No.
And then—to add the ultimate insult to injury—she gave him the finger.
How could she?
He’s angry, so angry, and it’s all her fault.
No—all Jamie’s fault.
Jamie is the one who told Jerry that he could have a girlfriend now. Mama always said no to that—no to girlfriends, no to friends, no to everything. But Mama’s not around anymore, and Jamie is, and Jamie says Jerry can have a girlfriend if he wants.
He does want to.
He wants to love a girl and have her love him back—just like in that song he likes so much, the one by Alicia Keys. The one where she sings about how she never loved someone the way that she loves you.
Jerry likes to play that song over and over and over and think about Kristina.
Sometimes Jamie puts up with it; other times, Jerry has to turn off the music because, as Jamie says, it can drive a person crazy, playing over and over and over like that.
The other day, Jamie said, “Enough already! If you’re so in love with this girl, then do something about it.”
“What?”
“Let her know you like her. Maybe . . . send her a gift, to start. Like a secret admirer. That will get her interested. Send her something she likes.”
“Cake?”
“No, not cake.”
“Everyone likes cake.”
“Something more . . . personal. Special. What does she like?”
“Music.” Jerry thought about that. “I like music, too. I like Alicia Keys. But I can’t send her music because she doesn’t have a CD player anymore.”
“Then that’s what you’ll send her. I’ll help you. You’ll get her interested, make her curious, and then you’ll tell her it was from you, and you’ll ask her out.”
“I . . . I don’t know what I’d say.”
“I’ll help you,” Jamie said again.
What would Jerry do without Jamie?
“We’ll practice, okay?”
“Practice?”
“You get one chance, Jerry. You gotta get it right. I’ll tell you what to say.”
Somehow, the words sounded a lot smoother when Jamie said them. Jerry couldn’t manage to make them sound good even to himself, in the mirror, practicing. He heard the quaking in his voice and saw how his hands were twitching, and he knew he wasn’t ready.
Jamie didn’t listen, just said to go for it. Jamie made me do it. I knew I needed another day, maybe two, to get ready for this.
But then, out of nowhere . . .
“There she is!” Jamie whispered, and sure enough, there she was, Kristina, right there on the closed-circuit TV screen.
Not long after she’d carried the CD player into her apartment, Jerry saw her coming back out.
Last week, Mr. Reiss, the building’s owner, had cameras installed in the building’s public areas, hoping to catch a burglar who had broken into a few apartments. He showed Jerry where they are and how they work, and he told him to keep an eye on things.
Jerry did.
He especially kept an eye on Kristina.
“She’s probably coming to thank you for the gift,” Jamie said.
Confused, Jerry protested, “But she doesn’t know it was from me yet.”
“Sure she does. Go!”
So Jerry was waiting there in the hall when she burst through the stairwell door right in front of him, so close that he could smell her, and see down inside her shirt, and . . .
And he got to actually touch her at last, and her skin was so soft and warm, just like he’d always imagined . . .
And he heard Jamie’s voice echoing in his head, and he heard Alicia Keys singing about falling in love, and he heard his own voice, out loud, talking to Kristina, saying her name, asking her to go out with him . . .
No.
That’s what she said, and it was over, just like that.
“Whatever you do, don’t blow it, Jerry,” Jamie had said, at the end of that pep talk about Kristina—and what did Jerry go and do?
He blew it. She said no.
Jerry stops walking and tilts his throbbing head back. His face is wet. Rain. Tears.
He screams into the New York City night, “Noooooooooooo!”
Stepping out of the cab in front of her five-story brick apartment building, Allison wobbles a little on her four-inch heels. The pinot grigio she drank at the Marc Jacobs after-party went straight to her head after a long day and very little food.
Did she even have any food?
She honestly can’t remember. There must have been some at the party, but hardly anyone in the industry ever eats in public. Hell, hardly anyone in the industry ever eats, period.
Sometimes, Allison amuses herself by imagining her glamorous colleagues finding themselves plopped down in the middle of her hometown.
Back in Centerfield, parties—not that Allison was invited to many—were invariably casual, jeans-and-flannel, chow-down affairs, with everyone bringing a dish-to-pass. Hellmann’s-laced appetizers, creamy Campbell’s soup casseroles, Velveeta in any number of forms . . .
If there was food at the Jacobs party, she’s pretty sure none of it contained a single ingredient you’d find in the packaged goods aisle at ShopRite.
She’ll never forget what it felt like to be out there on the riverfront tonight with the world’s most famous, glittering skyline as a backdrop; rubbing shoulders with the beautiful people; making small talk with Sarah Jessica Parker and Hilary Swank in the glow of what seemed like thousands of candles . . .
It was magical, that’s what it was. The kind of night she dreamed about when she was a food stamps kid back in Centerfield.
Still walking, Allison fumbles in the bottom of her purse for her keys, and her heel wedges in a sidewalk crack. She stumbles, staggers, but somehow manages not to fall.
“Nice save!”
Startled by the voice, Allison looks toward it and sees that someone is sitting in the shadows on her building’s concrete steps.
Her first thought is for her safety. It’s late, and the street is deserted, and someone’s been breaking into apartments lately . . .
But a burglar wouldn’t linger.
She steps closer and it takes her a moment to place the man’s familiar face: Mack, who moved in across the hall from her a few months ago after Mrs. Ogden died.
“You okay there?” he asks.
“Oh, I totally planned that. It’s part of my new workout routine.”
He laughs. “Seriously—are you all right?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Embarrassed, and hoping he doesn’t think she’s drunk—is she drunk?—she tilts her open handbag toward a streetlight’s glow, still fumbling for her keys.
On the steps, Mack flicks a lighter, and she looks over to see him with a cigarette between his lips. It surprises her, for some reason—and so does the fact that he’s wearing a pair of threadbare faded jeans with flip-flops and an ancient-looking Bon Jovi concert T-shirt.
He’s always struck her as a clean-cut, button-down type—the kind of guy who, if he even drinks, prefers Bud to bourbon. And probably in a nice glass mug, too, as opposed to straight from the bottle.
Noticing her taking it all in, he holds up a pack of cigarettes.
Well, well, well—a Marlboro man.
“Want one?” he asks.
Desperately.
But she shakes her head. “I quit a few years ago.”
“Yeah. Me too. Not that long ago, but . . .”
She contemplates that—along with his clothing and the reckless note in his voice. “Um, are you okay?”
He doesn’t answer her at first, just exhales a cloud of smoke. Then he says, “Sure.”
“Really?”
Ignoring that, he says, “Kind of late to be coming from wo
rk, don’t you think?”
“I was at a party.”
“Did you have a good time?”
“Definitely.”
“What kind of party was it?”
Surprised that he’d even care, she tells him about it as he sits and smokes and nods, with apparent interest in his green eyes. Too light to be Nebraska-field green, but not money green, either. So different from Bill, the seemingly self-absorbed guy whose cab she shared earlier tonight. His business card is somewhere in the bottom of her purse—hopefully along with her keys.
Too bad Mack is married, she finds herself thinking.
But that doesn’t mean he can’t become a friend. A nice, normal friend, as opposed to the over-the-top, self-absorbed fashionistas she’s met through her job.
That’s what’s missing in her life in New York. Normal friends, the kind of people she can really talk to. Few people here even know about her troubled small-town past—not because she’s unwilling to tell, but because she hasn’t come across many people who’d think to ask. Not even Kristina. She talks a lot, but doesn’t ask questions.
Maybe I don’t ask enough, either, Allison thinks.
Funny how she assumed, until tonight, that she knew everything about this guy, and it turns out she doesn’t know anything at all, really. Not even his first name—assuming Mack is an abbreviation for his last—or where he works.
Now who’s self-absorbed?
To be fair, she’s never had much opportunity to find out, since she’s only ever spoken to him in passing. Same with his wife—although she knows that Carrie is an executive assistant at a global financial firm called Cantor-something. Allison always remembers the first part of the name, because it makes her think about horses and, by association, Nebraska.
“It’s spelled differently,” Carrie said when Allison mentioned the horse connection to her one day not long ago, and Carrie shook her head. “It’s Cantor—with an O. Not canter, with an E.”
“No, I know, but they sound the same.”
“But they’re not,” Carrie snapped.
Wow—someone has major PMS today, Allison remembers thinking.
Carrie always struck her as one of those hyper-efficient women who is perpetually preoccupied and ready to move on to the next thing. Not unfriendly, just . . . busy. Lately, though, she seems to have developed a hint of malcontent.
Maybe that’s why her husband is out here in the middle of the night, alone, smoking.
“Mack, can I ask—what’s your name?” Allison blurts out.
He raises an eyebrow at her. “Uh—it’s Mack. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“No, I mean—that’s short for MacKenna, right?” At his nod, she goes on, “I just wondered what your first name is.”
“James. My father was in the music industry—he worked for a record label—and my mother thought it would be cute to name me Jimmy Mack—you know, after the song. It was really popular the year I was born.”
“Which was . . . ?”
He grins. “I’m not telling. Look it up. Martha and the Vandellas.”
“I will.” She pauses. “So everyone called you Jimmy Mack?”
“No one did, thank God. Not even my mother. My family called me Jimmy until I started school, and then there were four other kids with that name in my kindergarten class.”
“Guess it was popular.”
“Still is. How many Jimmys, Jims, and Jameses do you know?”
She thinks about it. “A bunch.”
“Exactly. That’s why everyone’s called me Mack all these years.” He takes a drag on his cigarette.
After a moment of silence, Allison asks, “So . . . what do you do? For a living, I mean.”
“What is this, an interview?”
She shrugs, not sure what this is, exactly. She just knows that she’s curious about him—and anyway, he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s smiling.
“I told you about my job,” she points out.
“True.” He taps the cigarette with his forefinger, dropping an ash. “I sell advertising for a television network.”
“Really?”
“You sound shocked.”
“Shocked is . . . I mean, that’s a strong word. But I am surprised.”
“Why?”
The wine is making her unusually candid. “I don’t know—that just sounds kind of . . . I don’t know, more laid back than . . . uh . . .”
“Than I am?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t worry.” He breaks off to yawn deeply, then adds, “Trust me, a lot of people say that. Usually people who haven’t known me for very long.”
“Why? Have you changed?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Not me.
Allison always knew what she wanted out of life, and that it would mean putting Centerfield behind her. She prides herself in having set goals and stuck to her plan for achieving them.
“But,” Mack says, “it’s too bad people have to go and change, because if they didn’t, relationships would be a hell of a lot easier, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know about that.” Relationships—is he talking about his wife?
“C’mon—you know it’s true. Think about it . . .”
She doesn’t want to think about it. She’s tired, and she might be drunk, and he might be drunk, too—and this conversation has gone on too long.
Allison pokes around inside her bag, looking for her keys. “Uh-oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My keys . . .” Suddenly remembering where she put them, she unzips the lining pocket. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought I lost them.”
“That would not be good.”
“No, but Kristina—do you know Kristina Haines? She lives upstairs?”
“Yeah, I know Kristina.”
The bit of edge in his voice causes something to click in Allison’s brain, and she remembers what Kristina said the other day about married men.
Is it possible that Kristina and Mack . . . ?
“What about her?” Mack is asking.
As Kristina herself said, anything’s possible. Even carrying on a sordid affair right under Allison’s nose—not to mention Carrie’s.
For some reason, she’d really like to believe that Mr. Nice Guy here is happily married. Somebody has to be, right? Somebody other than her brother in Nebraska, anyway.
Brett got married right out of high school. His wife is from Hayes Township and her name is Cynthia Louise. Naturally, everyone calls her Cindy-Lou—except Brett, who calls her Cindy Lou-Who.
And Allison, who insists on calling her just plain Cindy.
Her brother lives with his wife and their kids on Cindy’s parents’ cattle farm—a fate worse than death, Allison thinks, but she’d never say it to Brett.
No, because if she did, she’s pretty sure he’d say the same thing about her living here, and she really doesn’t want to hear it.
“Kristina . . .” Mack prods.
“No, Allison.”
“No—I mean, you were saying something about Kristina?”
“Oh! Right.” Allison clears her throat. “Just—we gave each other spare sets of keys a while back, but I wouldn’t want to wake her up at this hour to get mine. Anyway . . . now that I have them . . .” She jangles the keychain and checks her watch. “Wow—it’s really late. I’d better go in. Big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah? What’s going on?”
She smiles. “You really want to know? This maternity clothes designer, Liz Lange, is doing the first Fashion Week maternity show ever and she’s actually using pregnant models.”
“That’s . . . great.” Mack isn’t smiling, and he suddenly seems very interested in tapping a nonexistent ash from the end of his cigarette.
Did I say s
omething wrong? Allison wonders.
She hesitates for a moment. “Well, good night. I’d better go get some sleep.”
“Wish I could do the same thing.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Insomnia.”
“Oh.” She eyes his drink and cigarette, wondering whether she should inform him that alcohol and nicotine aren’t exactly sleep aids.
Probably not. He probably already knows that, and if he doesn’t, why should she be the bearer of bad news?
“Maybe you should try warm milk or something,” she suggests.
“That would be like trying to put down an elephant with a Tylenol PM.”
“Well then maybe you should try a tranquilizer dart.”
Her quip is rewarded with an actual laugh.
“Believe me, I’ve tried just about everything. I’ve been dealing with this for as long as I can remember.”
“That stinks.”
“Yeah . . . but that’s how I’m wired. I’m used to it. Like Zevon says, I’ll sleep when I’m dead, right?”
“Zevon?”
“Warren. Warren Zevon.”
She shrugs.
“Are you too young to know that song?”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“Yeah . . . too young.” He grins and shakes his head.
“How old are you?”
“I told you—look it up. But here’s a hint: I’m old enough to have listened to Zevon’s first album as a kid. He was a friend of my dad’s. Anyway, it’s a good song. ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead.’ And that’s my motto.”
She smiles, though for some reason, what he’s saying doesn’t sit well with her.
Ten minutes later, as she crawls into her own bed and closes her eyes, those words are still echoing in her head.
I’ll sleep when I’m dead . . .
PART II
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
William Shakespeare, The Tempest
Chapter Three
September 12, 2001
New York City
3:07 A.M.
The police officer, wearing his NYPD uniform and a bright orange reflective vest, materializes in front of Jerry the moment he rounds the corner onto West Broadway.
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