Ghosts of Manhattan

by Douglas Brunt

  “I saw you do a reporter hit from the exchange floor the other day. You looked great.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s something different about you. Some of the women come across flat on TV. With you there’s something magnetic and exciting and it’s not just looks.”

  “Thank you.” It’s a sincere compliment and she can feel it. I can tell by her eyes that she likes how the conversation is making her feel. And the eyes are on me. I haven’t had playful eyes daring me to look back in too long. At home it has been dead eyes. I think to myself that married people still ought to find a way to flirt.

  “Just an observation.”

  She looks like she’s decided something and leans forward. “Nick, you know I’m not shy.”

  “I suspected that.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t return a compliment with a compliment, but I don’t care about that and I will. You’re very handsome. And you’re exactly my type. Physically.” I guess she adds this to be clear that married is not her type.

  “What’s your type?”

  “Tall and dark hair.” God, I’m loving the flirting. There’s reckless energy passing between us.

  I don’t say anything for a while because I think it will make the suspense build. I’m getting goofy happy to the point that I’m not planning anything I’m saying but ad-libbing. “Sometimes we meet people that make us question the way we’ve set up our lives. Make us wonder about things.” It feels risky to say this and I like it.

  Her brows come together, trying to pull another sentence from me to discover my meaning. When there isn’t another, she says, “Nick, you’re officially flirting with me.” I can see she’s pleased.

  “Maybe I am. A little. I think it’s better to get it out in the open.” I think I went too far. I brought our little fantasy back to earth where I have a wife.

  “I see.” She’s having fun but doesn’t seem to be taking me seriously, treating this as something futile. “Just what are you putting out in the open?”

  “I like how I feel when I think about you.” I hadn’t put it into words before and I like how well I put my finger on it.

  “Are you separated from your wife?”

  “No.”

  “Have you talked to her about separating?”

  “Well, no.” This is starting to go sideways.

  “So what are you telling me?”

  Now I’m feeling indecisive and stupid. “I just wanted to tell you how I feel.”

  “Are you hoping I’ll say something so we can do what you want and you can still be off the hook for it?”

  “It’s not that. Truly, I’ve just wanted to see you, and for the first time acted on it. I haven’t thought about it much more than that and I haven’t talked about it with Julia or anyone else.” I hadn’t meant to say her name.

  I can’t tell if she’s irritated or hurt or both. “Nick, I don’t know your wife. Even if I did, I can’t give you advice about any of this. Relationship advice is always bad because nobody knows what they’re talking about.”

  “I’d like to talk about it anyway.” It occurs to me Julia must be talking to someone.

  “I shouldn’t be the one you talk to, Nick. Better not to choose someone you might end up in bed with. The only two people qualified to talk about this type of thing are relatives or friends of the same sex.”

  “Relatives of the opposite sex are okay?” I’m trying to be cute and should have known it would sound idiotic, but she lets it go.

  “Unless there’s a threat of incest.”

  “So the problem is always sex.” The collapse into silliness might be saving the conversation.

  “Of course. Even if it’s minuscule, there’s some percentage greater than zero that wants to have sex with the other person. Immediate disqualification from giving advice. You’ve seen When Harry Met Sally. The first half of the movie is true. The second half is a fake way to resolve the first half.”

  “There’s not a third category? What about a shrink?”

  “Nope. There too. Shrink needs to be same sex or at least fifty years apart in age.”

  “Have you slept with your shrink?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Jesus.” I clink her wineglass and sip my bourbon. “Despite the opposite sex part, I think I came to the right place.”

  We settle back in our chairs and are silent for a moment, a silence she finally breaks. “You shouldn’t cheat, you know.”

  “Oh?” I feel like I was just starting to come around to the idea.

  “The fact that you asked the question answers your question.”

  “Not in a very declarative way.”

  “Anyway, I don’t want to sleep with someone who’s married or on the fence about leaving his marriage. I don’t think you’re even on the fence. I think you’re on the other side of the fence. With your wife.”

  I wonder if there’s truth to this. I don’t know if I brought up Julia because I’m in love with her or because I’m going a little insane with frustration.

  She takes my silence as agreement and continues. “I’m thirty-two. Ten years ago this might have been fine, but not now. If you change your mind, and your circumstances, and get your act together, then we can talk.”

  I clink her glass again. I know it’s a cowardly thing to do, but I couldn’t have said it any better. “Since I got you all the way here, let me buy you another drink.”

  “Deal.”

  The waitress brings another round. This time Rebecca clinks my glass and says, “To getting to know ourselves.”

  “Cheers.”

  “And to discovering what may be right around the corner.” She winks. God, she’s gorgeous. “It was good to see you again, Nick.” She says this in a sincere tone, and I feel that she doesn’t usually say this in parting but reserves it for those it really was good to see.

  17 | NO ACTION

  January 24, 2006

  PART OF MY POST-REBECCA PLAN IS TO TRY TO improve things with Julia and also with work. With my left hand I’ll conduct one side of the orchestra and with my right the other side, and together I can bring calm from chaos. I feel the momentum can be with me, that things can happen effortlessly. I think this is the start of what it must be like to feel lucky. It’s only an idea now, just a secret project, but it seems to be expanding. I want to be home more, and I make plans with Julia to cook dinner at home like a normal night for a normal couple. Julia has done the shopping and started the cooking by the time I get home.

  “I got swordfish and I’m trying a recipe for risotto with truffles.”

  “Sounds great.” It doesn’t smell great. So far it just smells fishy but there is garlic in the risotto or the swordfish marinade that is starting to make it better.

  “There’s a shrimp cocktail ready.” She points toward the butler’s station just off the kitchen, at a dish of cocktail sauce with shrimp the size of hot dogs hanging in a ring around the sides. “Would you open a bottle of white? I picked some up. They’re in the refrigerator.”

  I step through the kitchen, past the empty store bags from Citarella cast on the floor, scooping and crumpling them up on my way. The grocery receipt is dangling from one. If we feel too loose with our money, cooking at home instead of eating at a restaurant is a remedy. It isn’t enough to make a real difference in savings, but it makes us feel more responsible. Even though we have empty cupboards and have to shop for every item we cook, there is something reassuring about preparing our own food, a sort of reminder that we might survive in the wild if necessary. I notice that the shrimp, swordfish, and truffles alone are almost two hundred dollars. With wine and a few other items, the total is over three fifty, more than we would spend in a great restaurant. In the annals of overspending, this will be in the top few. But she’s cooking and I’m not going to discourage that. I toss the bags and receipt away and eat a shrimp.

  “I talked to Abbey Roberts today,” she says. Julia used to work with Abbey until about ten year
s ago when Abbey got married, quit work, moved to Philadelphia, and had two kids.

  “How is she?”

  “She seems very happy. Kids are six and eight now and both in school. I think she’s struggling with the idea of being past the age of having a baby and now has kids that are growing up fast. And she wants to know when we’re having kids.”

  “What did you tell her?” My fear that I wouldn’t be a good father is stronger than ever. I can imagine Julia struggling with Abbey’s question. We’ve told ourselves that we’re putting off kids until we move out of Manhattan or something signals a change that we’re ready for kids, but we don’t know anymore if that is the truth. No action is a form of action if you wait long enough.

  “I told her we’re getting long in the tooth to start trying to have kids.”

  I don’t say anything. We’re not that old but I’m not sure if she is looking for me to agree or disagree with this statement. I know I don’t want to start trying for kids, but I don’t want to give away my position. I just nod.

  “You know what she said? She wondered if I might have a medical problem carrying a baby. She offered to be our surrogate. To carry our baby for us.” It’s been years since I’ve seen Abbey. I think for Julia too. “What a kind person. I told her the problem isn’t with that, but what an incredible gesture.”

  “Yeah. We better hope she never needs a kidney.” Julia looks at me as though I’ve tortured a nun. I try to laugh up the joke but it feels awkward and as though I was partly serious. That’s the thing about joking.

  “It was one of the most touching things anyone has ever done for me. She said she had easy pregnancies and actually enjoyed being pregnant. She said if we need help, she’ll do it. It’s a serious offer.”

  “It’s an incredible offer, but we don’t know that this is something we need. Have you been to the doctor or something?”

  “No. I don’t know if we need her help, but now is the time, Nick. If we’re going to try, I want to try soon.”

  “Julia, of all the years of our marriage, now feels like the worst time to try for kids.” Her look says that she demands an explanation from me. My work is still an issue, but that’s been a constant and one that she can dismiss. The other issue is that I don’t trust what is happening with us and with Oliver and I can’t decide if I can discuss this with her and not hear something that will gut me.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  My mind is working furiously but making no progress, like a car stuck in snow. I’m not able to see two steps ahead in the conversation. “I just don’t think we’re in a great place right now. Our relationship.” My phone vibrates in my pocket, announcing a text message. I hardly ever text, and I think about using this as a time-out from the conversation but I know that would make things worse.

  “Nick, I know that. You know that I know that. I think I’d like to have a baby. There’s a risk that our relationship isn’t strong enough for this, but I’m running out of time.”

  “You’re not out of time but we both have to want this. If we have a baby, it isn’t just our relationship that we’re risking anymore. Going in half expecting to fail isn’t good enough.”

  “I don’t expect to fail.”

  “Then what’s going on with you?” I nearly shout this and my aggression confuses her.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I look away, trying not to say it, but I feel it coming on like a heave of vomit that I can’t swallow. “Oliver.” There, I’ve said it and part of me wants it back. I don’t feel the relief that usually comes after throwing up. Julia stares evenly and seems not surprised but not guilty. “Not so much Oliver specifically. Just the prospect of someone. Julia, as long as I’ve known you, I’ve never felt even a hint of you glancing in another direction or trying to get a glance back. It’s not an energy you put off. Until now. Now it seems like something you’re open to.”

  “Nick, nothing is going on between me and Oliver.”

  “What does nothing mean? You never had sex?” I feel safe I know the answer to this.

  “Of course not.”

  “Never flirted? Never felt anything?” I want to feel convinced now, to drive out the demons.

  “No.”

  I think she’s admitting to me as much as she’s admitted to herself, which may be less than everything. “Julia, something is different. Worse. It used to be second nature that we’re an unconditional team. Now I feel you’re looking in another direction.”

  “I’m not happy. You know that. But you’re my husband and I love you.”

  I realize it’s not that I don’t want to have a baby but that I’m afraid to. Julia deserves to be a mother. “I’m not saying no to a baby. Let’s figure out the right thing.”

  Julia looks away, frustrated and silent. This sounds like the same commitment to dialogue that has ushered by the years, but I mean for it to be more now.

  “This isn’t just talk. Go to the doctor and see where we are medically. Let’s get all the information first.”

  “Okay. I’ll get in to a fertility doctor next week. Sooner if I can.” She seems suspicious this is just a delay tactic but is still claiming whatever ground has been made. Possibly she’s already been to the doctor and has a loaded deck. At any rate, it seems clear she feels the current form of our relationship is worth putting at risk. The outcomes of a baby with us together and a baby with us apart are both better than more of the same. She’s not going to settle for no action anymore.

  I walk into the living room to check the text message. I open the flip phone and it’s Rebecca’s number.

  where are you?

  This is amazingly appealing but not the best timing. All of this will be hard enough without temptation. The phone buzzes again while I’m holding it open and it startles me.

  where’s the fence?

  I close the phone. Crap.

  18 | RISK

  January 25, 2006

  FREDDIE’S IN A PANIC AND TRYING TO FOCUS HIMSELF by memorizing his first few lines. We’re waiting outside the conference room for Dale Brown to admit us so Freddie can deliver his report.

  I hear Freddie muttering to himself, “Gentlemen, thank you for coming. This report is a summary review of, a comprehensive analysis of, crap. Gentlemen, thank you . . .” He’s dressed slightly better than normal. Everything’s been pressed but the clothes have the wear and the style of being at least fifteen years old and show the ill-fitting pushes and pulls from the changes in his body over that time so that it looks like he does his shopping at the Salvation Army. His ugly tie is pulled tight and straight around his neck in a knot that looks impossible to undo. He tried hard this morning and I feel sorry for him. He did the best with what he knows.

  “Freddie, take it easy. You’re going to work yourself into a lather.”

  “I just need to get the introduction down. I’m not a very good public speaker.”

  “It’s going to be only a few guys. You know the information cold, just take people through it. You’ll do fine.”

  “I know, I know.” He sits down and closes his eyes and seems to be focusing on his breathing.

  In a moment the conference room door opens and Preston Palmer steps out into our waiting room. He’s the assistant to the president and I don’t know him but have heard plenty. When he’s not around Dale Brown, he assumes the full authority of the office of the president to throw his weight around and act like a jackass. When he is around Dale Brown, he acts like a manservant. “Okay. Let’s go, guys.” He gives me a curious glance, then gives Freddie a condescending stare.

  We follow Preston back into the conference room. Dale Brown is at the head of an empty table. His appearance is the other end of the spectrum from Freddie. His suit looks expensive and fits perfectly, and I see the stitching around the border of the lapel that is a sign of handmade work. His silk tie is in a fat Windsor knot and his hair looks like it was cut just this morning. He’s handsome and young for his position,
maybe only ten years older than I am. I imagine he’s had some sharp elbows during his career.

  Freddie looks around the room a few times, checking and rechecking for invitees to the meeting. I develop my own conspiracy theory that Dale Brown wants as few people as possible to witness his exposure to this information. Nobody wants a piece of this meeting, and I wonder why the hell I’m here. Dale also gives me just a passing glance, then stares at Freddie. I don’t know Dale very well. We were in a golfing foursome once about five years ago, and we were at a twenty-person dinner once. With a prompt he might remember me. “Take a seat.” Preston points to seats on the opposite side of the table from Dale, then he also sits across from us.

  Freddie pulls a stack of copies of his report from his bag and passes one to each of us, and the remaining copies lie in a pile on the table as a reminder of his unmet expectations of attendance. He clears his throat and begins. “Gentlemen, thank you for—”

  “Listen, Freddie,” Dale interrupts. “I don’t want a big preamble. Let’s just get started and get through this.” He already knocks Freddie off balance. Dale would have said this no matter how Freddie started.

  “Yes. Well, thank you for coming.” Freddie picks up the report and turns back the cover page. I pick it up and fan the pages. It’s seventy pages of charts and graphs and block paragraphs of analysis.

  Dale’s arms don’t leave the armrest of the chair. His eyes don’t drop to the report on the table in front of him but stay locked on Freddie.

  “As you can see in the executive summary—”

  “Freddie, I don’t have time to turn pages on your report with you. Let’s bottom-line this.”

  Freddie’s hanging on by a thread. To his credit, as with many analytical minds, his anxiety forces him to slow down rather than speed up. “Okay.” He closes the report and slides it forward a few inches and releases it. “I have developed a framework for analysis.” His words are slow and plodding. “The result is a risk scale from one to ten, one being the least risky and ten being the most risky. The optimal level of risk to return for our firm is five point three.” His words are starting to come faster as he talks about his risk engine, which has become a living and breathing best friend to him.