“Come on, Sylvia, don’t do that…” She didn’t answer—her eyes as sheerly unemotional as the lenses of the sunglasses she’d worn. “I’m sorry,” he told her. She began to gather her power cord and other things into her bag. “Don’t say goodbye like this.” She let out a sharp, sarcastic scoff. He knew, he ought to let her go. But in some way it was easier to say, “I need your signature. For the credit check and shit.”
She stopped, her face still down toward the open mouth of her bag. “It surprises me you want to live with a spoiled conservative snob.”
“But you’re my favorite conservative snob.” She showed no trace of amusement, and the joke had been halfhearted at best. “I got angry—I didn’t sleep, I … I didn’t give that woman money to insult you.”
She shook her head—either at him, or herself. She looked at him assessingly for a moment—then took the papers and signed them. “You gave that woman forty dollars, and you made me feel like shit. I hope you understand what that means.”
He was sure he didn’t, but he said, “I get it, I’m sorry.”
She let out a slow, irritated sigh—the sigh of a claim to infinite patience. “If this is going to work … Do you want this to work, Jonah?”
He knew there was a truthful answer to this question in some far-off corner of his mind—but it appeared so distant, he felt so tired, that retrieving it seemed impossible. “Of course,” he said.
“Then it will,” she said with determination—determination that he realized was as necessary a condition of their relationship as any quality each found attractive in the other. “We can decide to make it work.”
As she looked at him, her face softened—if slightly, if only for the sake of appearing to soften. She gave his hand a token squeeze; he leaned forward to kiss her, but she drew away. The hand squeeze was going to be the extent of it. She picked up her oversize bag and slung it over her shoulder and went out the door. His relief as it closed was inestimable, as was the strangeness of how much he immediately missed her.
Within five minutes he had the shades down, had dug the noise-canceling headphones he used on long-haul flights out of a drawer, had kicked off his shoes and lain down in bed. The blackness flooded and churned behind his eyes—but he didn’t sleep. He felt too adrift in the space of his own head to sleep.
They were, empirically, so compatible: They were about as attractive as each other, they made about the same amount of money, they were both white New Englanders from divorced homes, they shared (well, had shared) a basic disinterest in organized religion, they were the same age, had the same build. They made each other laugh, they liked a lot of the same movies; he wasn’t intimidated by her success or ambition, she gave him blow jobs in restaurants. In sum, they made a lot of sense. One could even say there was no rational reason why they should not be together. And this, Jonah finally understood, was the only reason they were together at all—the only reason they’d progressed beyond a first date, the only reason they might progress any further.
They liked each other—they loved each other. They could probably convince themselves to spend the rest of their lives together. But there was some form of trust or belief or blind affection they simply had no capacity to feel for each other. Ultimately—they had no faith in each other.
His wallet and phone formed an awkward bulge in his pocket. He pulled them out and, as he did, he found a card stuck to the wallet. He saw Guru Phil—whose serenity was ensured because it was based merely on existence. Which was all well and good, Jonah thought, except for the times when existence sucked—when it was contradictory and answerless—when you were assaulted by— He crumpled up the card and tossed it to the floor. It settled among the massive dust clusters and half-consumed bottles of water that lived like the relics of some lost civilization beneath his bed. He didn’t so much fall into sleep as he was swallowed up by it.
5. THE SHIP WAS IN DANGER OF BREAKING UP
Jonah awoke feeling greatly refreshed, greatly relieved that his sleep had been dreamless. He looked at his phone, laying on the bed beside him: It was ten in the morning. He felt better still as he scrolled through his emails, considered the day ahead of him—a Sunday ensconced in his office, reading through the boxes of BBEC files. He had his job to do: his rationally defined, entirely predictable, emotionally characterless, utterly secular job.
He took his time showering, and, finding himself unusually hungry for this hour of the day—his first meal typically not eaten until about one—he detoured on his trip to the subway to a bodega, bought two egg-and-cheese sandwiches and a pack of cigarettes. He ate one of the former and smoked two of the latter on his way to the train. The station was a little more crowded than he would have expected for a Sunday morning, but by then it was almost eleven; he figured people were heading out to brunch.
813 Lexington was surprisingly busy, as well. The lobby, with its familiar tree—which he was particularly glad to see today—was filled with suited men and women engaged in intent-faced, jargon-laden conversations, just as it would have been during the week. Jonah even felt a little underdressed, in his jeans and polo. The bankers must have had some Chinese or Saudi oligarch in today, he concluded as he boarded the elevator. As he rode up, he returned to the emails on his phone. New messages had poured in overnight, were still accumulating now. He was looking over these messages as he made his way down the hall—and was surprised to find Dolores at her desk outside his office.
“You came in today?” he said to her.
She seemed not to know how to respond. “There are several messages,” she said.
“There are?” He frowned—glanced down the hallway: full of lawyers, paralegals, assistants. The nickel was dropping by the time he said to her, “What day is it?”
“The sixteenth,” she answered.
“What day of the week is it?” he said impatiently.
“Monday.”
He rushed into his office, slammed the door behind him, shouted, “Fuck!” as he threw his briefcase onto the desk. This was just unfair: Somehow he’d slept for nearly forty hours. It certainly explained why he’d awakened feeling so reinvigorated, he noted bitterly. So much for that. He sat down at his desk, looked at his inbox on his phone again—it made a lot more sense, knowing that these messages had been piling up for almost two days. He counted at least five from Sylvia.
Dolores knocked and came in. “Mr. Chen wants to see you this afternoon,” she said.
His eyes fell on two towers of boxes of unread BBEC files that had been stacked by his door. His iPhone began to ring. It was Sylvia. “See if he has anything after four,” he said to Dolores.
“Would you like to see him at four-thirty?”
“What did I say?” he answered hotly. “Anytime after four.” She turned and left and he answered the call. “Hey,” he said into the phone.
“Hi,” Sylvia said evenly. “So I guess we’re not talking right now, but I just wanted to know if you’d heard from Brett.”
“Brett?”
“The loft.”
He covered the phone, shouted out the door, “Dolores!” He removed his hand. “Look,” he said to Sylvia as he opened his briefcase, “it isn’t that we’re not talking, but I had a…” Dolores appeared in his doorway—he shuffled hastily through the papers in his briefcase, looking for the rental application.
“You said you wanted to work on things, Jonah, and I believed you meant it. But I don’t see how you think that’s accomplished by ignoring my calls and emails.”
“No, I agree, I agree,” he said, finding the application.
“You agree?”
He handed the application to Dolores, put his hand over the phone. “Fax that to Corcoran. Brett somebody, on Bond Street.” Dolores nodded indifferently and left. She became taciturn whenever he was short with her, which was not often—but it happened often enough that he recognized she might keep this up all day.
“If you agree, then why did you do it?” Sylvia was saying. “I just
want to know if we’re actually on the same page.”
“We are on the same page,” he said, “but I’ve been buried in work since—”
“You think I haven’t?” she said exasperatedly.
Dolores reappeared in his doorway. “Mr. Chen has time at four-thirty,” she told him.
“Fine,” Jonah answered, and she left.
“What?” Sylvia said.
“No, Syl, I’m sorry, this day has just been, just been…” He was staring at the BBEC files. It was now eleven-thirty. What percentage of these thousands of documents could he read in the five hours before the meeting with Doug Chen? Ten? Fifteen?
“If you’re too busy to talk, all you need to do is send me a two-line email.”
“Right.” He’d thought of something else. “Dolores!” he shouted again. “Sylvia, I’m sorry, I can’t talk now.” Dolores was back. “I love you, we’re on the same page, I promise.” Dolores smirked. Of course he didn’t want her to hear him trying to placate his girlfriend, but one man could only multitask so effectively. He glanced down at his desk so he at least didn’t have to see her watching him as he spoke.
“If you are having cold feet, Jonah…” Sylvia said.
“Of course not. I faxed over the paperwork to Brett, and I will let you know as soon as I hear. Can I call you tonight?” Sylvia sighed heavily—and he had to stifle rising impatience, not just because he needed to start reading immediately but also for all the phone calls he had uncomplainingly allowed her to cut short when her work demanded it.
Maybe she thought of this, too. “Okay,” she said, in a tone suggesting she’d agreed to be mollified. “You’ll call me tonight?”
“I swear on our rental application that I will.” Fortunately she laughed a little, and he got off the phone.
He looked up at Dolores, who was still smirking. “Sorry,” he said. She shrugged in a minimal way, as if none of this made any difference to her. “And I apologize for being short with you.” She produced an identical shrug. Again his impatience rose up—but he knew circumstances demanded he ignore it. “Look, Dolores, I need you to buy me a suit.”
“A suit?” she said dubiously.
“Yeah, shirt, tie, suit. Go to Macy’s, put it all on my card.”
She frowned skeptically. “I don’t even know your size.”
“I’ll email it to you while you’re on your way.”
The frown deepened. “What color suit?”
“Salmon and taupe,” he said sarcastically. “Navy blue, what color do you think?” He had allowed himself more impatience than he should have—she folded her arms, made a face of disappointment in him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Work with me here, Dolores, I woke up thinking today was Sunday. Okay? Please?”
She unfolded her arms and held up her palms. “I just come in to work on time and do my job.” And she left.
He did triage on his inbox for twenty minutes—felt lucky that he at least hadn’t missed any client calls as he’d slept. Then he finally had the chance to approach the BBEC boxes. He opened the one on top, took out the first manila folder—Dolores appeared in his doorway, wearing her coat.
“I’m leaving now,” she said. “I don’t know the men’s section of Macy’s at all, and you still haven’t emailed me your measurements—”
“I will, I will,” he told her.
“So it may take a little while.”
“I’m counting on you, Dolores, please get back as soon as you can.” He returned his eyes to the BBEC folder, thinking that while he could appreciate the rationale for not having a secretary you were at all attracted to (because where else would that lead?), a twenty-two-year-old who wanted to sleep with him might have shown a little more urgency in attending to his needs in this moment.
“There’s something else,” Dolores said.
He neatly placed the BBEC folder back on top of the box. “Yes?”
“Daniel Coyne is here to see you.”
“Who the fuck is Daniel Coyne?”
“Mr. Jacobstein, I am a Christian. Please don’t use that language in front of me.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” he said. “I’m sorry.” I thought Christians were supposed to be charitable, he just stopped himself from muttering under his breath.
“He says he knows your cousin.”
Daniel—Danny—Jesus Christ, he thought. “He’s here?”
“He’s at the front. He told Angelica he’s happy to wait. Angelica is the woman who sits at reception.”
“Yes, Dolores, I know who Angelica is.”
“I only mention it because you didn’t put in for her birthday gift last year.”
“Yes, because I am the worst human being in the world, I get it. Like I said, I am sorry for being impatient today.” Dolores shrugged as if she didn’t know anything about it. He sat back down at his desk. “You can tell Angelica, who will be receiving a very generous Christmas gift from me, by the way, that she can send back Daniel Coyne.” Dolores shrugged one last time and left.
He’d forgotten that he’d seen his cousin’s fiancé making out with another man in the stairwell—and was very unhappy to be reminded of it now. He told himself that he would have been equally unhappy to have remembered Danny cheating on Becky with a woman—but then wasn’t sure what point he was trying to prove with this assertion, liberal egalitarianism pretty clearly irrelevant in this case. He cast a forlorn glance at the BBEC boxes. He knew he wasn’t allowed to smoke in his office, but—whatever, extenuating circumstances, and he lit a cigarette.
Danny appeared, dressed with predictable accountancy in a pressed navy blue suit (exactly the suit Jonah hoped Dolores would return with, it occurred to Jonah). Danny looked a bit taken aback to find Jonah smoking—then smiled in a way Jonah could best describe as brave, shook Jonah’s hand firmly, looking him directly and sturdily in the eye, and sat down in the chair across from his desk.
“It’s great they let you smoke in here!” Danny said with a terribly forced chuckle.
“Look, Danny…” Jonah began. But he wasn’t sure what to say next—and Danny jumped in immediately.
“I’m really glad you had a chance to see me today, Jonah,” Danny said rapidly. “I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation on Friday and I actually think my organization has a lot to offer you.”
“You—what?”
“I’m sure you’re a net saver and maybe you’ve been reluctant in the past to invest, especially given what’s happened, in the economy.” He cleared his throat; the tone he was attempting was sensible, businesslike, he maintained the strong eye contact, made stiff gesticulations on the nouns—but he couldn’t seem to control a shaking in his left knee, a general jitteriness to his whole mien. “But what we at Windstaff can offer you is the chance to get into funds that have performed consistently even over the last five years. Now, normally there is a minimum investment to enter these funds, but our wealth management, ah, my colleagues would be prepared to waive that. We could get you into our strongest performers at really, any investment level you were comfortable with.” Jonah shook his head, not following. “And because,” Danny continued, clearing his throat again, “as we’re family, we could work out something on the fees.”
“The fees?”
“The fees would really be negligible, is what I’m saying. In fact, to get you in immediately, ah, I myself could put up the initial, ah, and the returns would go directly to you, and, y’know, we could revisit repayment, or not, being that it’s all in the family.”
“You want me to invest with Windstaff?” he said slowly—but by this point he realized he was only clinging desperately to his confusion. Danny’s proposition was clear enough.
Danny forced another deeply uncomfortable laugh. “No, no, not with Windstaff directly, you don’t invest in Windstaff, we manage your, but, ah, actually, if you’d prefer, what happens is, we audit of course the books of course of many of the biggest—I couldn’t want to name names, uh, here, but, of course, informally, it
would be simple enough if we had some indication of what performance might be, it isn’t uncommon, I could, for example—”
“Jesus, Danny, stop it!” Jonah finally said.
Now it was Danny who feigned confusion. “I only thought because of what we talked about on Friday—”
“You understand that if you offer me a bribe and I don’t report it, I could get disbarred?” He wasn’t sure this was true, but it sounded good.
“Bribe? Bribe? What—bribe? Ha-ha-ha!”
“Look, I’m not retarded, Danny.”
“Ha-ha-ha!” Then abruptly, Danny’s cheeks and brows began to work together spasmodically, and he pressed his palms against his face—made choked sobbing sounds into them. Jonah considered what he must have been through for the last two days: not knowing whether Jonah would say anything, whether he had said anything already, not knowing what Becky knew and if his secrets had been exposed and if his life as he’d known it was over. And, despite himself, Jonah felt sorry for Danny—though this only served to redouble his annoyance at him for coming.
Danny began to take long, snuffling breaths behind his hands. When he’d finally composed himself enough to lift his face, his eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his cheeks moist. Jonah opened a drawer in his desk, thinking he might have some tissues—he didn’t—looked around his desk for something else, and then finally just tossed Danny the pack of cigarettes.
“Oh, I don’t smoke,” Danny said weakly.
“Start.” Jonah tossed him the lighter, too.
Danny pulled a cigarette from the box, put it in his mouth uncertainly, and lit it. He took a few coughing puffs. “I can’t believe they let you smoke in here.”
“Yeah, we’re pretty progressive.”
For several moments they smoked in silence. Danny did seem to get the hang of it. Slouching forward, face hangdog and pale where it was not splotchy with redness, he finally said, “This is a love story, Jonah. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it is. I’ve struggled my whole life with these—urges. Wanting to be one way, knowing I had to be something else. But then I met Becky, and I really, truly fell in love with her. She’s so caring, and energetic, and positive, and kind, and…” He looked at Jonah pleadingly. “I got drunk and fucked up. Doesn’t everybody do that?”
The Book of Jonah Page 13