by Jason Starr
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I’ve never seen you do anything like that before. You’re always ultra careful on the rocks and now you’re leaving Jeremy up there alone and jumping off them?”
“Look,” he said, “I acknowledge that leaving Jeremy up there while I jumped was a mistake, okay? I screwed up and, believe me, I really do feel awful about it. But let’s not overexaggerate this. I mean, I jumped from a rock, not an airplane.”
“Still, it was weird. It’s like you’re suddenly acting so hyper. Where’s all this energy coming from?”
“You didn’t seem to be complaining last night.”
He smiled, trying to ease the tension. It worked, as she couldn’t help almost smiling herself.
“No, I have no complaints about that.”
He seized the moment, hugging her tightly. Then, seeing her cringe, he realized he was holding her too tightly and loosened his grip. With his face maybe an inch away from hers—he could smell the rosemary and curry and cardamom on her breath even though her mouth was closed—he said, “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll never jump from high rocks again, especially when Jeremy’s up there. I can’t believe I did that. I feel awful.”
After a spicy, openmouthed kiss, she said, “It’s probably just stress related. Maybe you need a break from full-time parenting.”
“A break? But I’ve only been doing it for what, a couple of weeks?”
“Maybe I can take a week’s vacation next month.”
“But you’ve been trying to accrue vacation days so we can go to Maine next August.”
“How are we supposed to afford Maine? Have you seen the checking account lately?”
“It sounds like you’re the one who’s stressed.”
She breathed deeply. “You’re right. I guess having a money conversation on a Sunday afternoon isn’t the best idea, is it?”
“Do you think Jeremy wants to take a nap?” Simon asked suggestively, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“I’m afraid I’m out of commission in that department,” she said. “My body’s just not used to all this activity.”
“I guess being stressed does have some perks,” he said, and they both smiled.
“I think we missed the window for a nap today anyway,” she said. “If he naps this late he’ll never get to sleep tonight.”
Later, Alison and Jeremy were on the couch, watching some G-rated movie about a dog who was also a detective. Simon wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d seen it.
Feeling pent-up again, Simon announced that he was going to the gym. Alison shot him a surprised look, but Simon ignored it and left the apartment.
Simon was a member of New York Sports Club and usually went to the one on Ninety-fourth and Broadway. Well, usually probably wasn’t the best word to describe his exercising habits, because his gym schedule was erratic at best. When he was working, he’d tried to get to the gym four days a week but was lucky if he made it one or two. Lately, since he’d become a stay-at-home dad, he’d been so exhausted in the evenings that he hadn’t gone at all.
As before he went running yesterday, he felt loose and didn’t bother stretching. He went to a bench press machine. Normally he did three sets of 70 pounds and went on to another machine. Today, though, 70 pounds felt like he hadn’t even put the pin in. He moved it to 90, then 110, then 120, then 130. At 140 he felt it, but he was still able to do ten reps. What the hell was going on? Was the machine broken? Didn’t seem like it. When he was through, another guy—about twenty-five, in noticeably great shape, with cut arms and shoulders—used the machine and was struggling with the pin at 90.
Simon used several more machines and also seemed to be able to handle an unusually high amount of weight.
A bulging bodybuilder-type guy standing nearby saw and said, impressed, “Way to go, bro.”
Simon walked away, his heart racing, not because he was tired—because he was panicking. Alison was right—something odd was happening and he had no idea what it was. It was true he’d been under a lot of stress lately, but stress didn’t increase your energy and make you stronger. Besides, he’d been under stress for days—hell, weeks—and these strange changes had been happening only over the past couple of days, since the night at the brewery.
Suddenly he couldn’t get a deep breath. He was standing still, but his heart was pounding as if he were in a full sprint. He felt tightness in his chest—maybe muscle strain from using the bench press machine, but how did he know it wasn’t something much worse? The words heart attack were somewhere in his consciousness, but he was trying to ignore them. Although it felt as if he were dying, he knew that wasn’t possible. He was young—well, youngish—and in good shape.
Or was he?
Maybe all the exercise he’d been getting was too much for his body to handle. Didn’t young basketball players, in the best shape of their lives, sometimes collapse on the court? He could hear his heart pounding and he could barely breathe. He rushed into the men’s bathroom and splashed cold water onto his face, trying to get hold of himself. Even if this wasn’t a heart attack, he knew something awful was happening. Maybe he was having a stroke or had a brain tumor. Wasn’t a warning sign of brain cancer a change in appetite? Well, he definitely had that symptom. And what about his increased sense of hearing and smell? Weren’t those symptoms too?
“You feeling okay, bro?”
He looked in the mirror and saw the muscle head behind him.
Simon tried to say, Help me, but couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. He needed air—fresh air. Not this stale, health club bathroom air that reeked of urine and sweat.
Suddenly he was out on the sidewalk, in front of the health club, but he had no idea how he’d gotten there. Oh God, was he suffering from memory loss now? Everything was white, distorted. He had to get to a hospital.
He hailed a cab, opened the door, and said, “St. Luke’s Hospital,” to the driver, then rethought it and said, “Never mind,” and got out.
He realized he was having a panic attack. He’d had them before—like that time six years ago when he and Alison were visiting friends in Seattle and Simon was convinced he’d eaten tainted salmon and he insisted on going to the ER at two in the morning. But he’d worked on the problem and hadn’t had a panic attack in years.
He stood in front of the health club, leaning against the building in case he lost his balance or passed out or both. A few passersby asked him if he was okay or needed help, but he waved them away.
Eventually, after about ten minutes, he felt a little better. At least the whiteness was gone and he could get a full breath. He knew he was okay, that he wasn’t going to die, but just in case he was going to make an appointment to see his doctor as soon as possible, hopefully tomorrow morning.
“How was your workout?” Alison asked when he entered the apartment.
“Great,” he said, and went directly into the bathroom, into the shower.
The massage feature helped knead out some of the stress from his neck and shoulders. Funny—he didn’t feel worn-out the way he did after past panic attacks. He actually felt pretty good.
From the bathroom Simon smelled dinner cooking—a stir-fry of onions, peppers, tofu, and was that mushrooms? When he went out to the kitchen, Alison was cooking at the stove. He saw that he’d nailed the ingredients, including the mushrooms.
At dinnertime, although he was craving meat again, he stuck to the stir-fry, determined to get over this phase, or whatever it was. His improved sense of smell was truly amazing, though. From across the table he could tell that Alison had washed Jeremy’s hair earlier with Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo. He also could tell that Alison had used that new moisturizing cream with aloe and some other coconutbased cream, probably on her hands. But nothing she had put on could disguise the smell of sex. It was getting him excited again, and he had to keep his legs crossed tightly during the entire meal to avoid getting an erection.
Jeremy went to bed at his usual time, sev
en forty-five, and Alison watched TV on the couch for a while, then announced she was exhausted and going to bed before ten. Tomorrow was the beginning of a workweek for her, and she had to get up early.
Simon wasn’t tired at all, though. It was just the opposite; he was raring to go. He did multiple sets of sit-ups, but couldn’t exhaust himself, and then easily did fifty push-ups, when his usual limit was about twelve.
He’d been physically active for the past thirty-six or so hours, and he hadn’t gone online or checked the Internet at all. With the hope that staring at a computer screen for a while might tire him out and get him sleeping, he sat on the couch in the living room and booted up his laptop.
After he mindlessly skimmed a few of the top news stories, he checked his e-mail. He scanned a message from his cousin Craig—a forwarded joke that wasn’t very funny—and a coupon offer from Redbox, then scrolled to a message from [email protected] with the subject Did you hear? He didn’t recognize the address and thought it might be spam. He was going to just delete it but then decided to open it, just to see what it was:Hi Simon,
Writing from my home e-mail. Don’t know if you heard the awful news about Tom. I’m still in shock. Haven’t heard anything about funeral arrangements yet, but when I do I’ll let you know. Anyway, just wanted to let you know in case you hadn’t heard yet.
Mark
Simon reread the e-mail from his ex-assistant about a dozen times, but it still didn’t seem real. Awful news about Tom? Funeral arrangements? Agonizingly, the note had no details. Tom was actually dead? How did it happen? Was it a car accident? A heart attack or stroke? Jesus, Tom’s family. Simon had met his wife, JoAnne, several times, at the annual Christmas party one year and a few other times, and she’d seemed like a great woman. Oh, God, and his poor kids. The guy had the perfect suburban family and then, boom, it had all been destroyed.
Suddenly Simon’s recent problems seemed so petty in comparison. Their differences aside, Tom was a good guy and didn’t deserve to die. Yeah, life was unfair, but this was beyond unfair. This was downright cruel.
Simon went into Jeremy’s bedroom, kissed him on the forehead, and whispered, “I love you so much.” Then he went into his own bedroom, where Alison was sleeping facing him, snoring gently, and he kissed her and said, “I love you, honey.” She mumbled, “I love you too,” and fell back asleep.
He returned to the PC. He wanted more details about what had happened. He was going to e-mail Mark or call him but figured he’d look online first and see if there was any news about it.
There was more coverage than he’d expected—an entire page of results from online versions of papers including the New York Daily News, the New York Post, and the Newark Star-Ledger. If Simon hadn’t been in such a manic state he probably would have heard about Tom’s death yesterday.
He read a few of the short articles, which contained pretty much the same information: Tom Harrison, executive VP of the ad agency Smythe & O’Greeley, had been mauled to death by an animal, perhaps a large dog, outside his home in Bernardsville, New Jersey. According to the articles, Tom and his wife were awakened by their dog’s barking at around midnight on Saturday morning, and Tom went out to investigate when he was attacked. His wife discovered the body and called 911, but Tom was pronounced dead at the scene. There wasn’t much more information about the attack except that the police and the New Jersey Division of Fish, Game and Wildlife were investigating the incident. All of the articles were dated Saturday, and there didn’t seem to be any follow-up stories on Sunday.
Reading about the incident, Simon was shocked and horrified and realized his mouth was actually sagging open. Jesus, mauled to death by a dog—what a horrible way to go. Then, all of a sudden, he was overwhelmed by guilt. He’d always believed in karma, and he felt awful about all of the anger he’d had toward Tom lately about the firing. If he hadn’t put all that negative energy out there, maybe that dog wouldn’t have attacked Tom. Though, rationally, Simon realized that this logic was ridiculous, on some deep, primal level it seemed to make perfect sense.
He was rereading the article from the Star-Ledger to see if he had missed any details when he came across part of a line that made his whole body tense up: “Harrison left his house in Bernardsvile in northern New Jersey . . .” All the articles mentioned that Tom lived in Bernardsville, but Simon had been reading quickly and was so overwhelmed by the news of Tom’s death that he hadn’t paid much attention to the details or made the obvious connection:
Tom had been killed in northern New Jersey, early Saturday morning, and Simon had woken up in the woods in northern New Jersey early Saturday morning.
Simon wasn’t sure what to make of this weird coincidence, but just out of curiosity he went to Google Maps and typed in “Bernardsville, New Jersey.” He’d heard of Bernardsville but wasn’t exactly sure where it was. He expected to find that it was in a completely different part of northern New Jersey from where he’d been that night, maybe a hundred miles away. What was the name of the town where he’d called for the car service? Men-something. Mendham, yeah, that was it.
A map of Bernardsville appeared. Then he zoomed out and suddenly felt like he was back in the gym, having another panic attack.
Bernardsville was the next town over from Mendham.
TWELVE
Simon stared at the map on the screen for maybe five minutes, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He saw Mendham, New Jersey, where he had called for the car service, and the next town was Bernardsville. Maybe there were two Mendhams or different ways to spell it and he was making some mistake. He knew he was just kidding himself, though—there was one Mendham and he had been there. But how was it possible that he’d been so close to Tom’s house? If Michael and the guys had taken him into the woods as some kind of incredibly unfunny practical joke, how had they randomly chosen a spot to dump him so close to where his ex-boss lived?
The whole situation, from being dumped naked in the woods to Tom’s being killed by some rabid animal, seemed so surreal, so totally out there, that Simon wondered whether any of this was actually happening. Maybe hallucinations were another symptom of whatever had been going on with him lately. Maybe he was imagining sitting in front of the PC now, or dreaming it. Maybe he was actually still in the woods or in Michael’s brewery.
He closed his eyes and counted to ten, telling himself that if this was all a construct of his mind, when he reached ten and opened his eyes he’d return to wherever he actually was. He knew he was acting childishly, but he did it anyway and when he reached ten there was actual suspense as he expected to open his eyes and see Michael, Charlie, and Ramon. But, alas, he was still in front of the PC, staring at the Star-Ledger story.
Counting had calmed him, though, and he was able to think more logically. Yes, it was a bizarre coincidence that he’d been in the area where Tom had been killed, but coincidences happened. A friend of his once went on a trip to China and ran into an old girlfriend. If you could run into an old girlfriend in China, you could wake up naked in the woods near where your ex-boss was mauled to death. If anything, Simon realized, he should feel lucky. After all, a rabid dog had been in the woods near where Simon had passed out. Simon was fortunate that he hadn’t been killed.
One positive thing about this news—the stress was wearing Simon out and he was finally feeling drowsy. Tomorrow he’d call Mark, get some more details. If Simon had still been working at S&O, he definitely would have attended the funeral. But, given what had transpired between him and Tom, Simon wasn’t sure what was the appropriate thing to do, and he figured he’d deal with it in the morning.
He got into bed with Alison but couldn’t get comfortable. He loved being next to her, but her scent was arousing him too much and he knew he’d never be able to fall asleep. So he took his pillow with him into the living room and crashed on the couch.
As during the night before, he didn’t sleep soundly, but he slept well. He felt fully rested when Alison came into the livi
ng room in the morning and said, “You slept here all night?”
He knew it would seem weird if he told her he was too turned on to sleep next to her, so he said, “Yeah, just a little insomnia, that’s all. I fell asleep in front of the TV.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Alison said. “You should’ve woken me up. I would’ve given you one of my Ambiens.”
“Thanks,” Simon said, “but you know how I hate taking that stuff.”
Alison went into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. When she returned, Simon was sitting up on the couch. It was amazing how wide awake he was already. Normally he needed two cups of strong coffee just to build up enough energy to get out of the house. But now he felt like he could run a marathon.
“So I got some bad news last night,” Simon said.
He told her about how Tom had been killed outside his house in New Jersey. She was understandably horrified. He explained how he’d heard about it from Mark and had read “a little bit about it online.” Of course he didn’t tell her the weirdest part, that he’d been in the same exact area where the attack had taken place, because as far as she knew he’d crashed at the brewery on Friday night. Simon hated keeping secrets from her and wished he’d been honest from the get-go, but at this point telling her the truth seemed more complicated than continuing to lie. Or maybe lie was too strong a word. Continuing to omit.
“Are you going to the funeral?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s kind of awkward, you know? I think I’ll probably just send flowers and a note to his wife.”
“He had kids, didn’t he?”
“Two,” Simon said.
Alison shook her head. “It’s so terrible. Can you imagine?”
The coffeemaker beeped, and she went back to the kitchen.
“Want a cup?” she called out.
“No, thanks,” he replied.
The odor of the coffee was so strong it was making him nauseated. He opened the window to let in some air, but it didn’t really help.
