“Oh. Good.” Charlotte sat on the bed and stroked the cat.
“I’m not sure I did the right thing, telling you what I did,” said Julia.
“No. You were right. Definitely right,” Charlotte said. “It just has to sink in.”
“Yes.”
Charlotte lay on her side on the thick duvet; the cat purred as she scratched it behind the ears.
“One thing I don’t understand,” she said after a minute. “Well, there are a lot of things I don’t understand. But he must be making loads of money. Why did he have to do any of this?”
“Ah, my poor child,” Julia said, “ ‘loads of money’ is relative. Sure, a lawyer like your father makes a nice salary, but it isn’t as if he has huge chunks of capital dropping in his lap. You know, lawyers — when the big dealmakers have gone off to drink their three-thousand-dollar bottles of Bordeaux, the lawyers stay behind tidying up the documents. Then, what with taxes, an ex-wife, a very expensive younger wife, a couple of houses and apartments, children, it all adds up. We probably spend seventy-five thousand dollars a year just on going out to dinner, which means making a hundred and fifty thousand. We’ve never had any staff. ‘Staff is what kills you,’ Dick always said. So he liked to save money there, but then he’d spend those savings three times over.”
Charlotte considered this. “A hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year,” she said. “Maximilien-François-Marie-Isidore and I could live in luxury on that.”
“Well,” Julia said, “you’ve got it, and more.”
“It’s a lot to think about.”
“Yes.”
Charlotte sighed. The cat had curled up and fallen asleep against her stomach.
“Tell me something, Julia.”
“Yes?”
“Obviously my father didn’t want anyone to know about the money for essentially as long as possible, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Won’t he be pretty angry when he finds out you told me?”
“Yeah, that’s a safe bet.”
“Won’t that make the divorce even harder?”
“Maybe. As long as I kept his secret, he was more likely to be a little more flexible. I guess you’d call it blackmail.”
“Well, then,” Charlotte said, brightening, “what if I just don’t say anything until you have it all settled! See? You get your stuff straightened out, and then I talk to him.”
Charlotte was looking at Julia with an expression of anxious hope. She reminded Julia of a little girl afraid for the endangered puppy in a story she was being read. She was really worried that Julia would not take enough money from her own father. Strain lines ran down Charlotte’s face. Her concern was completely genuine. Good old Charlotte. For someone who sliced any event into its thinnest contingencies, someone whose worries about herself branched and rebranched like a nervous system, she was remarkably simpleminded in her affections. She thought it was obvious that she and Julia were good friends, and there were no qualifications or cynical crosscurrents to her interest in Julia’s well-being.
“But you shouldn’t delay what you want to do in your life,” Julia said. “And these things are never ‘settled,’ anyway. So many ex-wives I know spend God knows how much time every month trying to get the money out of their ex-husbands that they agreed to, no matter how rich their husbands are. They and the new wives resent every penny. They can still screw you after the contract. Some guys make a point of doing that in business, and it’s no different in divorces. But thank you, Charlotte, I appreciate the thought.”
Julia paused and cast her eyes down. It was a long time before she spoke again, and when she did, it was almost in a whisper. “In any case, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ve decided I’m not going to take anything from him anyway.”
Charlotte sat up with a start, disturbing the cat. “What?!”
Julia shrugged. “I just don’t want to take any money from him.”
Charlotte was speechless, and it took her several seconds before she could sputter out, “Julia! What are you talking about? Are you out of your mind?”
“First of all,” Julia said, “I don’t want to go through the bloodletting that these things always require, especially since I don’t know how much Dick really has got to give or how much I could get. You see these ex-husbands and ex-wives massacre each other, but no one is ever satisfied. I’ve been agonizing over how I’ll make out, and his lawyer says this and my lawyer says that and if we try this angle — they are all such sleazeballs. So you know what? Screw it. I’d rather just walk away. Secondly, look, if it’s anybody’s money, it’s all of yours. I didn’t do anything to deserve it. To the contrary.”
Charlotte looked truly shocked. “But Julia, this is crazy! Maybe it would be to our disadvantage, but really, be practical, be sensible. Everyone in this situation gets what they can!”
Julia laughed and gestured to her stomach. “Well, I know, but I don’t think I have to be a martyr to acknowledge that, in this situation, the fault lies on my side. I can hardly demand child support. By any system of fairness, other than that under which ‘fair’ and ‘legal’ are synonymous, it would be unfair for me to take your father to the cleaners.”
It was funny. Here was earnest Charlotte arguing for the most pragmatic, cynical course. Julia the cynic, meanwhile, seemed to have suddenly become an idealist. Had she? It wasn’t that she wanted to show Dick that she didn’t need him, that she was better than he and wouldn’t deign to touch his money. Those would be pleasant side effects. She just wanted to be rid of him. She knew that if she got a settlement, she would always be thinking about whether it had been big enough, and every time she wrote a check she would feel Dick’s presence hovering over her. Every object in her house, every taxi ride, every diaper and container of powdered formula and, later on, her son’s first blazer and baseball mitt, would be the excrescences of Dick’s money. It wasn’t her pride, it wasn’t a desire to throw his money back at him; it was just that if she took his money, she would never, in her own mind, be free of him. She would be his subject living in internal exile.
Julia tried to explain all this to Charlotte. Finally, she said, “What would you do if you were in my position? What would the Charlotte I know do?”
Charlotte opened and closed her mouth several times as she tried, and failed, to answer.
“I have a little money of my own,” Julia said. “I haven’t worked in quite a while, and I’m probably too old to do the things I can do and too inexperienced to do the things I’m the right age for, but I still know people and I have friends. Someone will come up with something. They may even offer to lend or give me money, which I won’t refuse. One of my rich friends says that she and her husband have a floor — a floor — in their apartment that they ‘never use,’ and she’s offered it to me. I’ll be okay.”
Charlotte stayed on a few days beyond the stated term of her visit. She and Julia spent their time talking about their futures.
“It’s all just so much, Julia,” Charlotte said at one point. “First, this realization about Peter and Holly, and then getting back involved with Maximilien-François-Marie-Isidore this way. It was like the feelings were all dammed up and suddenly rushed out. Then your news. My head is spinning. And on top of it all, there was the conference, which I think went really well this year, especially the colloquium on penal systems. Did you know that the reason Alexis de Tocqueville came to America was to study the penal system? He admired Albany . . .”
Julia urged Charlotte to make the dangerous leap she was considering. She owed it to herself, to Peter and Holly, to Maximilien-François-Marie-Isidore (Julia finally got his name right). Of course, Charlotte could play it safe, and they could all lead moderately unhappy lives, and, true, by not playing it safe, it could all become a disaster. But Charlotte was too young to give up!
Charlotte fretted and cried, and swung back and forth from ecstatic bravery to crumpled fear. There was one thing she was sure about: Peter had
to believe that her departure was entirely motivated by her own desire. Otherwise he would try to be noble. But what if six months later she realized that she missed him? Or that he and Holly really didn’t care for each other? Or that Maximilien-François-Marie-Isidore was emotionally unavailable?
“Do you think,” she asked one night, “do you think it’s possible for all four of us to end up with the person that he or she is in love with, and who loves him or her, and for all of us to be happy?”
Julia paused long enough so that her answer would sound considered and unqualified. “Yes,” she said.
The morning that Charlotte left, she and Julia squeezed each other in a tight embrace; they wet each other with their tears. Later in the day, Julia discovered that she was feeling something she never had before and had never imagined that she would: she missed Charlotte.
8
Peter met Charlotte at the airport. She had told him that it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted. When she finally emerged from customs, Peter saw that she did not seem as shattered as was typical on these occasions. Usually, her face was the color of wet tissue paper, she looked as if she had received two black eyes, and her hair was a nest. She would immediately begin to relate all the vexations of her trip, her problems and how her stratagems for solving them had been thwarted. She would go into quite a lot of detail. All the way back in the cab, Peter would hear exactly what she had said to someone, what the other person had said, what she reported to a third person, how he responded, when the fax arrived, what route the car took, along with analysis of her decisions, justifications thereof, criticisms of others, allowances for them, renewed criticism and digressions about this or that event that really did go quite well. The monologue usually lasted the entire cab ride and continued through supper and until Charlotte collapsed into bed. Today, though, she was well groomed and looked rested and pushed her luggage cart with a calm air. Peter thought that the time she had spent with Julia must have made a big difference.
“Hello, Peter,” she said, kissing him and giving him a hug. He took over the cart, and they followed the ground transportation signs, a lengthy journey that was rarely undertaken without error.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Charlotte said. “I’m glad you did. I always forget what a long trip it is coming this way, and the last leg can be pretty long and lonely without company — forty minutes in a cab. So, anyway, it’s sweet of you and thanks.”
“Oh, well, sure,” he said. “You’ve been gone for ages! Of course I wanted to see you as soon as possible.” Charlotte looked at Peter and smiled; she put her hand on his and pressed it for a moment. They spoke little for the rest of the way home, except that Peter asked how Julia was and Charlotte gave him a brief account.
The next couple of weeks were odd, in Peter’s view. Charlotte continued to be unlike herself. She was relaxed, unharried. She never called Peter at work to review a plan (“So you’ll come by in a cab at seven-fifteen”) that had been settled five or six times already. She cooked some good dinners that required a fair amount of time to prepare, she put her hands on Peter’s shoulders in a way that was unfamiliar, and she did not bring any work home. She even looked at the television schedule one night and suggested that they watch a bad crime show.
Something important happened to Peter shortly after Charlotte’s return. He went into his office one morning, and on his desk he found a large square envelope with “Mr. Peter Russell” written by hand on it. Peter opened the envelope — not easy, since the paper was so heavy — and withdrew a thick card: “Mr. Arthur Beeche requests the pleasure of your company . . .” So it had come: his first invitation to one of Beeche’s dinners. Peter tried to be blasé about it, but he had to admit to himself that he was excited, especially considering the difficulties he had been facing at work. He was excited that he would be in Beeche’s house, and he was excited about what it meant for his career. Try as he might to tell himself that winning these particular corporate brownie points didn’t amount to anything, that everybody was invited eventually, that only a philistine would care about getting ahead at the firm anyway — try as he might to tell himself these things, he was still excited. He imagined the low-key way he would drop in a mention of it during chats with his colleagues. Thropp would know. Peter felt certified by his invitation. He was honored. He was proud.
He was also quite nervous. He was worried about whether he would add piquancy and wit to the conversation at his table; he was worried about whether he would step on the hem of some important woman’s long dress; he was worried about whether he would knock over his wineglass. Then, as if the need simply to comport himself well didn’t create enough pressure, his anxiety was soon fed by an additional source.
One day Peter was just leaving his office when he encountered Mac McClernand. McClernand grabbed Peter’s arm and asked if he had a moment to discuss something. McClernand’s eyes looked like Rasputin’s, and he gripped Peter so hard that he feared his arm might snap. He had heard that in certain extreme situations such as a car accident, so much adrenaline flows that people can acquire almost superhuman strength; McClernand seemed to be in such a state. Peter wondered how long his fingers could survive without blood.
“I want to talk to you about something,” McClernand said.
The pain in Peter’s arm made it impossible for him to speak, so he merely nodded.
“I know that you are going to Beeche’s for dinner in a couple of weeks.”
Peter nodded.
“Now, listen. This is very important.”
Peter nodded.
“Beeche always has his top people at these dinners. Arnie Goldberg, Ellen Sutphen, Joe Moressi. You know who I’m talking about.”
Peter nodded.
“Okay,” McClernand continued. “Now, another person who is always there is Seth Bernard.” A childhood friend of Arthur Beeche’s, Seth Bernard ran the firm with him essentially as an equal.
Peter nodded. Ominously, he no longer felt pain shooting down his arm; he could not feel his arm at all.
“Now, what you don’t know is that a couple of weeks ago I talked to Bernard about what we’re up to. And by the way, I do mean we. I made a point of mentioning your name. It’s a team effort; I’ve always said that.
“Anyway, when I met with Bernard, well, it wasn’t a meeting exactly, we came out of elevators at the same time and I walked with him to his car. But he seemed very, very interested. ‘That could be something,’ he said.” McClernand seemed to enter a trance as he repeated, in a whisper, “That could be something.” For a moment, he was a million miles away. “And listen to this: after Bernard got into the car and the driver shut the door, he gave me a thumbs-up sign.” McClernand raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Mm-hmm. How about them apples?” He leaned back to observe, and savor, the effect of this news on Peter.
Peter nodded.
Then that intense look returned to McClernand’s face. “This is a very important opportunity for us,” he said. “This dinner, I mean. I can’t emphasize that enough. Seth Bernard is the key, Peter. He’s the key. If we get him on board, then we can go straight to Beeche. Do you see? Do you see what this means?”
Peter nodded.
“We’ve got to sell Bernard, though. And if we want a meeting with him, we’ve got to get him excited, pique his interest, get it registered on his peter meter. So at that dinner it is very important, it . . . is . . . very . . . important . . . that you handle Bernard just right. I’ve got him all teed up for you, so it should be easy.”
Peter nodded.
“You find him during cocktails. You work your way into the group he’s talking to.”
Peter nodded.
“Then you get him alone. Five, ten minutes. You’ve got to sell him on you.”
Peter nodded.
“But don’t sell him hard.”
Peter shook his head.
“Be engaging.”
Peter nodded.
“But don’t be overly familiar.”
“Keep up your end.”
Peter nodded.
“But don’t talk too much.”
Peter shook his head.
“You’ve got to talk to Bernard and you’ve got to connect with him. You start with something that has nothing to do with the firm. So you’re talking along and you’re charming the guy’s jockstrap off. He thinks you’re just terrific, what a fine young man, smart as a whip. Now, here’s when you think it’s time to slide into a discussion of our little baby. Eh? Am I right?”
Peter nodded.
“BUT THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT YOU DON’T DO!” McClernand barked.
Startled, Peter just stared at McClernand for a moment. With an effort, McClernand regained his composure. He took a deep breath and spoke as calmly as he could.
“That’s exactly what you don’t do,” he repeated, this time in a whisper. “Here is the crucial thing: You . . . let . . . him . . . bring . . . it . . . up. Your job is to get him to the point where he will bring it up.”
Peter ran over this last direction in his mind: My job is to get him to the point where he will bring it up. Okay.
“Everything is riding on this. Everything. Including your future at this firm.”
McClernand looked at Peter as if he were trying to bore through him with secret laser vision. Then he gave Peter’s arm an extra squeeze and let it go. Peter wanted to collapse in relief. McClernand smiled paternally.
“Look at me,” he said, “spoiling the party for you! The important thing is that you relax and have some fun. Right?”
“Yes, sir,” Peter managed to say. Feeling began to return to his arm, in particular the feeling of pain.
McClernand looked off in the distance and began to reminisce about the last time he had been at Beeche’s, many years before. “Of course,” he said, “there were only about thirty of us. It wasn’t one of those mob scenes like the one you’re going to. Now, this goes back a ways. Let’s see, what was it? Beeche was saying something about working in this business. ‘Arthur,’ I said, ‘I’ve always told people that they have just three things to worry about — their upside, their downside, and their backside!’ He got a kick out of that.”
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