Married Sex
Page 14
Not for long.
Ten minutes later, when all the guests had drifted out and the hosts were driven to an even more elite event, I saw my city—and my place in it—through new eyes. The windows of the great apartment buildings, dark all summer, now glowed. Women wore scarves. Blair was, at most, days away. V and I were in sync. My happiness—the possibility of it, the fresh start, atonement—awaited only a time stamp.
I set my iPhone for random music, inserted my ear buds, and listened as I walked. There was even some striding—give me a crisp drummer and a bass player with wit, and I have to resist the urge to dance.
Then I was served a song I knew well: “Joy to You Baby,” by Josh Ritter.
The song came with a story, and because it was one of Blair’s favorites, I knew it. A year after he married another musician, Ritter was on tour, in some godforsaken hotel in some distant city, when his wife called and ended the marriage. He was crushed. All he could do was write, and that he did—boxes of bitter, angry verses.
I don’t know how he fought his way out of that gloom, but he did, and in this song, his only wish is joy—joy to the city, joy to the streets, the freeway, the cars, and “joy to you baby, wherever you are tonight.” Joy to his ex-wife? Yes. Even her.
I thought: We can set the rope down. It has been done. It can be done. I can do it.
As a thought exercise, I mouthed the words: Jean, thank you for standing in my way. Blair, I will learn to see you as you are. And the hardest: David, I forgive you.
I walked uptown on Fifth, to that point beyond the museums where the money is quiet and elegance is earned. A black car stopped at the awning of a limestone apartment building. A doorman hurried to greet it. Ralph Lauren stepped out and shook the doorman’s hand. Not a required gesture, just a very human one. Something he did. Something he probably did every night.
I liked that. It was just the kind of anecdote I wanted to tell Blair.
Chapter 38
In Mongolia, when a baby cries, every woman in the room opens her blouse and shakes her breasts, and the baby smiles and stops crying.
I read that on the Internet, so it must be true.
I read a lot on the Internet that first week in November.
A tasty Thanksgiving turkey requires a night in a saltwater bath. I knew nothing about brining. Now that I do, I will not fail to brine our turkeys.
Bruce Springsteen called his mother when he signed his first recording contract. His mother’s response: “So what did you change your name to?”
The Supreme Court has its own, regulation-size basketball court. They call it “the highest court in the land.”
Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were not the founders of the Rolling Stones. The founders were Brian Jones, who died a few years later, and Ian Stewart, a great piano player who, the band’s manager decided, had the wrong look. After he was fired, Stewart became the Stones’ road manager. He died, at forty-seven, of a heart attack in the office of his cardiologist.
I could go on …
Mostly, I kept my head down and worked steadily during the day.
At night, I kept my head sober and the apartment pristine.
And then, later at night, I thought of my reunion with Blair.
Running the reservoir in the morning, passing the south steps, and there, at the top of the stairs … Blair.
A woman who says she needs a divorce lawyer makes an appointment. Victoria refers her to me. I assume she’s sixty. She enters … Blair.
Blair and I support WFUV, the local alternative rock radio station. They’re sponsoring a small acoustic concert with our favorite singer-songwriter. I arrive early. Someone tapes a RESERVED sign on the seat next to me. Just before the lights dim, a woman removes the sign … Blair.
I’m writing an article for the Style section of the Sunday Times about cheaters’ websites. The angle is the predictability of the men; many look for women who are like their wives, just sleeker. To gather information, I sign up for one. Purely for journalistic purposes, I suggest a meeting with a woman who reminds me of Blair. When we meet … Blair.
Reboot calls to tell me he’s found something I should see. I rush to the fountain overlooking the pond in Central Park. Waiting for me … Blair.
A hostess sends an invitation for a dinner party. I reply that I’ll be coming solo. When I arrive … Blair.
Or the ultimate: the beach. I’m walking, swathed in despair. In the distance, coming toward me, a woman. Can it be? I walk faster. She walks faster. Then we’re running but in slow motion. We strain. We pump. Music swells. I fall into her arms … Blair.
What actually happened? It was early evening. The World Series had finally ended. A Kenyan with a beautiful smile had won the marathon. Piles of leaves in the park. Sweaters. Stews and short ribs on restaurant menus. Bordeaux on display in the wine store.
And I was out of milk.
On Central Park West, walking back from the deli, I saw a woman coming toward me who looked like Blair. Walked like Blair. Pulling a suitcase. Had a large bag over her shoulder just like Blair’s.
We met in front of our building.
She was crying. But not as hard as I was.
A wordless hug. Fierce. On both sides, fierce.
“We were out of milk,” I said, very aware of the plural.
“I’ll make coffee,” she said.
We walked into the lobby together, murmuring good evening to the doorman as if there was nothing unusual about tenants he hadn’t seen together for more than a month greeting him with tears streaming down their faces and smiling.
In the elevator, I grabbed Blair, held her tight.
Then, because that seemed too fast, too premature, I let her go.
We stood in the elevator, not touching, looking at each other. The door closed. Neither of us moved to press a button.
It’s possible to communicate without speaking, and in the way we were looking at each other, we were doing that—shifting the power, letting the scales balance, finding where we were and starting there. But words seal understanding, and we knew what they were and how simple.
The words were about compassion and tolerance and not running away from discomfort. We stood together and whispered them to each other. I pressed the button. We started to rise.
Then Blair took a step, and I took a step, and we held each other.
Acknowledgments
This book was conceived several presidents ago, put on hold while I had a 24/7 job, and periodically pushed to the side by life events, so the support of friends has been crucial. I’m grateful to the community that makes HeadButler.com possible, especially the 125 readers who made their way through an early draft and offered suggestions. At Open Road, where I’ve had an experience that writers dream of, I am beyond indebted to Jane Friedman, Tina Pohlman, Sarah Yurch, Laura De Silva, and my impeccable editor, Maggie Crawford. I thank Alan Sacks for legal advice delivered in a South African accent. Others who cheered me on include Pamela Barr, Geraldine Baum, Louise Bernikow, Carroll Bogert, Michael Bush, Marshall Cohen, David Patrick Columbia, Frank Delaney, Julie Du Brow, Pimm Fox, Justin Frank, Christina Green Gerry, Wendy Goldberg, Beth Gutcheon, Stephen Hanan, Paul Hoppe, Erin Johnson, Bob Jeffrey, Tsipi Keller, Craig Lambert, Susan Lehman, Diane Meier, Kriena Nederveen, Donna Paul, Judy Resnick, Colette Rhoney, Bob Sabbag, Marian Salzman, Kate Seward, Sheila Weller, and Kitty Wise. Special thanks to friends who went above and beyond: Renata Adler, Dominique Browning, Gretl Claggett, Carol Fitzgerald, Joy Frelinghuysen, Alison Franklin, Julie Metz, N. E. Lasater, Esther Perel, and Paige Peterson. Many thanks to Bob Pittman and Ken Lerer, who hired me at AOL and, in essence, provided the writing fellowship that made this book possible. Thanks to Liane Reed, Richard Kornbluth, and Pearl Kornbluth for never suggesting I might be casting shame on the family. And, most of all, to my wife, for her saintly tolerance, and our teenage da
ughter, for her total disdain.
About the Author
Jesse Kornbluth is the founder of HeadButler.com, a cultural concierge site. He has served as editorial director of AOL, cofounded Bookreporter.com, and was a contributing editor to Vanity Fair, New York, and Architectural Digest. The author of four nonfiction books, including Highly Confident: The Crime and Punishment of Michael Milken, he has written screenplays for Paul Newman, Robert De Niro, ABC, PBS, and Warner Bros.
Married Sex is Kornbluth’s first novel. He lives in Manhattan with his family.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Jesse Kornbluth
Excerpt from “Woman” from The Complete Poems by Randall Jarrell copyright © 1969, renewed 1997 by Mary von S. Jarrell, reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.
Lyrics from “Joy to You Baby” written by Josh Ritter, reprinted by permission of Rural Songs.
Cover design by Andy Ross
978-1-5040-1122-8
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