“Then leave it, Nick.”
“You want me to quit? Just walk out? This is my career, Julia. This is the only career I’ve ever had.”
“Yes. Quit tomorrow. We have some money saved up. My dad has some money if we ever need it. Quit, Nick. We can go somewhere else.”
“Quit and do what?” I feel my pulse quicken. “Julia, I’ve sold bonds for more than thirteen years. Do you know what skills I’ve acquired in that time? The ability to sell bonds. These are not transferable skills. This is the only way I know how to make money, certainly this amount of money. Do you think I should start painting houses or mowing lawns?”
“I think you can do anything you want to do.”
I make a loud, frustrated exhale through my nostrils as though it is a word that can sum things up. An image passes through my head of me standing at the end of a car wash cycle holding a drying towel in one hand and wearing navy coveralls that say “Nick” in cursive on the front. “Julia, quitting is not the answer.”
“Then what is?”
“There are some changes I think I can make. I can shift some responsibilities around on the desk and I can make it clear that I’m not going to be involved in the entertainment side of things as much. Or there are some small boutique firms popping up. If I jump to one of them, I’d have a different role. More strategy and management. I could leave Bear for one of them.”
I can’t tell if she thinks there is merit in this or not, but she stops pushing. I put my arms around her and pull her in close, each of our chins resting on the other’s shoulder. “Julia, let’s take a trip. Just the two of us, let’s fly down to the Bahamas for a week and we’ll find a deserted stretch of beach and do nothing but swim, sleep, eat good food, and do crossword puzzles.” I feel her head nod against my shoulder. “I’ll look into flights tomorrow.”
“Okay.” The conversation is over and we’re still hugging, ear to ear, each of us looking at the wall behind the other, both knowing that we haven’t really addressed anything. It feels like a layer of paint over rusted metal.
12 | A SOCIOPATH
COMES TO DINNER
December 15, 2005
NORMALLY I WOULDN’T BE BACK OUT TO DINNER WITH Oliver and Sybil Bennett so soon, if ever. People in New York can go months without catching up with even pretty good friends. I’m trying to work on things with Julia though, and this is something she wants that I can give to her. Also I want Julia to know that I feel no threat. While I don’t like Oliver, he isn’t significant enough to be meaningful. I can handle another night of boredom.
Inside there is a part of me that wants to see the drama play out, to see everything come to a conclusion, because maybe that would be a better place or it would at least be exciting to get there. It comes from a deep and self-destructive place inside, and in my stomach I can physically feel the obsessive urge the way a person peers over a high-rise balcony and hundreds of feet down, wondering about the sensation of falling, and grips the rail even tighter because he can’t know if something inside him might push him over the rail. So I have agreed to another dinner with them. I feel myself climbing over the rail and starting to fall.
I pour myself a few drinks while getting dressed before we meet them at Da Silvano, which seems a natural restaurant selection for Oliver. The restaurant is a scene full of bankers, socialites, and media personalities, and everything is twice as expensive as it should be. We arrive second again and I see Sybil’s coat is already hung up and the first thing anyone can notice is her necklace with diamonds the size of teeth. From there my eyes go to her heavily made-up face, then down to her tight and expensive-looking black dress that seems too much for a dinner at a restaurant. This must be her own version of a brave face. Her previous appearance had been understated, as though the last dinner was just a dress-down scrimmage and tonight is the real game. She must share the same suspicions.
We all hug and kiss hello and I hang up Julia’s coat, then mine, and we sit at a square table against the wall. Sybil and I sit across from each other. Julia sits next to me looking across at Oliver. I wave the waiter over for drink orders before he has a chance to greet us.
Sybil’s manner has changed from our last dinner. Before she had been inquisitive and generous with a smile. Tonight she sits upright and waits for the conversation to come to her. As much as she has stiffened, Oliver has loosened. He leans forward into the table, resting on his elbows, looking happy to be here and willing to initiate conversation.
“We’re going to try to get a ski trip in toward the end of the season. Planning to get to Sun Valley next month. It’s never the best skiing conditions, but I love the place.”
I manage a sound like “unhh” in response while finishing my drink. With both Sybil and me as grudging participants, starting conversation is like trying to light wet wood. Each flare fizzles with a hiss. I pour more gin on my mood. Oliver excuses himself to go to the restroom.
Julia is the only one left who would prefer not to spend the rest of the evening in silence. I wonder if the others are as aware of this as I am. “Sybil, how are the kids?”
This gets a delayed response from Sybil and a smile that is nothing more than civil. “They’re fine. College decisions are still the main topic around the home. I’ll miss them when they go. It’s such a change to the family unit.”
Julia nods and Oliver returns. The waiter delivers the entrées and the silence is less obvious for a while as we eat meals that are not as enrapturing as we pretend.
“Were you able to convince that client to do away with that awful painting?” I have no idea what Oliver is asking about, but the question is directed to Julia and this time it is Julia with the delayed response.
“No. Not yet. Looks like I may have to work around it.” Julia gives a weak laugh. “God knows the ripple effect that will have on the furniture decisions I’ll have to make in the room. It really is an awful painting.”
Even through my gin rinse I’m clear enough to recognize that I don’t know about any of Julia’s clients, let alone particular paintings they have. I never ask and she rarely volunteers. I realize I had been thinking of her career as one notch above a hobby. I feel a pulse of remorse, the way I would if inadvertently cutting off a person in traffic and finding the best I can do is give a meek wave and hope it didn’t hurt anyone or wasn’t even much noticed. The pulse passes because really I just want to know, When the hell have they been talking? And where?
Oliver is so smooth, he doesn’t show a moment of doubt. He lets off a loud laugh that sounds genuine even to my suspicious ears. He turns to Sybil. “Julia was telling me about a client whose house she’s designing, and the client loves a hideous painting and absolutely insists on making it the showpiece of the living room.” He turns back to Julia. “Julia, you should consider that there is certain business that you should turn away. You can’t compromise your standards.” Oliver shows no strain and seems satisfied that his tracks are covered. Sybil looks as sick as I feel. I look at Julia and my face feels expressionless, but I see that she has instantly read my mind. We each know that the other understood what just happened. Julia doesn’t look panicked. Maybe just a little sad. Oliver excuses himself for the restroom again. I watch him walk down the long corridor lined with tables on one side to the single bathroom in the back of the restaurant. There is no line and he goes in.
“He’s either got an inflamed prostate or he’s feeding his cocaine habit.”
Sybil looks at me and doesn’t laugh but has a curious expression. There is, I imagine, a brief flicker of putting the pieces together as though she has all along seen the signs and just now understands what they mean and how obvious they have been. Is it possible that Oliver has been able to hide his cocaine use from his wife even when out to dinner together? I feel a happy sense of victory hoping I’ve just exposed this. That Sybil is collateral damage doesn’t matter. She’s better off knowing anyway. So is Julia.
Julia laughs. “Nick, you’re awful.”
I don’t have a playful response, so I take another drink to have something to do, and I imagine Sybil’s inquisition when she and Oliver get home later that night. In my mind, she pulls the white cellophane bag from his jacket breast pocket, slaps him across the face, knocking off the Harry Potter glasses, then goes for the kitchen knife.
“That osso buco was fantastic,” Oliver says, sitting back down. Everyone smiles but no one says anything. I think we’re all still adjusting to the new pieces of information that have come out to Sybil. “Julia, tell us more about your interior design business. It’s very interesting. How does it all work?” Oliver seems to want to show that he is unafraid to go back to this topic. By brute force he will stamp out any suspicion of impropriety. The energy at the table shows reluctance to suffer the charade, but the only alternative is for one of us to expose Oliver’s thinly veiled masquerade. I’m tempted. Julia knows me well enough that she answers before I can jump in.
“The business side is simple. There’s an hourly fee for services plus a thirty-five percent charge on top of the items we purchase. Because I buy a lot across several clients, I usually buy at a discount from retail, so that extra percentage isn’t as bad as it sounds.” Julia now seems to be happy to go on about her work. Sybil feigns interest, but in a way that seems she wants to let us know she is only feigning.
“For the design part, I start with a few consultations with the client to see what kind of style to go with. Modern, classic, some Asian influence, what colors they like, et cetera. It’s important to establish a theme. Sometimes we’ll sit together and just leaf through a few magazines like Veranda, House Beautiful, Elle Décor, and the client will tell me what they like. Or just as importantly, what they don’t like. The main thing is to understand the person and design something that will feel right to them. It costs a little more for people to do this, but where we live is too important not to make it a home we love. It’s an investment in ourselves. As Oprah says, we all need a home that rises up to meet us. I had a client who’s a single attorney, and she came into her home for the first time after I’d finished and she started to cry, she was so happy.”
“You’re kidding.” Oliver says it and I’m thinking the same thing. I didn’t know this story and I had no idea Julia was this good at what she does. I hadn’t paid that much attention.
“She’s a great woman. We’re still friends. She’s my age and divorced and single and never had a home of her own or any home done the way she wanted it. We spent a lot of time getting it just right. We also installed the sound system. I know what her favorite opera is and she loves candles, so when she arrived to see it for the first time, I had her opera playing and candles lit all around the home and she just burst out sobbing and hugged me. I started crying too. It was the best work moment I’ve had.”
“You’re such a romantic.” This is not said mockingly. Oliver says this as though he’s about to come across the table and start making love to her. He seems to realize this is too much to leave suspended, and he follows up to me, “Isn’t she, Nick? What’s it like? Being married to such a romantic?”
I feel vicious. I can’t decide if it is Oliver or Julia I want to strike more. I decide on Julia.
“She’s not romantic. She just likes romantic things. She likes candles, picnics, red wine, and dark chocolate, holding hands at subtitled films. But seemingly unromantic things can be romantic, because it’s not the things, it’s the people. Julia is always in control. Romance is giving yourself over to emotion and losing control. When your heart takes over your mind. When you do things not out of logic or reason, but out of passion.”
The smile has drained from Julia’s face. She is not enjoying my monologue. For the first time the entire evening, I’m beginning to enjoy myself, so I go on. “You know she lost her virginity her senior year in high school. How do you suppose it happened?”
“Nick.” Julia tries to break up the story.
“It wasn’t to some boy she had been dating and fallen in love with, or even didn’t love but was lusting to have sex with. It wasn’t even on a night when she’d had too much to drink and things went too far.”
“Nicky,” she pleads.
“It was because she knew she was going to college the next year and she wanted to have that experience before she went. The whole thing was a logically laid-out plan to prepare herself, and she knew a guy well enough to do the job.”
The table is rapt with awkward attention, like watching a crystal vase teeter on a shelf but standing at too far a distance to do anything about it. I march on. “Does this sound like a woman driven by her passions? Like a woman who has been out of control for even a moment of her life? Julia is probably the least romantic person I’ve ever known.”
I say this with a smile and in the most pleasant tone I can manage, as I watch the horror in Julia’s eyes. There is a sociopathic disconnect between the smile on my face and the crime of my words.
For the first time I realize that if Julia starts anything with Oliver, it isn’t about any passionate love affair with him. She has a need and wants to fill it. She evaluates options, sees that fixing me isn’t working, and decides Oliver can do the job.
Everyone is eager to leave the table and the restaurant. My attempted pleasant tone didn’t mask the malice and I’m also visibly drunk. We skip coffee and pay the check. After a mumbled good-bye to Sybil and Oliver, I take Julia’s coat off the hook on the wall and help her put it on. Without turning to look, I notice Oliver doing the same for Sybil on the other side of the table. Julia and I walk straight for the door first. No one looks back at anyone.
I wonder what kind of asshole can turn as cruel to his wife as I do if threatened and angry. I tell myself I have a little mean streak, which plenty of good people do. Nothing more to self-analyze than that. I’m too drunk to have a conversation with Julia about it tonight, and that’s my rationale to leave it alone for now, though I know damn well we’ll never address it. It’s too easy for us to avoid things and I hate that kind of conversation anyway.
We hail a taxi and ride home in silence.
13 | THE TONE OF HER VOICE
December 16, 2005
WITH A CLEAR HEAD THE NEXT MORNING, MY GUILT IS more acute. Julia lets me out of the apartment without showing any signs that she’s awake, and our avoidance is successful. I make it back in the office with a hangover no worse than normal. I take a coffee, a bottle of water, an egg sandwich, and two Advil back to my desk and begin to get my head straight. This is our version of an athlete warming up for a match.
I realize that I crossed a line with Julia. I compromised private information and used it in a sinister way. I don’t even believe the awful judgments I made about her, but I had felt cornered and the instinct to be lethal. She and I are in new territory now. I don’t know if there is a way to recover or if there is an urge to anyway.
I feel so unhappy that it’s hard to keep a grounded view of what’s happening around me. It’s possible there’s nothing even close to the beginnings of an affair. It’s just an innocent flirtation that I’ve blown out of proportion because I view it all through the haze of my own morally bankrupt lifestyle and increasingly lonely marriage. It’s hard to depend on my eyes when my imagination is out of focus.
William walks by. He still has his three-button suit jacket but he has at least taken it off and put it over the back of his chair. Progress. “Breakfast of champions?”
I nod, indicating I’m not in a mood for conversation.
“Farmer!” It’s Jerry from his desk behind me. “Knicks game tonight?”
“Christ. No way. They suck and I’m exhausted.”
“You’ll be feeling fine by noon.” Jerry will occasionally get the cocaine going in the office if the hangovers are really bad. It works, but I always feel lousy about it and don’t want to do it today.
“Hey, Nick.” I look across at Ron, who has a phone to his ear and is seated next to William. “It’s for you on line four-four-two-oh.” A
nyone I know calls my direct line. If a person comes in through the general line for the desk, it is either someone I don’t know or someone I know and don’t want to talk to.
I pick up the receiver and press the flashing button for 4420. “Hello.”
“Hey, Nick. Oliver.” His voice sounds cheery, like an old friend I haven’t seen for months who just got in town for a visit. Oliver. Jesus, what is this guy up to?
“Oliver who?”
“Funny. You dragging a little after last night?” I think he references last night just in case I was serious about Oliver who.
“No, I’m fine. Slept like a baby.”
“Good. Good. We had a great time with you two. And Sybil really adores Julia.” Really. This is the Sybil that managed about twenty words all evening.
“Sybil seems very nice.” My Spidey senses are tingling. I feel like a field mouse being circled by a hawk.
There is a pause just longer than normal. “Say, Nick, I’m calling to see about that squash game. I have a court reserved at the Racquet Club. Six p.m. on Thursday. Can you make it?”
Incredible. He’s like a Mafia don. Keep your enemies closer. “No, can’t make it on Thursday. Got some stuff going on.”
“Okay.” He maintains his cheery tone. “I’m there all the time, so we can find a time that works soon.” For a moment I worry that he’s going to propose a bunch of possible dates to get together, making a casual brush-off more difficult, but he lets it go.
“Sure.”
“And let’s look into another dinner soon with the gals. That was a lot of fun.” That is an impossible description. I had thought all four of us were having a bad time before I got drunk and especially bad after. His motivation can’t be fun for the four of us. He seems like a tactician without conscience or remorse. I wonder if he spoke with Julia to contrive this plan to call me and befriend me and draw me in, but I dismiss it as paranoia. Julia doesn’t have that in her.
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