You Made Your Bed
A Novel
Cornelia Goddin
Backstreet Books
Copyright © 2018 by Cornelia Goddin
All rights reserved.
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Contents
Prologue
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Caroline
For years now, I have had trouble sleeping. As anyone who is similarly afflicted knows, insufficient sleep does not have a salutary effect on a person’s health, especially, I am sorry to say, a person’s mental health.
Not that I am making excuses.
Sometimes I stand at the window in my bedroom and look out over the vast twinkling city—“the city that never sleeps,” ironically enough—and wonder if other insomniacs are spending the dark hours knitting beautiful, complex sweaters to give for Christmas presents, writing novels, cleaning the bathroom, cooking, or otherwise making themselves useful. I am not doing any of those things or anywhere close to it.
The dark hours, for me, are quite often spent contemplating how to go about killing someone. At first it was nothing more than a sort of intellectual puzzle for me to think about while I toss and turn—“How to Commit Murder without Getting Caught,” an almost light-hearted exercise, as though I am devising a television show complete with a catchy theme song. Most of the time, I’m not thinking about any particular target. Well, that’s not precisely true, or even true at all, but I’m trying to make the point that the details of the method are what take up my attention, rather than unbridled animosity at the person I have in mind. I roll over in bed, stare out the window, lost in abstract contemplation of the various hurdles inherent in any such plan.
Simply as a way to pass the sleepless nights.
Perhaps it is a sign of my snobbery that I believe people in my position do not go around murdering people, and so even as I plot out the way I could accomplish it—making sure there are no weaknesses in the plan until I am almost certain I would not get caught—I’m quite sure I won’t actually go through with it. But nevertheless. There are days when a kind of savage fury sinks its teeth into me, and I think I will have no choice but to act.
I have a grand life, overall. I really do. Yet that’s only part of the truth. It’s not, by any stretch, the whole story. I began the game with more than my share of resources, true enough. But I would not make the mistake of thinking life is some kind of cakewalk, despite having arrived with these advantages—despite my life appearing to be very nearly perfect. That only means I have more to lose.
In life, obviously, there are winners and losers.
The living and the dead.
Which side would you rather be on?
Part I
1
2017
Caroline
I live with my parents.
At twenty-eight, given that I’m not exactly hard up, you might think I should have my own place, but that only tells me you’ve never seen where my parents live, the only penthouse apartment at 744 Park Avenue, New York City. I admit, when people come here for the first time, I enjoy watching their reactions. Some get instantly obsequious, as though the vast expanse of foyer is too much for their fragile psyches to bear, and believe me, that only gets worse when they step into the living room and confront the Cézanne over the mantelpiece. Others become what a psychotherapist might call “assertive,” but they fool no one, including themselves. And the last group, for which I have the most respect, simply goes quiet. Maybe they are awestruck, or possibly—I can only hope there are a few like this—they are thinking thoughts of such luxuriant envy that it would be rude to express them to a member of the family who lives here, so they blessedly say nothing.
Let me show you around.
A few steps this way is the living room. It’s quite lovely, don’t you think? The view of midtown, the astonishing amount of light, its generous length and breadth. Sometimes I worry that we went just a step too far in the decoration. The heavy silk curtains, the chintz, the Pembroke occasional tables, the graceful silver candelabrum—those are all very well. But the Black Forest mantel clock, do you think might be…a bit much? You can’t call it gaudy, yet it’s undeniably over the top in a Gothic sort of way; its dark presence outstrips all the other objects in the room, perhaps not in the most reassuring way.
Mummy loathes the clock. Gordon, my father, brought it home one day when I was young, and will not hear of its being moved. It’s a clock that could frighten a child, with its dark walnut carvings of birds across the top—not bluebirds or chickadees, but cruel birds that would croak and peck your eyes out given the chance. Perhaps they are crows, I can’t say. Down the sides are carvings of some sort of conifer, firs or spruces. There is no cuckoo, which is not a surprise, since the disposition of the clock is not cheerful and gay but, as I hope I am getting across, dour and vaguely threatening.
Mummy does not approve of German furnishings, beyond a Biedermeier chair tucked discreetly in a hallway; we saw some blistering fights over that Black Forest mantel clock and any number of other pieces that were not German but which she deemed to be “heading in a Teutonic direction,” whatever that means. But Gordon is nothing if not a man who gets his way, and the clock has held dominion over the living room since the day he first placed it on the mantel.
At any rate, the living room is a comfortable-enough room for entertaining. It allows for flexibility in configuring furniture so as to make the room feel intimate no matter what size the crowd. It can hold an impressive number of the kind of people who come to my father’s parties: traders talking too loud, the glamorous women who travel by their sides like pilot fish, the plastic surgeons, lawyers, and complacent old money types who used to be top dogs here on the Upper East Side but whose shining days have faded.
They can put away immense quantities of liquor, as you might expect, and that glass-topped end table has seen its share of lines cut and snorted. I once saw a divorce lawyer (whose name is constantly in the papers) take his forearm and sweep all the silver-framed photographs to the floor, so that he didn’t feel cramped while he divided up his mountain of cocaine, a veritable Jungfrau of stimulant, with a razor blade he kept in his bulging wallet. Rude, obviously, though that did not prevent me from indulging when he offered me the straw and Gordon was momentarily out of the room.
The elevator, as you see, opens directly into the foyer, not unusual for penthouses but which is probably a security risk. But so is simply living in New York City. Risk is what we feed on here, in this richest city in the richest country in the world. Risk is the delicious thrill that helps us get out of bed in the morning, that keeps us somewhat interested in the day to come.
It’s what keeps us—and by “us,” I mean the kind of people who live in apartments like this—it’s what keeps us from downing a giant martini and taking a header off the terrace.
Let’s take a quick look out there now, though obviously it gets little use in the winter months. The wind is bitter today, isn’t it? You can see the terrace wraps around the side of the building, so you can choose to be in the sun or not, and get some relief if the wind is coming from one direction. The furniture is put away and the trees are looking rather pathetic—come back in spring, or summer, and
you’ll see it’s rather a green paradise out here.
Scratch that, I sound like some tool of a realtor. Let me try again: in summer, on the terrace, you can sit in a wicker lounge chair, in a breeze, and have some greenery nearby. There, that’s a more honest way of putting it. And honesty, if you ask me, is seriously underrated these days.
Down this corridor are a guest room, my brother Wilson’s old room, and my bedroom. I don’t show that to anyone. In the other direction are the separate bedrooms of Gordon and Lillian, my mother and father. Their rooms have an adjoining door, which would be rather sweet except that the door is always locked, and I would not be surprised to hear that one or the other of them has applied glue to the lock, or managed in some way to make it unopenable without a blowtorch. Neither of them ever puts a hand on the doorknob, at least as far as I know.
Well, it’s hardly uncommon, is it? A marriage that keeps chugging on even though the participants have no feelings for each other beyond vague contempt? And who can begin to guess what goes on between one’s parents…it is the ultimate mystery in a way, wouldn’t you agree?
Here is the kitchen. You don’t see many like this in the city, or I have not, at any rate. I can’t speak for people downtown with Hollywood money who fancy themselves culinary wizards—I don’t get invited to their soirées. For all I know, they outfit their kitchens in splendor. Most people who have money dine out all the time—I certainly do. In fact, I can’t remember the last meal I made with my own hands; this kitchen is entirely wasted on me. But my father, for various reasons, throws a lot of parties. So several years ago he asked his favorite caterer to design the kitchen since the caterer was going to be the one using it most, after all. I know the current fashion is to make your kitchen look like a bedroom, with curtains all over the place, window-seats and hassocks and a lot of comfy, artfully-rumpled foolishness. In my view, Gordon was correct in his approach; our kitchen is not a cozy place, but a place for efficient work, as it should be.
Ah, but with its stainless steel counters, rolling trolleys, and floor drain—is our kitchen any place to gather around the table and drink hot chocolate with the family? No. It is not. This is not that kind of family.
Just off the kitchen is the maid’s room. The door is closed and I’m not going to disturb Marecita. You must understand (if you are not from Manhattan, or someplace similarly populated) that in a city this crowded, people treasure their privacy deeply. We all want a place to go away from the madding crowds, away from the constant public gaze, away from the demands that the simple presence of others presses upon us.
So, now that you’ve looked around a bit, does my decision to live here make more sense? Obviously I’m old enough to be out on my own, and I could afford to get my own place, certainly. Prices are ridiculously high now, but they always are. Doubtless it would be a good investment, if I searched thoroughly enough and bought strategically, not allowing myself to get swept away by a graceful staircase or a nice view and ignore deficiencies that should not be ignored. But I am not going to bother. I am sentimentally attached to the Black Forest mantel clock in the living room, to the view, to the Cézanne. The annoyances of cohabiting with my parents—while not insignificant, I will not lie to you—do not have enough force to push me out.
It’s no doubt grating for me to say so, but I am only trying to speak the truth: the trappings of my life are more wonderful than most people can even dream of, and anyone in my position would be insane not to be happy, and deliriously grateful.
2
Wilson
I can’t say this to my wife. She’d kill me. But the times I’m happiest are when I am by myself, out for a run up in the hills. It’s hot, I’m sweating like a mofo, and there’s just no space left in my head for worrying about anything. There’s plenty to look at even though it’s pretty scrubby back there on the trails. I’ve lived on the West Coast for a little while now but the world still looks strange to me out here—you wouldn’t think unfamiliar plants would be so unsettling, but they totally are. Like any New Yorker, I’ll always be a fish out of water in Cali, but I don’t mind at all. I like it.
There’ve been a few news reports lately of mountain lions prowling the trails, and honestly? That only adds to my pleasure. Because come on, the chances of my getting taken out by a mountain lion are probably around zero, and meanwhile I get to feel like a complete badass.
“But Wilson,” my wife says to me this morning, before she leaves for work. “Think of the baby. That’s all I’m asking. How would you have felt if your father had been eaten by a wild animal before you were even born?”
“Thrilled?” I crack myself up.
Rebecca shakes her head but she can’t help smiling. My father is an epic asshole and everyone knows it. That’s why we stay here in Berkeley, to put some distance between us and his bullshit.
I give her big pregnant belly a rub, we kiss goodbye, and she’s off to work. I guess it’s normal, right? To have some mixed feelings about becoming a father? The financial cost alone is enough to make me feel a little sick to my stomach. Rebecca’s already talking about private schools, and God, I don’t make that kind of money—I teach school, for chrissakes! I’d get a deal on high school tuition but all those years before the kid gets to Shambhala High would ruin me. If not for Gordon, that is.
Sometimes asshole fathers have a role to play. Mine, bless his heart, has never expected me to live on what I make, though I am expected to have a job. There’s a song and dance I go through, once a summer, before Gordon will write me my yearly check. I have to fly east, get up to the cottage on the Maine coast, and kiss his ring. Mummy floats around on a cloud of G&Ts, my perfect sister Caroline is there with a pole up her ass as usual, and my father organizes houseguests and neighbors into massively competitive games of croquet and badminton on the lawn, which is not perfectly manicured but packed with various weeds that can send your croquet ball flying off in weird directions.
And you know? Expecting me to ask for money in person, that’s fair enough. I wouldn’t expect to get it for nothing. It’s not like the checks are even that big—the real payout won’t happen until my father and Mummy croak, and they’re the type who’ll live forever. Besides, it’s family. And I love them all, especially when I’m in Cali.
One of the great things about the school where I work is that it opens at 9:30 in the morning. There’s research showing that a later opening time matches up better with the biological clocks of teenagers, and since it’s a small private school, we can pretty much do what we want. So after Rebecca is off to work, I have a solid forty-five minutes to kill before I have to be at Shambhala High. Usually I waste it at a coffee place over on Shattuck.
I put in my usual order, chatting with the cute barista with the French accent that may or may not be legit.
Truth is, I shouldn’t be here at all. I keep telling myself that my days with cute baristas are over, that I’m going to be a father now, a happily married family man, etc. etc.
I talk and talk, but I don’t listen.
With an ironic smile, I tell her that her technique for foaming up the milk is super impressive, and she looks over her shoulder at me and drops her glance. I let my eyes run up and down her small, fit body—she’s a doll, this Anne-Marie—and I can see by the way she shifts her weight over on one hip that she knows I’m watching, and likes it.
Anne-Marie brings my cappuccino to the counter and slides it to me, giving me a jolt of anxiety at having this full, hot cup of liquid sailing straight at me, but it stops in time. “Nice,” I say, looking at her mouth, and imagining her lips parting as I lean in to kiss them.
Another customer is waiting and the bell at the door tinkles, announcing someone else. Anne-Marie’s attention leaves me for the others. I take my cup and sit in a frumpy armchair that looks as though it had been left on the curb by its last owner. Stuffing peeks out of one arm and the cushion is lumpy. It’s exactly the kind of furniture I used to collect to furnish the various houses
and apartments I had in college and just after. I pretty much did it just to piss off my parents, though as a strategy it didn’t work that well. They’re, well, snobs about things looking the right way. My father especially—I think one of his biggest fears is that somebody will think we have bad taste. I know, it’s crazy. He has to be king of the world, lord of everything.
And you know how kids are. With razor precision they figure out what drives their parents bonkers and head straight for it with lightning speed. I can’t tell you how many boring dinners I’ve had to sit through while Gordon and Lillian argued about the merits of various pieces of furniture. So I figured outfitting my digs with a pile of junk would drive them satisfyingly insane, only Mummy never noticed, and my father, well, instead of getting mad and yelling at me about the cast-off crap, he just sort of squinted his eyes a little and didn’t say anything at all. Not sure what kind of chess move that was.
Morning bell is in twenty minutes. At Shambhala High, that means the principal’s assistant walks through the hall beating a Nepalese drum with a padded mallet. I know the effect they’re going for, but every time the assistant hits that drum, all it makes me think of is money.
For the moment, the coffee shop has emptied out. I take a sip, my eyes on Anne-Marie as she wipes down a counter. She knows I’m looking at her. Knows, more or less, what I’m thinking about, what I want.
This is my favorite part. Before anything has happened. When everything is possible. There’s an electricity, a feeling of almost-inevitability, of blissful impulsivity.
You Made Your Bed Page 1