“What are you talking about?”
“She’s trouble. I straightened her out, but you need to keep an eye on her, man. I’m serious.”
“What do you mean, you straightened her out?”
“She called me,” he whispers, “about the party. She invited me and then got weird, saying she knew we were old friends.”
“Yeah, I told her that.”
“Fine, but she made it sound like she had some inside info. Whatever. And I said, yeah, we go back to the beginning, and I don’t know—I guess that made her trust me or something. She sounded weird, I’m not going to lie.”
“And then?”
“That was the end of it. I said, yeah, we’ll try to be here. I was still pissed at you and, dude, you should have called me yourself. What the fuck?”
“Come on, Ray.”
“It was rude. So anyway, that night she called me again.”
“At home?”
“On my cell, but I was home, yeah. It was late.”
“What did she want?”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to know, right? What did she forget? Am I supposed to ask Emily to bring something or whatever?”
“And?”
“And, buddy”—he leans closer—“she asked if I had a minute to talk about you.”
“What did she say?”
“She started out acting timid, saying she was worried about you, saying she was worried about herself. She told me about how she’d covered your ass as a favor, but how she’s doubting herself now. Swear to God, Bobby.”
“I believe you. What else did she say?”
“Well, let’s see. She said that kid came into your office a few days before he died. She said none of it was on the books, and that you drew blood that never got tested, and that the whole thing was shady, but that she covered for you when the cops called. She said she had to tell someone the truth or she was going to lose her mind. You ask me, she already has. You ask me, she’s the one you should have gotten rid of.”
I flinch.
“Sorry. I don’t mean it. Sorry about that. But you know what I mean, right? Because Bobby, she wanted to talk about this shit, so it’s like, you better count your lucky stars she chose me, right? And you haven’t even told me everything yet. You’re going to have to one of these days, you know. And you’d better hope that girl hasn’t told anyone else. She swore she hadn’t. And trust me, she definitely hasn’t now.”
“Why?” I ask. “What happened?”
He smiles, takes a long drink and sucks his teeth, followed by a disgusting, self-satisfied exhale—an audible, Ahhhh.
“What did you do, Raymond?”
He is smug and proud. “I shut her up.”
“What did you do?”
“Relax, dude. Relax.” He gestures, palm-to-concrete, for me to lower my voice. “I let her know that not only would I tell the cops that she lied and tampered with evidence—making her an accessory and in violation of whatever health shit she thinks she broke—but I reminded her that she’d lose her job because of it. Who would want to hire her then?”
“Ray.”
“And I said I’d tell the cops she’s a psycho.”
“Raymond,” I nearly shout. “Tell me you’re fucking with me.”
He grins. “I got your back, buddy.”
“This is having my back?”
“I told her I’d be first in line to testify that she’s a bunny-boiler.”
“What are you saying?”
He laughs out loud. “Glenn Close with the dead rabbit.”
“Yeah, I got that, dickhead. But what exactly did you tell her?”
“I said if she fucked with you, I’d be right there ready to blame her for malpractice and sexual harassment and some other stuff. I said she should watch her back. She started crying at that last part. I won’t lie, that felt pretty bad. Tried to soften it a little, but that only made it worse. God. This was pretty fucked up of me, wasn’t it?”
“Jesus, Ray. What is wrong with you? Sexual harassment?”
“Somewhere at some point she’s bound to have stepped out of line, right? Everyone does.”
“Malpractice doesn’t apply to receptionists, Ray.”
He smiles and makes some clicking sound, as though I’d guessed a secret, and I do not react, ever mindful that the panes of glass dividing me and my guests could quickly flip, turning my guests into the audience and me into the show.
“Here’s the deal,” I say, edging as close to the truth as possible without touching the line. “I had that irrational freak-out about the kid, but I was wrong. It was midlife crisis shit. I still wanted to get rid of him, like you said I should, just to keep this house from going crazy—just to keep me from going crazy in this house. So I said yes when he asked if I’d take a look at his swollen glands. Figured I’d size him up, get his weak spot. Had him into the office, drew some blood, and changed my mind. He was fine. Nothing came from it anyway, because he went and offed himself before I had a chance to interfere. He was fucked up. That’s what I was picking up on, okay? He wasn’t sleeping with Elizabeth. He was desperate for a mother figure, and he was lost and crazy. Hand to God, Ray, I didn’t have anything to do with this shit. You’ve got to believe me, man.”
He is earnest and childlike when he says without moving his lips, “I do.”
“You believe me.”
“I do. You should have told me all this earlier. You had me going out of my mind over there, Bobby. I thought you’d snapped, and then that nurse said that shit.”
“Office manager.”
“Whatever, dickwad. She made me think maybe you’d gone off the deep end over this kid. What was I supposed to do?”
“It’s fine, Ray.” My objective: de-escalation. My sole purpose in this, my final exchange with Ray, is to convince him that his distance and silence will demonstrate loyalty, which is his most valued virtue of all. I can’t have him turning on me. He knows too much. Until that report comes back from the coroner, Ray is dangerous to me and my family. “You did right, man, okay? It’s just—you weren’t all off when you called her crazy. Simone.”
“I knew it.” He snaps his fingers. “I could sense it, Bobby, the way she spilled her guts.”
“Well, I know her. I know how to handle her, and right now, it’s a delicate situation.”
He whispers, “With her?”
“God, no. Not delicate like that. I mean, with the cops. They’re asking questions, making something out of nothing, but I lied to them about that appointment.”
“Why?”
“I panicked.”
“So tell them. Get them off your case.”
“I would, but it’s too late now. Do you realize how bad that would look? How bad that would make me look?”
He thinks on it and nods.
“So here’s what we have to do.” We, I say, intentionally grouping us together, making sure he believes we’re still a team. “We have to lay low. Ride this out until those assholes stop nosing around. They’ll get bored eventually. And I’m saying this for your own sake, man: you need to go dark for a while.”
He laughs. “Get out of here, man.”
“I’m serious, Ray. I’m looking out for you. You don’t want to get involved, and you sure as hell don’t want to piss off a—what did you call her?”
“Bunny-boiler.”
“Right. Leave her be. Let her calls go to voice mail and keep your side of the street clean. They’ll close the case eventually and we can all get on with our lives, but in the meantime, we have to ride this out without making something out of nothing.”
“Nothing,” he says, looking up at the roof, but he takes it all in and caves. “All right. If that’s how you want to play this.”
“It is.”
“You have to call me if shit gets out of hand again, though.”
“I will. In the meantime, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I can take care of it.”
Unconvinced, he nods.
He nods again.
“Take home some of those cake things for Leon. Some sandwiches, too. Have a good time in there, buddy.”
“Sure thing,” he says. Somber. Resigned.
I slap him on the shoulder and walk away, knowing that this was the end of us. I wonder if he knows it too, and if he feels the pinch of grief, sensing this might have been our last meaningful conversation, the end of an era. One more witness down.
I go inside and say polite words to people without hearing their responses. The cloud in my ears is too loud. I have nothing to hide or defend, so I don’t need Ray’s assistance, and anyway, he’s the one who demanded I trust my instincts. My instincts say he could be my family’s undoing. He should have dropped it. I did nothing wrong. When I step away to refill my drink, Ray and his family are already gone.
Simone
I check the time on the sly. Eight fifteen. Time to come to grips with missing Dr. Hart’s party altogether. Probably. Unless it runs late and this dinner ends soon. Gina’s the one who told me to book a table early so I could try to make both, and it’s her birthday, so I didn’t feel guilty. The others don’t know that’s why our reservation was for six thirty—in Southampton. Kind of a haul, but this place gets amazing reviews, and reservations are hard to land, so no one questioned the drive or the time. Best available for a party of six. And, I mean, dinner was amazing. But, I mean, it’s been almost two hours.
Then again, these are my best friends in the world, plus Rosie, so why the hell should I be eager to race off to some other party—one where I might bump into Raymond What’s-His-Name, who thinks I’m crazy and threatened to ruin my life. I’m such an idiot. I’d die of shame the minute I saw Dr. Hart’s wife, anyway.
Aisha nudges me under the table. “How you doing?” she whispers.
“Fine,” I say automatically, before even realizing what she’s really asking, which is how I’m feeling about meeting Gina’s new girlfriend. “Honestly, I’m fine. I like her.”
“Yeah, but still,” says Aisha.
“Gina and I were friends for a long time before we were more-than-friends. This part is easy. Seriously. And I do like Rosie.”
Aisha smiles. “Okay. Just checking.”
I thank her and mean it, because she got me out of my head and back into my body, in this chair, at this table, celebrating one of my oldest and best friends—who, miraculously, is still my best friend after how complicated things got for a while there: friend to girlfriend to ex-girlfriend and back again, with minimal scarring. I’m surprised, actually, by how little this stings. How glad I am to see Gina so happy with someone else.
Violet is telling stories about nannying for two kids with more hobbies than brain cells, a fancy house that smells like candles that smell like salad, a mom who doesn’t believe in luck. “ ‘You make your own luck,’ is her motto,” Violet tells us. “She thinks anything is possible with hard work and a spit-shine.”
Gina hangs her head. “Oh God. The worst.”
“Luck is just another word for endurance,” Rosie offers.
“Fuck that,” says Michelle. “Luck is being born a white guy with money. Period.”
We all have to agree with that, even Rosie.
“Speaking of . . .” says Michelle, turning to me. “How’s your White Guy With Money, Simone?” To Rosie, she says, “Simone’s in love with her boss. He’s a fox and plays it up so she’ll go above and beyond her job description.”
I make a sour face and say, “You’re so stupid.” Everyone laughs, and I add, “The boss I’m not in love with is fine, thanks.” Maybe I’d have laughed too, a couple of months ago, when it was all fun and games and fantasy, but ever since I spoiled the fantasy with games, the fun is MIA. Gina’s the only one who knows the whole story: the flowers, the failed attempt at a kiss, the hard bargain and blood. The rest of them would die of embarrassment if they knew what a fool I made of myself.
One thing I can laugh at, though: job description. What job description? It’s not like this was my dream job. I wanted to be an interior designer. I wanted to go to Parsons, but the BFA would have cost me close to two hundred grand in tuition alone, never mind books and housing, never mind dinners with friends. So I thought: Well then, I’ll get my MFA instead. But by junior year at SUNY Old Westbury, I knew that a hundred-thousand-dollar master’s was nuts, too. So I thought: I’ll intern, get my foot in the door. On-the-job training is more practical anyway. Practical, my ass. Couldn’t even get a temp job, let alone a dream job. I was applying for half a dozen restaurant gigs a day when I got my interview with Dr. Hart. He offered to pay me twice as much as I’d have made temping, plus benefits, and I could move close to the beach, to the Hamptons. What was I supposed to do? Decline and wait for a wish to come true? Whoever heard of a dream job, anyway? Rich people. People who have the resources to buy fantasy careers. The rest of us fantasize about retirement. We dream about how we’d spend our vacation days if we had enough money to take a dream vacation in the first place.
But I have this: a seat at a round table adorned with faces of friends I’ve known my whole life—plus Rosie—who won’t let me lose myself. We’ve nursed one another through countless heartaches and family catastrophes and always vote for the wildest choice, with consequences ranging from spectacular to spectacularly bad.
Still, they don’t need to know about the flowers, favors, miscommunications, or bottom line—or about how that kid jumped off Dr. Hart’s roof and how the timing couldn’t be worse but also couldn’t be better, since it overshadowed my stupidity, so maybe Dr. Hart will forget the whole thing. Or maybe his friend will ruin my life, and I should just go ahead and die. But the server arrives with a cake full of candles, and by the time Gina makes her wish, I’ve nearly forgotten all about the other party.
• • •
When the bill has been paid and our stomachs stuffed to where it feels like they might rupture, we wander to the parking lot for extended good-byes. It’s still light out. Ten years ago, we wouldn’t even be dressed to go out yet.
I compliment Rosie on handling us so well. She says, “Are you kidding? I’m so happy to finally meet you,” and lets me hug her like we’re old friends, which I can tell we might be someday.
When Gina tells Rosie, “I’m stealing her for a second,” and pulls me aside, I give her the thumb drive with a bow on it that’s been in my pocket this whole time. “Seven playlists. One for each day of the week. Happy birthday, boo.”
She hugs me hard and asks, “Can you still make it to that thing?”
“I doubt it, but whatever. The whole thing is weird and morbid, anyway. I didn’t even know the kid. Nobody did.”
“Super weird.”
“I know.”
She glances at the others, then turns back and drops her voice. “You doing okay?”
I shake my head. “How did I get myself into this mess?” The flowers, the kiss, the hard bargain and blood. The threats from that guy who could ruin my life.
“Because you fell in love with the douche,” she says. “Stop beating yourself up.”
I let my hair fall in my face to make sure our friends can’t see or hear me say, “His friend scared the shit out of me, Gina. I thought I was doing the right thing. I’m seriously worried about Dr. Hart. I didn’t know what to do and really believed his friend would be able to help. I’m so stupid.”
“Stop it. Stop being so hard on yourself. It’s time you take care of your own damn future. You don’t have to protect those guys. I still think you should up and quit.”
I shake my head. “That place would fall apart. He’d be helpless.”
“Listen to me. Guys like that? They’re already protected. He’ll be fine. The system is designed to make sure he’ll be fine. You want to get yours? Work outside of the system. Just do me a favor and don’t feel bad. Please? He has no problem watching his own ass, right? You’ve got to watch yours.”<
br />
I twist to look at my own ass because it’s easier to crack a joke than to acknowledge that maybe Gina’s right: maybe he doesn’t need me. She hugs me long and hard, and with her lips near my ear, whispers, “Use that blood if you have to.” As she walks away, she calls out, full voice, “Believe me. He’ll be fine.”
• • •
The drive from Southampton to Dr. Hart’s house takes half an hour. Eagerness turns to nervousness on the way. I haven’t visited this neighborhood since—shit, since Jonah Hart’s high school graduation a few years back, probably. There was a double rainbow that day. I wore my yellow sundress with blue flowers on the hem.
I wonder if he wonders why I wasn’t there tonight.
I wonder if he thinks I had a date, or if he even knows that I have friends. He’d probably be surprised to learn I used to date one of them, that I’ve had sex with other women and that I have sex with men, too. He probably doesn’t see me as a sexual creature at all, or as anything other than the lady who operates the beautiful French carousel that is his life. He needs me, sure. But he doesn’t need to know me. Why would he?
I wonder if he even noticed I didn’t show.
On his block, I kill my headlights and roll to a stop across the street from his house. The lights are on in almost every room, but there aren’t extra cars in his driveway or on the curb, and the only people floating back and forth in that bay window are Dr. Hart and his wife. He’s a different animal when he’s not wearing that white coat at work. I wish he were an uglier animal.
And her. She’s untouchable. Makes it look so easy. The weird thing, though, is that nothing about her is all that special. It’s not like she has the perfect face or the perfect body or even the perfect clothes. If it wasn’t her in that skin, people might not even pay attention. If she lived in, like, Kansas or Dubuque, or any place where it’s hard to get sushi and Botox—the kinds of places where no one knows how to cut hair and the only jeans you can try on before buying are regular blue jeans that do nothing remarkable for the butt—she might even pass for plain. But the way she carries herself makes it impossible to look away. And it’s not even, “Oh, how pretty.” It’s more like, “Whoa, what is that?”
Man of the Year Page 23
