The far greater surprise was to learn that Joyce is now an Episcopal priest—and that she has set up shop here in Dumont! Though she always struck me as a wonderful woman, I never realized she was religiously prone.
Are you ever here, Curt? If so, we are long overdue to catch up. Back in college, I thought of you as my best friend. If you’re inclined, let’s pick up the conversation again before another thirty-odd years slip away.
Fondly,
Marson
Around one-thirty, when Marson and I returned to the office from lunch, we found our receptionist watching from the front window, opening the street door for us as we arrived. Wide-eyed, she told us in a stage whisper, “Mrs. Questman is here.”
“How nice,” said Marson. He turned to ask me, “Were you expecting her?”
“No.” I couldn’t imagine what she wanted.
Marson glanced around the small lobby, then leaned to our receptionist, whispering, “Where is she?”
She whispered back, “In the conference room. I gave her some water.”
Marson gave a thumbs-up. “Good job, Gertie.”
When we entered the conference room, Mary rose from her chair at the far end of the table, gushing, “Marson, love. Brody, sweets. I hope you don’t mind my popping in without notice.” She had brought her cat, an Abyssinian named Mister Puss, an exotic creature with flecked brown fur who resembled a wild predator from some faraway savanna, though he was no bigger than a trim-bodied house cat.
“Mind?” said Marson. “You know you’re always welcome here—or in our home, or anywhere at all.”
We gathered to exchange a round of smooches as Mister Puss wound his way around our feet, trailing a nylon leash that had a retraction device at the far end, housed in a plastic casing that clattered on the polished wooden floor.
“Now, now, Mister Puss,” said Mary, “let’s not make such a racket.” She stooped to pick up the gadget and tried to reel him in toward her heel, but the cat would have none of it. He plopped down on his side as she dragged him across the slick floor to her jaunty yellow Ferragamo pumps. She wore them with a striking spring outfit of yellow and green and dashes of black—the woman knew how to dress.
But her choice of couture for the cat left something to be desired. The leash was attached not to a simple collar, but a vest of sorts, a synthetic harness covering much of his midsection, sporting a ridiculous pattern of paw prints and dancing mice. Mister Puss was a perfectly magnificent animal au naturel, but he looked miserable in this getup.
Mary unhooked the leash from the harness, explaining, “Mister Puss understands that he’s not allowed out of the house on his own. He seems to prefer it that way.”
“I don’t blame him,” said Marson. Most of Mary’s acquaintances humored her with regard to her relationship with the cat, but Marson’s tone carried no lilt of sarcasm.
She continued, “So I thought we’d try some leash training. Mixed results, obviously. But now and then, it’s nice to take him out. Today, for instance—he wanted to come with me. He wanted to see Brody.”
With a soft laugh, Marson repeated, “I don’t blame him.”
I pulled a chair out from the table and sat, patting my knee. “Here, Mister Puss.”
He trotted over and hopped into my lap, purring.
Mary said, “He’s excited about staying with you while I’m away. I wasn’t sure how he’d take the news—about my trip—but we had a talk last night, and everything’s fine.”
Mister Puss climbed my chest with his front paws and nuzzled my chin. His purr intensified as his snout worked its way up my cheek to my ear.
Help me.
“Mary,” I said, “okay if I take off his harness? The door’s closed; he can’t get out.”
“Of course, Brody. Do you need some help?”
“I think I can handle it.” Mister Puss offered no resistance as I unfastened the vest and slid his front legs free from it. Eyeing me with an expression that looked for all the world like a grin of thanks, he stepped up to the tabletop, stretched his back, and bristled the fur that had been matted by the harness. Then he sat near my elbow and groomed.
Meanwhile, Marson had reseated Mary at the head of the table, then seated himself across from me. He asked Mary, “So you’re ready for the trip?”
“Oh, yes. We had our monthly luncheon yesterday, and everyone is raring to go. All the arrangements are set. Now I just need to pack. Nine days till blastoff, and I’ll need every minute of it.” Pondering this, she added, “I know it’s only Chicago, for only a week, but I haven’t traveled in a while.”
I said, “You’ll have a wonderful time. And don’t worry about you-know-who. The livestock will be well tended.”
Mister Puss gave me a look.
“Of course,” said Mary with a soft smile, “but I’m wondering if I could ask you boys one extra favor.”
Marson and I exchanged a glance—not wary, but curious. He said, “Anything, Mary. What’s on your mind?”
She heaved a little sigh, plopped her purse on the table, and extracted a blue envelope. Removing the contents, she explained, “I got a letter yesterday from that new woman priest at St. Alban’s. She wants to meet me, privately. And she practically insisted that I also attend some big, important parish meeting tomorrow night.” Mary handed the letter to Marson, who read it. Mary added, “Mister Puss thinks she wants to put the squeeze on me.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “He may be on to something.”
Mary tossed her hands. “I suppose I’ll have to meet her sometime. I can’t put it off forever. But I’d rather not meet with her alone. I’m afraid she might corner me into something stupid.”
Mary was generous, easily the most philanthropic person I’d ever known well enough to call a friend. But it was hard to fault her for wanting to reserve the privilege of deciding, on her own, who would be the beneficiaries of her largess.
Passing the letter to me, Marson said to Mary, “Tell you what. Suppose I go to the parish meeting tomorrow night. I’ll give some excuse why you can’t be there, and I’ll report back to you. And if Joyce Hibbard still wants to meet with you, I’ll offer to sit in.”
Mary’s mood instantly brightened. “You’re willing to do that, Marson?”
“It’s the least I can do.” He was referring to the fact that Mary’s faith in him, when she insisted he be awarded the commission to design Questman Center for the Performing Arts, had been the turning point in his career, leading to recognition that had eluded him for more than thirty years.
“Actually,” he added, “I’ve been meaning to say hello to Joyce. We used to know each other—long, long ago.”
I passed the letter back to Mary, who returned it to her purse.
“What a delightful turn of events,” she said.
Mister Puss purred.
Back at the loft that Wednesday evening, after dinner, Marson and I relaxed with a nightcap while catching up on some reading. A couple of hours slipped by, and around eleven o’clock, Marson’s phone vibrated. He opened an incoming email and sat reading it for a few minutes while I got up, took our empty snifters of cognac to the kitchen, and gave them a rinse.
“Take a look at this,” he called to me from the front of the loft. The iPad on the kitchen island gave a ping with the arrival of the message he had forwarded to me.
From: Curtis Hibbard
To: Marson Miles
Hello there, Marson, old chum! I wondered when I’d hear from you, and it didn’t take long. Yes, yes—all true. I have now been married to Joyce for more years than I was not. Time, as they say, marches on.
The days of my infatuation with Yevgeny (the dancer) are now but a distant memory, and a bittersweet one at that. While his body was an object of both lust and love, that pretty head of his harbored a propensity for betrayal. I knew it was over when he took up with a concert organist of some renown, a flamboyant showboat admired for the swift dexterity of not only his hands but also his feet. Yevgeny is
now too old for leaping about in a pair of tights, though I hear the organist is still pumping away, which I hope brings them both great bliss. Ironically, in recent years, I have renewed my friendship with Yevgeny. Our rapprochement is strictly platonic, which no longer pains me, as he has lost the allure of youth.
It now occurs to me that you once met Fletcher (he of the talented feet). During your last visit to New York, well over thirty years ago, he gave an organ recital at St. John the Divine, and we all attended—you, me, Joyce, and Yevgeny. At the time, I was “courting” Joyce, figuring the potential match could be good for business, but I was tangling the sheets, when circumstances allowed, with Yevgeny, who in turn, and unbeknownst to me, was doing the dirty fugue with Fletcher. At the time, I had assumed they were mere acquaintances from the performing-arts demimonde. Silly, gullible me!
Not to dwell on the treachery of organists—or ballet boys—but a more significant development was to emerge from that evening’s recital at the cathedral. You see, Joyce and I were both in the process of establishing our respective law careers, and that was the night we discovered the majesty—and cachet—of Episcopalianism. You may not recall this, but seated in the surrounding rows that evening was a veritable who’s who of Manhattan’s upper crust, representing finance, law, publishing, politics, arts, charity, the works. Jackie was there. Need one say more?
This came as something of a revelation not only to me, with my humble Wisconsin roots and tepid Lutheran upbringing, but also to Joyce, a born and confirmed skeptic. That night, we found our spiritual home.
Our epiphany proved as rewarding to our social lives as it was to our ambitions. Overnight, we were “connected.” Our practices were booming. It seemed the handwriting was on the wall, so we were married—by the presiding bishop, no less, in a side chapel with a few dozen friends, family members, and senior partners as witnesses. It was a lovely twilight ceremony. Couture all the way. Add a dash of liturgical pomp, with its incense and silver-tongued oration, and you’ve got a fairytale wedding.
Joyce often noted that the Episcopal Church felt more like a club than a religion, and that’s how she justified her involvement, which was anything but faith-driven—though she can’t admit that now, having teamed up for the hocus-pocus. But she needed to try a new gig, and I have never stood in her way, so here I am: Mother Hibbard’s husband.
It brings to mind that old Cary Grant flick, The Bishop’s Wife, doesn’t it? There’s plenty of material here for an updated, screwball sequel with a gender switcheroo. Meryl Streep could play Joyce (there’s more than a passing resemblance). But whom, I wonder, would they cast in the role of moi?
The opening scene could be set in St. Alban’s at Joyce’s institution ceremony, with me seated in the front pew, having flown in that weekend for a conjugal visit at the parsonage. My thoughts would be narrated in voice-over as I pondered not my wife’s investiture but the performance of the choir, which wasn’t bad, and the studly young choirmaster, who was easy on the eyes. As you might guess, that’s exactly what happened. Cinéma vérité.
I did attempt to see you, Marson. As soon as I realized Joyce would be moving to Dumont, of all places, I did a bit of research to determine if you were still located there—and I was pleased beyond measure to learn that this latter chapter of your architecture career has taken such a splendid turn. The performing-arts complex is magnificent, and I am bursting with pride to read of your many recent accolades. (Have you forgotten that I once offered to serve as your patron and help you establish a practice in New York? I was certain that your talent deserved a bigger canvas than Wisconsin, but you were determined to make a go of it there with Ted. What happened to him, by the way?) But I have digressed.
Once the date was set for Joyce’s institution as rector—and there was never any question that I was expected to attend—I decided to wait until a few days prior to the event, then phone your office, deliver the surprising news, and arrange to see you during my visit. But when I did phone, I learned that you were away for the week, in the remote stretches of Oregon, working on an important new commission.
So our timing was lousy last month, or at least mine was. I’m not sure when I will next make the westward trek to play husband at the parsonage, but there are bound to be future visits, probably sooner rather than later, and I’ll be sure to give you ample notice.
All glibness aside, I must admit to being a tad concerned about Joyce’s new career path. At first, I assumed she would be content to go back to school, get a degree or two, get ordained, then settle into some sort of administrative position within the church hierarchy. And for a while, that’s what she did. She rattled around headquarters in New York and they put her in charge of planned giving—yes, she knows how to sniff out the money.
But she was back at a desk, back in business, back to doing the same sort of thing she’d always done, and she still had the itch to try something different. So they suggested a pastoral assignment in an ailing parish. Joyce snapped at it. She wanted a challenge.
Trust me: St. Alban’s will be a challenge.
I assume you’re familiar with the building, Marson. It’s a charming little church, but in sad disrepair. The congregation is aging—and shrinking fast. The town’s demographics offer little hope that a new generation will be bustin’ down those crimson doors to fill those creaky pews. I told Joyce point-blank that St. Alban’s business model is shaky at best, if not doomed. But she seems unfazed by the millstone she’s taken on.
In her defense, she’s a shrewd businesswoman, so if anyone can turn St. Alban’s around, it’s Joyce. My fear, however, is that her new mission has all the earmarks of an extremely expensive later-life hobby. To save the parish, she needs an angel (of the wealthy species, not the celestial), and I’ve already made it clear that I’m not looking to earn my wings. Sure, I’m willing to pop for a new boiler or whatnot, but that wouldn’t begin to solve the problem. That church needs to be totally rebuilt—or razed and reimagined from the ground up, which may be cheaper—and I have zero inclination to buy the top spot on the donor list.
The irony, Marson, is that I could write that check. All my life, I have felt driven. I’m still working sixty hours a week, sometimes seventy, and while that’s great for billings, it does take a certain toll. Back when we were in college, I had laser-focused dreams of success, all of them measured by material gain and ego. And those wishes have been granted. By any standard, I’m a lucky man. But now, here I am, beginning to entertain fantasies of retirement, of chucking it all, wondering what the hell I’ve done with my life.
Last week, I counted up: I serve on nineteen boards. I’ve had the same coveted box at the Met for twenty years. I flounce around in private jets to sign billion-dollar mergers. There are people to drive my car, fetch my laundry, and open my doors. But at the end of the day, I’m left wondering how and why I didn’t measure up to a nelly old organist named Fletcher.
Joyce and I have always led independent lives, and now that her latest career whim has moved us a half-continent apart, I suspect we’ll continue to function as the mutually supportive odd couple that was sanctified in that side chapel more than ten thousand evenings ago—but who’s counting?
Forgive my self-sorry prattle, Marson. (Poor little rich boy. Just a bird in a gilded cage.) Your turn. Bring me up to date. I understand you are married?
Best regards,
Curtis Hibbard, Founding Partner
Hibbard Belding & Smith, LLP
New York • London • Berlin
Chapter 2
Thursday morning, I awoke earlier than usual—it was barely dawn—and I was surprised to discover that Marson was not there in bed with me. I rolled over, looking toward the bathroom; its door was open, only darkness within. I listened for activity downstairs, hearing nothing. But I smelled coffee.
Tentatively, I called into the stillness of the loft, “Marson?”
“Morning, kiddo,” he said from downstairs. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not at all. Writing a reply to Curt Hibbard. Go back to sleep.”
By now, though, I was wide awake. I got out of bed, slipped into a bathrobe of steely gray striped silk, and padded down the metal stairs barefoot.
Marson sat at the kitchen island, also in a robe, typing on the iPad with his mug of coffee at hand. The lights were on beneath the upper cupboards on the rear wall, glowing yellow, blending with the early daylight that filled the wall of windows facing the street. We exchanged a good-morning kiss while Marson typed. Then I poured myself some coffee and joined him at the island.
“There,” he said, tapping to send his email. He turned the tablet to let me read it.
From: Marson Miles
To: Curtis Hibbard
Wow, Curt, I got far more than expected from you. This deserves some face time—and soon, I hope—but let me at least answer your question regarding my marital status. Sitting down? Yes, I have been married, for almost a year now, to the nephew of my ex-wife.
Perhaps I should back up and explain.
When you and I knew each other in college, the sexual revolution had just begun, and I think it’s safe to say we were both struggling to understand ourselves in the context of an age that was still, nonetheless, closeted. All I knew for sure was that I was in love with Ted Norris, my roommate, who would later become my business partner. To my mind, I wasn’t “gay.” I wasn’t lusting after everyone in pants—only Ted.
But Ted was straight as an arrow. He seemed to understand how I felt about him, though he never confronted me with it, and I think he even felt complimented. We bonded as lifelong friends and established our architecture firm, Miles & Norris, here in Dumont.
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