Moose grinned. “So your godfather is a partner, right? And this idiot here is just a lowly associate. So they’ve started slapping ‘Associate’ on everything he does, just to keep the two of them straight. So this morning he shows up and”—Moose started to chuckle—“there’s a sign on his door that says, ‘Charlie Goldwyn, Ass.’ They must’ve run out of space or something. Priceless.”
Mira burst out laughing. “No wonder you’re on edge today,” she said, turning to me.
I shrugged, too mortified to respond.
“I have a picture,” Moose said, digging his phone out of his pocket.
“Oh, show me!” Mira squealed delightedly.
“Here. I already made it the wallpaper on my desktop. It just cracks me up every time.”
“Moose.” They both looked up at me, like kids busted mid-prank.
“Oh, right,” he said. He made a show of checking his watch. “Yup, definitely have somewhere to be. It was nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Mira said.
“So, Chuck, no smoke, I take it?”
“No.” I glared at him. “I don’t smoke, remember?”
“Right, right.” He winked. “My mistake. Okay, well, catch you later.”
• • •
A week later I lay on a hard floor in a pool of my own sweat, wondering if I would ever feel my legs again. My smoker’s lungs heaved from exertion. Moose lay beside me panting, his body encased in a neon yellow Lycra getup that made him look like a gigantic banana.
“I think she sees us,” he hissed, rolling over onto his side. “She’s looking this way.”
“She’d have to be blind not to. You look like a human highlighter.”
“It’s a cycling suit. So cars can see me at night.”
“Cars could see you from outer space in that thing.”
“You’re just jealous that you don’t have the body to pull this off.”
“Lie back and close your eyes.” Mira’s soft voice carried over the tinkling of new age music. “It’s time for Shavasana, or Corpse Pose.”
“Corpse Pose is right,” I muttered to Moose. “I can’t feel my legs. It’s possible I’m dying.”
“Shh.” The woman in front of me turned around and glared. “Some of us are trying to get something out of this class.”
“Trust me, we’re trying to get something out of this class, too,” Moose whispered back at her. “My buddy’s not leaving without the teacher’s phone number.”
Mira dimmed the lights and lit a candle. The music stopped; it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Seconds passed, then minutes. The longer we lay still, the faster my mind raced. The wooden floor was remarkably hard. I couldn’t quite get comfortable. I wriggled. Shifted. Shimmied. No one else was moving. Moose was even snoring lightly. How could he be so relaxed? I couldn’t remember the last time I had taken a Saturday morning off. Fred was probably storming around the office, wondering where the fuck I was. I felt an irrepressible need to check my BlackBerry.
Suddenly a lavender-scented pillow descended onto my eyelids. I flinched involuntarily, feeling helpless. “Relax,” Mira whispered. “I don’t bite.” Her face was just a few inches from mine; I could hear her breathing. Her thumbs dug into the knots in my shoulders, miraculously releasing a week’s worth of tension.
“Calm your body, calm your mind,” Mira announced, loud enough so that the rest of the class could hear her. Her fingers massaged their way up my neck and over my scalp. I felt a rush of pleasure when she began to rub my ears. In fact, I had to bite down hard on my lip to suppress a moan. Afraid of becoming physically aroused, I began to mentally run through my to-do list until at last the rubbing stopped.
“Namaste,” Mira whispered. She pulled off the eye pillow and then slipped away into the darkness.
A fifteen-second ear rub, and I was infatuated. Also, I was hooked on the class. Ninety minutes of sweaty, spasm-inducing hell now felt strangely worthwhile.
“That was fucking awesome,” I said to Moose as we rolled up our mats. “Holy crap. I feel like I’m on drugs.”
Moose threw me a skeptical look. “You need to get out more, bro,” he said.
“You didn’t think that was incredible?”
He shrugged. “I like Zumba. Have you done Zumba? The girls are gorgeous. And there’s never any guys at Zumba, for some reason. The girls, they fawn over me, dude. It’s the best-kept secret in New York.”
“There are no guys in Zumba for a reason, Moose. Anyway, at Zumba you don’t get a head massage at the end.”
“What?” Moose stared at me, perplexed. “What head massage?”
“Oh,” I said, stifling a smile. “Never mind.”
Moose nudged me. “Look. Here she comes.”
I turned to see Mira walking towards us, a yoga mat tucked beneath her arm. Beside her stood a tall, buff guy with a ponytail. Like Mira, he radiated health and well-being. He looked like the kind of guy who spoke earnestly about his spirit animal. A guy who, when not practicing yoga, volunteered at soup kitchens and designed his own turquoise jewelry. The kind of guy a woman like Mira should date instead of a coffee-guzzling, stress-addicted smoker who ate Tums like jellybeans and hadn’t properly exercised since the Clinton administration.
Ponytail Guy leaned in close to her and said something that made her throw her head back with laughter. I sucked in my gut and wiped the sweat from my brow.
She spotted us and waved. Ponytail Guy gave her an unnervingly long hug. When it was over, she skipped towards us, smiling.
“Hi!” she said. “Thanks for coming. I love seeing new faces in my class.”
“It was a great class,” I said. “I’m Charlie, by the way. And this is Moose. From Hardwick, Mays & Kellerman?”
“I remember. The Other Charlie Goldwyn. And how could I forget a name like Moose?”
“Well, my real name is Jamie,” Moose said, turning red. “But you can call me Moose. Everyone else does.”
“Okay, Jamie,” Mira said with a kind smile. “You guys enjoy the class?”
“Terrific.”
“Amazing.”
“Can’t wait for the next one.”
“That’s great! I’m so happy to hear. I was thinking maybe I should have done more chanting at the end. But, you know, Mercury’s in retrograde right now, so that just changes everything. I was really just trying to stay in tune with the class’s aura.”
“Absolutely,” I said, as earnestly as possible. “I think you, uh, read the aura just right.”
“Exactly the right amount of chanting.”
Mira’s face broke into a wide, wicked smile. “I’m just fucking with you,” she said. “Anyone up for a burger? Corner Bistro’s not too far from here. I’m starving.”
And that’s when I knew I was in love.
The Run In
Of the eleven phone calls, seventeen text messages, and 215 e-mails I receive while in the hospital, I look at only one. It is from Moose, and the subject line reads: DUDE, YOU ARE TRENDING.
The body of the e-mail contains a link, which, after some hesitation, I click. I regret it the minute I do. There I am, ignobly sandwiched between some celebrity’s baby and a Brazilian stripper who claims to have slept with a senator. It’s a terrible photo of me, a profile shot gleaned from the Hardwick website in which I’m sporting a hideous salmon-colored tie and an unusually aggressive cowlick. Beneath my smiling face is the nauseating headline: “ALL MY CLIENTS ARE GUILTY”—WALL STREET LAWYER’S LAMENT GOES VIRAL.
I skim the article just enough to learn that the video originally appeared on abovethelaw.com, a gossipy news site devoted to the legal community. Given that Todd’s on-again, off-again fling, Marissa, works for the site, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out how it got leaked. From there it was picked up by several blogs, then Page Six, and eventually an actual journalist at the Wall Street Journal by the name of Antonia Yates, who has made a career of exposing financiers for the unethical, morally bankrupt criminals that
they are. She’s left me three voicemails, none of which I intend to return.
After some heavy cajoling, Dr. Fabio released me with a script for Xanax and a strong reminder that I ought to see Dr. Harris, the grief therapist, as soon as possible. My guess is that I’m going to need something stronger than Xanax, but it’s a start. Zadie and I leave the hospital and head directly to Duane Reade. I’m reading the label on an herbal mood stabilizer when I hear:
“Ohmygod—Charlie?”
I freeze in place. It’s been years since I’ve heard that gravelly, slightly menacing voice, but it still makes my blood run cold. Slowly, I place the mood stabilizer back on the shelf and turn around.
“Hi, Alison,” I say, doing my best to smile. Of all the Duane Reades in the world, I think.
“Ohmygod, Charlie, this is crazy,” Alison announces. With velociraptor-like speed, she pounces on me. For a woman who weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet, she’s got a freakishly strong grip.
“I was literally just thinking about you,” she breathes into my ear. “I mean, are you okay? You’re, like, all over the press.”
I manage to wriggle out of Alison’s embrace just as Zadie rounds the corner.
“Charlie, the Xanax will be ready in fifteen min—Oh, hi.” Zadie gives me the exact same mortified look that she gave me in eleventh grade when she walked in on me with my hand up Faith Patterson’s shirt.
“Hi,” Alison says, her face hardening. She sticks out her hand so fast that for a moment I think she’s going to knife one of us. “You must be . . .” She trails off, waiting for Zadie to fill in the blank.
“Zadie. Charlie’s sister.”
Alison brightens substantially. “Oh! That’s great. I’m Charlie’s ex. You know, the one that got away.” She flashes a saccharine smile.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Zadie says sweetly. I can see the gears in her head turning as she gives Alison the once-over. Alison’s typical daytime uniform of head-to-toe Lululemon spandex highlights her emaciated body. Her skin glows from a recent spray tan, and from one arm hangs an alligator skin purse and a cluster of shopping bags from Bergdorf Goodman. There’s a reason I never bothered to introduce Alison to Zadie when we were together. Alison’s a lot of things, but substantive isn’t one of them.
“Sorry, I look like such a mess,” Alison giggles, knowing, of course, that she doesn’t. She runs a hand through her perfectly smooth, highlighted hair. “Jerry and I are leaving for the Hamptons tonight and I’ve been like a total crazy person getting everything together.”
She widens her eyes in sudden surprise. “Ohmygod, Charlie, did I not tell you?” she says, as though we’re in regular communication.
“Tell me what?”
She extends her left hand. On her ring finger glitters the golf ball–size diamond she always wanted. “Jerry and I got engaged!”
Who’s Jerry? I want to say, but resist the urge.
“Congratulations,” Zadie says, saving me. “That’s wonderful news.”
“We’re getting married at his place in East Hampton in August. It’s a little quick, I know, but Jerry’s like a hundred years old so we have to get moving!” She laughs shrilly. “No, no, don’t tell him I said that. He’s like, not even fifty, but I like to tease him. You know what? We should totally get together out east!” She puts her hand on my forearm. “Charlie, you would love Jerry! He’s a lawyer, too. Or, like, he used to be before he realized that all the money’s in finance. He works in private equity now. Have you found a new job? You should totally talk to him! He loves mentoring people. You go out to the Hamptons in the summer, right? What am I saying—everyone goes out to the Hamptons in the summer.”
Before I can respond, Alison’s Swarovski crystal-encrusted phone begins to buzz. “Sorry, you guys, this is my driver. I’ve been wandering around here for, like, an hour. It’s one of those days where I can’t find anything, you know? He must be, like, ‘Hello, Earth to Alison, where are you?’ ”
She leans in for a double air kiss. “It was so good to see you, Charlie. Keep me posted. I’ll be thinking about you.”
She gives Zadie a condescending smile. “It was nice to meet you, Sadie,” she says, and flounces off to meet her chauffeur.
“Wow. She really does look like a mess. She obviously doesn’t spend nearly enough time focused on her appearance.” Zadie can barely control her smile.
“Please, let’s just not talk about it.”
“Why haven’t I met her before? Mom would have loved that girl. She’s just like all those adorable cheerleaders you liked in high school.”
I groan. Mom, who always had an opinion on everything, was particularly vocal when it came to my taste in women. While Zadie could drag home every punk wannabe drummer in town without comment, I was openly mocked for dating uptight, prissy girls like Lindsey Calhoun and Faith Patterson. If I brought a girl over, Mom and Zadie were always perfectly friendly to her face. But the moment she was out the door, they would gleefully commence analyzing and imitating the way the girl tossed her hair, chewed her gum, picked at her food, overused the word “like.” I think the reason it irked me so much was because, somewhere deep down inside, I knew they were right.
Predictably, Mom and Zadie both loved Mira and told me so the first time they met her. But then, everyone always loved Mira. With her warmth and kindness and wit, her boundless creativity and breathtaking generosity of spirit, Mira was nothing if not easy to love.
• • •
Three days before Mom passed away, I drove out to her house to see her. Mira and Caleb, both suffering from strep throat, stayed behind. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and there was hardly any traffic on the Long Island Expressway. Though I had allotted an hour for the drive, it took me only thirty-five minutes. I winced when I noticed that: it took less time to drive there than it did to take a cab down to SoHo. Why hadn’t I come more often?
The moment Zadie opened the door, I knew it would be the last time I saw Mom. All the lights in the house were off. Zadie’s eyes were dull with pain. She led me wordlessly up the stairs to Mom’s bedroom. Each step creaked beneath my weight, as though the house itself had grown old overnight. When I heard a voice behind the door, my heart leapt a little: Zadie had told me that Mom was getting too weak to speak. But when I pushed it open, I saw that it was Veronica, Mom’s nurse, reading aloud to her. Mom’s body was covered by a thick duvet. She was always cold now because she had lost so much weight. Her eyes were shut and her lips were parted, as though it took too much effort to close them.
Veronica stopped reading when she saw me. “Your son is here,” she told Mom quietly, then patted her hand and left.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, taking a seat in Veronica’s chair. She didn’t respond. I glanced up at Zadie, unsure of what to do. She nodded her chin towards Mom. “She can hear you,” she said.
“Mom, I’m sorry I haven’t been here more often. Work . . . well, it’s not an excuse. Zadie’s been keeping me up to date. And I know Mira’s been out to visit, too. Mira really wanted to come today. She and Caleb have strep throat. The doctor said they shouldn’t come because of your immune system and everything. But they’re thinking of you.”
Mom’s eyes flickered open then. It startled me, because I thought she was asleep. When she spoke, her voice was raspy, as though she hadn’t had a drink in a very long time. I leaned in to listen, my knees brushing up against the edge of the bed.
“I never liked any of the girls you brought home,” she said. “They had no joie de vivre. You had such terrible taste in women.” Her eyes shut again. I reached out and took her hand, willing her to wake up. I refused to accept “You had such terrible taste in women” as my mother’s dying words.
After a second, her eyes reopened and she continued to speak as though she hadn’t stopped. “And then you brought Mira home, and I thought, ‘Well, she’ll never agree to marry him, but at least maybe there’s hope.’ ”
I laughed. Mom made a slight coughing sound, as t
hough she was trying to laugh with me but couldn’t quite manage it.
“I don’t know how you pulled it off, but that girl’s terrific. Caleb, too.”
“Well, he’s just like his mom,” I said, tears beginning to well up in my eyes. “And his grandma.”
Mom shook her head. “Charlie,” she said, after clearing her throat, “he’s just like you. Full of heart. Smart as hell. Don’t let anyone break his spirit, you hear?”
“I won’t, Mom, I promise,” I said. I squeezed her hand, but she didn’t respond. Her eyes had closed again and she was gone, lost between sleep and consciousness.
• • •
When we walk into the kitchen, Caleb hardly looks up from his Magna-Tiles, which he is industriously grouping into piles based on color on the floor. My son, I think fondly, may be the only person in the tri-state area who is not laughing at me behind my back.
“Daddy’s home!” Our neighbor and occasional babysitter Monica hurls herself in my direction when we enter the kitchen. Monica is a thirty-six-year-old single nursery school teacher with a biological clock so loud I can practically hear it ticking from across the hall. When she is not busy connecting with potential soul mates online, Monica is more than happy to watch Caleb, a perk of our building that ensures we will never move. Zadie likes Monica because she’s basically always available and is trained in child CPR. I am mildly creeped out by her hugs, which in my opinion happen far too frequently and last for about six seconds longer than necessary, and the fact that she insists on bringing her cat, a fluffy Persian named Princess who Norman despises. I am, however, willing to overlook these issues in the name of readily available child care.
“Ugh, Charlie, I’m so glad you’re okay,” Monica says after releasing me from her vise grip. She holds my hands and looks me up and down the way my grandmother used to on her biannual visits from Florida. “When Zadie called, I was about to go to the gym, but I dropped everything and came right over. I was so worried about you.”
“Thanks, Monica, I really appreciate it. I’m honestly fine. Bruised ego, maybe, but that’s about it.”
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