The Easy Way Out

by Stephen McCauley

  “What if you created a monster,” I said, “and Ryan turns out to be a pig like Tony and me after all?”

  “Ryan’s not a pig, and neither are you. I’ll withhold judgment on Tony. I just hate being everyone’s best friend. Christ, with my luck, they’ll do me the honor of naming me godmother of their next kid. There’s a depressing thought.” She wrapped her arms around her waist and shuddered. “You know, I’m not such a fool, Patrick. It’s just that I enjoyed spending time with him. Who’d have guessed he’d be one of the few men I’ve met who didn’t want to be mothered by me. Then again, it probably wouldn’t have worked out in bed.”

  “No,” I said, “probably not.”

  “What are you talking about? Ryan’s a sensualist. And believe me, there’s nothing better than a sensualist who’s been locked up in a basement for three years. A volcano waiting to erupt.”

  Of all the possible ways I could think of to describe Ryan, sexual volcano was not one. However, I usually trusted Sharon’s instincts. She leaned over her legs and clasped her hands under her knees. Her hair fell over her shoulders and around her face. She looked like a little girl not chosen for a softball team, alone in a corner of the playground.

  “The worst of it is that all my friends will shower me with sympathy even though they’ll secretly be thrilled.” She pushed herself to her feet, kicked over the milk crate she’d been sitting on, and began to poke through another trash barrel. “They’re all in some kind of relationship, and there isn’t a happy couple among them. But they come and visit me and we sit around and talk and they look at the big empty house and as they’re driving home beside the person they’ve committed their life to and would like to have assassinated, they think: Well, at least I’ve got someone. I’m the perfect friend, Patrick. I talk and act like I’m on top of the world, so you don’t have to take care of me, but one look at me and you get to feel superior. Don’t think I don’t know it. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  “Just a little. Maybe it’s the cigarette. What about Roberta—is she onto any of this?”

  “Oh, sure. Somehow or other she figured it all out. She told me I was lucky it didn’t work out. I got so pissed off I told her she had to move.”

  “There’s a positive step.”

  “We’ll see if she actually goes or not. What about you? Have you started packing yet?”

  I looked over at her mournfully but didn’t say a word.

  The closing was less than a week away, and Arthur had stacked the living room with boxes and packing materials. I found the sight so depressing, I avoided that end of the house altogether. The most I’d been able to do was fold a couple of shirts.

  I’d pretty much given up on sleep. After the birthday dinner, I’d gone out on my bike around 2:00 A.M. and spent much of the rest of the night riding along the river in the cool dark, down past MIT to the Museum of Science, across the bridge into Boston, along the shadowy Esplanade, and out to Watertown and Newton. I was beginning to find the late-night hours more appealing than the day, cooler and softer and free from the deadly glare of the sun.

  Loreen’s announcement had shaken me. I realized that for months I’d been languishing in fantasies of ways to help Tony disentangle himself from his engagement, while he was taking no action at all. Then, from the least expected quarter, he’d been saved. He was getting out of the marriage and could look forward to a happy lifetime of servitude to Vivian.

  Now that his problem was solved, I saw much more clearly that by spending so much energy thinking about my brother’s dilemma, I’d missed the chance to resolve my own, and I was stuck.

  When, after an hour of picking through the trash, I found the discarded ticket to Brazil, I was tempted to stick it in my back pocket and use it myself.

  Thirty-three

  Compared with most of my other troubles, my problems at Only Connect were so specific and concrete, I found them almost comforting. I still hadn’t heard a word from the airline sales representative about Professor Fields’s reservations, but I did manage to find zoologist and niece a suitable room at an outrageously expensive hotel right on the beach. The fact that it wasn’t the hotel we’d been discussing for months was irrelevant. Most of the hotels in Bermuda are so similar in appearance and in name—Pink Sands Beach Club, Beach Club of Pink Sands, Pink Club at Sandy Beach, Sandy Club at Pink Beach—he wouldn’t know the difference. There was some comfort in knowing, too, that the date of his departure would arrive, he’d go out to the airport and get on the plane or be turned away, and that would be the end of that—with the possible complication that he might try to have me fired if he didn’t get on.

  For a solid week, Fields had been calling me several times a day, obviously in a last-minute panic. I’d told Fredrick to inform him I was in meetings, no matter when or how many times he phoned.

  “But he sounds frantic,” he told me. “And believe me, I know what it’s like to be frantic. He’s even started speaking in a normal tone of voice.”

  “That is bad news. I’ll get to him next week, I promise.”

  Ordinarily I would have gone into conference with Sharon about a final-hour solution, but she had worries of her own.

  On the Tuesday after the birthday dinner, just four days away from Fields’s departure date, I broke down and called Gary Bolton to try and pressure him to clear two seats. It was early in the morning—one of the nastiest side effects of my recent bout of severe insomnia was that I’d begun to show up at the office on time—and he was eating, as he had been last time we spoke. Grape-Nuts, from the sound of it. I thought there was something particularly disturbing about the fact that Gary seemed to eat only crunchy food, as if he were used to gnawing bones and chewing glass.

  “I’ve been feeling a little out of touch lately,” I told him, “and I thought I’d just check in and see how things are going. I was afraid you’d forgotten me.”

  “Not very likely,” he said blandly. “You redheads are a rare bunch.” Then he started choking on whatever it was he was eating. “Tell me this,” he said between coughs. “What would you give me for a couple of seats to Bermuda on Memorial Day weekend?”

  “Whatever money can buy.”

  “Not the answer I was hoping for, but I suppose everything has its price.” He posed a few more leering questions, none of which I responded to. “You’re no fun, Patrick. Cute kid, but no fun at all. I might as well tell you anyway. I got your friends their seats on that plane. I’d hate to tell you what I had to do to get them, but I’d love to demonstrate sometime.”

  Since rolling out of bed that morning, I’d had a headache, a low-grade crusher that was making a joke of my already laughable mental acuity—but at the sound of his words it dispersed, the way a heat wave can vanish in a matter of seconds with a blast of blessed Canadian air. Why, I wondered, had I been so critical of a man as kind and generous as good old Gary? I really was much too hard on people, and sooner or later I was going to have to do something about it. I thanked him so profusely, I was afraid I’d start hyperventilating. We chatted a few more minutes, going over old times, and I accepted a dinner invitation for two weeks thence. I’d wait until Fields was back from Bermuda, then call Gary and tell him I’d been hit by another bus.

  Excited by the news, I was tempted to go against order, throw Fields’s caution to the winds, and call his office. Instead I ran in and told Sharon my good news. She was combing her hair by the window, surrounded by a cloud of murky sunlight and cigarette smoke. “I told you something would work out,” she said. “Something always works out in this business. The travel industry is too insignificant for real tragedy. Although I suppose it’s still possible the plane could crash at takeoff, the most fitting end.”

  * * *

  When I got home from work that night, Arthur was knee-deep in crumpled newspapers, bubble wrap, and empty cartons. I fell onto the sofa, panic-stricken by the sight of him. A few days earlier, I’d told him the closing date of the house was inconvenient and asked if we
could have it postponed.

  “This isn’t a wedding shower,” he’d said, and I quickly dropped the subject.

  I told him I’d solved one of my biggest problems at work that day. “And right at the last possible second,” I said, “just the way I like it. It makes me feel so hopeful.”

  He was wrapping a lamp in layers of newspapers. “Hopeful about what?” he asked.

  I thought about it for a minute and realized that what I meant was hopeful that something would happen to stall or cancel the purchase of the house. But he was sitting on the floor in front of me with his head bent down, and the overhead light was bouncing off his bald pate, and I couldn’t bring myself to mention it.

  “Perhaps you should try solving some of your problems at home,” Arthur suggested. “I don’t know how you think you’re going to get all your packing done in time.” He looked up at me and smiled. “You won’t believe how much better you’ll feel once it’s done, sweetheart. Trust me.”

  Thirty-four

  I waited for Fields to call again, but he stubbornly refused. Two days later, he showed up at Only Connect in person, and I welcomed him into my office with such a firm handshake and sincere grin that he shrank back from me as if I were about to rip off his clothes and knock him to the floor.

  “I’m sorry I’ve missed so many of your calls,” I said, offering him a seat. “This office has been a lunatic asylum. The receptionist had a nervous breakdown, and messages haven’t been getting through. Harvard grad, high-strung, what can you do?”

  He had on a dark tweed sport coat, with suede patches on the elbows, and a pair of baggy khaki pants. A good dry cleaner would have done cartwheels at the sight of his outfit. Whatever the drawbacks of lifelong tenure, you can’t accuse the system of encouraging vanity. But there was something endearingly eccentric in his disheveled appearance, now that I looked at it in a certain light. It wasn’t entirely out of the question that Zayna might have some real feelings for him.

  I told him I hoped he and his niece were all packed and ready to go. “Tomorrow’s the big day,” I said.

  He stared at my cheerfulness suspiciously. “Hot in here,” he mumbled and took off his jacket. There was a grease stain in the shape of Cape Cod near the collar of his shirt, and a pen had leaked green ink all over the pocket. He loosened his tie and crossed his bony legs at the knees.

  “Everything,” I practically shouted, “is ready: the plane, the hotel. All in order and waiting for you. A good feeling, isn’t it?”

  He looked confused. “Wasn’t this confirmed months ago?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “But I always get excited when someone’s trip is coming up. Vicarious pleasure, one of the real advantages of this job. All the excitement of travel without having to leave your pets and your houseplants behind.”

  “I’m happy to hear someone likes his job,” he said. “I do hope I’m not about to cause too many problems for you, Patrick.” He tilted his head up and scratched his beard. I realized then, with some concern, that his voice had been perfectly audible since he walked into the office.

  “A change in plans?”

  “I’m afraid so. Zayna, as it turns out, won’t be able to go to Bermuda with me. Something came up in her family. I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel the whole trip. I know how much work you’ve done on this, Patrick, and I’m sorry you’ve gone to all this trouble for . . . I suppose the word is ‘nothing.’ ”

  I felt as if I’d sprung a leak and all my high spirits were hissing out. “It’s no trouble at all. Cancellations are the easiest part of my job.”

  “I’m sorry to be telling you this at the eleventh hour, but I myself only found out last week. I have been trying to get in touch with you. Quite a shock to all of us, frankly.”

  “Kids,” I said. “What can you do?”

  He looked up at me with a hurt expression, and I regretted the comment. He had the unmistakable long face and sagging jowls of a man who’s been dismissed by a lover. No matter what a person’s age, his facial muscles go temporarily slack upon being dumped by a significant—or even insignificant—other. But what had he meant by “a shock to all of us”? Who was the us? Zayna had fallen for her Russian professor, or the man who sold jewelry outside the entrance to the subway, or maybe her roommate; her parents had found out about the affair and were forcing her to press sexual harassment charges; Fields had given her his American Express card and she’d run up a ten-thousand-dollar bill at The Gap and threatened blackmail if he made her return all those T-shirts.

  “I don’t know if it’s appropriate to offer some sort of compensation for your time and effort,” he said, “but if there’s a standard fee, I hope you’ll send a bill.” He paused. “To my office.”

  Mrs. Fields was obviously still in the dark.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “This goes with the territory.” The territory was my kind of job and his kind of love affair. I had his folder on top of my desk, and I leafed through the careful notes I’d made on the trip: dates the plane reservations had been accidentally canceled, desperate calls to Gary Bolton, fax messages to hotels in Bermuda. Stapled to the very back of the folder was a slip from the inn I’d reserved for the weekend trip with his wife. “Will you still be using your other reservations?” I asked.

  “Other reservations?”

  “At the inn? Outside Boston? With Mrs. Fields?”

  “Oh, those,” he said. “No, I don’t think we’ll bother with that trip, either. More trouble for you, I’m afraid. I don’t suppose it’s possible to get back my deposit?”

  Since I’d forgotten to call in his credit card number in the first place, the deposit was hardly an issue. “Their policy is to keep the money, but I might be able to pull a few strings. I can’t guarantee, but I suspect we’ll work something out.”

  He stood up slowly and put on his jacket. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” he said. “Perhaps sometime in the future I’ll be making more definite plans.”

  He stuck out his hand, and I shook it, reminded of the last time I’d gone fishing and had pulled a cold, squirming mackerel off the end of the line.

  I wanted to make a gesture toward him, offer some condolence, tell him he was probably better off without his undergrad girlfriend. I held on to his hand for a second longer than custom allowed, and he slid it from my grasp. Pretend you’re on the Donahue show, I wanted to tell him. Pretend you’re telling millions of people how you’ve triumphed over this compulsion to seduce your students, how much better you feel now than you have in months. Don’t forget how much you love your wife, the strength of your marriage all these years. And then there’s your best-selling self-help book, Coed Codependence.

  But there was nothing I could say. He knew I didn’t believe the niece story, but I was locked into it, one of the pitfalls of making a commitment to a lie.

  The frayed sleeves of his jacket didn’t quite cover his hairy wrists. He gave them a little tug and slumped out. I looked at the folder on my desk, struck by the sudden silence of the office and the faint smell of pipe tobacco he’d left behind. I’d been unfair to him all along. He’d come in for the first time on a Friday afternoon when I was trying to get out to catch an early shuttle to New York to see Jeffrey. He’d begun to grate on my nerves as soon as I found out what he was up to, which, given what I myself was up to, should have made us great pals. If I’d been able to predict this tragic ending, I’d happily have booked everything and on time.

  I should have called Gary Bolton to cancel the reservations, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Maybe Zayna would have a change of heart at the last minute.

  Thirty-five

  It’s often happened to me that in a series of depressing and disorienting situations, the one of least significance hits the hardest. And so I fell into a stupor from which I couldn’t seem to rouse myself, as if the breakup of Fields’s relationship with Zayna and the cancellation of his trip was likely to undermine the shaky foundation of my life.
For much of the rest of the day, I remained inert, staring at green lights on my computer screen and paying no attention to the buzzing of my intercom.

  Sharon wasn’t in much better shape. Ryan had had his dinner with Elaine the night before, and Sharon was at a dead halt, pulled on one side by her desire to call him and find out how it had gone and on the other by her determination to write him off altogether. She and I arranged to spend the evening watching television at her house. She intended to work late but promised she’d show up before nine.

  * * *

  Cambridge was in full spring bloom now, fragrant with dying lilacs and wisteria and mock-orange blossoms. As I left the travel agency that day, the air was sweet and mild, and the windows of the office building across the alley were glowing in the afternoon light. I biked along the one-way streets behind Harvard Square, trying to absorb some of the brilliance of the sunset, letting the breeze blow my hair back. This was the way spring used to be, I thought, and then realized that, at least for today, this was the way spring was. Of course Sharon wasn’t even remotely sentimental about flowers, but something in the fragrance of the air made me want to buy her a bouquet. I turned onto Mass Ave and headed for the florist shop near my gym.

  The sign announcing 15 Days Left was still taped to the window of the place. Two months had passed since I’d first seen it that rainy morning I was heading to New York, and time had disarmed its ominous message. I cupped my hands against the glass and peered through the pane. The owner was behind the counter, smoking and taking snips at a bonsai with pruning shears. He shook his head to indicate he was closed, and I waved back, pretending I didn’t understand. He opened the door, flicked his cigarette butt across the sidewalk and into the gutter. “I’m closed,” he said.

  “I wanted a bunch of irises,” I said. It’s amazing how effective feigned stupidity can be at the right moments, and how effective genuine stupidity is all the time.