“Now it’s your turn.”
“Hmm?” she says absently.
“When we left the restaurant, you said you wanted to talk to me about something.”
“Oh.” She waves a hand in the air. “It was nothing. Just a little business venture I’d been thinking about, but now I realize it wouldn’t work. You’re too busy as it is.”
His thick eyebrows knit together, dubious. “You sure?”
She nods, tears pricking at her eyes, and says, “Absolutely, positively,” while managing a weak smile because it’s the phrase they used with each other long ago. Want to go for a drink? Absolutely, positively. Want to have sex? Absolutely, positively.
Earlier, she’d promised herself that she’d tell him everything tonight. But how is that even possible now? Any mention of her own travails will sound too much like a plea for help. It will ring of desperation. How can she tell him that she’s been having panic attacks and that she’s pretty sure it’s because she’s afraid of being alone? That she has royally pissed off the Providence Mafia—and that now is a really bad time for her to be living in a house by herself. How she’d been imagining he might move in with her, or she with him. No, she won’t do that to him. Not now when he’s so clearly made a full life for himself, is already starting fresh. Nor will she humiliate herself further.
The realization that Marty has been over her for a very long time seems so obvious—yet also utterly astonishing. Over the years, she has invented a relationship between them, as if they were characters in a book she could consult whenever she felt the urge. But it’s clear that, for Martin, Claire has only ever reappeared on the margins of his thoughts.
She has half a mind to leap into the water herself, perform some desperate act that will make him jump in after her. To shake him awake and remind him of what they had! But we were so good together, Martin, she wants to shout. I didn’t realize it then. And I’m sorry. I blew it. Can’t we try again? I know so much more now. I’m more patient. I’m happy with the little things in life. I’m not so greedy. My career might be over, anyway. Don’t you want to spend the rest of the time you have left on this earth with me? Forget this Cora person!
For a second, she believes she might have uttered her thoughts aloud and, panicked, she turns to see his reaction. But he’s only staring out at the water, peaceful and content.
This is what she must reconcile with herself then, right here, right now. Whatever occurred tonight is nothing more than a lovely dinner between old friends, reminiscing together. Sharing the highlights of their lives since they parted ways some thirty years ago. Their story isn’t one for the New York Times’s Vows section, as she might have hoped, but rather for the Boston Globe’s Connections column. Because what she and Marty share is a simple connection, based on a long-ago love story.
She clears her throat, checks her watch and pats his leg. “Well, it’s getting late. Nearly ten o’clock.” She laughs. “Whoever thought we’d be calling ten o’clock late, huh? Anyway, I should be getting back to my hotel.”
“The Seafarer, right? Pretty ritzy stuff over there. Audrey and I stayed there once. Happened to be the same weekend that Jennifer Lopez was in town. She’d rented the penthouse. It was a bit of a zoo, but fun to people-watch.”
He jumps up and offers her his hand. “Why don’t you let me walk you the rest of the way? It’s not far.” And she demurs.
For the remaining several minutes they stroll along, hardly talking, the buzz of traffic on Seaport Boulevard filling the silences. When they reach the walkway in front of the hotel, Marty bends down and softly grazes his lips across hers. “That’s for all those times I wanted to kiss you but you’d already left.”
She’s about to make a joke about how she guesses she’d better not invite him up to her room but thinks better of it. “I’m glad I got to see you,” she says simply and elevates on her tiptoes to kiss him lightly on his whiskered cheek.
“Me, too.” His hand squeezes hers before he turns to hail a cab. “And, hey,” he calls over his shoulder, “now that you have my number, stay in touch, okay?”
“I will!” she calls out, climbing the stairs to the hotel porch and grabbing the wooden railing to steady herself, completely forgetting that she’s still wearing his jacket. But they both know as they walk away from each other that it’s the last time she’ll be reaching out to him. To do so again, she thinks, would probably destroy her.
TWENTY
Before they step on the boat, Jason tells Gwen he has to take this call. Already George has sent him four texts since yesterday, and Jason has responded to none of them. The fact that his department head is now calling, not texting, must mean that the Charlie Problem, despite Jason’s ignoring it, has not gone away. Gwen reluctantly steps over to the side of the small walkway that’s meant to carry them onto their boat to wait for him.
“George,” he says, struggling to sound as upbeat as possible. “Sorry, I haven’t gotten back to you. Gwen surprised me with a little getaway for my birthday in Boston. I’ve been meaning to give you a call. What’s going on?”
“It’s Charlie Wiggam, one of your students? He’s filed a complaint against the university and, more specifically, against you.”
Jason clears his throat. “I’m sorry. Say that again?”
“A complaint, Jason. He’s claiming that he saw you out at Old Marley’s a few weeks ago, that you’d had a few and started giving him a hard time, and that, well, essentially you slugged him.”
“What?” Jason can’t believe what he’s hearing. Old Marley’s is a restaurant-bar a few miles off campus where students go when they’re craving good food as opposed to the lousy stuff served in the cafeteria. Jason and Gwen have been there a handful of times themselves simply because there’s a dearth of decent restaurants in their small town. “That’s ridiculous,” he says. “No way. Didn’t happen. Not in a million years.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” George says. “When you didn’t get back to me yesterday, I started to worry.”
Jason sends Gwen, who’s now shooting him beseeching looks from the gateway, a hurried nod. “C’mon, you know I’d never do anything like that. I flunked him in Introductory Russian History, and he’s pissed. This is pure retaliation. He sent me a text the other day basically calling me an asshole.”
There’s a grunt on the other end. “Are you sure? Did you keep the text? Why didn’t you tell me? It’s university protocol, you know, to report it when a student sends any kind of harassing communication.”
Jason kicks the edge of the sidewalk where a piece of loose cement has buckled up over the edge, and it goes skittering across the road. “I know. I was going to tell you, but I figured it could wait till I got back home. I thought the kid was blowing off steam. This whole thing is nothing but sour grapes.”
“Well, even if it is, it’s still a pretty serious charge he’s leveling. Assault. The good news is that he’s not taking it to the police. He’s agreed to let the university handle it. But it’s the kind of situation that, if things don’t go your way, you could get kicked off campus for good.”
If he weren’t so incredulous, Jason might burst out laughing. George has no idea that this is what Jason has been considering for himself anyway, with or without Charlie Wiggam’s help. Maybe, he considers, it’s a blessing in disguise, the final shove he needs to convince him to wave goodbye to academia once and for all.
“Does he say when this was supposed to have happened? Because I’m pretty sure I’ll have an alibi.”
“Yeah, hold on a sec.” Jason can hear George rattling through some papers on the other end. “May fifteenth,” he says finally. “The complaint alleges that he was there with a couple of friends, that you guys met up in the parking lot and that you exchanged words. Something about how he better get his act together in class or else, and then—I’m quoting here—‘Next thing the plaintiff knew,
without any provocation on the plaintiff’s part whatsoever, the defendant punched him in the stomach.’”
The irony is almost too rich to be true. Here Jason has punched a guy at the MFA, who arguably didn’t deserve it, and now he’s being accused of assault on a student whom he’s never even laid a finger on.
“Jesus,” Jason says, feeling the heat of Gwen’s gaze on him. “I did no such thing, you gotta believe me. I don’t think I was even there in May.”
“I believe you, buddy,” says George. “But it’s your word against his, and well, I probably don’t have to tell you this, but his daddy is Ryan Wiggam.”
Jason is silent for a moment.
“Of Wiggam’s Sporting Goods?” George says for clarification.
“No way.”
“Yeah, big bucks there. But don’t worry. If this kid is lying, we’ll get it out of him. It wouldn’t be the first time our department has been hit with a nuisance complaint by a disgruntled student.”
“Well, he’s full of shit. I mean, he barely passed the midterm. I told him he better do well on the paper and final exam, but both were a joke. He didn’t even try. He earned that F fair and square.”
“All right. I gotta say, I feel much better after talking to you. When are you getting back to town?”
“Um, tomorrow afternoon, I think?” Jason eyes Gwen, who’s now waving her hands at him as if the boat is on fire. He better get over there if he doesn’t want to miss the sunset cruise—or royally piss her off.
“Okay, well, stop by the office when you get back. I’ll be there till six.”
“You got it,” Jason says. “Hey, George?”
“Yeah?”
“I shouldn’t be thinking about, um, hiring a lawyer or anything, should I?”
There’s silence for a moment. “Nah, the university’s legal department should have it handled.”
“Okay, cool. And thanks, man. I’m sorry again about keeping you waiting.”
“Yeah, next time when I text you,” he says, “you might want to get back to me on the same day.”
“I will. For sure.” And he clicks off. There’s a part of him that thinks maybe he and Gwen should drive back up to campus tonight and stop this asinine accusation from spiraling out of control. How dare that punk try to weasel his way out of a grade by falsely accusing him! Jason has half a mind to show Charlie Wiggam what a punch to the stomach really feels like.
But, no, he knows that won’t solve anything. Instead, he walks quickly over to Gwen and takes her hand, which, in turn, makes his own hand smart. It’s still scratched and bruised from yesterday, and his right thumb has turned a deep purple. It’s definitely sprained, possibly broken. Slow down, he tells himself. Cool down. “I’m starting to feel like a broken record,” she says under her breath, clearly annoyed. “But is everything okay?”
“I’m not sure,” he admits, debating how much to reveal. “That was George. Apparently, there’s this kid—” he begins, but the shipman interrupts him, clasping Gwen’s hand and pulling her onto the boat.
“Welcome aboard!” he says. He’s dressed in navy pants, a white shirt with a blue square-knotted neckerchief and a white sailor cap. His floppy dark hair pokes out from underneath his hat. “So glad you two could make it.”
“Sorry we’re late. My bad,” Jason says.
“Not a problem, mate!” The guy’s fake cheer makes Jason cringe internally. “You’re just in time for the sail-off.”
He and Gwen make their way toward the bow of the boat, where a group of passengers, mostly other couples, already line up along the gunwales to watch the sunset. Their jolly sailor provides a quick demonstration on nautical safety, showing how to buckle a life jacket in the event of an emergency. Jason and Gwen exchange glances because it’s pretty clear any fool could figure it out.
When the safety demo mercifully concludes, he leads Gwen over to the front, where she poses for the obligatory Titanic photo, arms outstretched at her sides, yelling “I’m the king of the world!” A few people snicker, but Jason could care less and snaps the photo. The sun, a vibrant orange-red, teeters on the horizon, as if it’s ready to fall off the earth at any moment, and Gwen leans back in his arms to watch the show.
It occurs to him that his thirty-third birthday is almost over, and surprisingly, it hasn’t been a total bust, save for George’s phone call. After last night, he’d thought he and Gwen might be done. Kaput. But when he’d tried to raise it again this afternoon, say how sorry he was, she’d pressed her finger to his lips and said “Shh, I don’t want to talk about it on your birthday. I am paying a small fortune for this vacation, and we are going to enjoy it.” Jason was only too happy to oblige. They’d spent most of the day in bed, ordering gourmet hamburgers and ice cream sundaes off the room-service menu, making love, watching bad movies on the Movie Channel, even dozing off. In fact, they’d been so ensconced in their own little world that they’d almost missed the cruise entirely, waking up forty-five minutes before the sail-off. Their cab ride over to Long Wharf had been more of a sprinting roller-coaster ride (his stomach has only recently returned to its normal level) than a sightseeing venture.
Now the evening stretches before them like an enormous blanket, and for a brief moment, Jason wishes he could wrap the two of them in it, shielding them from the rest of the world, its screwed-up problems, its Charlies. He refuses to let that kid ruin his day. Just because he’s filed a complaint doesn’t mean he won’t cave as soon as Jason calls his bluff. He doesn’t care if the kid’s father is Daddy Warbucks. You can’t lie yourself out of a failing grade. Jason tells himself he’ll deal with everything tomorrow. “Thank you, babe,” he says in a soft voice. “For booking this for us.” Gwen nestles more deeply into his arms.
“You’re welcome. Happy birthday.”
There’s a sharp pinch of relief, as if maybe she really has forgiven him for, if not entirely forgotten, yesterday.
“Hey, what were you saying about George?” she asks.
But he shakes his head. It’s not worth getting into right now. “It’s not important.” Because regardless of whether Charlie decides to drop his threat, Jason’s more certain than ever that he can’t go back to campus now. Not to teach, not to finish up his dissertation. Only to hand in the key to his office. Because what’s the point? He doesn’t want to worry about disgruntled punks coming after him every time he hands out a bad grade. Forget it, he thinks. “Hey,” he says, as the boat’s engine begins to rumble and the crew hastens to untie the standing end of the line. “Think we’ll see any whales?”
Friday, June 11, 2021
TWENTY-ONE
The flashbulbs wink as soon as he steps out onto the Seafarer’s grandiose, wraparound porch. Not that there’s any need for them. The midafternoon sun splashes across the whitewashed porch so that he has to squint to peer out into the bright day. Maybe six to eight camera crews are gathered on the front lawn. Standing next to Jean-Paul is Boston’s police commissioner, Hal Fisher, in his blue uniform, the sunlight glancing off his badge. Knowing that the commissioner is here to run interference gives Jean-Paul the shot of courage he desperately needs right now. Every word he chooses must be uttered with supreme discretion, since it will be rehashed and scrutinized on tonight’s news. The commissioner, thank goodness, is much better versed in equivocation with the press than Jean-Paul.
“Good afternoon,” Jean-Paul begins and leans in closer to the microphone, prompting a nails-across-the-chalkboard squeak. He steps back. “Sorry about that.” He clears his throat. “My name is Jean-Paul Savant, and I’m the general manager of the Seafarer. Today we have experienced what can only be described as a tragedy.” The commissioner takes a step forward, and Jean-Paul immediately panics that already he’s misspoken during his informal welcome. “I’m going to read a brief statement first,” he continues, “and then Commissioner Fisher and I will try to answer your que
stions to the best of our ability.” He pauses and unfolds his formal statement, scripted by their czar of PR, Julie Morgan.
Already there are hands up among the crowd of reporters. A few call out his name, trying to get his attention. “Mr. Savant, Mr. Savant, is it true that the victim jumped?”
“Can you give us the victim’s name?”
“Hold up,” the commissioner says, raising a big, beefy palm in the air. “Let the man speak before you pepper him with questions.”
His booming words seem to have the desired effect because the crowd quiets. Jean-Paul begins again.
“Today at the Seafarer, we have experienced what can only be described as a tragedy. A woman lost her life. At the present moment, we are cooperating with local authorities to find out what exactly transpired. We are in the process of notifying the family of the deceased, and our hearts and prayers go out to them during this difficult time. Once they’ve been notified, we can release the victim’s name. In approximately one hour, we hope to give you an update on any recent developments. And with that, I’ll turn it over to the commissioner. Thank you.”
A barrage of questions from reporters follows, but the commissioner steps up to the microphone as soon as Jean-Paul finishes.
He speaks off-the-cuff, any pertinent numbers scrawled in his notebook. He’s a big man, probably six feet five inches, and has to straighten the microphone so that it stretches to his chin. “Good afternoon,” he says in a commanding voice. “At 12:34 this afternoon, the Boston Police were summoned to the Seafarer Hotel. Upon arrival, a woman was discovered lying facedown on the terrace, where she appeared to have fallen from a considerable height. Emergency vehicles were dispatched, whereupon the woman was taken immediately to Massachusetts General Hospital, and where, at 1:05 p.m., she was pronounced dead.
“This is being handled as a death investigation, and as such, we’re asking for anyone who might have information or who might have been a witness to the incident to please contact the Boston Police Department at the number below on your screen. If any of our first responders or other witnesses is in need of emotional support, there are therapists on hand at the hotel. Call the number on your screen, or reach out to me or Mr. Savant directly. We’ll get you set up.
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