
“Well, you know where to find me,” I said, standing up.
He proffered his hand. I took it. It was soft and spongy. “May I ask you something, Mrs. Grey?”
“Of course.”
“This may sound strange, given that I am representing your husband, but I am nonetheless curious to know one thing: why on earth don’t you want ongoing alimony?”
“Because I want nothing to do with the Greys ever again. And you can convey my feelings to your clients, should you so wish.”
He let go of my hand. “I sense they know that already. Goodbye, Mrs. Grey.”
On the way out of the offices of Potholm, Grey and Connell, I saw Edwin Grey Sr. walking toward me in the corridor. Immediately, he lowered his eyes to avoid meeting mine. Then he passed by me without saying a word.
As soon as I was out of the building, I hailed a taxi and headed back to Sullivan Street. The meeting had drained me. I wasn’t used to playing the role of the hard negotiator. But I was pleased with the way I had handled things. Just as I had surprised myself with the statement that I would never marry again. It was said off the top of my head, without premeditation. I hadn’t considered the matter before making this declaration. But it evidently reflected what I was thinking right now. Whether I would still be thinking this same way about marriage several years from now was another matter. What I did know was this: it didn’t work when your heart led your head. It didn’t work when your head led your heart. Which, in turn, meant . . .
What?
Maybe that we never get it right. We just muddle through.
Which is perhaps one of the great reasons why love always disappoints. We enter it hoping it will make us whole—that it will shore up our foundations, end our sense of incompleteness, give us the stability we crave. Then we discover that, on the contrary, it is a deeply exposing experience. Because it is so charged with ambivalence. We seek certainty in another person. We discover doubt—both in the object of our affection and in ourselves.
So perhaps the trick of it is to recognize the fundamental ambivalence lurking behind every form of human endeavor. Because once you recognize that—once you grasp the flawed nature of everything—you can move forward without disappointment.
Until, of course, you fall in love again.
Two days after my meeting with Dudley Thomson, a letter from him arrived in the mail. In it, he informed me that George Grey had accepted my proposal of a once-off payment of $25,200—on the condition that I would abnegate (his word) any further claims to alimony and/or other forms of financial maintenance. He also suggested that fifty percent of this sum would be payable to me on signature of a legally binding agreement (which he would draw up once I informed him that, in principle, I accepted these terms), and fifty percent when the official divorce decree came through twenty-four months from now (New York State was very reluctant back then to issue divorces with ease).
I picked up the phone and called Mr. Thomson, informing him that I agreed to these terms. Within a week of that call, a legal agreement arrived through the mail. It was lengthy and semantically challenging for anyone like myself who hadn’t been to law school. Eric also read it and decided it was labyrinthine. So, that day, he found me a local attorney in the neighborhood. His name was Joel Eberts. He was a beefy man in his late fifties, built like a stevedore. He had his office on the corner of Thompson and Prince streets. It was one room, with scuffed linoleum and fluorescent lighting. His handshake was like a vise. But I liked his blunt style.
After briefly perusing the contract, he whistled through his blackened teeth and said, “You were actually married to Edwin Grey’s son?”
“I’m afraid so. Do you know the Greys?”
“I think I’m a little too Semitic for their social tastes. But in my younger days, I used to practice labor law, and for a while I represented the dockers over at the Brooklyn Navy Yards. You ever been over to the Navy Yards?”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “Once.”
“Anyway, Old Man Grey’s firm made a lot of money representing the private contractors at the Navy Yards. Grey himself had this really fearsome reputation for actually taking pleasure in screwing the workers, especially when it came to negotiating contracts. And the thing was: the guy always won. I hated the sonofabitch—’scuse my French—so I’ll be happy to look this over for you. Six bucks an hour is what I charge. Is that okay?”
“Very reasonable. Too reasonable, in fact. Shouldn’t I be paying you more?”
“This is the Village, not Wall Street. Six bucks an hour is my rate, and I’m not going to jack it up just because you’re dealing with Potholm, Grey and Connell. But lemme ask you something: why just accept a one-off payment from the bastards?”
“I have my reasons.”
“As I am representing you, you’d better tell me them.”
Hesitantly, I informed him about the awfulness of the marriage, the nightmare that was my mother-in-law, and the miscarriage—with all its permanent implications. When I finished, he leaned over his desk and quickly squeezed my hand.
“That’s a tough call, Miss Smythe. I’m really sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Listen, I’ll have all this sorted out in a couple of days. It shouldn’t take more than around ten to twelve hours of my time, max.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
A week later, Mr. Eberts called me at E
ric’s apartment.
“Sorry it took me some time to get back to you, but this took a little longer to negotiate than expected.”
“I thought it was all pretty straightforward.”
“Miss Smythe—when it comes to law, nothing’s straightforward. Anyway, here’s the deal. First the Bad News: I ended up spending twenty hours on this agreement, so it’s gonna cost you a hundred and twenty dollars . . . which I know is twice the originally quoted price, but that’s how these things go. Especially since the Good News is really Good News. They’re now gonna pay you a one-off settlement of thirty-five grand.”
“Thirty-five thousand dollars? But Mr. Thomson and I had agreed twenty-five thousand.”
“Yeah—but I always like to get my clients a little more than they bargained for. Anyway, I spoke to a doctor friend of mine, who told me that we could have a case against that quack specialist your mother-in-law imposed on you. What was his name again?”
“Dr. Eisenberg.”
“Yeah, that’s the gonif. Anyway, according to my doc friend, Eisenberg was negligent in not detecting the catastrophic nature of your pregnancy—and therefore could be held responsible for the permanent damage you suffered. Of course, that jerk Dudley Thomson at Potholm, Grey and Connell tried to pooh-pooh the idea of medical negligence—until I told him that if the Greys really wanted a nasty public divorce case, we were prepared to give them one.”
“But I would never have agreed to that.”
“Believe me, I was aware of that. All I was doing was playing Call My Bluff. And then I told them we now wanted a settlement of fifty grand . . .”
“Good God.”
“Of course I knew they’d never agree to that. But it did scare the pants off them—because within a day they came back with a counter-offer of thirty-five. Thompson says it’s their absolutely final offer, but I’m pretty sure I can get them up to forty . . .”
“Thirty-five will do just fine,” I said. “Very honestly, I don’t think I should accept this new sum at all.”
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