“Creditors.”
“That’s right, only they don’t send you a notice of payment in the mail. They come to your house and break your legs. Only Granddad wasn’t there, the coward, so we got the brunt of it. As I said, I was scared out of my wits, so I know what you’re going through. And your situation isn’t half as bad as how I had it. At least you know where your daddy is. I’m right here, waitin’ for you to come home to me. In the end . . . you know what happened? Granddad came back. My uncle Leo lent him the money and he made the payments. It wasn’t the last time, but he came home. That’s exactly what your mother’s gonna do once she comes to her senses.”
He heard Toby begin to cry on the other end, and the sound of his boy losing all composure broke his heart.
“C’mon, now. Be strong, Toby. Don’t let your brother see you crying. Go to the washroom and clean up, then go back in there like nothing happened, okay?”
“Eff-uh, eff-uh, eff-uh.” The poor kid was in full tears, sounded like he was speaking another language.
“Put your grandma on.”
“I-uh phuh-phuh. I luv-uh yuh, Pop.”
“I love you, too. Now go clean yourself up. Don’t let them see you like this.”
“Grandma!” Toby put the phone down and ran off. Cathy came back on the line. “Alan, we’re in the middle of a program,” she said.
“Cathy, where is she?”
“She went out. I told you. And I don’t think it’s right, your trying to get information out of your boys.”
“I can’t talk to my boys? I’m their father. I’ll call there six times a day if I want to and what we talk about is none of your business. Who’s she out with? Did you meet him yet?”
“No, she’s being very secretive. I don’t know what’s going on with her. I’m trying to stay out of it.”
“Lee said you know what time she’d be home. But she isn’t coming home, is she? She’s staying at his place. How does that make you feel, because I know it makes me feel like shit.”
“Alan.”
“Cathy, you’re very much in it, because your daughter chose to bring our children there. I’m only asking you these things because you may be called upon in court, so I want you to be honest to yourself about her behavior.”
“What court?”
“If we split up, she’d be an unfit mother while carrying on an affair with another man. She won’t get custody. I want you to be honest with yourself now, Cathy. Do your part to help me here. I’m trying to keep this family together and she’s out on the town, whoring around. And it isn’t as if we’re divorced yet. She’s still my wife. This is unfit behavior for a mother. If you weren’t there would she just leave the two boys home alone while she went out? Help me, Cathy. Help me now, and it won’t come to calling on your testimony.”
“Alan, I won’t get involved. And from what she’s been saying, you haven’t been such a saint yourself.”
“Those are justifications, Cathy. She’s trying to justify her own behavior to herself and to you, most of all. You’re her mother. She looks to you for approval. Don’t give it to her. I can’t even think what they’re doing together, but I assume the worst. She’s a smart girl, Cathy. She has a PhD. She’s just lost it, and I need help to get her back here. Look at what she’s doing to Toby. He’s in the bathroom crying.”
“Why, what did you say to him?”
“Nothing. He’s upset.”
“I better go check on him.”
“Have her call me if she comes home. But I won’t wait up. Also, I’m coming over tomorrow to see the boys. Toby needs his favorite pillow. Whether she wants to be there or not, that’s her decision. You tell her.”
Cathy sighed into the receiver. He was running her down. If he could generate enough sympathy from her, she would take his side. That’s what being the abandoned one has over the one who flees. Everyone feels sorry for the orphan. He could come out looking like the forlorn hero.
• • •
Eastman returned to the dinner party just as dessert wrapped. Willington, Kaminsky, the Arnolds, and the rest of the guests were already lounging in the living room with aperitifs and coffee. He thought he could slip out now and no one would notice, but he hadn’t come any closer to finding out who his phantom was.
Meredith found him in the hall. “Where have you been? I was worried, but I couldn’t possibly come looking for you.”
“I had to phone Lee and Toby at my mother-in-law’s. Penny’s out on some date. That bitch.”
“Boy, does she move fast. I can’t say that I feel sorry for you, Alan. The way she’s acting I’m beginning to think you’re better off.”
“Let’s not talk like that yet.”
He was feeling a bit tired from a pause in drinking. He wanted to do something out of the ordinary. A waiter came by with a tray full of brandy. Eastman took a glass and began to swirl it in his hand, thinking of his next move. Come tomorrow he would see Penny. It would frustrate him terribly to have to ask her about where she was when he called. He thought again of his phantom. Perhaps the man wasn’t here at the dinner party as he had initially suspected. If Penny was out, then he was most certainly with her.
“He isn’t here,” said Eastman.
“Who?”
“Him. The man she’s seeing—him.”
“What on earth would make you think he would be here?”
“Something was said over cocktails by Lillian Krassner that led me to believe he was here spreading vicious rumors about me.”
“You’re being paranoid. No one is spreading rumors about you except yourself. David told me you plan to go to Vietnam. Are you out of your mind?”
“I’ll tell you the truth if you keep it between us.”
“It’s not true, then?”
Eastman hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to say. He recalled what he had said to Penny that morning about Vietnam. He generated a good bit of sympathy from it. “The truth is,” he said to his mistress, “I’m going on a very dangerous mission. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think you would understand.”
Meredith looked at him as if he were a stranger. “My God, you’re serious. But why, Alan? Is it because of Penny? I must say, you’re acting quite out of character. And don’t think I’ll be meeting you in some Saigon hotel.”
“I didn’t want to tell you this way. It’s that damn bastard she’s seeing. He leaked it to someone here.”
“Will you stop.”
“I happened to come across special knowledge that led me to believe the man I’m looking for was here or intimate with someone here.”
“But he isn’t, as you say.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“Unless he’s some type of phantom and can be in two places at once,” Meredith said.
Had Eastman communicated his inner thoughts to her? Was he going crazy?
He ran a hand through his hair, confused as to what was real and what was just a figment of his imagination. He patted his breast pocket to make sure he still had the matchbook, and when he felt it there, he knew that this nightmare was real.
“I know this may all sound amusing to you, but this is the reality I’ve been living with the past few days.”
Eastman swigged his brandy and felt a new jolt of energy, a compulsion to act, to do something of bold consequence.
“Meredith, I want to make an announcement.”
“Please don’t embarrass me.”
“I’m here on my own accord. If I embarrass anyone it would only be myself. An announcement would only turn this drip of a party into something memorable.”
“Lay off our party. May I remind you you’re not even supposed to be here.”
They joined the others in the living room. Eastman spotted a dessert fork resting on a half-eaten piece of white cake. Before Meredith could stop him
, he began to clink the fork against his glass.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Would you please bring your attention this way? Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement to make of major national importance.”
All eyes were now on him. Willington, the Arnolds and Kaminskys. Lillian Krassner. Meredith had skirted out of the hall and back around through the dining room, joining Lazlo by the baby grand piano.
“What is it, Alan?” asked Willington.
“I want to first thank our gracious hosts, David and Meredith, for such an ethnic meal. I’ve been to India, as some of you have, I’m sure. And I think we can all say that the food was not only better here, it was elevated to a level equal to such company.”
“He ate enough of it!” said Peter Kaminsky, to an eruption of laughter.
“I had my fill, Peter. But I’m not up here to talk samosas and curry. That’s not what I have to say. I have an announcement of great historical consequence. Listen, friends. As of recently I have proposed to the Herald that I will travel to the far reaches of Vietnam in order to report on the feeling on the ground. The who, what, when, and where. The why, too. I will be reporting front-page dispatches from Saigon, Da Nang, Nha Trang, maybe even Hanoi. Straight from the lion’s den. On the front page of the Herald, when you awake, you’ll read and see photographs of what I have been seeing. Transmitting my impressions across the wire in order for you to stay abreast of the situation. They have agreed to send me into what is still very dangerous ground. I, Eastman, will walk that ground.” He took a pause to see how the crowd was taking it all in. Meredith had her head down. Her straight, shoulder-length hair covered her face, which seemed to be flushed. If he wasn’t crazy, he would say that she was on the verge of tears. Next to her was Lazlo, who seemed completely riveted. So he continued: “When I return, David and I will work together to turn this journey into a major book. And if I were not to return, God forbid—although I don’t often believe he’s watching over us, especially in Southeast Asia—I want you all to know that the people in this room tonight, faces I’ve known for the last twenty years or so . . . you are some of my most cherished friends and colleagues. You are. And we’ve established something close to love, haven’t we?”
“We sure have, Alan,” said Peter.
“However, to think of drastic consequences will only hinder the prospect of our success. Ladies and gentlemen, I shall return.”
“When are you leaving?” asked Virgil Arnold.
“In a matter of days and weeks.”
“What does that mean?” asked Sylvia Arnold.
“I’m waiting for visas and some rather tedious paperwork to come through. Once I have that in order I’ll be off and may not see most of you until I return. So I bid thee well. Ideally, I’d like to have a minute or two with each of you to say good-bye. Time permitting.”
There was a silence in the room. Had his speech sucked the air out of the party? He was running on adrenaline, and had thought what he had to say would take much longer. It took all of two minutes to deliver, one of his shortest speeches. He wasn’t sure if it had the historical importance he had promised. Meredith had now turned completely away from him and the rest of the room. She was still by the piano, but all he could see was the back of her head. Lazlo seemed to be oblivious to his wife’s disposition. It was hard for him to see her like this. He hadn’t thought Meredith would take it so personally. And why wouldn’t she—they had been together for so many years, nearly as many as he had with Penny. He wanted to go over and put a hand on her shoulder but realized it would seem uncouth.
In the living room there was Lillian, seated on the sofa, who looked completely perplexed by Eastman’s about-face. He had denied the rumors at the beginning of the party, and now he had flip-flopped into going. He noted an apology would be in order; however, it wasn’t at the top of his priorities.
Then, as sudden as a fart in the air, the party resumed. Each person turned back to a drinking companion, the Arnolds and the Kaminskys, Willington and Lazlo. Only Meredith had disappeared from where she’d stood by the piano.
It was as if nothing had happened.
7.
For once, Eastman managed to sleep a solid seven hours and when he woke in the morning in his bed, alone, he had the energy of a spry gazelle hurtling through Hemingway’s Africa. A lion could come at him and he would be slick enough to skirt its teeth. Something had shifted, altered the atmosphere, and what that was could only be attributed to his announcement the night before. The announcement was action, it was purposeful, reasonable. Whether it was a move in the right direction only time would tell. The forces of his life were always pressed up against the other, tectonic plates of urges. A balance of order was what he craved, whether or not it was a mere illusion. All that purposefulness that had been provided by his marriage made him lazy and eventually put the marriage in peril. He sat at the edge of his bed, still in the shirt and tie from the night before, and was jolted by the feeling of movement, by rapid thinking on a positive plane.
He dressed in sweats and a pair of old white tennis sneakers and went downstairs, avoiding the back kitchen, where on most mornings he would have found his wife and boys eating breakfast. He went to his study in order to phone Broadwater. There was already some paperwork on his desk that Broadwater had left behind. He looked through it for the first time. There were visa applications for both South and North Vietnam. Beneath the visa applications was a contract with the Herald for three dispatches. The payment was on the low side of mediocre. Ten years ago this would have been an insult, but he wasn’t taking this job for the money. He’d make the money back on the other end, when he turned this into a book. Was it his damn career that always interfered with his love life? Certainly, his first marriage succumbed to his literary affairs. Back then the two always seemed to be competing. Now he felt one was going to solve the other. The problem of love could be resolved if his actions showed Penny that he had passion. Passion in his work. Passion by the fistful. Eastman made a tight fist and slammed it into the stack of Broadwater’s papers. He picked up the phone and got through to the newsroom’s secretary. She was quite clear that if he were to hold on for a moment he could be transferred and speak to Broadwater himself, but Eastman grew impatient and decided he hadn’t wanted to talk to the putz at so early an hour. He needed to keep the upper hand in this whole matter. It was hard for him to accept that he would be working again for Broadwater. It made him feel like the two were back at Harvard. Broadwater on his Pegasus high horse at the Advocate. So Eastman left instructions with the secretary. Times Square, the Tic Tac. It was the only strip club he could think of that was convenient to the offices of the Herald.
After a bit of breakfast he drove his Saab over the Manhattan Bridge, overlooking the tenements of his ancestors. There were Eastmans who had made it out of the Lower East Side. His grandfather Aaron came from Vienna to start a sporting goods company on Orchard Street, which he then sold to the Herman family of Herman’s World of Sporting Goods. His great-aunt Frieda had worked in a garment factory on East Broadway and then went on to become a schoolteacher. His mother was born in a railroad apartment on Cherry Street and then moved to Long Branch, New Jersey, once Grandpa Aaron sold the business. It took a single generation to rise out of the bottom rungs of Manhattan, and then Alan Eastman himself, the family’s pride and joy, the golden son of Crown Heights, attended Harvard. Driving over the bridge, he couldn’t help reliving his college days. For Grandpa Aaron, Aunt Frieda, his mother, Fran, his father, Bert, the gambler, Alan’s academic success was the peak of American progress. He entered Harvard with a partial scholarship, and Grandpa Aaron paid the rest of his tuition plus room and board, which his grandfather was more than happy to do. A grandson at Harvard, for him, what luck! Alan entered as an engineering student. He had been a whip in biology, chemistry, physics, and mathematics. Those tall, elegant structures that connected his part of Brooklyn to M
anhattan—the bridges—had fascinated both him and his grandfather: the intricacies of the wire and steel, the massive phallus of iron rising out of the East River. Who built those? Engineers! Therefore it sounded to him like a respectable service. When he told his grandfather what his intentions would be at Harvard, they shared a moment of pride. “I was a no one in Europe,” his grandfather had said. “Look at where we are going!”
Hidden from his grandfather were Eastman’s aspirations as a writer. During his first semester at Harvard he slipped a battered copy of The Sun Also Rises inside his mechanical engineering textbook, and it held his attention much more than the equation of bridge building. He dropped the engineering program, hid his literary dreams from his mother and grandfather, and began to write poems and stories for himself, his friends, and the Advocate. He had gotten little excitement out of girls when he spoke of his big engineering dreams, but when he spoke of literature he became attractive in their eyes, he knew, at the mere mention of Dos Passos or Maugham or Hemingway. These were writers, celebrities, thinkers, stars.
Eastman drove crosstown on Canal Street, hit the gas at a yellow light, and blew it as it went red. The speed had some ability to take him out of his own head.
In the passenger seat was his son’s squashy pillow, and he grazed it with his hand then squeezed it as if the object would relieve his stress. Driving past the Village made him think of the matchbook in his left pocket and the Waverly Inn. A younger man would be disappointing, but what if his phantom was someone his age? He could kill her. He took his son’s pillow and began hitting the dashboard of his Saab, punching the upholstery, feeling nothing. His blood was running hot by the time he hit the tunnel.
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