by Jason Starr
“Are you trying to break up with me?” she asked. “Because if that’s what’s going on here, I’d appreciate it if you’d just do it. I hate slowmotion breakups.”
“If I wanted to break up with you, I’d break up with you.”
“Then what do you want?”
He didn’t answer.
“Of course, Mr. Strong Silent Type doesn’t say anything. You have this act down cold, don’t you?”
Olivia dressed quickly while Michael remained in bed, lying on his back, his eyes wide open.
“Okay, you like to be honest; well, I’m going to be honest,” Olivia said. “I can’t keep doing this forever. I think you’re a great guy and the sex is amazing, but eventually there has to be some better communication if we’re going to continue this relationship, or whatever we want to call it. Eventually you’re going to have to start opening up.”
“My driver will pick you up tomorrow at seven,” Michael said.
Olivia breathed deeply, venting frustration, then said, “Fine, whatever,” and left the room. She was halfway toward the elevator when she marched back and said, “You know what, it’s not fine. If you want me to stick around, you better start letting me in.”
“You’re angry at me,” Michael said.
“You’re damn right I’m angry at you.”
“Anger is good. Anger is much healthier than love.”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about. You won’t talk to me.”
“I’m talking right now.”
“You’re talking, but you won’t say anything. I want to know what’s going on inside your head. I want to know the real Michael Hartman.”
“You don’t want that.”
“Yes, I do want that. Isn’t that what a relationship is all about?”
He was still facing the ceiling.
“You don’t want to know me,” he said.
“Of course I want to know you,” she said. “I want to know everything about you.”
“You say that, but there are things about me you won’t understand, things you’re better off not knowing.”
“I’m telling you, you don’t have to be worried about saying the wrong thing to me. Nothing you can say is going to scare me away.”
He stared at her for a long time, but in a different way, as if he were trying to solve some complicated problem.
Then he said, “You know about my family.”
“Well, I saw a tricycle the first night I was here.... I was going to say something, but I thought maybe you were sensitive, thought I’d get turned off or something because you have a kid.”
“His name’s Jonas,” Michael said.
“Does he live with you all the time?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” Olivia said. “So who’s—?”
“His mother’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t say anything.
She asked, “And what about the elderly man I saw on the elevator? There seemed to be a family resemblance.”
“You met my father.”
“Well, I didn’t really meet him, I just—”
“Volker was born in Germany.”
“Does he live here?”
“Yes.”
“How come you didn’t tell me about your family before? I mean, why does it have to be this big secret?”
“I’ve chosen you as my sex partner.”
She waited to see if he’d expand on this. He didn’t. So she said, “What does that have to do with anything?”
“He doesn’t want me to have sex partners. He doesn’t want me to have friends either. He wants me to be alone.”
“I don’t see why it’s any of his business what you do,” she said. “I mean, you’re a grown man and you can date whoever you want to date. And not having friends? That’s just ridiculous.”
“I told you there are things you wouldn’t understand.”
She had no idea what he was talking about, but at least she felt like she was having her first seminormal conversation with him. She was making progress, albeit very slow progress.
“Well, thank you for telling me all this,” Olivia said. “I really appreciate it. And see? I’m still here. You didn’t scare me off.”
She kissed him on his lips, his muskiness turning her on again.
“Leave now,” he said.
“What’s the big rush to get rid of me tonight? Are you angry at me?”
“Yes.”
She almost laughed, then realized it wasn’t funny. She asked, “Why? What did I do?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“If you answered them, I wouldn’t have to ask them. Why do you want me to leave so early?”
Looking away again, he said, “I have a job to do.”
“What kind of job?”
“That’s why I don’t like questions. Because questions lead to more questions.”
“Normally questions lead to answers.”
“You won’t understand my work.”
“Does it have to do with the brewery business?”
“No.”
“I don’t get why it has to be such a big mystery. It’s just work. What are you, a male prostitute or something?”
He had no reaction. Maybe he was ignoring her or maybe she’d nailed it—it explained why he was so focused on sex and so emotionally distant. He’d certainly felt comfortable picking her up at the bar that night, and he knew what he was doing in bed.
She was about to ask him if he was a gigolo when he said, “I’m going to kill somebody tonight.”
“Excuse me?” She wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.
“I’m going to kill somebody tonight,” he said again.
Was kill some kind of hip gigolo lingo for screw?
“Who do you have to kill?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“So you’re just going to kill some random person?”
Oh no, he wasn’t one of those freaks who had sex with strangers in bathrooms, was he? Was she going to have to go get tested for God knows what diseases?
“No,” he said.
“You don’t put your dick in glory holes, do you?”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“I don’t understand either,” she said.
“I told you you wouldn’t,” he said.
Then she had another flashback—the holster he was wearing that night. “Wait,” she said, “you don’t mean you’re going to kill somebody tonight literally, do you?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Why are you going to kill somebody?”
“It’s my job.”
“People hire you to—”
“Yes.”
“But who—”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know—?”
“Yes.”
Why did she suddenly feel like she was in a David Mamet play?
“So let me get this straight,” she said. “Someone you don’t know hires you to kill people. You mean like a hit man?”
“I am a hit man,” he said.
“Wow,” she said. “So who do you work for? The Mafia?” She laughed.
“You’re not afraid,” he said.
“Why would I be afraid? You’re not going to kill me, are you?” She was trying to make it into a joke, flirt with him, but he wouldn’t go there.
He said, “You’re not like other women. Other women would run, but you stay.” He waited several seconds, then added, “You say you want to know my secrets, but you won’t understand my secrets.” He got up—of course he had a hard-on—and said, “You must leave now.”
She wanted to know more, but she felt like she’d pushed her luck, getting him to open up as much as he had, and it was time to call it a night.
In the car back to the Upper East Side, she was still buzzed from another exhilarating night with Michael. He was right—the idea of him as a killer didn’t frighten her at all; it actual
ly kind of turned her on. Besides, it was easy to accept anything Michael told her because she knew none of it was real. Everything—his odd communication style, the melodrama, the wild sex—was so over the top, how could she possibly be frightened, or even mildly concerned? Telling her “I’m going to kill somebody tonight,” in that serious, foreboding tone? Come on. Obviously, since the night they’d met, she’d been a participant in an elaborate role play. If he wanted to pretend he was a psychotic hit man, that was fine with her. As far as she was concerned, this whole relationship, or whatever they wanted to call it, was just a wild roller coaster ride, a welcome break from the mundane cookie-cutter guys she’d been dating for years.
The car braked in front of her building, and she said to Eddie, “See you tomorrow, same bat time.”
Walking up the stairs of her brownstone, Olivia, giggling, said out loud, “I’m a hit man.”
In bed she was still laughing over it, and she could barely wait for the next big twist. Seriously, he wanted her to believe he killed people for a living. What could possibly top that?
FIFTEEN
“So how did the weekend go?”
Simon and Alison had just arrived for their marriage counseling session and were sitting next to each other on the black leather couch, facing Dr. Hagan, who was wearing dark green shoes, green pants, a green turtleneck, and green tinted glasses.
Simultaneously Simon and Alison said, “It was amazing.”
They all laughed, overenthusiastically, and then Hagan said, “Well, it’s nice to see that you’re both in agreement for a change.”
Simon held Alison’s hand and said, “Want to begin, sweetie?”
“Well, there’s been a really dramatic . . . well . . . change,” Alison said.
“Change?” Hagan was intrigued.
“Yes,” Alison said. “For the last several days . . . well, since Saturday, there’s been a sudden change in our whole marriage, actually.”
As she went on explaining, Simon was distracted by the strong odor of cigar smoke. He’d smelled the odor before in Hagan’s office, but it had never been so intense. Although there was no visible smoke in the room, the room smelled like a cigar bar.
“Excuse me,” Dr. Hagan said to Alison. Then to Simon, “Is something making you uncomfortable?”
“It’s just the odor,” Simon said.
“Odor?” Hagan was confused.
Alison sniffed, then shrugged, as if she didn’t detect anything unusual. Simon was amazed they couldn’t smell it; it was so strong.
Then Hagan caught on and said, “I apologize, I didn’t think it was noticeable. I usually smoke outside, but the other day I smoked one cigar in the office.”
Hagan got room freshener from his desk drawer and sprayed it around the room, but, oh God, that was worse.The fake citrus scent was so strong Simon felt like he was choking.
Hagan noticed Simon’s discomfort and said, “I didn’t realize you were so sensitive. Is it really that bad?”
Between coughs, Simon said, “Maybe you could just open the window.”
Hagan opened the window in the below-street-level office and it helped a little but not much.
“Thanks,” Simon said hoarsely. “I’ll be okay.”
“This has been another big change lately,” Alison said. “Simon has been very, well, sensitive to smells lately.”
“It’s true, I have been,” Simon said.
“Mmm-hmm,” Dr. Hagan said, as if he weren’t sure what to make of it.
“His hearing’s better too,” Alison added.
“Oh?” Hagan said to Simon, “Did you have a hearing problem?”
“No,” Simon said. “She means I just hear better, that’s all.”
“Oh, and he has a lot more energy,” Alison said. “Not just sexually, physically too. He goes on long runs to the park. And his diet has changed too.”
“Changed how?” Hagan asked.
“I’ve been having these cravings for meat,” Simon said.
“And he’s never been a meat eater,” Alison said. “I mean, when I met him he was practically a vegetarian. That’s one of the things I initially—” She stopped herself, but Simon knew she’d been about to say liked about him. Instead she said, “It’s just been a big surprise, that’s all.”
“I see, I see,” Hagan said. “Well, I really don’t think this is so unusual. This is probably something that should be addressed in individual therapy, but dietary changes are often a control issue. Simon has gone through some big life changes lately, and he’s said he initially found single parenting to be overwhelming, so I’m not surprised to see him taking control with a new exercise and dietary regimen. What I’m saying is, I don’t think it’s any cause for concern unless there’s dangerous weight loss or it’s causing a problem in the marriage.”
“Oh, trust me, I’m not complaining,” Alison said, putting her arm around Simon’s back and shifting closer to him on the couch.
“But there does seem to be quite a dramatic emotional turnaround,” Hagan said. “How do you account for it?”
Simon and Alison looked at each other. Simon could tell Alison wanted him to take the lead, so he said, “I’m not really sure. I guess I realized what a wonderful, sexy woman I’m married to. I guess I got into a rut and I wasn’t appreciating her the way I should’ve been.”
Suddenly Alison’s eyes got glassy as if she were on the verge of tears, and then she kissed Simon. He kissed her back, and they actually started making out on the couch in front of Dr. Hagan. They were so caught up in it that they didn’t realize what they were doing until Hagan cleared his throat loudly.
After the session, they returned home and relieved Christina from babysitting. Simon took a long evening run in the park, and when he returned, Jeremy was already asleep, so Simon and Alison made love for a few hours.
“I never thought it could be like this,” Alison said.
“Like what?” Simon asked.
She was running her fingers through his sweaty, very thick chest hair.
“So perfect,” she said.
Thursday was sunny and mild—a great playground day. Jeremy wanted to see his friends downtown, and with everything going so well lately, Simon didn’t see any reason to keep avoiding the guys. After all, play dates were about the kids, not the parents, and denying Jeremy the chance to play with his friends seemed like the wrong thing to do.
Despite how Simon had left the other day, so suddenly and melodramatically, when he and Jeremy arrived the guys acted as if it were any other afternoon, and they didn’t even seem surprised to see them. They gave Simon the usual warm hugs and then sat on the bench talking about the usual subjects—food, sex, and their kids. Simon still thought there was something very off about the guys, especially Michael; he was starting to get what Charlie had meant about Michael being like a motivational speaker. Although he couldn’t place exactly why, there was no doubt that spending time with the guys made Simon feel confident and secure, and it had definitely been having a positive effect on his marriage.
That night, Mark e-mailed him the information about Tom’s funeral, to be held the next day, Friday, at a funeral parlor in Bernardsville, New Jersey. Everyone from the office had been invited, and Mark wrote that he was “just passing the info along.” Although, for the most part, Simon had managed to do a good job of putting that night behind him, he was still upset with himself for going to New Jersey, possibly to confront Tom, and he was on the fence about going to the funeral.
Later Simon and Alison were in bed, their naked, clammy bodies intertwined, and Simon said, “Part of me thinks I should go, because I worked with the guy for seven years. On the other hand, he fired me, and wasn’t even returning my e-mails.”
Alison said, “Funerals are for the family, not for the deceased. If you go, you’d be going for his wife and kids, not for him.”
This made a lot of sense, and as Simon had met Tom’s wife, JoAnne, a few times, he decided that going was the right thing
to do.
In the morning Simon took the 8:18 train from Penn Station to Bernardsville and then a taxi to the funeral parlor. The quaint upscale town looked totally unfamiliar, and it still amazed him that he’d been in this area last Friday night, almost a week ago. He was tempted to have the cabdriver take him past Tom’s house, just to see if it sparked a memory, but he didn’t want to miss the beginning of the service.
He made it at around ten fifteen, just as people had started filing into the chapel. It was less crowded than he’d expected. He’d assumed there would be a huge turnout—after all, Tom had been fairly young—but there seemed to be about seventy-five people, tops. Aside from Tom’s wife, who was sitting in the first row with two teenagers, probably her kids, the only people Simon recognized were several people from work, including Mark, who was sitting with Jennifer—Tom’s old assistant—toward the back. He also noticed a couple of senior VPs with, oh Jesus Christ, Paul Kramer, the ass-kisser who’d gotten the promotion Simon had been supposed to get. Simon didn’t want to get into an awkward conversation with Paul, and suddenly coming to the funeral seemed like a big mistake; what had he been thinking? He’d assumed that dozens of people from the office would attend, but with only the people Tom had been close to here, Simon felt extremely out of place. He was even considering leaving—no one had noticed him yet and no one would miss him. Then Mark spotted Simon and waved for him to come over, so there went that idea.
“Hey,” Mark said, “I saved a seat for you.”
Simon sat and said, “Thanks.”
Andy Wallace, one of the senior VPs, looked over at Simon, and they acknowledged each other’s presence with half smiles and head nods. Then Simon noticed that Paul was looking in his direction, but they didn’t smile at each other; Simon just stared at the jerk until he looked away.
The mood in the chapel was appropriately somber, with light classical, maybe Tchaikovsky, playing. Although people were quiet, Simon could make out whispered conversations. There was so much “whisper noise” it was hard to decipher any individual conversations, but then Simon was able to focus on Paul and could make out him saying to Andy: “I know. What is he even doing here?” Then a few seconds later, Paul added, “I hope he doesn’t think he’s getting a job now. It’s so pathetic. The guy’s such a freakin’ loser.”
