The Good Life

by Jay McInerney

  Corrine paused, steadying the coffee cup she was raising to her lips with both hands.

  “Your who?”

  “He called to see if he could bring anything.”

  “Who called?”

  “The other man in your life. What’s his name, Jerry. Sounds like a decent-enough guy. Very apologetic about barging in at the last minute.”

  “I hope you didn’t make him feel like he was ruining your seating plan,” she said.

  “I was the soul of hospitality and welcome, as ever. I’ll sit him next to Judy. Who knows—stranger things have happened.”

  “I’m not sure I’d wish that on him.” Of course, she’d had the same thought the day before.

  “She’s not the same person, Corrine. Cut her a little slack. After all she’s been through.”

  This had always been one of the things she loved about Russell, his belief in the basic decency of others. Inviting Judy for Thanksgiving had been his idea. Corrine would have liked to imagine that she’d been transformed by the loss of her husband, although she couldn’t help feeling that there was a purely selfish and self-dramatizing quality to Judy’s grief. In private, she seemed more than anything to be angry at Jim for having abandoned her, even as she took to the airwaves to extol his heroism and to demand her rights as a widow.

  A few hours later, Russell was hauling the children out of the tub, drying them off while they thrashed and howled and pretended to try to escape, pumped up with holiday energy and the prospect of company. Corrine watched for a moment from the hallway as he tugged a brush through the stripes of Storey’s hair while waving the dryer back and forth with his other hand. Why couldn’t he have always been like this, she wondered, and what made him think it wasn’t too late?

  She went to answer the buzzer and then waited at the elevator, listening to its slow, rattling ascent, trying to summon her dormant sense of hospitality.

  The door shuddered open, revealing Hilary and her beau.

  “We’re here,” she said, presenting Corrine with a bouquet of orange and yellow chrysanthemums from the bodega. “You remember Dan.”

  “Of course.”

  A massive hand engulfing hers.

  “Oh, go on, kiss her,” Hilary said. “She’s family.”

  He leaned forward clumsily as Corrine offered her cheek.

  “We’re very happy to have you, Dan.” His awkwardness was almost painful to behold. She regarded him with a sense of wonder—a man who’d left his family for her little sister.

  Without his cop’s uniform, he could’ve passed for one of the musicians, actors, or bartenders she’d brought around over the years—dark, muscular, Black Irish handsome, with heavy eyebrows and bright blue eyes. She wondered if Hilary had helped him dress for the occasion, Thanksgiving in TriBeCa. In his jeans, his black leather jacket over a white dress shirt, he could pass for a member of the Manhattan culture-producing class, although his vowels betrayed his origins across the river.

  “And where are my little angels?” Hilary asked.

  “Just grooming their wings.”

  “I’ve been boring Dan senseless, telling him all about the kids.”

  “Whaddya saying? I love kids.”

  On cue, they pattered down the hall, looking plausibly angelic in matching white shirts and gray flannel, hurling themselves at Hilary as Russell followed in their wake.

  “Kids, this is Mr. O’Connor. He’s a friend of Aunt Hilary’s.”

  The children earnestly shook hands as their father lumbered up to join the group.

  “Russell,” Hilary said. “May I present my fianc, Dan O’Connor.”

  Corrine noted that the man had the sensitivity to wince at this introduction—being, after all, still married.

  Russell took O’Connor’s hand.

  “Dan O’Connor. A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Russell Calloway.”

  “Are you really a policeman?” Jeremy demanded.

  “Well, yeah, I am.”

  “He’s got the most amazing stories from the street,” Hilary blurted. “We’re going to collaborate on a screenplay. Not the usual Hollywood cops and robbers crap, but the real thing about life on the narcotics squad. I’ve got a call in to Michael Mann—my friend Rowena works for him and he’s coming to New York next week. Dan has a real storytelling gift—you should talk to Russell, honey; he’s brilliant with story. If there were any justice, he’d be rich and famous. He edits all these Pulitzer Prize–winning authors.”

  “Do you have a gun?” Jeremy said.

  “Well…” O’Connor directed a questioning look at Russell. “I don’t know if—”

  “I don’t think it would hurt to look at it,” Russell said, much to Corrine’s annoyance.

  O’Connor pulled aside his jacket to reveal a holstered automatic.

  “Wow,” said Jeremy. “Cool. Do you get to shoot it?”

  “Only on the firing range,” he said.

  “Dan took me out there last week,” Hilary said, squatting down to take Jeremy in her arms. “When you’re older, maybe Dan can take you out to the range.”

  “Much older,” Corrine said.

  Hilary frowned. “Corrine doesn’t let any toy resembling a weapon in the house. Which, if you ask me, just increases the lure of the forbidden. Trying to protect kids can backfire. It’s like any kind of taboo—like making a big thing out of alcohol or s-e-x. In the end, it just makes it more attractive.”

  “What’s s-e-x spell?” Storey asked.

  “It spells never mind,” Corrine said.

  “No it doesn’t.”

  She found Hilary’s opinions on child-rearing comical, when she didn’t find them intolerable, and she was mildly revolted by the look of cute complicity passing between Hilary and Dan.

  “Can Aunt Hilary play with us?” Jeremy asked.

  “I think Aunt Hilary probably wants to talk to the grown-ups.”

  “I’m always ready to play,” Hilary said. “You know me.” Showing Dan how easy, how good she was with kids.

  “I’ve got a new Transformer,” Jeremy told her.

  “I love Transformers.”

  “You have to see the Fluffies,” Storey said. “They have a tiny little turkey on a little table.”

  “The Fluffies,” Hilary explained, “they’re like fairies, with their own little house and furniture and their own tiny tea set, and they come out at night when everybody’s asleep.”

  “One of the Fluffies is missing,” Storey said solemnly. “His name is Bevan. We made a poster for him. A missing poster.”

  “Can I get you a drink, Dan?” Russell asked as Hilary followed the children to their bedroom.

  “A beer, if you’ve got it,” O’Connor said. “They’re great kids.”

  “I hear you’ve got a couple yourself,” Russell said, blundering in where Corrine would have feared to tread, though it occurred to her that he might be heading off the whole question of the kids’ conception, about which Hilary had undoubtedly briefed him.

  “Yeah, they’re terrific,” O’Connor said mournfully.

  He reached into his wallet and showed Russell the snapshots, a newborn in a pink dress and a round-faced, gap-toothed boy with his father’s eyebrows. “Bridget was born in June, and Brendan’s three. Right now, she’s not letting me see them. My wife—Mary-Margaret. She’s taking it awful hard.”

  Even if Russell had left her for that ridiculous bimbo, Corrine thought, she never would have kept him away from his own kids. No matter what happened, they’d be civilized, the two of them, and protective of the children. She conjured up a vision of a future Thanksgiving, at which Russell and Luke debated the merits of a Napa cabernet sauvignon while the children vied for the attention of their new teenaged stepsister. The scenario, in all fairness and plausibility, demanded a new mate for Russell, so she generously bestowed on him a worshipful young thing, the kind of girl you saw at downtown poetry readings—or at coffee shops in Williamsburg—an aspiring memoirist or an
assistant editor at The Paris Review, thirtyish and nerdishly pretty, with serious black rectangular-framed glasses. She would ask Corrine’s advice about a Christmas present for Russell, and in the summer they would all move freely between two households in the Hamptons. Hilary, too, although in this fantasy the little sister was an infrequent visitor, having taken her act back to the West Coast. The fact that their family had been so unconventional from the beginning—starting with what Russell liked to call “the immaculate conception”—seemed to lend plausibility to this rosy scenario: a community of caring adults and well-loved children.

  The loft was soon full of little people, a cacophony that might’ve been distracting to the childless guest but was for the most part inaudible to the parents until some note of distress or dissension broke out. Washington and Veronica arrived with pictures of the house they’d just closed on in New Canaan, Washington dressed city sharp, a black suit over a crisp white shirt, whereas Veronica seemed to be girding herself for their new life with a lime green cardigan over a red tartan wrap skirt. Not very good at reading fashion, Corrine couldn’t tell if this was intended to be ironic or not, neosuburban or whatever. Jerry was like the bear who came to dinner, hulking in shyly with a six-pack of Heineken, overdressed in a too-tight suit and an old skinny tie from the eighties. Corrine introduced him to Judy, who arrived with her new Icelandic au pair in tow—a vanilla and butterscotch sundae of a girl, who introduced an undercurrent of suppressed hysteria that coursed among the middle-aged men and surfaced intermittently during the afternoon; Russell struggling heroically to appear oblivious… Judy in her beige cashmere twinset, confessing to Corrine that she never would’ve hired the girl if Jim were still around.

  Corrine, meantime, was struggling against her own sense of disengagement, her mind drifting off to Tennessee, trying to picture his Thanksgiving…. She felt as if she were watching the scene in her own loft from a distance, from a great height; she kept finding herself parachuting into the middle of conversations.

  “I really don’t see why compensation shouldn’t be based on the projected earnings of the victims,” Judy was saying. “I mean, it only stands to reason.”

  Hilary flushed at this. “Do you really think a fireman or a cop’s life is worth less than a bond trader’s?”

  “What are you—a fucking socialist?” Washington said, putting his arm around her, cleverly diffusing the situation by dragging her off for a private chat as Jerry took up her part of the argument.

  Corrine took this opportunity to seek refuge with the children, involving herself in a game of house with the girls and then corralling them, with the help of Miss Iceland, for the children’s sitting, trying to maintain order as Russell served and Jeremy initiated a burping contest. As a sign of his long-standing devotion, Dylan Crespi pressed mashed potatoes into Storey’s hair. In between sobs for her ruined coif, Storey informed Dylan that there was a policeman in the house, a special friend of her aunt Hilary. Hilary’s beau, chatting with Jerry in the no-man’s-land between the adults and the children, heard himself invoked and came over to investigate the assault.

  “Did somebody here call for a policeman?” he asked, kneeling beside Storey, who apprised him of the facts as Corrine extracted mashed potatoes from her hair. “Sounds to me like misdemeanor assault.”

  At which, the perp burst into tears.

  When Judy Crespi rushed to the aid of her son, Corrine retreated to the bedroom and closed the door behind her, doubtful of her own patience, on the verge of some inappropriate outburst. She lay down on the bed, listening to the muted clamor, yearning for sanctuary. On a sudden impulse, she reached for her cell phone on the bedside table, feeling an illicit thrill as she dialed, the recklessness of the act rousing her from her torpor.

  He answered with his public voice.

  “I just wanted to tell you I missed you,” she said.

  “I echo that sentiment.”

  “If I said I wanted to fuck your brains out, would you echo that sentiment, too?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It would be more convincing if you actually said it.”

  “Let me just—”

  “I know you can’t talk. I shouldn’t even be calling. I’m in the bedroom, hiding. I just needed to hear your voice. To verify my existence. I feel like I’m underwater. As hard as I try, I can’t seem to connect to anything that’s happening out there.” She saw the doorknob turning, the shiny ring of brass worn through the paint, the door swinging open to reveal Russell holding a weeping Storey.

  “Here’s Mommy,” he said.

  Feeling her own face betraying her, she said, “Anyway, just wanted to say Happy Thanksgiving. We’ll check you later.”

  Had Russell asked her who the hell she was talking to, she might have been relieved, but his failure to do so was as telling as the change in his demeanor—as if he had been running through an open field and suddenly collided with an invisible barrier. She even had her lie prepared, she was going to say she was talking to her mother. But he didn’t ask.

  “Your daughter was looking for you.”

  “What’s the matter, honey?” she asked, avoiding Russell’s gaze as she took Storey in her arms.

  “Dylan’s mom was yelling at Aunt Hilary’s friend.”

  “It’s a fucking madhouse out there,” Russell said, staring down at Corrine’s cell phone, inert on the bed.

  Tempers had cooled by the time Corrine returned to the gathering, Dylan and his mother having been mollified with the promise of a ride in O’Connor’s squad car. Corrine threw herself into the role of hostess, energized by fear and by an irrational hope that she might somehow stretch the day out and postpone the inevitable moment when she would be alone with Russell. She detected a new note of formality in his manner toward her, even as he became more sentimental and theatrically gracious—like a manic politician—under the influence of alcohol. He was particularly solicitous of Judy, whom he placed on his right at the table, and apparently had deputized as his drinking companion. Corrine wished Russell would stop monopolizing her so she could talk to Jerry. If she weren’t uncertain of her own authority, Corrine would have taken him aside and scolded him about his drinking—they’d had these conferences before—but as things stood, she felt helpless as she watched him toss back the zinfandel. Sitting beside Corrine, the sober-as-a-judge Washington remarked, “Old Crash Calloway has strapped on his drinking helmet.”

  “I’ve never understood that expression. What does it mean?”

  “Way back, when we first came to town… You remember William Holden, the actor? Big booze hound? About that time, he had a skinful and keeled over, banged his head on the edge of the fucking night table, and bled to death right there in his bedroom. So it became kind of a joke—when we were going for a night on the town, we used to talk about strapping on the William Holden memorial drinking helmet.”

  “I’m sure it must have been amusing at the time,” she said, “but it isn’t now. Maybe you could say something, Wash.”

  Washington responded with that special laugh of his that made one feel especially uncool. “If you understood anything about male friendship, or about drinking, you’d realize why I can’t possibly honor your request.”

  “You sound like Russell.”

  “QED, babe.”

  “What are you two conspiring about down there?” Russell boomed from the other end of the table.

  “Your husband’s just the greatest fucking guy,” Judy said, throwing her free arm around him as she raised the other in a toast. “I just hope you know that. He’s been a real comfort to me in my time of need. Such an amazingly great, wonnerful… support.”

  Was it possible? Corrine wondered, looking at the two of them. Living in the double world of infidelity, she possessed a newfound respect for the unpredictable and treacherous capacities of the heart. She had acquired the melancholy wisdom of the guilty; Russell’s frequent protestations of dislike for Judy might count as evidence to the contrary. She
suddenly flashed on what he’d said that morning: “She’s not the same person.” How did he know she’d changed? Had he been comforting her in those long hours when Corrine was downtown? What could be more natural than to fall in love, or lust, with your fallen friend’s wife? She’d heard of cases of that very thing among the firefighters. With a guilty thrill, she realized this scenario absolved her of her own sense of culpability, and provided the solution to her insoluble dilemma.

  “You know he’s drunk when he starts flirting with Judy fucking Crespi,” Washington said drolly.

  And all at once, as she examined them across the table, she dismissed this suspicion as too implausible, the fantasy as too convenient. “You don’t think it’s possible?” she said, trying to sound playful.

  “Are you insane?”

  “God, I don’t know. Lately, almost anything seems possible. You in the suburbs, for instance.”

  “It’s more a question of my children in the suburbs,” he said. “I’ve had my time.”

  “Do you really think you can be happy sacrificing your own needs for theirs? I mean, if you’re not happy, will you be a good father? Does being a parent mean you stop yearning and striving for your own happiness?”

  “It’s a question of balance, babe.”

  She never thought she’d see the day, Washington as the spokesman for moderation and family values.

  This debate was interrupted by the dinging of Russell’s fork on his glass as he rose to his feet in full toastmaster mode. “I’d like to give thanks that we’re all here together today… on Thanksgiving. And I’d like us to pause for a moment to remember those who can’t be with us. I’m grateful that you’re all here, family and friends, and I’m sad… just so incredibly sad that Jim isn’t with us….” He paused, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “I miss Jim. I miss him every day. All over the city, there are family gatherings like ours, with empty chairs, with missing loved ones. Out there”—he gestured toward the window, which had framed an oblique view of the towers—“there’s a hole in the sky. And in here, in all of us, there’s a wound that will never heal. I’m just glad we’re together. And I’m also so goddamn angry.”