by Steve Israel
As his eyes opened, a heaviness pushed him into the mattress. It tightened around his throat and fell into his chest, it pressed against his heart and squeezed at his stomach. Morris wanted to bury his head in his pillow. Bury it along with the shame and guilt from the prior night.
“Morris?”
He didn’t want to get out of bed. He didn’t want to shave or dress. He had no interest in reading the Newsday sports section or eating his bagel. And the thought of getting in his car and making his first sales call—to Dr. Kirleski—tightened his chest even more.
The clock on his nightstand blinked 7:30.
He wanted to stay right there. In the safety of his bed where there was no tempting receptionist and cheap motel, no cheating on Rona and fudging Celfex expense reports. No waves. Or maybe sit all day in his RoyaLounger 8000. Watching those comforting black-and-white movie classics. Maybe some musicals or screwball comedies. And if there happened to be a movie that contained tsuris, Morris could simply mute it or change it or even end it with the press of a button on his remote.
Call in sick, he thought. Call my district manager, Laurie, and tell her I’ve caught something. Why not? What’s one more crime in my new life of crime?
Morris had never improperly taken a sick day. That would upset the people who depended on him. But today—
“Morris,” Rona groaned into her pillow, and nudged his shoulder again.
Sure, take a sick day. Stay home all day. With Rona. Trying to look into her eyes. Without looking guilty.
He swung his legs out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. Each step was like a step on death row. Like Cagney in Angels with Dirty Faces. When he looked back at Rona, cocooned in the blanket with one arm flung to the now-empty spot next to her, all he could think was, How did this happen?
There was plenty of excitement blaring from Morris’s car radio on the drive that morning. While Morris had been—or maybe wasn’t—schtupping Victoria at the Bayview, the Mets had stomped the Rockies in a doubleheader in Denver. And while sweeping a doubleheader in August didn’t mean a World Series, for Mets fans it did produce a similar euphoria. It was a new sign of hope.
For Morris, there were no such signs. Just the same shopping centers and Starbucks. Intersection after intersection, block after block, as he crept closer to the Roslyn Medical Arts Building, which was as bad as the crime scene. It was where the crime was hatched.
Morris drove to Dr. Kirleski’s on the same route he always took, but it was an entirely different course. The smooth and level ride that had been Morris Feldstein’s life was now bumpy, and it rattled him. The straight center lane was now twisting, and Morris couldn’t see around the next curve.
He stopped at a red light. What do I say to Victoria? And shouldn’t I say something to Rona? If I do, what? And when? Where is Rabbi Hillel when I need him? I could use a miracle. Like the Mets doubleheader last night.
Morris was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the light turn green, until every driver behind him was angrily pounding their horns.
He stepped on the gas and peered into the rearview mirror, cringing at the angry line of cars behind him.
I will tell Victoria that she is a wonderful, wonderful woman and I am flattered that she finds me attractive but I am married to Rona so we must never, never do anything like this again and I’m sorry I hurt her but let’s just be friends and that she is welcome to any future Mets tickets which Celfex provides.
And as he turned into the parking lot, he knew this act would certainly create waves with Victoria. But it had to be done. Now.
“Hello, Morris,” Victoria said with a nervous smile from behind the glass partition. She tapped a pen against her desk.
Morris jammed his hands into his pockets and jingled some coins. “Hullo, Victoria.”
Jingle-jingle. Thump, thump, thump.
The lobby was empty. Which relieved Morris. Because this breakup, which might rival the Clark Gable-Vivien Leigh scene in Gone with the Wind, didn’t need a live audience.
“Morris. We need to talk.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Follow me.”
She led him through a dim corridor, into Exam Room 1. The sharp scent of disinfectant stung Morris’s nostrils. He was comforted by the industrial-size tissue box that sat on a stainless-steel counter. That would come in handy to absorb Victoria’s tears.
Victoria positioned herself on the examination table, the disposable white paper crinkling under her. When she crossed her legs, and her floral summer skirt crept above her knees, Morris thought, This conversation is going to be very hard, letting Victoria down. So maybe we should go out one more time. To get it out of our systems. Then never again. Ever!
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He said, “I’m fine. Are you okay?”
Her lower lip projected slightly and her voice quivered as she spoke. “Oh, Morris, you’re such a good guy. And I had a nice time. But . . .”
But?
“But I think we should be friends. I mean, you are an incredibly sensitive guy, and I’ll never forget what happened. Or didn’t happen. But to tell you the truth, Morris . . . I-need-some-time-to-get-over-my-divorce-from-that-SOB-Jerry. And-it’s-not-you-it’s-me-Morris-so-please-can-we-be-like-really-good-friends?”
She stretched out her hand to consummate the arrangement with a brisk handshake. As if they had just agreed to sell a car instead of end their romance.
That was that.
After awkwardly writing up several orders for Celfex refills, Morris left Dr. Kirleski’s office. Into the scorching sun. His shoulders dropped. His chin slumped into his chest.
He was not rid of the guilt over briefly cheating on Rona. But now he was experiencing the pain of Victoria’s rejection. Like losing a doubleheader. Like the Rockies last night.
I do not know if I can take any more of this, he thought.
He opened the trunk and stared at the case of medical samples, glittering in soft pastels. Beckoning him to help himself. Literally. He reached toward the Celaquel. Just one. To lift me out of this funk. To smooth out the waves.
But that would be a flagrant violation of Our Prescription for a Long Career: The Celfex Pharmaceutical Employee Code of Ethics. As well as a possible federal crime. So he got in his car. Drew in the hot, oppressive air. And exhaled it with a long and labored “Oyyyyyyyyy.”
THE DISTINGUISHED TERRORIST FROM MASSACHUSETTS
FRIDAY, AUGUST 20, 2004
“This is not funny!” Jon Pruitt growled into his phone from his office at the Department of Homeland Security. A group of senior DHS officials stood around him, nervously shifting their feet.
He heard the uncontrollable squealing of Scooter Libby on the other end. “It’s actually hilarious! You couldn’t make it up! I’m about to brief the Vice President and he’ll love this! He needs a good laugh!”
What Libby found funny was that day’s disclosure that Senator Ted Kennedy had been detained at airport security five times because his name was on the terrorist watch list. Which, in some quarters of the White House, was not a snafu. It was probable cause. This was Ted Kennedy, after all.
Pruitt felt that twinge in his stomach as if Cheney’s mysterious grip on almost everything in Washington somehow included his intestines. He wondered whether this was an innocent mistake or one of those Cheneyesque power plays. If we can’t beat Ted Kennedy at the polls, let’s strip search him at the Delta Shuttle! He took a breath, scanned his desk for some Tums, and sought to control his voice. “I don’t think you appreciate the problem here. This reflects poorly on our entire system. The American people must have confidence in the ability of their government to tell the difference between a Senator from Massachusetts and a terrorist from Afghanistan.”
Same difference, thought Libby. But he saw Pruitt’s point. “Okay, okay. So what do you propose we do?
Maybe the President should ask for a Joint Session of Congress so he can formally apologize to Ted Kennedy. Is that it?”
“No. But Asa Hutchinson will apologize. Publicly. Today.”
Libby was fine with that. Hutchinson was a former Republican Congressman from Arkansas who jumped from anonymity in the House to anonymity at the DHS. His title was Undersecretary, so as a matter of Beltway protocol, this wasn’t actually an apology. It was an under-apology.
“Hutchinson’s fine. Just make sure he reminds the American people that we are trying to protect them from the enemy. Terrorists. Jihadists. Liberals!”
The last thing Pruitt heard was a burst of laughter, and the click of the phone.
PART TWO
THE SHIVA
THURSDAY, AUGUST 26, 2004
Judaism’s traditional period of mourning, the shiva, is seven days. But God created the world in six. So it was that Rona Feldstein mourned for a full six and a half days after Morris confessed the death of their marriage.
After the confession, an angry storm had settled into a desolate silence punctuated by curt exchanges of necessity. For example, “Take out the garbage, Morris.” The week had featured news reports about high-level American military leaders who permitted torture in an Iraqi prison. The prison was named Abu Ghraib. While Morris paid little attention to the news, this topic interested him. He felt as if he were living in solitary confinement, broken only by Rona’s spontaneous sobs, and her deep and heavy sighs, and her refusal to accept his apology. There was also the matter of the Mets. They had swept the doubleheader on the night of Morris’s visit to the Bayview. But then dropped six of the next seven. As if God were sending Morris some kind of sign. Through Hillel. Morris sinned and the Mets suffered.
Then, on Thursday night, the mourning ended. Shiva was over.
They sat in the dining room, listening only to the scraping of their forks against plates containing take-out from the Great Neck Greek Palace.
Then Rona broke the silence.
“Morris. I made a decision, Morris.” Her voice was heavy and strained, as if she were about to render either the death sentence or mercy for the husband who betrayed her.
Morris lifted his head from his plate. This moment was the first time he had made prolonged eye contact since he had returned from the Bayview. And it was the first time that Rona seemed to show her age. Her slender body was slumped in her chair. Her hair, normally fiery red and cropped close to her head, was tousled and fading into a bland orange. Her lips usually formed a slight overbite that accentuated every syllable; now she pursed them as if she was sucking on every word. And her eyes were puffy from a week’s worth of crying.
He was grateful to hear more than an angry grunt from Rona, but wary of what would be said. He tried to swallow his food, but felt his throat begin to tighten and his stomach gurgle.
Rona sighed. “I don’t want to end our marriage, Morris.” The words came laced with anguish. “What you did was wrong. Terribly, completely, unforgivably wrong. You made a promise to God and broke that promise. And not just to God. But to Jeffrey and Caryn.”
It was a direct hit, and Morris winced.
Rona continued. “But maybe I bear some responsibility.”
“No, Rona—”
“Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah,” Rona sputtered as she waved her index finger. “Let me finish. Maybe you’re bored, Morris. Maybe we have a boring life. You sell pharmaceuticals all day. You come home. We bring in dinner. We eat. You go to the den. You watch your sports. Day in. Day out. That’s our routine.
“You know something, Morris? Guess what. I’m bored too. How do you like that?” She slapped a hand on the table and the containers and plates of Greek food jiggled. “Of course, I would never find a man and cheat on you to relieve the boredom, God forbid. For me, watching Wolf Blitzer is just fine, thank you very much.
“Anyway, I think we need a change. We’re suffocating, Morris. Our marriage is stifling.”
“What kind of change? What do you mean?” Morris asked, the words catching at the back of his tongue. “Maybe a nice vacation?”
“Not a vacation, Morris. Vacations don’t save marriages. They kill time. We did the Alaska cruise. Big deal. You schlepped me to Europe. We froze in Canada. We shvitzed in Israel. And we came back, to what? Did those vacations make you happy with our marriage? Obviously not. You had to go to a motel with Vanessa—”
“Victoria.”
She glared.
Morris felt his chicken souvlaki sitting in his stomach, with a generous heaping of guilt.
“We need something more than a vacation, Morris.”
“What?” he asked helplessly.
For dramatic effect, Rona pushed her plate forward. “Morris. I want a change of scenery. I want a place in Florida.” There, she said it. Those were her terms, laid out on the dining room table, right there along with the aluminum containers of pita and hummus and souvlaki.
“You want us to move? To Florida?”
“No. I want to buy a second home. I want to go to Boca. For long weekends. And winter. With a golf course—”
“Since when do we play golf?”
“God forbid we should learn something new. God forbid we should go to Boca, like the Deutsches, the Sterns—”
“I thought we don’t even like the Sterns. We always like it when they leave for Boca. And leave us alone here in Great Neck.”
“But they’re happy, Morris. They’re happy! Who the hell stays in Great Neck after Yom Kippur? It’s like Anatevka here. A wasteland. A barren wasteland. No wonder our marriage . . .”
Her lips began to tremble and Morris felt panic. “Rona. Rona. Okay, I didn’t say no. We’ll research it—”
Rona reached under her chair, and then plunked an oversized high-gloss folder on the table. It unfolded into an accordion display of slick photos: a diversity of smiling, happy, white-teethed couples on a beach, in front of a sunset, swinging golf clubs, ordering at a restaurant, sipping frozen drinks at a pool, even cooking meals in gleaming kitchens.
“Listen to this,” Rona said, perching her reading glasses on her nose and clearing her throat. “ ‘Now you’re home in Paradise. The legendary Paradise Hotel and Residences at Boca.’ ”
Rona Feldstein, certified social worker, therapist, and victim of her husband’s infidelity, became the best salesperson that Paradise Global Ventures LLC ever had.
“ ‘The hardest part of visiting a Paradise Hotel and Residences is leaving,’ ” she read, enunciating every word as if reading Morris the directions on how to connect the TiVo. “ ‘Until now. Because now, you are home at Paradise. Announcing The Residences at Paradise at Boca. Fifty-two highly anticipated luxury condominiums. And a world-class resort at your doorstep.’ ” She raced through the background on how fifty-two units at the sprawling Paradise Hotel and Residences at Boca had been converted to full-ownership condominiums; how each proud owner receives all the privileges of resort membership. Then she slowed down, highlighting for Morris the key selling points.
“Four lifestyle swimming pools, Morris. Four. ‘The Main Pool. Plus, Meditative, Fitness, and Family Fun. And a golden private beach,’ ” she read.
Since when do we go to the beach? Morris thought. She hates the sand.
“ ‘A twenty-four-hour, state-of-the-art, world-class fitness center,’ ” she read.
We’ve never been to a fitness center. Why do we need one open twenty-four hours?
She looked up at him. “Now, Morris. There’s bad news and good news. I’ll give you the bad news first. They’re sold out. I called a few days ago.”
“Ohhhhh. That’s too bad.” Morris mustered as much disappointment as he could.
“Ah, ah, ah, ah. Now the good news. The girl called me today. The designer model they sold—it fell through. So it’s available. It’s fully furnished, Morris. We wouldn’t have
to buy a thing. Listen to this . . .” She pulled a glossy eight-by-ten from the folder and began reading again. “ ‘. . . Emeril Signature gourmet kitchen . . . cherrywood cabinetry . . . subzero freezer . . .”
Since when does she cook?
“ ‘Walk-in closets . . . breathtaking ocean view . . . thirty-two-inch wall-mounted plasma television with satellite service—”
“What did you say?” Morris asked, suddenly intrigued. “It must cost a fortune.”
“It won’t cost us a thing to look. It’s free.”
“How could that be?”
“They faxed me a ‘VIP Invitation to Paradise.’ For qualified buyers only. All we have to pay for is the airfare. They even pick us up at the airport. We get to stay at the resort. A private VIP tour, a free VIP dinner-slash-briefing at the . . .” she peeked inside the brochure, “at the top-rated Paradise Grille. Breakfast buffets. And, we get a ‘free gift bag.’ ”
“And everything is free?” Morris asked.
“The whole weekend. This weekend, Morris. It’s a beautiful weekend package. We leave tomorrow and come back Sunday night.”
“Tomorrow? It’s Friday. I have to work. I can’t—”
Rona’s face began to fall. “So you’ll call in sick. For once. What’s the difference?”
“Call in sick? I’ve never done that. It’s not right—”
“Not right?” She looked at him, first with an angry flash, and then her eyes seemed to fall and her lips trembled and her nostrils began to quiver. She tapped her fork against her plate and her eyes glistened. The silence that had tormented Morris for a week returned.
“They have satellite TV?” he asked.
And there was peace.
THE THREE-DAY WEEKEND
FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 2004–SUNDAY, AUGUST 29, 2004
That Friday morning, Morris screwed-up his courage, called his district manager at Celfex, and lied as best he could about “a stomach flu or something, some kind of bug I must have caught. Maybe something I ate.” Then he and Rona drove to LaGuardia Airport.