THE UP AND COMER

by Howard Roughan

  Amanda Metcalf, Tracy's mother, was a transplanted Southern belle. Her friends called her "Mandy," which wouldn't have been so bad in a world without Barry Manilow. Prior to meeting Amanda I'd always wondered who on earth Town & Country magazine was intended for. In her I had my answer. She was tall, artificially still blond, and while she had lost some battles with gravity, she was still winning the war. (Can you say "standing reservation at Canyon Ranch"?) Lest you think that I've painted a rather unflattering picture of this woman, let it be said that in person Amanda Metcalf was a charming, intelligent, sophisticated individual. Better yet, she could tell a dirty joke without having to have had a drink.

  Tracy, my wife, was the only child of Lawrence and Amanda. On the one hand, I thought this to be a little odd given the lineage of Metcalf men. On the other, were there ever such a book as How to Spoil Children, I would've imagined rule number one to read as follows: only have one of them.

  Tracy grew up on the private-school circuit in town, first at Greenwich Country Day and then Greenwich Academy. At Country Day, all the girls had to wear these little plaid skirts that came to right above the knee. Tracy showed hers to me once while cleaning out her closet, and it was without a doubt the most persuasive argument for Megan's Law that I'd ever encountered. Tracy later went to Brown, the place that will forever put the liberal in liberal arts college. No matter what you majored in, you always minored in protesting. During her four years there, her primary cause was getting the school to divest from South Africa. As friends of hers recall it, Tracy was quite adamant on the subject — marching, passing out leaflets, speaking at rallies. In her coup de grace, she and some others built a shantytown in the middle of campus her senior year and lived there for over two weeks. It made all the national papers.

  * * *

  The Metcalf home was a sprawling compound in the Belle Haven section of Greenwich with 280-degree water views. It had a dock, but they didn't sail. It had a tennis court, but they didn't play. I'm pretty sure they knew how to swim, but I'll be damned if I ever saw them prove it in their pool. If being rich meant having it all, being Greenwich rich meant having it all just sit there.

  "I hope you guys are hungry, because Minnie made a feast!" Amanda Metcalf announced, greeting us in the foyer. She removed her sunglasses and gave us both air kisses. "I'm so glad you two could come out. Isn't it a glorious day?!"

  We all agreed and headed out back to the patio.

  "Where's my Precious?!" boomed Lawrence Metcalf, having heard our approaching footsteps.

  "Daddy!"

  Tracy broke into a skip and turned the corner onto the patio. By the time I did the same, sans skip, she had practically leaped into his arms. At this point, I'm trusting that any further explanation of their relationship can only be viewed as redundant.

  After the obligatory small talk that accompanies hellos, we settled down to brunch. Minnie, the live-in, had indeed outdone herself. There were egg-white omelets with green, yellow, and red peppers. Spanish melon. Gravlax. Blueberry pancakes, along with a special batch of chocolate-chip ones because they'd been a favorite of Tracy's ever since she was a kid. To drink, Bloody Marys, each complete with a stalk of celery so huge that when you lifted it out of the glass you practically needed a refill.

  "Say, Philip, do you know where the Bloody Mary was invented?" asked Lawrence. Such pop quizzes had become ritual between us. I never knew if he was testing my proclivity for useless information or just extremely proud of his. Regardless, I had no clue where the drink was invented.

  "I must have missed that Jeopardy!" I said. It bordered on being a wiseass response, but Lawrence was too eager to give the answer to notice.

  "Harry's New York Bar," he said.

  "Oh, I think I've heard of that place," said Tracy, jumping in. "It's on the Upper West Side, isn't it?"

  Lawrence chuckled. "Actually, Precious, it's in Paris."

  "It is?" Tracy asked.

  "Yep," said Lawrence with a nod.

  "Are you sure?" asked Tracy.

  "Yes. Your mother and I have even been there; remember, darling?"

  Amanda nodded. "And if I recall, the Bloody Marys were mediocre at best."

  "Your mother never did like Paris," Lawrence said, leaning over to Tracy.

  "On the contrary, Paris was beautiful. It was the Parisians that I couldn't stand," declared Amanda. "In fact, if you could somehow arrange for them to all be on holiday at the same time, I might consider going back."

  "Honey, we should go to Paris," Tracy announced, turning to me.

  "Yes, especially after that ringing endorsement from your mother," I replied.

  "No, I'm serious. It would be fun, don't you think?" said Tracy.

  "Well, um—"

  Tracy kept right on. "Of course it would be. And instead of doing all those touristy things, we could shack up scandalously in an out-of-the-way hotel somewhere and get naked."

  The remark brought double takes all around, though I knew the motivation for mine bore little resemblance to that for Lawrence's and Amanda's. Tracy delighted in conjuring up images of our sex life in front of her parents, and no matter how often she seemed to do it, it always managed to elicit a response from them. Nothing drastic, mind you, generally just stares of disbelief.

  As for me, I had long since overcome the potential for embarrassment in these situations. No, my double take owed itself to nothing more than pure paranoia. For it was at times like these, in this case Tracy's referring to sex in an out-of-the-way hotel, that I would find myself wondering if she didn't already know about Jessica and me. Somehow, I would instantly conclude, she'd found out about us, the perverse thing being that instead of going instantly ballistic, Tracy had decided first to have a little fun with it. Good old-fashioned mind games. A subtle innuendo here, an off-the-cuff coincidence there. I believe the correct vernacular was "fuck with," and given the circumstances, it seemed very eye-for-an-eye.

  The first TIP (Tracy-Induced Paranoia) had happened a couple of months earlier, when out of the blue she asked me if I thought Jessica was pretty. I don't know if she saw me flinch, though I suppose if she had and had called me on it, I simply would've attributed it to the uncomfortable nature of being asked to size up another woman, any woman, in front of your wife. I can't remember my answer verbatim, though I'm pretty sure it went something like…. Yeah, I guess so. It seemed like the path of least resistance, particularly when delivered with all the apathy I could muster.

  Of course, since I was a guy with purportedly nothing to hide, a natural question for me in return to Tracy's query about Jessica would've been, Why do you ask? Ultimately, though, the lawyer in me kept me silent: never ask a question that you don't know the answer to.

  ME: Why do you ask, honey?

  TRACY: Why do I ask? Why do I ask?! I'll tell you why I ask…. I wanted to know if that was why you've been fucking her behind my back all this time, you soon-to-be-served-with-divorce-papers prick!

  Ouch.

  Meanwhile, back on the patio, I snapped out of it with Tracy's comment about shacking up in a Paris hotel apparently still hanging over the table. Amanda Metcalf seized the moment.

  "Well, if you ask me, I always did think the Eiffel Tower was nothing more than one big phallic symbol," she said.

  Sometime later, the ladies excused themselves from the table to go see if there were any travel books on France in the upstairs library (not to be confused with the downstairs library or, for that matter, the third-floor study). This left Lawrence, me, and an uncomfortable silence.

  "So, Philip, how goes things at the firm?" Lawrence finally asked.

  How I suddenly longed for the silence.

  "Things are pretty good," I said.

  Normally I would've been reluctant to divulge anything more to someone asking me about my job. Beyond anything silly like client-attorney privilege, the last thing I needed was a person getting engrossed in a case of mine and wanting to follow the box score day in and day out. That said, I
also knew that leaving it at "Things are pretty good" was never going to cut it with my father-in-law. There was one simple reason. In addition to the cavernous loft that I called home, there was another gift that Lawrence Metcalf had bestowed upon me when I married his daughter. He had made me a rainmaker for Campbell & Devine. Besides his own company, Lawrence and his old-boy network had paved the way for no fewer than three major corporations to put the firm on retainer. Bigger-than-big money, we're talking about. Though not exactly tax free. While it did wonders for my standing at work with Jack Devine, it was never lost on me that it gave Lawrence considerable leverage. Not only did it guarantee him all the updating on Campbell & Devine that he could possibly want from me, it also went a long, long way to making sure that I would always stay happily married to his Precious. Call it a father-of-the-bride insurance policy.

  So, how goes things at the firm?

  I continued: "Let's see, I recently wrapped up that medical malpractice suit I last told you about. Settled out of court, as they say."

  Lawrence nodded. "What's next?" he asked.

  I hesitated. Should I have cared if he knew Jack's wife had gotten rung up on a drunk-driving charge? Probably. Then two words popped into my head: police blotter. If her arrest was going to be fodder for the papers, it certainly wasn't too much of a crime for me to talk about it here. Besides, something told me that Lawrence would enjoy my entrusting him with it.

  "What's next is kind of interesting," I said, "though you'll understand why it's not for circulation. In what's destined for the brownnosing hall of fame, I'm representing my boss's wife on a DUI charge."

  `Lawrence sat up in his chair a bit. Clearly he was intrigued by this.

  "Jack Devine's wife?" he inquired.

  I nodded.

  "Did you volunteer for the job?"

  "No, he asked me," I told him.

  "Then that's not really brownnosing, is it?" he said, rubbing his chin.

  "I guess not," I replied with a hint of modesty.

  "In fact, I would say that's quite a compliment, a real comment on your position in the firm."

  "So long as I don't screw it up."

  "I suppose. Though something tells me you'll handle it fine."

  This last remark from Lawrence came dangerously close to being a real compliment. It would have made a grand total of one since Tracy first introduced me to him. Could it be that I was witnessing a tectonic shift in our relationship? It certainly seemed that way the remainder of the afternoon. As our conversation continued, Lawrence Metcalf was talking to me — not at me, around me, or down to me, but to me — and if there was any doubt as to this development, it was put to rest the minute Tracy and her mother returned to the patio with a stack of travel books.

  "Precious, I had no idea that Philip had assumed such a prominent role in his law firm," Lawrence said.

  I had no idea either, was what I'm sure Tracy must have been thinking. You wouldn't have known it from her response, though.

  "I only marry the best, Daddy," she said.

  The ride home from a visit to Lawrence and Amanda Metcalf was usually defined by one emotion. Relief. This visit, however, had been different. In fact, when Tracy simultaneously yawned and announced that it was time for the two of us to go, I felt a twinge of disappointment.

  "What was that with my father?" asked Tracy back in the car.

  I played dumb. "What was what?"

  She laughed. "Don't give me that; what the hell did you tell him?"

  "Nothing much. I was filling him in on what was going on at work, and I guess it finally dawned on him that I'm a little more than just a law firm lackey with a well-connected father-in-law."

  "You know he never thought that," she said.

  "Maybe."

  Tracy reached over and started to run her hand through my hair. "For the record, I'd like to say that I think it's wonderful, him feeling that way about you… whatever the reason."

  I looked over at my wife and saw a smile on her brighter than any I'd ever seen, wedding day included. It was a little weird, like uncharted territory, not that I was complaining. Especially when she told me to pull over.

  "Huh?"

  "Pull over," she said again.

  "What, do you have to go to the bathroom or something?" I asked.

  She laughed. "Trust me, just do it."

  I pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. It was the sound I heard first. The electric hum of her automatic seat reclining. I turned and watched as she slowly went back, and back, and back. With her seat belt still on, she kicked off her sandals, planted her feet on the dash of our Range Rover, and reached up beneath her sundress and removed her panties.

  "Well?" Tracy smiled.

  "Oh."

  And right there, on the side of the highway, I turned off the car, turned on the hazards, and proceeded to steam up the windows with Tracy for a very good ten minutes (give or take eight). When we finished, Tracy had but one thing to say: "What do you want to do for dinner?"

  You know, I once read an article that talked about how most men who were having an affair found sex with their wives to be almost chore-like.

  I pitied those men.

  ELEVEN

  Gwen eyed me suspiciously as I approached my office. "You look happy for a Monday morning," she said.

  "I am happy for a Monday morning," I replied. "How was your weekend?"

  "It sucked."

  I had to hand it to her; she was at least consistent.

  I was happy, though, and while I generally made a point of showing little emotion around the office, I didn't really care if anyone saw. Can you blame me? The chance to reconcile with Jessica swiftly approaching, and the adoring wife who, all paranoia aside, didn't suspect a thing about the affair. The kicker? My father-in-law, the one and only Lawrence Metcalf, suddenly thought I was a player. It was a good feeling.

  Too bad it wasn't going to last.

  Later that morning, Gwen buzzed me. "Philip, I've got a Tyler Mills on the line, says he's a friend of yours."

  This should be interesting, I thought. "Put it through," I told her.

  I got up and closed the door to my office. I did that with all my personal calls, regardless of whether or not I actually expected them to be personal. On my way back behind my desk, I hit the speakerphone button.

  "Talk about your blast from the past," I said. There was no response. "Tyler, you there?"

  Finally, a voice on the other end. However, had Gwen not told me who it was, I'm not sure I would've recognized it as being Tyler's. There was something different about it, I wasn't exactly sure what, just something different.

  "I hate fucking speakerphone, Philip, could you pick up the phone?"

  I picked up the receiver. "Nice to hear from you too," I remarked.

  "Sorry," he said, and like that, his voice was back to how I remembered it.

  "No problem," I assured him. "Man, it's been a while, hasn't it?"

  "Four years."

  "Sounds about right. Tracy told me about bumping into you outside of Saks."

  "Yeah, that was weird," he said.

  "I bet. So how've you been?"

  Tyler let go with a sarcastic laugh. "I've been worse, I suppose. Even got the scars to prove it."

  That didn't take long. I'd been wondering if the subject of his attempted suicide was going to come up, and now I had my answer. For sure, I wasn't about to mention it. My rule of thumb? If Hallmark didn't make a card for it, you were never obligated to say something. As for his scars, rumor had it that they were of the horizontal variety. Strictly amateur hour. Even I knew that slitting your wrists vertically was far more effective.

  "I assume you heard about it?" Tyler said.

  "Yeah, I did."

  "How did it make you feel?" he asked.

  I repeated back, "How did it make me feel?!"

  "Like, did it make you sad, depressed, ambivalent, happy?"

  "Oh, yeah, I was real ecstatic to hear that you tried to kill yo
urself, Tyler. How do you think it made me feel?"

  "I wasn't sure. That's why I was asking," he said. "It was only a question."

  A very strange one at that.

  "So listen," he said, "I was thinking that the two of us would have some lunch this afternoon."

  "Today? Wow, that's a little short notice for me. I've got some things going on here at the office," I said.

  "No doubt you must be busy. You and I need to talk, though."

  "Well, yeah, I'd love to catch up, it's—"

  Tyler interrupted me. "You don't understand. You and I need to talk."

  His voice had changed again. I was starting to peg it as somewhere between deeply earnest and menacing. Either way, I didn't much like it. Then again, odds were he was simply a troubled guy who needed an ear to bend. As I'm sure someone once had the presence of mind to point out, you never really want to disappoint a guy too much who's predisposed to killing himself.

  "In that case, you name the time and the place and I'll be there," I said.

  "The Oyster Bar, one o'clock," he answered quickly. "See you there."

  Before I could say yes, no, or you know, the bluepoints and Wellfleets really aren't all that tasty this time of year, he hung up.

  I leaned back in my chair and tried to sort this guy out. Tyler Mills and the concept of reality had always had what you might call an on-again, off-again relationship. Given his uneven demeanor over the phone, it seemed that the two were not necessarily on speaking terms these days.

  We had first met years ago as sophomores at Deerfield. He was a nice enough kid, just really didn't know how to fit in. He'd always be making some comment or telling a story that came out of left field — check that, deep left field. In other words, Tyler was full of shit. Soon the mere sight of him on campus brought about a collective rolling of the eyes from everyone else. He must have caught on, though, because come junior year he had figured out a way to be tolerated, if not entirely accepted. Free pot. Let's just say if I had a nickel for every nickel bag he unloaded on us, I wouldn't need the Metcalf money.