Second Acts

by Teri Emory

  I dozed on and off on the drive back to the city. I awoke with a start when we dropped Lilly off in front of the brownstone where she lived on Bleecker Street. Lilly leaned forward to tell me that she hoped we’d see each other again.

  “I’m sure we will,” I apparently replied in cheery, tipsy singsong. “Any friend of Kevin’s stepson is a friend of mine.”

  I followed this intriguing opening, I’m told, with a succinct summary of the circumstances of Brendan’s birth, followed by my imagined account of Betsy and Kevin’s quasi-shotgun wedding, during which I apparently raised the question of whether “shotgun” is the proper term for nuptials that take place after an unwed mother gives birth and when she marries someone other than the father of her illegitimate child. Not that I actually remember anything I said. I vaguely recall that a cool gust of air blew into the car when Lilly opened her door and left us.

  The next thing I knew it was Sunday morning. By the time I awoke, Kevin had already put Brendan in a taxi to the airport and was sitting on the living room sofa, his eyes glued to Meet the Press. He ignored me as I shuffled past him on my way to the kitchen.

  “Aspirin,” I croaked by way of explanation as I haphazardly searched drawers and cabinets. “I thought we had a bottle somewhere . . .” No answer. “Ah, here it is.” Silence. “What was I thinking? I’m way out of practice. Drinking, I mean. Like twenty-five years. Maybe more. There must be a Dorothy Parker line for a moment like this. Oh, of course: One more drink and I would have been under the host. Did she say that at a party at Scott and Zelda’s house, or . . .?”

  “Enough, Sarah.”

  “Enough what?”

  “You have no idea how you hurt me last night. And my son.”

  I washed down three aspirin with a swig of coffee and settled in for what I could tell was going to be a long sermon. My parting words to Lilly couldn’t have comprised more than a few simple sentences, but after Kevin was finished parsing them, you would have thought that each morpheme was a marking on the Rosetta Stone. Hearing him call me snide, vengeful, and heartless, I found myself recalling the times when I had longed for a passionate face-off with Kevin, and I made a mental note to be more careful in the future about what I wished for.

  In spite of my hangover, I managed a few stinging ripostes. I didn’t want to talk about what I had said; I wanted to talk about everything that Kevin had failed to say. “What else are you hiding from me?” I demanded. “Were you once in the circus? The CIA? Are you a defrocked priest? The second gunman on the grassy knoll? Did you used to be a woman? A young Republican?”

  “Knock it off! I don’t know what you are angry about. You’re carrying on as if I’ve committed some kind of crime against you. Why should Brendan’s DNA matter to you? You should have heard how you sounded. So ugly, to behave like that, Sarah. Hateful. What did you think, that if you were drunk enough I would forgive you? That it would embarrass Brendan less if you could say you were drunk and couldn’t control what you were saying?”

  “Why in the world would Brendan be embarrassed?” I asked matter-of-factly. “He had already told Lilly, who’s just an acquaintance, really, that he wasn’t your biological son. What’s wrong with saying something that everyone knows is true?”

  “It was just so inappropriate.”

  “You’re worried about appropriateness? I see. I suppose there hasn’t been an appropriate moment in the last four years for you to tell me about Brendan.”

  “How could it possibly matter? I couldn’t love Brendan more than I do.”

  I shook my head. “Not the point, how much you love him.”

  “Whatever you think the point is, this is the sort of thing that families like to keep private.”

  “Families, private,” I said, mulling the words. “So this is an O’Neal family thing?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And I’m not part of your family. Now I get it.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Why did you lie to me?”

  “What are you talking about? Respecting Brendan’s privacy is lying?”

  “From what Lilly told me, it sounds as if you were a prince—marrying Betsy, raising Brendan. Why the hell would you hide it from me? This is a significant piece of biographical information, Kev. Come to think of it, I gave you a perfect opening. Remember the way Brendan behaved towards his mother at his graduation? I specifically asked you then what was going on, and you blew me off. You could have told me then that Brendan wasn’t your son.”

  “He is my son,” Kevin said. “I protect Brendan’s feelings exactly the way you protect Ellie’s. What you did last night was just plain mean. And you know what I think? That you’ve never really liked Brendan.”

  “I like Brendan just fine. This is between you and me, Kev. It’s a couples thing. The most important part is that I want you to want to tell me everything about yourself. It’s how couples behave. When they love each other, anyway. I’m now thinking about all the other things I half-know about you. How your business went under—the whole story. Were you sleeping with your ex-partner? It wouldn’t matter to me if you were; it’s ancient history. But it’s your history, and I should know the truth about it. You make it sound like it was just a business deal gone bad, but why did you never sue her for the money you say she stole from the company? I’ve always thought the story had ‘woman scorned’ written all over it.” Kevin just glowered at me. “I don’t even know the names of your old girlfriends.”

  This got him talking. Suddenly, he was Prince Valiant, all chivalry and discretion, defending the honor of the damsels in his past. “I refuse to be blackmailed into talking about intimate moments I’ve shared with other women. It’s vulgar of you even to ask. Some things, Sarah, are just none of your fucking business.”

  “You can spare me the sordid details, but some names would be nice, anything to give me an inkling of who they were and what they meant to you,” I said. “Speaking of which, how about letting loose with some sexual clues to who you are? For years I’ve begged you to tell me what turns you on, what you think about when you’re making love to me. You make me feel like I’m snooping. Like I should be embarrassed to ask. Did all those years in Catholic school permanently inhibit your libido? Do you think what we do in bed is sinful? Is that why you can’t talk about sex?”

  “I’m sorry to be such a disappointment in the sack,” he said with a sneer. “Maybe you should give one of your Jewish boyfriends a call.”

  And so on, nasty and hurtful, back and forth, all afternoon. Kevin paced the living room, alternately muttering and yelling accusations. I stayed on the sofa, holding my throbbing head and tossing bons mots his way every chance I got. We exchanged our last salvo as he was throwing his clothes into a suitcase.

  “You don’t have a clue about intimacy! You were meant to live alone,” I yelled.

  “Being alone is a whole lot better than living with someone so vindictive,” he answered. “Not that you’ll give a shit, but I have a business trip to Seattle on Wednesday, and I’ll be there for a week. I’ll find a place to stay in town until I leave. You can tell anyone who calls me here to leave messages on my voicemail at the office.”

  “I’m not your damn secretary,” I hissed through clenched teeth as Kevin tramped out the door and slammed it behind him.

  __________

  Things at the office were peculiar the first days after Lawrence left. For one thing, Joey was gone. He had Sally send around an email saying that he had decided to attend the annual National Pharmacy Alliance meeting in Minneapolis. We were to communicate with him through Sally, who’d be speaking to him every day. She added her own postscript to the email: “You know what this means, everyone. Feel free to wear jeans to the office this week, but no tee-shirts with writing on them, PLEASE!” Joey’s definition of business casual dress precludes jeans, but Sally, like a benevol
ent babysitter, allows us children to bend the strict house rules when Daddy’s away. It’s cute, the way she even pretends that Joey doesn’t know what’s going on.

  The door to Lawrence’s office stayed closed, and no one, at least in my presence, mentioned his name. Late one afternoon when I couldn’t find my copy of the AMA Manual of Style, I automatically went to Lawrence’s office to use his, but when I tried the handle the door was locked and then I remembered, he’s gone.

  “Is Lawrence around?” I asked Sally, pretending I knew nothing. I could tell I had unnerved her.

  “What do you need?” she said with forced geniality.

  “I don’t want to bother you. Just give me the key to his office and I’ll get it myself.”

  I let her fidget for a few minutes. I watched her pretend to search her desk for the keys. She was scrambling for a way to hold on to what she knew about Lawrence, and especially, to keep me from seeing his vacant office, and I was delighted to see her squirm. I finally let her off the hook, saying I could probably get a copy of the book I needed from Dana or Rebecca. “Thanks anyway. What do you hear from Joey?” I said, smiling.

  Lieutenant Sally was back, staunch and unruffled. “The conference is going well. He’s making some important contacts for Tri-Tech,” she said crisply.

  Construction on Route 80 delayed my trip to Savant. I called Doc Shortland from my cell phone to let him know I was running late.

  “Ça va, Sarah,” he assured me. “We’ve got a company-wide video conference first thing today anyway. You know,” he lowered his voice, “the announcement.”

  “Oh, right, Doc. Your replacement. Not that anyone could ever really replace you, but you know what I mean.”

  “Just don’t worry, any time you get here will be fine. See you soon. How do you say that in French again?”

  “A bientôt, Doc.”

  __________

  A receptionist at the Savant security desk handed me a visitor’s badge, actually a peel-off sticker, with my name and Doc Shortland’s printed above the Savant logo. I walked through metal detectors to the atrium of the building, where the morning’s video conference was being re-run on a huge monitor. A crawl across the bottom of the screen displayed Savant’s stock price and news bulletins about company events around the world.

  A man identified as Heinrich Pfeiffer, Savant Worldwide Information Officer, Geneva, Switzerland, was standing behind a podium, smiling, reading from a stack of yellow index cards. “This restructuring will allow Savant Worldwide to continue in its role as a recognized healthcare leader. Savant has long set the industry standard in pharmaceutical research, development, distribution, and professional education. As always, our continued success depends on the talents and energy of our people.

  “We are delighted that Dr. Richard Shortland has accepted the position of International Senior Vice President of Marketing, European Division. Doc Shortland, as he is known throughout the company, has had a long and distinguished career with Savant, and we are confident that the best is yet to come.”

  Pfeiffer’s assistant, a young woman in a serious navy blue suit and heavy tortoise-framed eyeglasses, whispered something in his ear. He nodded to her, shuffled his index cards, and spoke again, above the whispers and rustling papers in the room.

  “Ursula has just reminded me, I should like to say something about the person who will be taking over Doc Shortland’s responsibilities in our Parsippany, New Jersey, USA headquarters. Though relatively new to the Savant family, she has already demonstrated outstanding knowledge, leadership, and commitment. It gives me great pleasure to announce that, effective January one, the Senior Vice President for Marketing in New Jersey will be Pushpa Rao.”

  When I finished Doc’s French lesson for the day, I wandered over to Pushpa’s office to congratulate her, but she wasn’t around. I noticed book cartons stacked flat against the side of her desk. Preparation, no doubt, for the move down the hall and her takeover of Doc’s spacious corner of the twenty-second floor of the building.

  The news that Pushpa was replacing Doc gave me a fleeting moment of optimism about my own prospects. I was the only one at Tri-Tech who had even worked with Pushpa. But things at Tri-Tech were too cockeyed for my optimism to last. Surely, Joey knew—probably last week—who would take over for Doc. Normally he would have shared the news with me, asked for my ideas, but he hadn’t spoken to me in almost a week.

  Joey’s absence from Tri-Tech kept the office pretty quiet, but Lawrence’s departure and my undependable future at Tri-Tech made me jumpy. I updated my résumé and flipped through my Rolodex, but I couldn’t mine the energy to begin a serious job search. Most of the people I would call have had to change jobs as many times as I, but still, I knew I’d be demoralized by their empathy. That’s right, laid off again. I knew you’d understand. Me, too, I prefer the British expression, being made ‘redundant’ instead of getting fired. You don’t know of anything right now? Might I email you my current résumé? Yeah, haha, I’m leaving the dates off mine these days, too. Nice to catch up with you, too. You’ll keep me in mind if you hear of anything?

  I’m getting too old for this. People my age are already cutting back on work, retiring early. I’m still surviving from one paycheck to the next. I can’t afford to be out of work even for a few weeks.

  __________

  I don’t usually feel lonely for Kevin when he is away because I know most days will end with a friendly call from him. But there had been no word from him all week, just an uneasy silence that underscored the precarious state of things between us. I woke up thinking about him and I left a message on his voicemail at the office, wishing him a safe trip. “See you when you get back,” I said, with as much affection as I could mobilize.

  Helen called as I was getting ready for work. I put her on the speaker so I could dress while we talked.

  It sounded as if she was on speaker phone as well. Helen, even for Helen, was unusually chipper.

  “Isn’t it exciting that Martin left Ellie all that money?” she said. “I spoke to her over the weekend. She said you were going to have that guy Gillian, your friend Beth’s husband—what’s his first name again?—set things up for her.”

  “Jim’s already working on it. Ellie’s coming into the city next week to meet with someone from Gillian Investments. God knows her mother can’t give her any financial advice. Helen, can I call you back tonight? I’ve got to dash off to New Jersey. Anything important going on?” I squirmed into my pantyhose.

  “Good morning, Sarah.” It was Sidney’s voice. “I think you’ll want to stay on the phone for a few more minutes. Sorry to get you so early in the morning, but we couldn’t wait. I got back from Atlanta late last night.”

  “Sidney, hi. I sure could use some good news,” I said, slipping a black chemise over my head.

  “Remember what I wrote you about Martin, that he said something about a lawyer in Atlanta? Martin left a letter with him.”

  “A letter?” I called from inside my closet, where I was looking for my gray skirt. To spite Sally—and because going to Savant meant I had to dress like a grownup—I wouldn’t be wearing jeans to the office.

  “Yes. You remember, of course, that Martin went to Atlanta to work for a bank—Southern Federated, I think they were called. They’ve been out of business for a good five years. He was only with them for a short time, and then he started his own consulting business. Anyway, Southern Federated gave Martin a chance to buy life insurance at a good rate, and he kept it in force until—um, until the end.”

  “For Ellie? That’s great.” Where did I put that black cashmere sweater set? I reached to the top shelf of the closet. My satin pants suit—the one I wore to the party—fell to the floor. I tossed it on my bed so I’d remember to take it to be dry-cleaned. Two pieces of paper fluttered out of the jacket pocket—a crumpled cocktail napkin and Bruce Jacobs’ business card. I stuck
the card in my jewelry box and pulled out pearl-and-silver earrings and a chunky silver choker.

  “First, about the letter Martin left. It’s addressed to you,” Sidney said. “I just spent two days with Max Bauer, Martin’s lawyer in Atlanta. Martin left instructions with Max to give me the letter, which I was then to deliver to you. It’s right here, I haven’t opened it. Do you want me to FedEx it to you?”

  I slid into a pair of black suede heels. “You can read it to me now, Sidney. I don’t . . .”

  Helen, still on the extension, broke in. “Sarah, maybe you should read it in private. Poor Martin was very troubled over the years. Oh, who am I talking to? Of course you know. Whatever he said in the letter, maybe you should remember that he wasn’t always a well man.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, daubing eyeliner on my lower lids. I was actually imagining a last, vituperative stab from Martin from beyond the grave. One final criticism, an insult he’d neglected to bestow before he ran out of breath. “I can handle it. Read it to me and then you can send it overnight. How long is it? Honestly, I’m in a rush.”

  “About two pages.” I heard Sidney tear open the envelope. “It’s handwritten. Here goes,” he said. “The envelope says, ‘To my former wife, Sarah Jane Gordon Roth.’ It’s dated eight, no, nine years ago, May eighteenth.”

  “My birthday,” I said, rattled at the thought. I sat on my bed and picked up the phone. Hearing Martin’s words amplified throughout my bedroom was too unnerving. “Go ahead, Sidney.”

  “‘Dear Sarah: A letter like this is one of those ridiculous, melodramatic ideas that come to people who are depressed, full of themselves, crazy, or a combination of all of the above. It’s your birthday today, and for some damn reason it’s made me sentimental. I probably let you down on a number of special occasions, but maybe what I say here will make it up to you in a way. If you are reading this—and there must be some old joke with this punch-line—it means that I’m dead and you’re not. My most recent job provided me with a hefty life insurance policy, and though the job has vanished, I intend to pay off the policy and keep it for you. Not for Elinor, though I will leave something for her too, of course. Besides, anything I bequeath to you will eventually be Ellie’s anyway. And then there’s this stock portfolio I’ve been building. As of now, anyway, it looks like I may die a rich man. I can imagine how puzzling this will be to you. I will try to explain what prompted me to write a letter like this, not to mention what possessed me to leave my ex-wife a wealthy woman upon my death.’”