She’s the number three person at work, a right hand to both Martin and me. She agreed to meet me after hours. It was easiest for flight times, so I could get back to Chaser quickly. Plus I wouldn’t have to see a bunch of people.
“I barely recognized you. You look like a caveman,” she said.
I reached up and felt my scraggly chin and ran my hand through my long hair.
“How is Martin?” I asked. He had taken a sudden and unplanned mental health leave. Though my dad had offered to fill me in on the particulars and has repeated his offers several times since, I frankly didn’t care beyond what it meant to the company.
“It sounds like he’ll be all right,” she said.
I felt relieved hearing it there. Martin found the space and talked me into signing the lease, even though it was much more high-end and expensive than we needed. I looked up the hall at the doors leading to the darkened offices of people whose livelihoods depended on their jobs with us.
“What about you, Jack? How are you doing?” Jaycee asked.
I didn’t answer.
She patted my arm in her familiar way.
I took a step backward.
“Will you be able to help me until Martin returns to work?” she asked.
I respected the skepticism in her voice. I appreciated her cutting straight to practicalities and getting right down to business.
“That’s my plan, Jay.”
“Are you coming back here?” she asked.
“No. I’ll work remotely.”
I knew that I should come back, that the team probably wondered what kind of freaks they signed on with, tag-teaming their way through loss while their lives disintegrated and hopefully their business wouldn’t follow.
“And I’ll have to handle all the client face time?” Jaycee folded her arms across her chest.
“Will that be OK?” I asked.
“Only if you give me your apartment.”
She smiled, and I knew she was going to stick with me.
I was relieved for that, but I wished she hadn’t mentioned my home. I pictured the rooms in Katie’s and my place gathering dust. The furniture my wife had chosen, the dishes, and vases, and artwork. The rugs, countertops, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake.
I didn’t reply to Jaycee’s joke. I didn’t trust my voice to stay even. The truth was, I honestly didn’t know if, or when, or how, I’d ever be able to move back and try to live within the colorless shadow of my former life.
She stared at me, and I could tell she wouldn’t try to make light anymore. “Will you work with Sam and Varun on the Langdon design? They need help.”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure how I’d be able to focus on it enough to add value, enough to make sure we weren’t trying to sell a valued client something subpar, or impossible to implement, or charging them too little or too much for it. But I knew that, without Martin around, I had no choice but to try.
“Let me catch you up on Martin’s projects,” Jaycee said.
She led the way up the hall to his office, across from mine. When she turned on the light, I felt like I was seeing it for the first time.
I was struck by the photos on his bookcase. They were mostly pictures of either me and Martin or my parents. I guess I hadn’t realized that we were truly all he had. Before the accident, I was on a men’s softball team, I golfed regularly with my uncles, and I had always been friendly with Katie’s family. I’d never noticed that Martin had failed to branch out.
There was also a picture of my wife.
The photographs on Martin’s bookshelf had never seemed strange to me before. I stared at them, feeling as if gravity had doubled and everything had become impossibly, unbreathably heavy in a moment.
“I can only spend another two hours here before I have to leave,” Jaycee said. “I want to tuck Graham into bed and go over some things with his nanny before I pack for an early flight tomorrow. So let’s focus and get through this.”
I nodded and repeated: “Let’s focus and get through this.”
I worked through much of last night, and now I’m sleepy. The sun comes through the window with stubborn bravado; I turn toward it with my eyes closed, drinking it in through my skin like a plant. I know it’s cold out today and that there’s a driving wind. When I let Chaser in, she was coated from nose to tail with fine sand, like a husky dusted with snow in the Arctic. I still try to pretend that it’s warm outside as I doze off to sleep. I try to believe that it’s still summer.
The phone rings and I ignore it since I don’t recognize the number. I’m hosting tonight and have a decent buzz going. It’s good to be with the guys again. The ones who knew me before I got married razzed me, as they always do, when they came into the apartment. This high-rent space in this high-rent building used to be wasted on me: a slob who utilized only a quarter of it.
Katie changed all that. We live not only neatly, but fashionably. Finger foods are set out on nice plates tonight, and the guys sit in real chairs instead of the college-era folding ones I used to have. The single men look at Katie’s picture and ask if she has a sister I can fix them up with. I answer the same way I always do: there is only one Katie.
Martin isn’t here winning my money tonight because he has a date. I joked that he must be in love to miss poker for the first time in years. He got so quiet that I guessed I hit the mark, so I teased him harder.
The phone rings again, and this time his number comes up.
“Martin must’ve struck out on his date, guys. Maybe he’ll make the last tournament.”
My voice is almost a shout, which is typical during these poker games—we all get louder and louder as we drink beer and argue over who’s playing like an asshole and who’s winning all the money. Somewhere around eleven, I usually get a softly reprimanding phone call from the mother in the apartment just below ours, reminding me that her kids need their sleep. This building is a favorite with families because of the park across the street and the high-performing schools nearby. Jaycee Hayes from the office has been on a waitlist for years. I fold my cards and step out to the balcony to answer the phone. It’s an unseasonably mild night, October fifteenth.
“Hey, Martin. You coming after all?” I ask.
He is crying.
“What is it?” I sit heavily on one of the sleek steel stools that are high enough to see over the balcony rails, giving an unobstructed view of Lake Michigan and the path where Katie and Chaser like to run.
I know that this can’t be about my wife. She’s working late on a project that has kept her out most evenings for the past month. She has been coming home so late that I’m usually asleep. If anything happened to Katie, it wouldn’t be Martin who called; it would be a colleague of hers, or a policeman, or the hospital. The thought shakes me anyway.
“What is it?” I ask again. My voice is stronger because I know it can’t be the worst. It’s obviously very bad, from Martin’s reaction, but it can’t be the worst.
“Meet us at the hospital, Jack,” he says. His voice chokes off. He hangs up and doesn’t answer when I call back.
I have no choice but to go.
Chapter Eight
IN WHICH MERRY IS GIVEN HER BIGGEST TASK
As told by Fritz, who doles it out
I wake to the delightful smells of bacon frying and coffee brewing. It brings me back to a time when that was normal for me, when my mum would have done two loads of laundry, watered the English ivy in the streetside flower boxes, and overseen the heavy housework before turning her attention to frying bacon and brewing coffee. That would signal both Mr. Pershing in his posh suite facing the garden on the second floor and me in my attic room above to yawn, stretch, and greet the day. I have seen alarm clocks that mimic the sunrise. I want one that will wake me to the scent of bacon frying and coffee brewing.
I thought I may have heard a garage door open an hour ago, but as I have always slept with a sound machine to tone down the city rhythms of London, I can never be quite sure what I hear
during the night. I used to set my sleep machine to Ocean, but having confirmed that I hate the ocean, I now set it to Peaceful Jungle. If I ever visit the jungle and find it obnoxious, as I probably would do, I’ll be forced to try Desert Melody. When I get back to London, however, I plan to never leave there again. So eventually my memories of blowing sand and roaring waves will dissipate and I should be able to listen to anything I desire. Better yet, I can throw away the machine and sleep to the rhythm of Victor’s peaceful slumber beside me—the most soothing and blissful sound on God’s green earth.
I dress rather faster than usual, in light of the bacon. I take the divided flight of stairs to the kitchen two at a time. The old man sits at the head of the table. He smiles like a Cheshire cat at a stack of pancakes dripping with butter, whipped cream, and syrup.
He raises his fork to me.
I shake my head. He ought to know better than to start his day that way. I realize he won’t listen to any health advice, however. The line of cigarette smoke still visible in the air makes that fact unassailable.
“How many?” Merry asks me from her station beside the griddle.
She’s so unremittingly chipper that between her and the insanely bright sunshine in this room, I need my sunglasses. I keep a pair on top of the refrigerator because the light on this floor is invariably too much for me on sunny mornings.
I feel a bit better once I’m shaded.
I see that Merry doesn’t have a stitch of makeup on, but her hair looks tolerably nice. She is wearing dark jeans, brown sporty shoes, and a casual pink shirt that fits well.
“Did I do OK?” she asks, touching the hem of her blouse self-consciously.
I realize I was staring critically, which of course no one likes because it’s rude. “Yes, quite good. Well done.”
She smiles bigger and flips the pancakes on the griddle. “So, how many?”
“Zero, unfortunately. But I’ll have some bacon and coffee.”
“He usually eats granola and yogurt. He tries to feed it to me, too!” The old man makes a face like a tattling child.
“Only because you apparently never learned to feed yourself,” I say.
“More coffee needed here.” He lifts his cup to Merry, ignoring me entirely.
“You’ll spoil him, waiting on him that way,” I warn.
Merry pours his coffee and wipes a drip off his mug with a napkin.
“Remember he’s here to steal your inheritance away,” I remind her. “He’s not your friend. He’s your enemy.”
“May I have some more syrup?” he asks.
Merry pours it from up high so that it flows prettily over the disappearing stack.
“Come join us,” Merry says, reaching out to me. She sets a stack of pancakes down, with several strips of perfect bacon on the side. She places a cup of magnificently odiferous coffee beside it.
I pick up the cup and take a sip while standing. I wonder what brand Merry bought and how it can taste infinitely better than what I’ve been brewing and still be made in the same machine.
“Hey, what’s that?” Merry asks, pointing out the window at the ocean.
The old man cranes his head to see.
“Come on, Merry! Dolphins!” he yells, heading for the door. He needs his bifocals to read anything at all, but he can spot dolphins from a mile away.
“Real dolphins?” Merry asks in awe, hurrying toward the deck after him.
They leave the door wide open so that cold wind rushes in.
The old man points out to sea, where the creatures surface, disappear for a while, and surface again. Merry squeals with delight and claps her hands. Together they laugh and cheer, apparently under the impression that the pod going past is putting on a show just for them.
I close the door and walk slowly back to the table.
Though I know I shouldn’t, I sit down at the place Merry set for me.
Merry is a serious threat, I have come to realize. Every day that I exist alongside her I put myself in danger. Imminent danger. Grave danger. If I live with that girl day in and day out, for who knows how long this project will last, I will jeopardize my life as I know it. If I am not vigilant against it, I will slowly become, meal by meal, not only a tad pudgy, but certifiably fat.
We have just finished what was honestly the best home-cooked meal I have ever had. I’m sorry, Mum, may you rest in peace, but it’s true.
“Does Max look much like my dad?” Merry asks in a whisper when she has finished tidying up the kitchen. She needn’t be so quiet; the old man is in absolutely no danger of hearing her; he’s snoring in his hideous pink chair, now in the extreme recline position.
“Yes, quite,” I say.
“Oh, good! He’s so cute. He seems like a perfect picture of a grandpa, with his white hair and his bright blue eyes. My grandpa died before I was born, and I always wanted one, almost as much as I wanted a dad. Is Max much older than my dad was?”
I become fatigued just being near Merry sometimes—she’s constantly flitting about, neatening and straightening, cooking and serving. I realize it’s ungenerous of me to complain, especially in light of the superb meals and the clean house, but she said her entire tribute to Max in one breath.
I sigh. “No, he isn’t.”
“He must’ve been old when I was born then. I always imagined him younger. Are there any pictures of him here that I can study?” She puts her hands on her hips and looks around, like she might discover a treasure trove of leather-bound photo albums among the hotel-spare furnishings if only she digs deeply enough.
“No. Sorry. All his personal things are at the house in London. When he made it down here, he used it much like any tenant might. His papers are all in London.”
“Except the ones about me,” Merry says.
“Right. Speaking of those, you’re due to get your second task.”
“Oh good!” she says.
I walk down to my room feeling very heavy after the meal, and perhaps in contrast to Merry’s annoyingly spirited lightness. I open my briefcase to retrieve the page in question from the set of ludicrous documents pertaining to this project. A small fuchsia paper peeking out from a pocket catches my eye.
It’s a note from Victor, written in tiny letters:
I love you.
He rants and raves on the phone like he’s a world-renowned diva with an entourage fawning all over him instead of a talented-but-undiscovered glam rocker who has to carry his own guitar and amp to gigs. He melodramatically rehashes the story of how horribly I wronged him by leaving, but then he sends sweet little trinkets through the mail or instant love messages. And I keep finding the tiny notes he must have planted the last time I was home.
I fleetingly consider sending him the purple porcelain dog that Merry’s mother forced upon me, which I think he might love for its kitsch. But, imagining it on the mantle of our future shared den, I discard the idea, along with the purple porcelain dog.
Love notes don’t dull the ache of missing Victor for more than a moment. I miss him so much that sometimes it doubles me over like a gut punch. I bang my head three times on my bedroom door to clear it.
Whenever Victor tours beyond London for more than a few days at a stretch, I nearly go mad missing him. He struggles even more. He says that I am his sanity, his rock, his safe haven. He says that without me, he is liable to float off into the uncertain winds of chaos. He’s a songwriter—when he puts music to those thoughts, they make far more sense and take on an urgency and pathos. Suffice it to say that I know what he means, and I worry about him.
I worry about me, too. Victor is a one-man man. Before he met me, he had only been in one other serious relationship. It lasted for years. Not only does he hate to be alone, he doesn’t know how to be alone. And we have already been apart for months now, with only short visits to sustain us, and there’s no end in sight.
Mr. Pershing warned me that I was too young to fall in love so completely, so overwhelmingly. He also wasn’t thrilled that the obj
ect of my affection was male instead of female.
Until I met Victor, I had gone to dances with girls, had brought girls home to dinner, and had generally only dated girls in the open. I know I wasn’t fooling the girls, who were invariably friends of mine who, for whatever reason, preferred spending time with me rather than more hands-on young men. I was, however, fooling my mother and Mr. Pershing.
Until, that is, Victor came along and I fell so hard I couldn’t pretend anymore.
Mr. Pershing was right that I was young. I was only twenty-two when I first met Victor five years ago. My passion hasn’t lessened at all. It has grown, rather, and I’m confident it won’t ever fade.
If I lost Victor, I would lose what makes my life the most colorful, interesting, and happy. Of course, I’d also lose what makes it the most infuriating, painful, and frustrating. In short, I’d lose the brightness, the contrast. Everything would become monotonous and dull…like the sand on the beach outside, and the blowing wind, and the undulating waves that stretch out forever, between where I stand and London.
When I met Victor, he seemed so exotic. Having grown up in Paris, he was different from the English schoolboys with whom I’d spent my childhood and youth. Victor was as different as diamonds are to pebbles, as magenta is to beige, as London, England is to Topsail Beach, North Carolina.
V’s mother is an artist; his dad is a writer. Most of the young men I knew were sons of businesspeople or politicians. Victor was fantastically exciting and interesting compared to everyone else. He still is. Actually, more so the longer I know him. He’s like a bottle of fine Scotch that improves with time or a stone sculpture that grows lovelier the more it weathers in a garden. He’s like Venice. I’m making him sound ancient, and he’s still a young man, but I know he’ll be gorgeous when he’s gray. And I want to be right beside him to see it.
It would not be fair to paint Mr. Pershing as a rabid homophobe; he was never like that. He was simply uncomfortable in the way most men his age are with things that were formally hush-hush and are now supposed to be out in the open. Also, I think that he was scared for me. He didn’t have gay friends, so he hadn’t seen examples of how I could be perfectly fine, how I might exist freely in the world without getting beaten up or harassed. How I could have a quiet life, not too dissimilar from his, if I chose.
Help Yourself Page 9