by Dan Pope
He wanted to forget her, but she kept calling. “We’ll celebrate after the exam,” she promised him. Mostly she complained about Maximilian, the way he dismissed her opinions about writers. “He called Kate Chopin shite, as if he were British. I hate the way he talks to me sometimes.” It got to be more than Andrew could handle. “Look,” he said at last, “I’m not one of your girlfriends. Don’t complain to me about your love life. And I particularly don’t want to hear any more about Maximilian, okay? You’ve got to be crazy to date a jerk like him anyway. It’s not my problem. You are my problem, not him.” A long silence followed. “Okay,” she said, finally, in a serious tone. “I get it. I’m sorry.”
Later she told him that this was the moment he went from friend to lover in her mind. For some reason, she hadn’t thought of him as passionate—until he blurted his feelings for her. With some women, you had to take the risk. With Audrey, the risk had paid off.
The night he finished the bar exam, she met him and his friends at a basement bar. “Where have you been hiding her, Murray?” one of his pals asked. “Under his bed,” she responded. They did shots of Jack Daniel’s and danced until last call. At closing time he walked off with his arm around her. When they came to his building she said, “Are you ready to celebrate?” “I thought we just did.” She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips. “Think again,” she said. “Think bigger.” In his room he could smell her sweat, her hot boozy breath. “I drank everything,” she said, taking off her skirt. “But I’m not drunk.”
She left at dawn, and a week later she was gone, off to Buffalo with her asshole boyfriend. In September, Andrew began a job in Bridgeport, clerking for a federal magistrate. He received a card with her new address. I miss you, she wrote. The memory of her—her body, her scent, her voice—refused to fade. Her drunk self had made the right choice. But, after he’d had her for only one night, she’d disappeared, magnifying the hurt. When would he see her again? The answer, he realized as the weeks passed and she did not respond to his letters, was never.
Then she appeared at his door.
It was the afternoon of a rainy Sunday in October, two months after her departure. She stood in the foyer in blue jeans and high leather boots. “Here I am,” she said, “if you still want me.” She’d left Maximilian, she told him. He’d been fired from his job for plagiarism. The poems he’d published, they discovered, were lifted verbatim from early-twentieth-century German writers. Maximilian had translated the work of little-known poets and signed his own name. “He’s a fraud,” she said.
“I’ll kick his ass, if you want,” Andrew volunteered.
“I’d rather you kiss me,” she said. “I thought about you a lot.”
“Ditto as to you.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“On one condition. That you never mention the name Maximilian again.”
“Actually, that’s not even his real name. He made that up too.”
“I’m not going to say I told you so.”
She smiled. “Thanks. And I figured out the white roses too.”
“Tell me.”
“Red is for romance. Everyone knows that. White roses represent unity and virtue, honor and reverence. I looked this up, if you’re wondering. So you were telling me it wasn’t just about romance, like a first date. You were telling me I was worth more than that. It means you think I’m special.”
“I thought that was self-evident.”
“Sorry,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “Sometimes it takes me a while to get the easy ones.”
Andrew, after his long quest, reveled in his luck. Audrey Martin, the woman he’d obsessed about those long months. In restaurants, at bars, in theaters, holding her hand, he was astounded that this brilliant creature was actually his, that she shared his bed, made his meals, cared about his little triumphs and discontents.
They were married the next June.
* * *
AFTER A FEW DAYS his hamstring felt back to normal. A series of fine fall days passed, perfect for tennis. He called Sampson into his office and handed over the files and suggested a rematch. Sampson made excuses, putting him off.
His insomnia returned, a bad case; he spent hours staring at the ceiling listening to the sound of his sleeping wife. He blamed some of this on Sampson; if he’d been able to get some exercise, he would sleep better.
At first light Audrey stirred and squinted at him with her myopic stare. “What’s wrong?”
He checked the alarm clock. “Couldn’t sleep.” He ran his hand over his head—his hair was cowlicked, jutting upward.
“Is something bothering you?”
He exhaled heavily. “You were snoring.”
“It never bothered you before.”
“Of course it bothered me. It always bothers me. You sound like a teakettle.”
“It’s my allergies. I’m sorry.”
“To hell with it,” he said, jumping out of bed. He stood by his dresser, staring into the mirror. “Jesus. I look like a zombie.”
“You probably slept without realizing it.”
“I think I would know whether or not I slept. So don’t placate me. Don’t tell me I slept when I didn’t.”
“Could you lower your voice, please?”
“I’ve got a ten-hour day ahead of me, while you lie around the house doing whatever you do, which is nothing as far as I can tell. It would be nice if I didn’t have to trip over boxes in the hallway.”
“Would you like to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Do you want me to go over it again? Do you want me to spell it out for you?”
He went into the bathroom and closed the door.
* * *
IN THE claw-foot tub he stood under the stream of hot water with his eyes closed. He shouldn’t have yelled at her like that. True, she had snored during the night, often starting at the exact moment he’d felt himself drifting toward sleep. But all he had to do, all he ever had to do to quiet her, was nudge her, and she would flop over on her side, like an automaton. But he hadn’t slept in the ensuing silence either. His mind returned to the tennis match. He’d had Sampson down a set and a break. Then he’d blown it, spraying the ball all over the court. Even before pulling his hamstring, he’d made all those unforced errors. And then Sampson had started giving him pity points.
Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.
He pondered Sampson’s proclivities for men and women. Odd, that lack of preference. Andrew could understand being gay a lot easier than being bi. He’d never done anything sexual with men, unless you counted the dorm shenanigans at Andover. Back then, the guys on his hall sometimes jacked off in a circle, seeing who could do it the fastest. All the guys did it. And there was that French kid, Claude from Quebec, who used to give blow jobs for five bucks a pop. He was a faggot, someone who sucked cock, someone who took it up the ass. Andrew had never used Claude’s services, although a lot of his dorm mates had. It annoyed Andrew that he’d blown the match with Sampson. Winning would have established his natural male dominance over an upstart, a necessary act of authority. Because, once his position was secure, a guy like Sampson could be useful to him at the office.
But what pissed Andrew off, what ruined his sleep, was how Sampson had put off the rematch since then, making bullshit excuses. Particularly when there was money involved. You win a bet, you give the other guy a chance to get even. That was understood. That was the custom. You didn’t avoid the issue. It was the lack of courtesy that annoyed him. The lack of deference.
Andrew stood before the mirror, toweling off. The shower had put some color in his cheeks and cleared the red from his eyes. He felt better, as he always did after a shower. He combed and gelled his hair. When wet, his hair looked thin, the scalp showing beneath. His hair, once as dark as his kids’, was now gray around his ears. He
needed a haircut, the best cure for a receding hairline. Maybe he’d shave his head entirely. He began to dress but couldn’t find the proper shirt.
“Audrey.”
His wife could sleep through any sort of disturbance—storms, bright lights, a blaring television. He shook her foot. When she rolled over, the pillow fell onto the floor and she yawned, suddenly childlike.
“I’m sorry about yelling. I get grumpy when I lose sleep.”
“It’s okay,” she said.
“Which shirt, do you think?” he asked.
She squinted, nearly blind without her glasses.
“Olive suit,” he told her.
“Your Ralph Lauren?” She reached for her eyeglasses on the night table, knocking a book onto the rug. She stacked the books five or six high, bookmarks in each; she read them at the same time, a practice he found mystifying. How could she concentrate on so many books at once? “Light blue shirt, black tie,” she said. “It’ll look great.”
He got a shirt out of the closet, pulling off the dry cleaner’s plastic. When he tucked the shirttails into his pants and buckled his belt, his stomach bulged uncomfortably. He sucked in his gut. “I’ve got to work out more often. I’ve been trying to set up another tennis game, but the guy I played with last week won’t set a date.”
“The guy from your office?”
“Yeah. Johnny Sampson.”
“Johnny? Is he a grown man?”
“Allegedly.”
“I thought you liked him.”
“Who said that?”
“I just got that sense. You’ve mentioned him a few times now.”
Andrew shrugged. “He’s a third-year associate. His job is to impress me, not the other way around. After I pinched my hamstring, he started giving me points. Hitting shots into the net on purpose.”
“I know. You told me about it already. He was just trying to suck up to you, obviously.”
“I don’t need that kind of charity. That’s him thinking he’s better than me. I was ranked in New England.” Andrew pulled on his suit jacket. “How’s this?”
“I’d go with black shoes. Are you going to court?”
“Just a couple of depos. Why?”
“You never wear that suit to work.”
“Don’t I?”
He went into the bathroom and splashed some cologne on his neck. He hesitated in the doorway. “Audrey, I really am sorry.”
“I know. Do you want some breakfast?”
“I’ll grab a coffee on the way. You stay in bed. Sleep.”
He grabbed his gym bag and tennis racket out of the closet, just in case. He went out the kitchen door in his overcoat, holding the racket in its vinyl cover over his head against the rain.
* * *
ON THE DRIVE to the office he flipped open his cell and pressed Sampson’s number. It rang five times before going to voice mail. Andrew hung up and dialed again, and this time Sampson answered, his voice heavy.
“Attorney Murray. How’s that hamstring?”
“I’ll risk it.”
“I’ve been swamped, thanks to you.”
“Yes, thanks to me. How about tonight? There must be some indoor courts around here.” Andrew thought he detected a voice in the background. He pressed the phone closer to his ear but couldn’t hear over the road noise and the slapping of the windshield wipers. “Well?”
“Sure, I know a place. I’ll call for a reservation.”
“Do that.”
“What time is it anyway?”
“Time to get up. I got some ideas on that employee privacy case. I’ll come by your office in the afternoon.”
Andrew shut the phone, then checked the time: a few minutes before seven. He hadn’t realized it was so early.
* * *
AFTER HIS final deposition of the day Andrew picked up his tennis racket and went down the hall to Sampson’s office. He stood outside the door, holding his breath. Sampson was talking on the phone, his voice low and confident: “When did he say that?” and then, “No, I don’t know that guy,” and, “Perfect, that’s perfect.” After a minute Andrew stepped into the doorway, posing with the tennis racket as if about to hit a forehand. Sampson waved him in, his feet up on the desk. He gestured with his hand like a duck quacking. Finally he replaced the phone. “Sorry about that.”
“Who was it?”
“Insurance adjuster.”
“This time of day?”
“He’s West Coast.”
“Which case?”
“Not one of yours. Hey, let me see that.”
Andrew passed over the tennis racket, and Sampson took off the vinyl cover and felt the grip. “You’ve got big hands.” He picked at the twine, straightening the strings.
“Did you reserve the court?”
Sampson handed back the tennis racket. “Bad news. I can’t do it tonight.”
“Seriously?”
Sampson shrugged. “Sorry.”
“You should have told me earlier. I would have made other plans.”
Sampson adjusted his glasses. “This came up at the last minute. An old buddy of mine is coming into town for the night. I have to pick him up at the airport.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“I’ll make it up to you. How about this weekend? Dinner on me this time.”
“Maybe. I’ll get back to you.”
Andrew went back to his office but found it difficult to concentrate on his work. After a half hour he walked down the hall and knocked on Hannahan’s door. When no one answered, he pushed open the door. The old man was leaning back in his chair, snoring quietly. Andrew rapped his knuckles on the door, and Hannahan’s eyes came open. He cleared his throat and wiped his lips. “Caught me napping,” he said.
“I had a glass of that single malt last night,” Andrew lied. “Smooth stuff.”
“Glad you liked it.” Hannahan opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle. “Care for a nip now? It’s the same year.”
“Glasses?”
“Right behind you.”
Andrew glanced at the framed photograph on the bookshelf. There was Hannahan in black and white, twenty-five years younger, smiling confidently alongside four cohorts. Andrew could summon the name of only one, the tall man in the center. William Oshry. All four were dead. He remembered their shiny faces, their banter and quips, their sturdy handshakes. They used to gather at the center table at the University Club in Greenwich. They would drink and blather. After each round they would throw dice to see who would sign the chit for the drinks. The club was gone now, which was fine with Andrew. Those stifling summer nights. The heavy red leather seats in the drawing room. The cigar haze. The air conditioner always seemed to go wrong. The club hadn’t admitted women until the late eighties. He’d often had to pinch himself to stay awake, listening to the old men ramble on. Oshry had been the worst bore, the oldest of the lot. In his prime he’d represented the railroad, and he talked about little else. One evening Andrew had noticed that the old man’s complexion was a shocking orange. He’d nearly said something to him. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Oshry was dead within the month—liver cancer—and the others in the picture followed soon after with no great loss to humanity or the gross national product. Next came the wrecking ball to knock down their precious University Club. They were all gone, that world was gone, all but Hannahan, the last man standing.
Andrew passed the glasses across the desk, noticing that Hannahan looked slightly orange himself today. He usually had that nice rosiness, the pustules around his nose aflame. Perhaps cancer was in play here as well, eating away at Hannahan’s lungs or spleen, some other vulnerable organ. Perhaps Hannahan knew it. If so, he would never tell anyone, the old phlegmatic bastard.
“How are you feeling, Jack?”
Hannahan
poured the scotch with a trembling hand. “Never better.”
Perhaps Hannahan was dying. If so, Andrew asked himself whether he felt anything remotely like sympathy for him, and he decided that he did not. Hannahan was what, seventy-nine? Eighty? He’d had his run. It was the natural order of things that he should expire. He had been Andrew’s mentor, sure, but not out of any great kindness. With all that work, he’d needed someone to carry the load. Hannahan had picked him as his prize mule, had brought him along, and Andrew had done well for him. That was the natural order. You passed it down, just as Andrew would pass it down to Johnny Sampson.
“How’s your protégé?” said Hannahan, as if reading Andrew’s thoughts. “The young Mr. Sampson.”
“In my bad books at the moment. I invited him for tennis tonight and he canceled on me at the last minute.”
“I always preferred golf.”
“Off to the airport to meet a buddy, he said.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Not for a minute.”
Hannahan shrugged. “Maybe he’s up to his old tricks with the secretaries. A handsome boy, you can’t blame him for taking advantage. Even if it’s not a particularly smart career move. We had to issue a formal reprimand.”
“You told me. But I trust you were exaggerating about the number of his conquests.”
“Not at all.”
“Which secretaries? Anyone in my department?”
Hannahan rubbed his chin. “There was a Hispanic fellow who has since left the firm, a paralegal.”
“What was his name?”
The old man squinted. “Pedro, I believe. There were others.”
“Well, he’s a faggot. You know what they’re like.”
“Now, now, Andy. Tell me what he did to earn your ire.”
“We played tennis last week. I had him down a set before my hamstring gave out.”
“Aah.” Hannahan laughed. “You never liked to lose.”
