I was stopped there in the hallway between a thin glass table and the bathroom doors behind me. There was water in my eyes and I didn’t know if it was water from the sink or tears—probably some of both. Then my vision sharpened and she was there, a few steps away, standing out somehow from the bar and the room and the crowd.
◆
Shit, I remember thinking. It’s so primal. How could I notice a woman, even then, in the midst of all that was happening? But I did. Then I realized that my mouth was slightly open and slowly closed my lips. My eyes met hers and I felt self-conscious. I stood there, stuck in the middle of the hallway, getting nudged back and forth by people squeezing by me to go pee. I still clutched a drink in my left hand, and with the heel of my right hand I dabbed at my eyes trying to look like I was only rubbing them. I had barely blinked but she was standing right there. She was beautiful. I tried not to react.
“Are you … ? Do you need help or something?” she asked. She was smiling and sipped a cranberry-colored cocktail, pursing her lips around one of those thin black cocktail straws. I once read that whoever speaks first will always dominate a relationship. She seemed sincere, gently sarcastic, and flirtatious—all at the same time. I still hadn’t spoken when she added, “Wait”—her forehead furrowed a bit—“do you?” This time she was serious.
“Do I?” I repeated.
“Do you need help?”
“No, of course not,” I said, chuckling and forcing a smile onto my face.
“Then you know that you’re soaking wet?”
“I am aware of that,” I replied softly, nodding a little. I was smiling, slightly but confidently. “Someone had better fix that sink or they’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” I said, sort of half-heartedly joking, barely making the effort.
“Sure.” Another big sip.
“What’s your name?” I asked. There were people pushing by us and the music was soft but still out of place.
“You look like you’re a lawyer,” she said, not really grinning enough to seem playful.
“Lawyers can have lawyers.”
“So you are. Hmm. That was easy.”
“Yeah,” I replied, “it was.” I already felt helpless. And somehow the conversation didn’t feel like it usually did—like a negotiation or the preamble to an acquisition. Instead of comforting me, it made me sad. Maybe something was opening in me, and maybe Mark had caused that, but maybe it was just a wound.
“You’re completely drenched. I mean, there’s water running down your neck. It’s all over the top of your shirt. Did you spill something?”
I laughed a little again. “Clearly,” I said, still smiling. “Jack Trayner,” I added, extending my free hand. “Your name?”
She took my hand and shook it casually while saying, “Michelle. You know, you’re a mess. You’re wrecked, Jack.” She smiled and sipped again, gently making fun of me.
“I am. I’m wrecked.”
◆
I guess I just felt like Jack Trayner when I walked out of that bathroom and saw Michelle and then we talked. Inside each of us is a little polygraph that lights up something in our hearts when we are in alignment with “truth.” I told her the truth then and I want to do that now about everything. In the first moments of an important meeting, the less one tries the better one does. It’s just like golf—the harder you try to kill the ball, the more likely you are to shank it. I couldn’t have tried any less and I think it was appealing to her. I didn’t even try to appear as if I wasn’t trying.
“I’m soaking wet, I’m drunk, and I’ll tell you what else, Michelle. I don’t even know what bar we’re in. And that’s the truth. Quite a thing.” And I nodded my head and swigged some of my drink. I hit it straight and long right up the middle of the fairway.
“Yeah. Very impressive,” she said. “Come with me, Jack. I think my friends may get a kick out of you.”
That’s how things start sometimes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:
CARRIE TOMORROW
Carrie and I will arrange to meet at an upscale, old Italian Ristorante on the Upper East Side near the hospital. I’ll suggest an early dinner at six so she can come directly from visiting Philip, but also because it will feel safer to meet her earlier in the evening, when it’s still light outside, when the ghosts might still be sleeping. We’ll meet at the restaurant and she’ll be dressed casually in a blue and black printed sundress that will cling to her thin frame, and wear sandals on her feet. She will still be beautiful and I’ll resent that she won’t appear to have put on a single pound in twenty years.
“Do you want to split a salad?” she’ll ask.
“Sure,” I’ll reply automatically, uncomfortable with the suggestion.
“The arugula?”
“Okay.”
I won’t believe we’re there, that she’s there, discussing salad choices. I’ll be reeling a little and order a double Scotch to help me get a hold of myself and keep it all in check. Carrie will order a Chardonnay. She’ll decide to try the artichoke lasagna; I’ll get the steak, although I won’t think I can eat. We will of course. And we’ll talk about law school, and people we knew, and the law and Boston and what Mark did in junior high. We’ll talk about when Mark came out, and his first boyfriend and when he broke his leg in eighth grade by falling off a fence. We’ll talk about Philip too. We won’t talk much about ourselves, and we won’t talk about the “us” that ended twenty years before until the dinner is nearly over.
After I pay the check Carrie will say, “Jack, what are you doing now?” Her question will hang in the air with the impact of a job offer or perhaps a marriage proposal. At least it will feel that way to me. I won’t respond and she’ll add, “Come back to my hotel, come have a drink. Let’s hang out and drink and talk about things.”
“Like we used to?” I’ll ask her.
“Fuckin’ A,” she’ll say with a wry smile.
I’ll pause, and we’ll look at each other, unsmiling, and I’ll quietly say, “All right,” and we’ll push our chairs back from the table at the same time. This is what I imagine.
◆
In the cab on the way to the midtown W Hotel we’ll kiss passionately, my right arm draped behind the nape of her neck, my left hand clutching at her breasts beneath her sheer sundress. I won’t think about her husband, or her, or me, or Philip, or Mark, or things like love or death and will only think about what I will not want to feel. I’ll want the absence of pain, the absence of loss and longing—and let her be the balm on my wound. She owes me that. Let her give me more than she has. Give back. It’ll be like coke, like unwrapping a gram, like going forward on a rollercoaster. That rush. The rush of “feeling better.” Finally.
We’ll go to the bar and order vodka martinis and gulp at the cold, straight vodka but then forego the drinks and agree to go upstairs. I’ll pay the tab and take her hand and we’ll go to her room on the eighth floor of the W and open the door with the card key causing a metallic click of the bolt. Without speaking we’ll undress each other quickly, not frenzied, but with purpose. I’ll take her breast into my mouth and think, “Ahh …” and then allow my mantra to return and repeat, “Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, don’t think,” and push my hand up under her dress and pry my fingers into the wetness between my Carrie’s legs and oh God to be there again. She’ll rub my crotch and then unbutton my pants and take me in her hand and then place it in her mouth and then soon I will be pushing myself inside of her, on top of my love Carrie, my mouth on top of hers, tongues twisted together and me inside of her and we’ll make love again. And time will fall away. Evaporate, and surrender to me. This is what I pray.
Then, there will be a moment when I will stop, and my vision will focus and our eyes will meet, despite us, and she’ll say, “Do it more.”
“I still… .”
“What?”
“Nothing,” I’ll whisper, perched on my forearms, lording over Carrie Franco, inside of her, where I shouldn’t be.
“Finish, Jack,” she’ll whisper.
“I still—”
“You still love me?”
“I still … don’t feel better.”
Carrie will stroke the back of my head with her fingertips. She’ll lean her face up to kiss my lips with her lips. We’ll renew the motion of sex and I’ll come right inside of her and the mélange of feelings will all be there, like the myriad of colors on a palate, all waiting to be chosen and used to have pictures painted with them.
PART V: THE REPLACEMENT HEART
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:
MY DINNER WITH CARRIE
Meeting Michelle on that particular day, July 23rd, seems to be significant. I’m not suggesting that the world has some kind of a plan—I abandoned Jesus a lifetime ago and all gods are vindictive and good with a grudge—but it was not accidental, and that is a strange realization to walk around with. I had just left Philip and Mark at the hospital; I had dinner plans with Carrie the next evening.
“Sit here,” Michelle said to me that day, offering me the only empty chair, and leaving me feeling just a bit emasculated.
“No, please,” I said, motioning toward the chair, and she took it without hesitation. She was smiling—took the chair and emasculated me. She did it in just two words and then I stood beside her feeling as if I was somehow her attendant.
“This is Jack, everyone. Jack … what did you say again?” she asked, referring to my last name.
“Smith. Jack Smith,” I said, extending my hand to some of her friends at the table.
“No, really?” she asked.
“Jack Trayner.”
I suppose it was my private joke with myself. Look at me, I thought, “so completely fed up and out of control that I am giving out my real last name. Tomorrow I’ll go out in the cold without a sweater …” But I was definitely leaving the business.
“Michelle Hammond,” she said, taking my hand. I nodded. I finally felt invited when she uttered her last name.
“Jack’s drunk,” she said to the table, “he’s kind of wet, as you can plainly see, and he claims to not even know what bar he is in or why.”
“Well, ’e’ll fit right in, this one,” some guy with an Australian accent said. “Martin,” he said, and shook my hand. He had a suit on but no tie. He wasn’t well-shaved and his hair was roughed up as if he were about to go onstage with an indie rock band. His elbow was braced on the table for support, face angled down at his drink. He was cocked.
“You all work together?” I asked, and I shook a hand or two and made a little small talk and she trusted me enough, right away, to turn and talk to someone else when I had only joined her group a moment before. “Anderson-Compton,” someone said, “interactive advertising.” Someone else said, “Agency work, constant stress.” “Working for Michelle … ,” someone quipped with a smile and roll of the eyes.
“Me?” I uttered, when asked about my line of work.
“Radical jihadist,” Michelle said on my behalf. “Just look at him.”
Michelle was so damn noticeable, and I was struck, yet I was in several places all at once in my mind—long ago, and now, and soon-to-come.
◆
Carrie and I arranged to meet at an upscale, old Italian Ristorante on the Upper East Side near the hospital. I suggested an early dinner at six so she could come directly from visiting Philip, but also because it felt safer to meet her earlier in the evening, when it was still light outside, when the ghosts might still be sleeping. We met at the restaurant and she was dressed casually in a blue and black printed sundress that clung to her thin frame, and wore sandals on her feet. She was still beautiful and I resented that she didn’t appear to have put on a single pound in twenty years.
“Do you want to split a salad?” she asked.
“Sure,” I replied automatically, uncomfortable with the suggestion.
“The arugula?”
“Okay.”
I couldn’t believe we were there, that she was there, discussing salad choices. I was reeling a little and ordered a double Scotch to help me get hold of myself and keep it all in check. Carrie ordered a Chardonnay. She decided to try the artichoke lasagna; I got the steak, although I didn’t think I could eat. We did of course. And we talked about law school, and people we knew, and the law and Boston and what Mark did in junior high. We talked about when Mark came out, and his first boyfriend and when he broke his leg in eighth grade by falling off a fence. We talked about Philip too. We did not talk much about ourselves, and we didn’t talk about the “us” that ended twenty years before until the dinner was nearly over.
After I paid the check Carrie said, “Jack, what are you doing now?” Her question hung in the air with the impact of a job offer or perhaps a marriage proposal. At least it felt that way to me. I didn’t respond and she said, “Come back to my hotel, come have a drink. Let’s hang out and drink and talk about things.”
“Like we used to?” I asked her.
“Fuckin’ A,” she said with a wry smile.
“I can’t get that kid a heart, Carrie.” And we stopped dancing around it entirely. The restaurant was real, and Carrie was real, but I was New York Jack, and too many years had slipped between me and the plans I should have made. Happy endings are uncommon.
“What?”
“I wish I could.”
“Do you think I want to sleep with you so you’ll help Philip?” she said calmly and directly. Carrie.
“I’m just saying that I can’t.”
“Is that what you think I was doing?”
“I have no idea.”
“Really?” she said. “Because I would, Jack. I would sleep with you a hundred times if it would help him. I’d sleep with anyone a hundred times if it would help him. Please.”
I had fantasized about having a dinner like that with Carrie on and off for twenty years. I had never called her. I had never tried to contact her or to go see her and try to fix things, but I had never let it go either. I never realized quite how strange that was until I was again sitting across a table from her.
“Carrie,” I said, “I would help him if I could. You wouldn’t have to ask. Even now, all the shit we went through at the end and all the shit I’ve turned my life into ever since then, I still don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you. Or to help Mark. That kid is the only beautiful thing I have ever been a part of. He’s great, Carrie. He’s like you,” I said and found myself smiling. It was a parental smile. “If Philip needed a kidney,” I continued, “I’d have it fixed by the end of the week.”
“That really is what you do?” she asked in a whisper.
“That’s what I do.”
“I don’t need to know details, but that’s what you do? That’s your career?”
I nodded and said nothing.
“Then can’t you help him somehow?”
“A heart is different. And he’s got AIDS and despite who I know or who his father is … some problems just can’t be fixed.”
“Don’t say that, Jack.”
“Carrie, I’ll try, but Harold Lauer is talking to a guy now who is probably the right guy anyway. It’s a small world in my business. I hear things. He’s already talking to the best guy to help them.”
“That’s good. I’ve spoken to Harold Lauer. He’s determined to help him, and he’s a very capable man. But I was talking about you, Jack … Twenty years ago I was a kid too. You always thought I had it so together, but I was just a kid too, and then I was a pregnant kid. I had ideas about what my career should look like. Now I’m a mother …”
I smiled. “What are you talking about, Carrie?” I asked with a laugh.
“I just want you to be okay,” she said, her eyes welling up with tears.
I would never insult Carrie by appeasing her with the answer she wanted to hear, as opposed to the truth. “Some problems just can’t be fixed,” I said.
◆
We stared at each other across the table and she reached out and took
my hand. I gasped a little and hoped she hadn’t heard me. Suddenly, we were back in her room at NYU. We weren’t fighting about coke or the future. It was before then. We had found each other. We were in sync and we laughed all the time and we were better together than alone. We stayed up until five just to talk about random philosophies and laugh about people we knew and delight in feeling together. Carrie was the Xanax in my pocket, the bullet in my gun that I would never use. She wasn’t in my life now, but she was alive and functioning out there somewhere in the world and I felt better to be reassured about that.
“You still have snow globes?” I asked her.
“Snow globes?”
“Like you had in college. You had a few. Did you collect them or something?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really remember.”
“Oh.” I said.
“I don’t think we should see each other for a while, Jack,” she said.
I watched her attentively but said nothing.
“Jack?”
“It was great seeing you again, Carrie,” I said.
“Yeah, I should go.”
She’ll get a taxi, I thought. She’ll call Ken to check in when she gets back to the hotel. She’s probably having brunch with Mark tomorrow. That’s good. My palms were flat on the table. I kept them there as if I were trying to do a magic trick and levitate the whole thing. I was not. I was trying not to fall over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:
JACK AND MICHELLE
At the end of July I was holding off Wallace by telling him that I was working on it and wanted to make it happen. Philip was at Cornell. He was stable but in the ICU and my guess was that he would not be leaving unless it was to go to South Africa, or a cemetery. Despite those circumstances I emailed Michelle and flirted like a schoolboy. She agreed to have dinner with me. Bistro Margeaux in Soho. It was great. Drinks at Café Gitane in Nolita the next week. That documentary about the tightrope walker who tiptoed between the Twin Towers that Michelle had been wanting to see. Popcorn and bottles of water and holding hands in the dark like kids.
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