Before the Fall

by Noah Hawley

  * * *

  Sarah was up early Sunday morning. She puttered in the kitchen, straightening, figuring out what they needed, then put on her walking shoes, grabbed her wicker basket, and walked across the island to the farmers market. It was muggy out, the marine layer in the process of burning off, and the sun magnified through airborne water molecules made the world feel liquid somehow. She passed the leaning mailboxes at the end of their turnoff and walked along the shoulder of the main road. She liked the sound of her shoes on the sand that lined the macadam. Her rhythmic soft shoe. New York was so loud with its traffic and subterranean subway clatter that you couldn’t hear yourself moving in time and space, couldn’t hear your breath sounds coming and going. Sometimes with the jackhammering and the explosive hiss of kneeling buses you had to pinch yourself just to know you were still alive.

  But here, the steel chill of night giving way to the mug of a summer day, bubbling rainbows in the air, Sarah could feel herself breathing, her muscles moving. She could hear her own hair as it brushed against the collar of her light summer jacket.

  The farmers market was busy already. You could smell the seconds fermenting in hidden baskets out of sight, bruised tomatoes and stone fruit boxed for cosmetic reasons, even though the mottled fruit was the sweetest. Every week the vendors set up in a slightly different order, sometimes the kettle corn at one end, sometimes another. The flower vendor favored the middle, the baker the end closest to the water. Ben and Sarah had been coming here for fifteen years, first as renters and then, when rich became wealthy, as owners of a modern concrete sleeve with an ocean view.

  Sarah knew all the farmers by name. She had watched their children grow from toddler to teen. She walked beside weekenders and locals, not shopping as much as feeling part of the place. They were going to catch an afternoon ferry. It would be pointless to buy more than a single peach, but she couldn’t not come to the farmers market on a Sunday morning. Those weeks when it rained and the market was canceled, she felt rootless. Back in the city, she would wander the streets like a rat in a maze, looking for something, yet never knowing exactly what.

  She stopped and studied some watercress. The fight she and Ben had had after the dinner—his cold shoulder, the mid-meal walkout—had been short but fierce. She let him know in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t going to put up with his selfishness anymore. The world did not exist to satisfy the needs of Ben Kipling. And if that’s what he wanted—to surround himself with people that he could walk on as he pleased—well, then, he should find another wife.

  Ben had been uncharacteristically apologetic, taking her hand and telling her she was right, that he was sorry and would make every effort to make sure it never happened again. It took her off guard. She was so used to fighting with the back of his head. But this time he looked her in the eye. He told her he knew he had taken her for granted, that he’d taken everything for granted. He’d been arrogant. Hubris was the word he used. But from here on out it was a new day. He actually looked a little scared. She took the fear to be a sign that her threat had actually landed, that he believed she would leave him and didn’t know what he would do without her. Later she would realize that he was already afraid—afraid that everything he had, everything he was, was on the verge of eclipse.

  And so today, having witnessed her husband’s contrition, having lain with him in their marital bed, his head between her breasts, his hands upon her thighs, she felt a new chapter in her life begin. A renaissance. They had talked into the late-night hours of taking a month off and going to Europe. They would walk the streets of Umbria, hand in hand, newlyweds again. Sometime after midnight he had opened his mahogany box and they had smoked some pot, the first she’d smoked since Jenny was born. It made them giggle like kids, sitting on the kitchen floor in front of the open refrigerator, eating strawberries straight out of the crisper.

  She wandered past English cucumbers and baskets of loose-leaf lettuces. The berry man had arranged his wares into a trinity—green baskets of blueberries grouped with blackberries and gum-red raspberries. She peeled back the rough husks of summer corn, her fingers hungry to feel the yellow silk below, lost in an illusion. Here on the Vineyard, at the farmers market, at this precise spot, in this moment in time, the modern world vanished, the unspoken division of our silent class wars. There was no rich or poor, no privilege, there was only food tugged from loamy earth, fruit plucked from sturdy branches, and honey stolen from the beehive bush. We are all equal in the face of nature, she thought—which was, in and of itself, an idea born of luxury.

  Looking up, she saw Maggie Bateman in the middle distance. The moment was this: A young couple with a baby stroller passed through her center of vision and in their passing, Maggie was revealed in profile, caught in mid-sentence, and then—as the couple with the stroller cleared completely—the man she was speaking to was, himself, revealed. He was a handsome man in his forties, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, both paint-stained, the T-shirt covered by an old blue cardigan. The man had longish hair, swept back carelessly but creeping forward, and as Sarah watched he reached up and swept it back again, the way a horse swats flies with its tail, distracted.

  The first thought that hit Sarah was simply recognition. She knew that person (Maggie). The second thought was context (that’s Maggie Bateman, married to David, mother of two). The third thought was that the man she was talking to was standing a little too close, that he was leaning in and smiling. And that the look on Maggie’s face was similar. That there was an intimacy between them that felt more than casual. And then Maggie turned and saw Sarah. She raised a hand and shielded her eyes from the sun, like a sailor searching the horizon.

  “Hey there,” she said, and there was something about the openness of the greeting, the fact that Maggie didn’t act like a woman who’d just been caught flirting with a man who was not her husband, that made Sarah rethink her first assumption.

  “I thought you might be here,” Maggie said. Then, “Oh, this is Scott.”

  The man showed Sarah his palm.

  “Hi,” said Sarah, then to Maggie, “Yeah, you know me. If the market’s up I’ll be here squeezing avocados, rain or shine.”

  “Are you going back today?”

  “The three o’clock ferry, I think.”

  “Oh no. Don’t—we’ve got the plane. Come with us.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. That’s what it’s—I was just telling Scott. He’s got to go into the city tonight too.”

  “I was thinking of walking,” said Scott.

  Sarah frowned.

  “We’re on an island.”

  Maggie smiled.

  “Sarah. He’s kidding.”

  Sarah felt herself flush.

  “Of course.”

  She forced a laugh.

  “I’m such a ditz sometimes.”

  “So that’s it,” said Maggie. “You have to come. Both of you. And Ben. It’ll be fun. We can have a drink and, I don’t know, talk about art.”

  To Sarah she said, “Scott’s a painter.”

  “Failed,” he clarified.

  “No. Now that’s—didn’t you just tell me you have gallery meetings next week?”

  “Which are bound to go badly.”

  “What do you paint?” Sarah asked.

  “Catastrophe,” he said.

  Sarah must have looked puzzled, because Maggie said, “Scott paints disaster scenes from the news—train wrecks, building collapses, and things like monsoons—they really are genius.”

  “Well,” said Scott, “they’re morbid.”

  “I’d like to see them sometime,” said Sarah politely, though morbid is exactly how it sounded to her.

  “See?” said Maggie.

  “She’s being polite,” said Scott perceptively. “But I appreciate it. I live pretty simply out here.”

  It’s clear he would say more if asked, but Sarah changed subjects. “What time are you guys going back?” she asked.

  “I’ll
text you,” said Maggie, “but I think around eight. We fly to Teterboro and then into the city from there. We’re usually home and in bed by ten thirty.”

  “Wow,” said Sarah, “that would be amazing. Just the thought of Sunday-afternoon gridlock—eek—I mean it’s worth it, but that would be—Ben is going to be thrilled.”

  “Good,” said Maggie. “I’m glad. That’s what it’s there for, right? If you’ve got a plane—”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Scott.

  “Don’t be snarky,” said Maggie, turning to him. “You’re coming too.”

  She was grinning, teasing him, and Sarah decided that this was just how Maggie was, a good sport, a people person. Scott certainly wasn’t giving off a vibe that the two of them were anything other than farmers market friends.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said. “Thanks.”

  He gave them both a smile and walked off. For a moment it felt that all three of them would go their separate ways, but Maggie lingered a bit and Sarah felt the obligation to keep talking if she wanted to, so the two of them leaned away and then back.

  “How do you know him?” Sarah asked.

  “Scott? Just—from around. Or—he’s always at Gabe’s, you know, having coffee, and I used to bring the kids down all the time, just a place to go to get out of the house. Rachel liked their muffins. And we just got chatty.”

  “Is he married?”

  “No,” said Maggie. “I think he was engaged once. Anyway, the kids and I went out to his place once, saw his work. It really is terrific. I keep trying to get David to buy something, but he said he’s in the disaster business, so he doesn’t really want to come home and look at that. And to be fair, they are pretty graphic.”

  “I bet.”

  “Yeah.”

  They stood there for a moment, out of words, like two rocks in a stream, the movement of the crowd a constant around them.

  “Things are good?” said Sarah.

  “Good, yes. You?”

  Sarah thought about the way Ben kissed her this morning. She smiled.

  “They are.”

  “Great. Well, let’s catch up on the plane, huh?”

  “Amazing. Thanks again.”

  “Okay. See you tonight.”

  Maggie gave her a quick air kiss and then she was gone. Sarah watched her go, then went to find some more strawberries.

  * * *

  At the same time, Ben sat on the deck—reclaimed wood, ivied trellis—and watched the waves. Laid out on the kitchen counter were a dozen bagels with lox, heirloom tomatoes, capers, and a local artisanal cream cheese. Ben sat on a wicker chair with the Sunday Times and a cappuccino, a light wind in his face off the ocean. He had traded texts with Culpepper all weekend, using an app called Redact that blacked out messages as you read them, then erased them for good.

  Out on the ocean, sailboats inch across the wave caps. Culpepper wrote cryptically that he had been digging into the government’s case through back channels. He used emoticons instead of key words, assuming it would make the texts harder to use as evidence, were the government to somehow crack the app.

  Looks like they have a key :-( feeding them dirt.

  Ben wiped tomato runoff from his chin, finished his first bagel half. A whistleblower? Is that what Culpepper was saying? Ben remembered the man with the turtleneck outside Bali, his nose broken in a Russian prison. Did that really happen?

  Sarah came out onto the porch with half a grapefruit. Where he’d just gotten up, she’d already been to a Spin class in town.

  “Ferry leaves at three thirty,” Ben told her. “So we should be there at two forty-five.”

  Sarah handed him a napkin, sat.

  “I ran into Maggie at the farmers market.”

  “Bateman?”

  “Yes. She was with some painter. I mean, not with, but they were talking.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, preparing to tune out the rest of the conversation.

  “She said there’s room on their plane tonight.”

  This got his attention.

  “She offered?”

  “Unless you want to take the ferry. But, you know, the traffic Sunday night.”

  “No, that sounds—did you say yes?”

  “I said I’d talk to you, but assume we’re in.”

  Ben sat back. He’d text his assistant to have a car sent to Teterboro. He was taking out his phone to do it when he had another thought.

  David. He could talk to David. Not in detail, of course, but to the extent that he was having some troubles—one mogul to another. Was there a strategy David recommended? Should they hire a crisis manager preemptively? Start looking for a scapegoat? David also had close ties to the executive branch. If there really were new marching orders to the Justice Department, maybe David could get them some advance word.

  He put his half-eaten bagel down, wiped his hands on his pants, stood.

  “I’m gonna take a walk on the beach, sort some things out.”

  “If you wait a minute, I’ll go with you.”

  He started to tell her he needed the time to think, but paused. After the fiasco with Jenny’s boyfriend, he needed to go the extra mile. So he nodded and went inside to get his shoes.

  * * *

  The ride to the airport was short, the car picking them up just after nine p.m. They rode in the air-conditioned rear, moving through dimming twilight, the sun low on the horizon, an orange yolk dipped slowly into a cool meringue. Ben reviewed what he wanted to say to David, how to sidle up on the thing—not There’s a crisis, but Have you heard anything coming out of the White House that might affect the market in general? Or no, that’s too inside baseball. Maybe it was as simple as We’re hearing rumblings about some new regulations. Can you confirm or deny?

  He was sweating, despite the sixty-eight-degree interior. Next to Ben, Sarah was watching the sunset with a whispered smile. Ben squeezed her hand encouragingly, and she looked over and gave him a big grin—her man. Ben smiled back. He could just about slay a gin and tonic right now.

  Ben was getting out of the car on the tarmac when Culpepper called. It was nine fifteen, and balmy, a heavy fog hanging on the edges of the runway.

  “It’s happening,” said Culpepper as Ben took his overnight bag from the driver.

  “What?”

  “Indictments. A birdie just told me.”

  “What? When?”

  “In the morning. The feds’ll come in force, waving warrants. I had a shitstorm call with Leroy, but he’s gotta side with the president on this one. We need to send a message to Wall Street, or some such shit. I’ve got a hundred temps in there right now taking care of things.”

  “Things?”

  “What does the cookie monster do to cookies?”

  Ben was shaking. His creative reasoning center was closed.

  “Jesus, Barney. Just say it.”

  “Not on the phone. Just know that what Stalin did to the USSR is happening to our data. But you don’t know anything. As far as you’re concerned it’s just another Sunday night.”

  “What should I—”

  “Nothing. Go home, take a Xanax, sleep. In the morning put on a comfortable suit and moisturize your wrists. They’re going to arrest you at the office. You and Hoover and Tabitha, et cetera. We have lawyers on retainer standing by to bail you out, but they’ll be dicks and hold you the maximum time allowed.”

  “In jail?”

  “No. At Best Buy. Yes, in jail. But don’t worry. I’ve got a good lice guy.”

  He hung up. Ben stood on the tarmac, oblivious to the warm wind and Sarah’s concerned stare. Everything looked different now. The creeping fog, the shadows below the plane. Ben half expected fast lines to drop from a helicopter sky, shock troops descending.

  It’s happening, he thought. The absolute worst-case scenario. I will be arrested, indicted.

  “Jesus, Ben, you’re like a ghost.”

  Behind them the two-man ground crew finished gassing up the plane.
>
  “No,” he said, trying to pull himself together. “No, it’s—I’m fine. Just—some bad news from the markets. Asia.”

  The two men pulled the hose back, away from the fuselage. They were wearing khaki coveralls and matching caps, their faces darkened by shadow. One of them took a few steps away from the gas line, pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, the flame illuminating his face with an orange flicker. Ben squinted at him. Is that—? he thought, but the face went dark again. His fight-or-flight instinct was so strong right now it was as if every fear he had ever had was surrounding him in the fog. His heartbeat was thunderous, and he shivered despite the heat.

  After a moment he realized that Sarah was talking to him.

  “What?” he said.

  “I said, should I worry?”

  “No,” he told her. “No. It’s just—you know, I’m really looking forward to the trip we talked about. Italy, Croatia. I think it’ll be—I don’t know—maybe we should go tonight.”

  She took his arm.

  “You’re so crazy,” she told him, squeezing. He nodded. The first man finished securing the fuel hose, climbed into the cab of the truck. The second man dropped his cigarette, ground it out, walked to the passenger door.

  “I wouldn’t wanna be flying in this,” he said.

  And there’s something about the way he said it. An implication. Ben turned.

  “What?” he said. But the man was already closing his door. Then the truck pulled away. Was that a threat of some kind? A warning? Or was he being paranoid? Ben watched the truck roll back to the hangar until its taillights were just two red spots in the fog.

  “Babe?” said Sarah.

  Ben exhaled loudly, trying to shake it off.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  Too Big to Jail. That’s what Barney had said. It was just a ploy. The government was trying to make an example, but when it came down to it—the secrets he had, the implications to the financial markets—he had to believe that Barney was right. That this thing would settle quietly for a few million dollars. The truth was, he’d prepared for this day, planned for it. He’d have been an idiot not to, and if there was one thing Ben Kipling wasn’t it was an idiot. He had insulated himself financially, hiding funds—not everything, of course, but a couple of million. There was a litigator on retainer. Yes, this was the worst-case scenario, but it was a scenario they had built a fortress to handle.