Manning puts both hands on Neil’s shoulders. “I can ask you to forgive me.”
Neil brushes his hands away. “That’s easier said than done, so don’t count on it. We’ve both got a lot of thinking to do.”
Friday, July 2
PINK CLOUDS DRIFT THROUGH Manning’s brain as his feet trod the barren surface of a faraway planet. Mechanically, without thought or will, one clean white shoe springs ahead of the other, tramping in the dust a path that meanders across a patchwork of his footprints shooting toward the horizon in all directions. There is no order to this run. He circumscribes no Zarnikal equator. The remote daystar scribbles random patterns in the black sky.
Pink clouds hang low to blur Manning’s vision, stinging his eyes with their glowing cosmic gases. This isn’t pretty. It isn’t fun. It’s a frustrating excursion through a bland, passive world made hostile by its sheer desolation. The dream ensnares Manning with its pointless drudgery, goading him onward to a new morning in the real world that never dawns.
Pink clouds swipe past his naked body, whirling round his legs, slipping past his genitals, keeping him constantly aroused. But it doesn’t feel good. His erect penis slaps from side to side in rhythm with his gait. It hurts.
Exhausted by his nightlong run—he can’t even remember when it began—Manning finally slows his pace and stops. His chest heaves as he gulps the clouds into his lungs, not knowing whether they will nourish or poison. He must lie down.
Supine on the desert floor, he feels its powdery grit against his calves, buttocks, and shoulder blades. He wags his head, grinding his hair in it. His mind becomes focused on the starry noonday sky, lost in the levels of infinity that separate innumerable layers of lustrous pinpricks. One of those dots, the one shining brighter than all others, is the sun, seven billion miles away, commanding the movement of the planet beneath Manning’s body. Somewhere near the sun, but hidden in darkness, is planet Earth.
There, people go about their lives, waking, breathing, talking, eating, working, fighting, loving, sexing, lying, sleeping, dreaming. Still dreaming.
But here, all is silence—except for the tick of the tips of the laces against the leather of his white running shoes. Here, nothing moves—except the jerking of his hand between his legs and the drifting of the lifeless clouds above him. He shuts his eyes, concentrating on the tension that builds in his groin.
Stroking himself, Manning waits to feel the presence of those muscular visitors who always seem to join him at this stage, bringing him to the brink of orgasm. There were two of them. Lately, only one. Where is he? Who is he? Where are they? They should be here. He needs them.
Manning opens his eyes, hearing music (that’s odd) but seeing no one. He is totally alone in the sands and the clouds—there is no faithful lover, no secret trick—but there is music all around him now, lovely and familiar. What is that? Name that tune. Mozart, surely. A later symphony, maybe the fortieth, or is it the forty-first? They’re easily confused, those middle movements. Yes, the forty-first, the “Jupiter.” Strange venue, Jupiter on Zarnik. …
Manning opens his eyes, hearing the radio at his bedside. He has overslept. He normally awakes the second it switches on, during the early-morning newscast, but that’s long finished, and the Mozart grinds toward its finale. He took a Xanax before bed and still feels groggy. The memory of the fight, the car, rushes back to him and knots his stomach. At least he slept.
He squints at the clock. It’s nearly seven. Why didn’t Neil wake him when the radio switched on—didn’t he hear it either? Manning rolls over to nudge Neil on the other side of the bed. But Neil isn’t there. And the knot in Manning’s stomach tightens, secreting something acidic.
Not the least groggy now, Manning sits upright in bed, peering about the balcony. Then he switches off the radio, holding his breath to listen for any evidence of activity. There’s an unremarkable background noise from downstairs—something mechanical, probably the refrigerator—but otherwise the loft is dead quiet. When at last he exhales, the sound of air rushing up his throat and past his teeth seems magnified in the silence, like a metal rake dragged across concrete.
He swings his legs to the floor and stands. Grabbing a seersucker bathrobe, he slips it on and flaps it around him, padding to the bathroom for a look inside. The lights are on. All is in order. But then he notices that the toiletries near Neil’s sink seem different. Neil normally groups them precisely and aesthetically, composing something of a miniature skyline against the back-splash, but some of the items are now missing, and the ones that remain are askew—not a promising sign. Although last night ended on a terrible note, Manning fears that this morning is beginning on a worse one.
So he heads downstairs, determined to learn what has happened, but dreading what he may find. It doesn’t take long.
First he notices that the broken glass has been cleaned up. Crossing to the kitchen, he sees that there is still coffee warm for him in the pot. And then he spots it—a folded sheet of paper propped on the counter next to his usual coffee mug—a very bad sign indeed. Stepping closer, he reads the word Mark written in Neil’s distinctive hand on the letter’s outer flap.
On the one hand, he wants to grab it at once and read what’s inside. On the other, he wants to postpone it as long as possible. He at least needs to pour a cup of coffee first, which he does. He lifts the paper, still folded, and carries it with his cup to the center island. Plopping himself on a stool, he takes a first sip of coffee. Then, bracing himself, he opens the letter.
Dear Mark,
Last night really threw me. I need some time to think about what’s happened. Suddenly I don’t know where we’re headed. It’s ironic that I should feel this way just as we’ve finally gotten settled into the loft. Maybe I was naive in equating the completion of our home—its physical structure—with the stability of a relationship that I assumed was unshakable. But I’m an architect. It’s a mind-set.
You may have noticed that I packed a few things and took them to the office. I’ll go to Roxanne’s tonight and stay there awhile. It’ll be better for us.
(Actually, I have no idea what’s better for us, but I just don’t care to face you right now. You’ve hurt me terribly, I feel nothing but anger at the moment, and I don’t know if I can forgive you. If I can, I don’t know how long it will take. Like I said, I need some time to think.)
You’re sleeping soundly as I write this. I don’t know whether that’s the result of your cleansed conscience or simply the benign effect of champagne and Xanax. In either case, I resent it. You did what you had to do, then drifted off to dreamland—while my night was sleepless because my life had been turned upside down.
Because of the festival, the weekend that lies ahead would be, even under ideal circumstances, the most anxiety-ridden of my life. And now the whole situation has become infinitely more complicated. Though many things confuse me right now, I can say this with absolute objectivity: Your sense of timing is atrocious.
So, where are we? You act as though nothing has happened, yet the fact that you felt the need to “confess” your dalliance shows that you understand the gravity of what’s happened to us. I do believe you when you say you’re sorry. I’m also willing to believe that you truly want to put the incident behind us. In other words, I think your head is in the right place. Even so, I feel as if my brain has been fucked and fried. Sorry, but that’s where I’m at.
Please do not phone me. We’ve both got plenty else on our plates right now. Let’s just get through the weekend. Maybe next week we can talk. Let’s hope that the love we’ve found and the “home” we’ve built (the life we share, not the loft) will be sufficient to see us through.
But I have to tell you, Mark—I’m just not sure.
Neil
Manning hasn’t touched the coffee. He stares at the letter as if it’s not real. Surely he is dreaming now—this is one of those dreams that haunt the predawn hours with specters of death or missed exams or bowel movem
ents in public places. He shakes his head, hoping to wake to a bright, normal morning of his everyday life. But no—this morning, this letter, this cup of cold coffee are real.
Neil may have packed little more than a toothbrush and razor, but that could signal the beginning of the end. Toiletries today, but what about tomorrow? There could be a U-Haul sputtering at their loading dock.
Neil has packed very little, but he’s gone. It may not be forever—Manning can’t even fathom such a possibility—but the cold, hard fact remains that Neil has left him.
Activity in the Journal’s newsroom is more hectic than usual as the city gears up for the festival’s opening, the visiting pantheon of cultural and political celebrities, the presidential address, the human-rights rally, and the counterdemonstration by the CFC. With the approach of the late-morning deadline for the afternoon edition, the commotion intensifies with ringing phones, scurrying copy kids, and conversations shouted over the partitions of reporters’ cubicles.
Manning, however, is assignment-free this morning. Nathan Cain had made it clear that his time should be dedicated to the Nolan and Zarnik investigations. When Manning arrived today, he talked to his editor, Gordon Smith, volunteering to help with one of the festival stories, but Smith only reiterated Cain’s orders. Since there’s nothing Manning can do with his assignment until his five-o’clock meeting with Zarnik at the planetarium, he’s been spending his time on the phone arranging for estimates to get his car repaired. As he feared, the procedure is shaping into a bureaucratic hassle, but at least it keeps his mind occupied with something other than his situation with Neil.
In spite of Neil’s request that Manning not phone him, Manning has called Neil’s office several times already. There’s always some excuse—he’s out, he’s in a meeting, he’s on the other line. While Manning can assume that Neil is truly swamped today, he suspects that the receptionist at the architectural firm has been instructed by Neil to screen Manning’s calls.
While scribbling another note to clip to his insurance policy, Manning hears something that catches his attention through the hubbub of the newsroom. Daryl’s voice lilts above the others, saying, “What’s the big rush, David?”
But David doesn’t answer. Instead, it’s the unmistakable voice of his uncle, Hector Bosch. “Get out of my way,” he snarls, and there are sounds of a struggle with something that clatters against the wall—possibly Daryl’s mail cart.
Manning rises from his chair to see what’s going on. He hears David say, “Wait, Uncle Hector—don’t!”
Manning has barely stuck his head from around the partition to look into the corridor when Hector rushes into the cubicle, slamming Manning back into his chair. With fire in his eyes, he yells, “You reprehensible scapegrace!”
Stunned, Manning watches David and Daryl rush up behind Hector. David claps an arm over Hector’s shoulder; Daryl keeps his distance, gaping from the hall. Heads bob up from behind the partitions, wondering what the uproar is about. At a loss for words, Manning says lamely, “Good morning, Hector.”
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me, Mr. Manning. There are times when civility is but a mockery of decency.”
“Hector …” says Manning with a calming gesture of his hands, trying to rise from his chair.
But with a jab of his fingertips, Hector forces Manning down again, telling him, “Quiet! You’ve said enough—God knows you’ve done enough.”
People are gathering in the corridor, straining for a look inside the cubicle. David leans over his uncle’s shoulder. “Please, Hector. Not here, not now.”
Brushing his nephew’s hand away, Hector turns his head to tell him, “When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it. You certainly didn’t heed my counsel, and now it’s led to this.”
Hector returns his attention to Manning, but now David is angry. He tells Hector, “It’s only ‘led to this’ because you’ve chosen to have a cow over it. I’m an adult. Mind your own damn business.”
Hector spins to face him. “You made it my business by baring your soul to me this morning.”
“You can bet I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Your only mistake, young man, was sleeping with him!” Hector whips an accusing index finger toward Manning. There’s a collective gasp from the growing pack of onlookers. Manning’s jaw drops. Hector turns to tell him, “My God, just look at the two of you. Now you’re even dressing alike. But you, Manning, you’re a seducer, a predator”—he lunges to grab Manning by the shirt—“a disgrace to the profession of journalism.”
Both David and Daryl rush to pull Hector back.
“Watch it,” Manning warns Hector, rising. Facing him nose-to-nose, Manning controls his anger but tells him firmly, “If there’s something that needs to be discussed, we can go to a conference room. You’ve already strayed into slanderous territory, so I’d recommend that you zip it.”
Hector puffs his chest and smooths the jacket of his natty black suit, ruffled during the brief skirmish. “If that remark was meant as a threat, Mr. Manning, you’re wasting your breath.” He strokes the bristles of his trim little moustache, first the right side, then the left. “If there are any threats to be made, they’ll be coming from me, and they won’t be nearly so veiled. Are you aware that I’m on a first-name basis with virtually every publisher in New York?”
Manning is tempted to ask him, So the hell what?
Hector continues, “Though this whole sordid episode is profoundly embarrassing to me, you can rest assured that I shan’t hesitate to share it with my publisher, who happens to be not only a colleague but a friend of your own publisher, Nathan Cain. They share many of the same values—values that are affronted by your reprobate actions. Your harassment and seduction of a much younger male coworker will surely shock the refined sensibilities of these upstanding gentlemen. I would be very surprised indeed if Nathan Cain concluded that your presence in this office is still an asset to the Journal.”
There’s a moment of silence. Hector notes with satisfaction that the impact of his words is now reflected in the pallor of Manning’s face. Hector smiles. He touches up the knot of Manning’s necktie. With a curt bow of his head, Hector tells him, “Good day, Mr. Manning.” Then he turns on his heel and struts down the corridor, parting the gaping crowd of onlookers.
David is about to take off after him when he turns back to Manning. “Sorry Mark. He’s drawn the wrong conclusions about this. I’ll try to set him straight.” He reaches to give Manning’s shoulder a squeeze, then scurries after Hector.
Daryl hasn’t said a word, but has witnessed the entire confrontation, absorbing every delicious detail. With a broad Cheshire grin, he sidles into the cubicle and opens his mouth to speak.
“Don’t,” says Manning, fumbling to sit in his chair. “Just don’t.”
The rest of the day doesn’t improve much. Though there are no subsequent shouting matches volleyed over Manning’s desk, news of the one that did occur has spread throughout the paper. While he expected to become the butt of relentless taunting because of the incident, he was wrong. Far worse, he has been shunned. Coworkers won’t look him in the eye. Many actually shift directions in the hall in order not to encounter him. It’s as if … as if they actually believed Hector’s exaggerated, misinformed accusations.
Shortly after four-thirty, Manning decides it’s time to head out. He needs to meet Zarnik at the planetarium by five and work out the logistics of getting to the MidAmerica Building by five-thirty—it’s going to be a tight squeeze. He switches off his desk lamp, then lifts the phone and dials an extension. “David? Let’s get going. It might be better if you just met me in the parking lot.”
Outside, behind the Journal Building, a bright afternoon is cooled by a brisk wind off the lake. Manning normally anticipates the first sight of his car after work as one of the little highlights of his day, but today he dreads seeing it. He walks out of his way in order to approach it from the driver’s side, avoiding the view of last night’s dama
ge. Unlocking the car with the fob button, he tosses his laptop carryall and his blazer onto the backseat, then gets it. The black car is hot inside, so he starts the engine, running the air-conditioning while waiting for David.
Not more than a minute later, David trots out of the building and zigzags between the other cars toward Manning. Then he sees the damage, which stops him in his tracks. He approaches with caution, mouthing through the closed windows, “What happened?”
Manning waves him in.
David tosses his own blazer, which matches Manning’s, onto the backseat. Sitting in front, he repeats the question.
“Let’s just say I had a bad night,” Manning answers, and pulls out of the lot.
David tries to assure him, “They’ll be able to fix it.” After a pause, he says, “I’m afraid to ask, but did you tell Neil?” Manning nods. Almost inaudibly, David asks, “And how’d it go?”
Eyes on the road, Manning answers without inflection, “Not well at all. He packed a few things and went to stay with Roxanne for a while.”
Subdued and thoughtful, David tells him, “I’m sorry, Mark. I’ve done a lot of thinking since yesterday, and I’ve come to understand that this is all my fault.”
Manning turns his head to voice a feeble protest, but David continues, “Don’t tell me—I know—it takes two to tango. But the truth is, I started it. I pursued you, I tantalized you, I lured you into a situation that all your instincts told you to avoid. I thought it was just harmless fun, but it’s made a mess, and I’m sorry. I’m stupid.”
Eye Contact Page 27