The Hole We're In

by Gabrielle Zevin

  Sitting in the business class cabin, Roger felt at home or, at least, among a party of like-minded individuals. A peerage of men his age or thereabouts clad in permanent-press Dockers, navy blue sport coats, white polo shirts bearing their various coats of arms, and good-quality, if unflattering, glasses. Their two carry-ons: a garment bag and a sturdy rolling computer case in either black nylon or leather. These were family men, churchgoers like himself. They bought tacky souvenirs for their children and silk scarves for their wives. They were certainly not the hedonistic spendthrifts you found in first, but they were willing to pay a little extra for a bit more comfort, a bit more civility, a bit more decency. Yes, Roger thought, these were folks you could get behind. If the plane went down—Roger often entertained apocalyptic thoughts while flying—if the plane went down, he would be proud to be counted among these men.

  And one woman, of course. In the seat next to him was Carolyn Murray. Roger had already decided that she was an excellent traveler. Unlike his wife, Carolyn checked nothing! Her lone suitcase was a creamy brown leather, a bit battered but glamorously so, the sort of thing a reporter carried to cover a war or a fashion show. She had a tiny spray bottle that she used to hydrate her face. “Would you like a spritz?” she asked Roger just before they were told to put away their electronic devices. He accepted and felt instantly transported to a tropical rainforest. Why didn’t George have tricks like that?

  About fifteen minutes after they had reached the cruising altitude, Carolyn pulled out a paisley silk, lavender-scented eye mask. “If I don’t get rest now, the whole day will be lost to me,” she said. She put on the mask, propped an ergonomically designed buckwheat pillow behind her neck and fell asleep like the travel pro she was.

  The stewardess came by with breakfast. Courteous of the quiescent woman beside Roger, she whispered, “Something for your wife when she wakes up?”

  Roger considered saying that Carolyn was not his wife, but what was the point of that? He would never see the stewardess again and it would be too complicated to explain about the book they were working on, how she was half his boss, half his partner and all that. So, he left it at, “No, thank you.” Carolyn had informed him when they were waiting to check in that she never ate plane food, but instead packed her own fruits, vegetables, and bottled water. “Don’t worry, Rog,” she had assured him, “I brought enough for you, too.”

  * * *

  AT THE AIRPORT in New York, a driver waited for them with a sign: MURRAY. Roger spotted it while Carolyn was in the bathroom freshening up. He went up to the driver. “I think that’s my sign.”

  “The Plaza?”

  Roger nodded. “I’m just waiting for Ms. Murray,” Roger said.

  “No problem, Mr. Murray,” the driver replied.

  Roger didn’t bother correcting the driver, either.

  “How long you here?” The driver began his usual small talk.

  “We fly back on Monday.”

  “Romantic weekend in New York City with the wife, eh?”

  “No,” Roger said. “Just business.”

  “Well, you better not forget it’s Valentine’s Day this Sunday, or you’ll be in big trouble,” the driver joked.

  Valentine’s Day? Indeed, Roger had forgotten. He reminded himself to call his actual wife.

  Finally, Carolyn emerged from the ladies’ room. “There she is,” Roger said to the driver.

  “Your wife’s a striking woman,” the driver said.

  This “wife” business had gone on long enough. “For the record, she’s not my wife,” Roger said.

  “I hear you.” The driver winked and raised his eyebrow. Roger was not a fan of this sort of joking, but before he had a chance to set matters straight, Carolyn had arrived and once again it seemed too late to explain.

  AT THE HOTEL, a problem with Roger’s reservation. The computer had him scheduled to check out on Sunday, but they weren’t flying home until Monday. And there weren’t any other rooms available on account of the Westminster Dog Show, which was happening that weekend and would conclude the following Tuesday. Carolyn blushed and apologized, but it really wasn’t her fault—her faux-hawked assistant had made the reservation. Luckily, she always took a suite when she traveled to New York City. She knew it was silly and extravagant, but it was her little gift to herself, hee hee, and of course, she’d be glad to offer Roger the use of the couch. “It’s only for one night,” she said. “You can tolerate me that long, I hope.”

  In point of fact, Roger was uncomfortable with the idea, but he didn’t wish to spoil their trip or the important work they would be doing. “It’s fine,” he said through teeth imperceptibly gritted. “Just one night.”

  Carolyn handed the desk clerk a twenty-dollar bill and her business card. “This has my cell phone number. Call me if anything opens up between now and then.”

  “Really, it’s fine,” Roger said. “No biggie.”

  After checking in, they walked to midtown to meet with Carolyn’s publisher. The first half of the meeting took place in a book-lined conference room and concerned the publicity tour for Carolyn’s new (finished) book, which was an updating of The Wheels on the Bus Go Round called Big Wheel Keep On Turning: The Wheels on the Bus Go Round Twenty Years Later. Carolyn would go on National Public Radio, Charlie Rose, Good Morning America, and about fifteen other shows to promote it. They had, the publicist reported, their fingers crossed for Oprah.

  “Eeee!” Carolyn squealed. “Could that really happen?”

  “Well, your book touches on all those themes Oprah loves—race, education, yada yada yada. But one never knows,” was the publicist’s reply.

  Though none of this really concerned him, Roger wasn’t the least bit bored or impatient while the publicist was going over these details. He was busily imagining himself on a similar book tour when his (and Carolyn’s) book came out.

  An impossibly bright soundstage.

  Roger, who has just turned fifty but could easily be mistaken for forty, sits at a 120-degree angle from African American talk show host Oprah Winfrey. During the commercial break, Roger touches Oprah’s arm and makes a series of Extremely Incisive, Memorable, and Downright Uproarious comments about race and religion in America.

  “And you’re still getting new color publicity shots done while you’re here, right?” the publicist asked. “’Cause the ones we have are a little bit ...”

  “Dated! Old! You can say it!” Carolyn laughed. She picked one of the pictures up from the table and showed it to Roger. Young Carolyn was dressed in an almost-sheer peasant blouse and had her long, frizzy, light brown hair parted in the middle. “I was going for a sort of Carly Simon thing,” Carolyn said. Everyone laughed, including Roger. Truth be told, he couldn’t conjure an immediate picture of Carly in his head. He had never kept up with popular music very much, preferring to listen to “Christian” music when he bothered to listen at all. “I loved that shirt,” Carolyn said, “but it was a real disaster. They ended up having to retouch my nipples.”

  Following the publicity meeting, Carolyn’s editor took them out to lunch to discuss the New Book.

  “Karen, I honestly think this book has the potential to be every bit the touchstone work that Wheels was,” said Carolyn.

  “Well, it sounds wonderful,” said the editor. She looked at Roger to see if he had anything to contribute.

  Roger wasn’t listening. He was busy with the waiter. “Does the ravioli special have meat in the sauce?” he asked.

  “We can make it either way,” said the waiter.

  Roger requested it without.

  “Good for you,” Carolyn’s editor said. “I’ve been meaning to give up meat forever. It’s so much healthier.”

  “It is healthier,” Roger conceded, “but that’s not why I do it. My religion doesn’t permit the consumption of meat.”

  “Oh my!” Carolyn’s editor opened her eyes very wide—restricting one’s diet for health reasons was one thing, but doing it for God seemed a bit
bizarre, tacky even. “Are you Jewish?”

  “He’s a Sabbath Day Adventist,” Carolyn said. “That’s what makes him my perfect partner on this book.” She reached across the table to squeeze Roger’s hand.

  SATURDAY MORNING, THEY visited a Catholic school in the Bronx that had been rocked by a sex scandal involving a—who else?—priest. They interviewed parents and students, an impatient nun or two, and the new priest who was trying to put it all back together. This was the only research Carolyn and Roger did during their New York trip, and Roger wasn’t even completely sure how it fit with the book they were writing.

  Carolyn explained in the cab back to Manhattan: “When people think religious school, their minds leap to priests having sex with choir boys. We have to start there if we’re to make a truly thorough survey. Now Rog, let’s talk about something serious ... You still need a haircut. And don’t worry about the cost. It’s on me.” She leaned forward to address the cabbie, “Driver, could you take us to Bleecker between Sixth Avenue and Seventh?”

  At the salon, Carolyn instructed the stylist, a bald homosexual man, to cut it really short with spikes.

  “Oh, I love that!” said the stylist. “That’ll really bring out his cheekbones. What do you say we add some bronze highlights, too?”

  “Well, Rog, what do you think?” Carolyn leaned coquettishly against the side of the haircutting counter.

  “Well ... it won’t be too obvious will it?” Roger asked.

  “No,” the stylist assured him, “it’ll just brighten up your face a bit. You’ll look like you just got back from vacation.”

  “Come on, Rog! Go for it!”

  So, Roger agreed. After going to the back room for the shampoo (which to his delight included a neck rub!) and color, Roger returned to the stylist’s chair.

  The stylist ran his fingers through Roger’s hair. “I’m just getting a feel for your head before I start. You’ve got a lot of hair, but my God, it looks like it was cut in the dark with a hunting knife! Who’s been doing this to you?”

  “My wife,” Roger said.

  “Certainly not that woman!” The stylist gestured toward Carolyn, who was sitting in the waiting area reading a book.

  “No, not that woman. We’re just ... colleagues.”

  “Aren’t they all, doll face?”

  ON SATURDAY NIGHT, they attended the opera. (The story Carolyn told Roger was that an old friend, a lighting designer, had given her free tickets to Madame Butterfly.) It was Roger’s first time and he was moved nearly to tears by the spectacle of it all. It felt religious, like being in church. Why had no one ever told him that these kinds of churches existed, too? Men wrote operas, yes, but operas were so grand that one had to believe that the men who wrote them were merely vehicles for God. Cio-Cio-San was busily stabbing herself in the heart, and Roger wondered if he would have been a better Christian if someone had taken him to the opera as a boy. Maybe he would have had an opera in him. Maybe everything would have been different for Roger—his wife, his house, his job, his life.

  NOTHING WAS PLANNED for Sunday, so Roger arranged to meet Vincent for brunch downtown. Carolyn offered to accompany him.

  “You really want to meet my son?” Roger asked.

  “Why not? I like sons,” was her reply.

  Roger knew he should probably tell Carolyn no. Things had been strained between him and Vinnie for some time. Roger wasn’t sure what he had done, only that Vinnie seemed completely convinced of his father’s guilt. It had had something to with Yale and the graduation, he supposed, but hadn’t all of that been so long ago? If anyone, Roger was the aggrieved party—his son had disobeyed him to go to a secular college, and even after Roger had made extraordinary overtures by attending Vinnie’s commencement, Vinnie still played the injured party and rarely called or visited and would have nothing to do with church. So, really, who cared if Vinnie had specifically said he needed to talk to him about something important? Something important didn’t necessarily mean alone. Carolyn wanted to come, and that was the end of it.

  Besides, it would be awkward to tell her no after he’d already told her yes. Maybe it was because she was still kind of his superior, maybe it was gratitude, maybe he was just your garden variety coward ... but whatever the reason, Roger hadn’t acquired the art of saying no to Professor Carolyn Murray.

  They encountered traffic on the way to the restaurant and what should normally have been a seven-minute cab ride took twenty-five. Vinnie was waiting inside by the time they arrived.

  “How you doing, Son?” Roger asked. He shook Vinnie’s hand and patted him on the back.

  “Good. Good.” Vinnie spotted Carolyn over Roger’s shoulder. “Dad, who’s that?”

  “I’m Carolyn Murray.” She extended her hand. “Your father and I are writing a book together. I’m terribly excited to meet you.”

  Vinnie nodded, but said nothing. He took a moment to consider Carolyn: her tailored wool suit, her well-cut hair, her leather bag that probably cost more than his monthly rent (which was not inconsiderable), her perfect teeth. He reached out his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

  The topics of conversation were as follows:

  • film school experience, Vinnie’s

  • short film, Vinnie’s

  • book, Roger and Carolyn’s

  • books, Carolyn’s

  • Howard University, Carolyn’s daughter, who attends

  • business-class travel, merits of

  The topics of conversation did not include:

  • George

  • credit cards

  • estrangement, Vinnie and Roger’s

  • politics

  Carolyn was good with young people, having spent most of her life studying them, and Vinnie would have been charmed by her, had he not been completely disgusted with Roger for bringing her in the first place. To get back at his teetotaler father, Vinnie, who was not much of a drinker, drank two dirty martinis, a glass of red wine from a bottle Carolyn had ordered, and a Blue Hawaii, which the bartender had to research on the Internet before mixing.

  After they had ordered dessert, Carolyn excused herself to go to the bathroom.

  “You’re drunk,” Roger said.

  “I’m not that drunk.” Vinnie shrugged. “Meal’s on you, right?”

  “It’s embarrassing,” Roger said.

  “You’re embarrassing,” Vinnie said. “What the hell, Dad?”

  “I don’t like your language,” Roger said.

  “Oh, excuse me. I meant, what the fuck, Dad? I told you I had something to talk to you about, and you bring a ... a woman.”

  “Well, we’re alone now. Talk, Vincent, if you can manage it civilly.”

  “Are you sleeping with her?” Vinnie asked.

  “Of course not! Don’t be vulgar.”

  Vinnie took a manila folder from his messenger bag and pushed it across the table toward Roger.

  “Mom’s been stealing from me.”

  Roger looked at the folder, but would not touch it.

  “Take it,” Vincent said. “Fucking take it, Dad.”

  Roger obeyed. He smiled at the table next to them. “Everything’s fine.”

  But Vinnie was not done. “I have never asked you for anything in my life. I did not ask you for help with college when I wanted to go to Yale. I was not mad when you didn’t speak in my defense when the church excommunicated me. I was glad when you guys came to my graduation even though you hadn’t lifted one damn finger to help me. I’m not mad that you’re at a secular college now, even though that same act got me tossed out on my—”

  “Apples and oranges. This was the only suitable program for me. This was—”

  “Fine, Dad. All I ask—”

  “Vincent, lower your voice. We’re in public.”

  “This is New York City. No one cares about us, Dad! You could have sex on the table with your old-ass girlfriend and no one would care.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

&
nbsp; “Whatever! Just let me say this. I don’t ask you for anything except that you and Mom don’t make it harder by stealing from me.”

  “I’m not going to discuss anything with you while you’re in this condition and certainly not in front of ...,” he nodded toward Carolyn, who had just emerged from the bathroom.

  “OK, Dad, I’m done.” Vinnie stood. “Give me a call after you’ve read this. By the way, your hair looks gay.”

  Vinnie brushed past Carolyn on his way out.

  “What happened to Vinnie?” Carolyn asked.

  SUNDAY NIGHT, ROGER called his wife to wish her a Happy Valentine’s Day, then slept with Carolyn Murray.

  No other room opened up at the hotel, so Roger was forced to move his things into Carolyn’s room. Carolyn helped him open the convertible couch before telling Roger that she was going out for the evening. Old friend, but Roger was welcome to join.

  Roger shook his head. He was a bit tired. His plan was to call his wife, then hit the sack.

  The conversation with George was not exactly pleasant. She seemed annoyed that he was in New York City for Valentine’s Day, though the trip had been in the works for months.

  “Did you see Vinnie?” George asked.

  “Yes.” Roger did not mention the manila folder, which he still hadn’t opened anyway.

  “How is he?”

  “He looked well. How are things there?”

  “The usual. Helen says we should sue the painter for painting the house the wrong color. She says there’s no way she’s getting married in a red house. Patsy ran up about two hundred and fifty dollars on our phone bill. I guess she’s broken up with Magnum. I don’t know. I’m trying to increase my part-time hours at Dillard’s,” George replied. “Things will be better when you’re out of school.”

  “They will, George. They really, really will.”