by Rick Goeld
“I detect hostility.”
“Me hostile? Just because you haven’t called in a month?”
“Let me make it up to you. I’ll buy you lunch.”
“Just a minute, I’ve got company.” Her co-workers, fully energized for another week’s “news-wars,” filed out of the conference room and paraded past her. “The Boss” gave her a glance that said “See me in my office.” She smiled and mouthed the words “Five minutes?” He nodded and walked on. “What were you saying, Phil?”
“How about lunch?”
She had thought about Phil, on and off, since they’d last had lunch, which had included his usual proposition, her surprising refusal, his displeasure, his anger, his getting plastered, and her helping him to the sidewalk and pouring him into a cab. She didn’t know if her “relationship” with Eddie Zittner would amount to anything. She didn’t know if it could be called a “relationship.” It was a business transaction turned strange friendship turned affair? Fling? One night stand? But she knew she was fed up with Phil.
“Phil, no … I think I’ve had it.”
“What do you mean, had it?”
“I’ve had it, Phil. No more lunches that end up in hotel rooms.”
“Okay, then, how about dinner?”
“Phil, you’re not getting the message. It’s over. I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“That’s kind of abrupt.”
“Abrupt? You haven’t called me in a month, and you want to pick up right where we left off?”
“This is not like you, Lois. Did you meet someone?”
“I meet a lot of people, Phil.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yes, I know what you mean. “I don’t know. Yes, I met someone, but we’re not serious … yet.”
“Not serious?”
“Not serious.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s none of your business, Phil.”
“I’ll bet it’s that lunatic you’ve been writing about. The Steely Dan guy.”
She could hear the anger in his voice. “It’s none of your business, Phil.”
“Bullshit, Lois, it must be him. Who else would it be?”
Thanks for stroking my ego, Phil.
“You wrote three articles about him. Did you bail him out of jail?”
“Phil, you think you know me so well.” Keep your cool, girl.
“I do know you, Lois. What else did you do for him? Did you sleep with him?”
“Fuck you, Phil.”
“You’ve slept with him. I can hear it in your voice.”
“Look, Phil, I don’t have time for this.”
“And he’s married, too. You have a real ‘thing’ for married men, don’t you?”
She stared out the window.
“One drink, Lois? A drink and a little sword-play?”
No, Phil, you won’t suck me in this time. She disconnected, dropped the phone into her handbag, and walked toward “The Boss’s” office.
40
Wednesday, April 5, 2000
Eddie opened his eyes, rolled over, and turned on the bedside lamp. Nine o’clock. He needed to be at work by one. He could sleep for another hour, maybe two.
But sleep wouldn’t come. He thought about last night, drinking with his friends, or, to be more precise, some of his co-workers from Borders.
John Russell: “J.R.,” married, with a brand new baby boy, rambling on about the happiness of married life and fatherhood—but he never seemed particularly interested in getting up and going home. A man with roving eyes. Left at eleven.
Sarah Park: Korean. Wonderful body. Hot. Hotter than hot. Has a boyfriend but likes her independence. Runs the magazine rack and has a nice rack of her own. Untouchable. Left at eleven-thirty.
Thomas something, never could remember his last name. Single, nerdy, and totally dedicated to his job. He’d work eighty hours a week if they’d let him. A science fiction nut. Left at eleven-thirty with Sarah. I wonder if he’s poking the Korean barbeque?
Raymond Obenjaya: immigrant from Kenya. A tree-stump of a man. No personality. Didn’t see him leave … perhaps he just disappeared into thin air.
Wendy McGill: Referred to as “The Thrill” by her co-workers. Bleached blond, semi-attractive, too much make-up. Had been known to flirt blatantly with male customers. Smoked like a chimney, and pestered Eddie to “step outside and keep me company” while she smoked. He figured he could have her if he wanted her—but he didn’t want her. Probably carrying STDs. She stayed till the bitter end, twelve-thirty, and then headed downtown in a taxi.
And yours truly, Eddie Zittner: Separated from his wife. Treading water. Drifting aimlessly. Another one who stayed to the bitter end.
He got out of bed, shaved, showered, dressed, and strolled into the kitchen. No coffee and no note …
An hour later, he’d eaten two heaping bowls of cereal—Cheerios mixed with Raisin Bran—and had moved into the living room, where he sipped coffee and plowed through a paperback copy of The Concrete Blonde by Michael Connelly. A random mix of Steely Dan, U2, REM, and Sting played softly in the background. Halfway through “Roxanne” his cell phone buzzed—a familiar number on the display. Why is she calling?
He muted the stereo and picked up. “Hello?”
“Eddie, it’s Alison.”
“Hi.”
“Hi. I need to talk to you.”
Neutral tone of voice, Eddie. “About what?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at my brother’s apartment.”
“Where is that? The East Side?”
She’d never been to his brother’s apartment. “Yeah, Third Avenue and 32nd Street.”
“I’m ten minutes away. Can I just come over there? It’ll save time.”
She must have the divorce papers with her. “Uh, yeah, but what is it you want to talk about?”
“Us. Our relationship. What else would we talk about?”
Our relationship? He gave her the address, disconnected, and then called downstairs, instructing the doorman to send her up when she arrived.
He went into the kitchen and put on a fresh pot of coffee. He sweated through his t-shirt, hurried into the bedroom, stripped it off, and put on a nicer one. He brushed his teeth, again, and did some minor touch-ups on his hair. He sat back down and tried to read, with little success.
Minutes later, the elevator door chimed, and he stepped into the hallway. He watched as his wife strolled toward him wearing a black raincoat—glistening wet, he noted—and a pair of high heels. She carried her black leather briefcase, and … Her hair was all over the place.
She embraced him, backed him into the apartment, pushed the door shut, dropped her briefcase, and kissed him, hard, on the lips.
He didn’t resist.
Seconds later, she was on her knees, and his pants were around his ankles, and his penis was in her mouth. She stopped and looked up at him. “This is what you like, isn’t it?”
Close your eyes and you’ll be there.
They moved quickly to the bedroom, where they stripped each other’s clothes off, and, for the first time in months, consummated their marriage.
*****
They lay together, spooned together, his penis pressed against her thigh. The sound of thunder … and he remembered the first time they’d met, when they were juniors at Rutgers. April of 1992? Or had it been May? They had been between classes. A mutual friend—long forgotten—had called him over and introduced him to Alison. And as they were talking, just the two of them, it had started to rain. Without missing a beat, she had opened her umbrella, and they had huddled together and talked for more than two hours.
He felt her shoulders begin to shake. He leaned back, and then raised himself on one arm. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“What’s the matter, Alison?”
She didn’t speak for a long time. She wiped the tears away, and more came. He tried to embrace her, pull her back into his arms, but she pul
led away, and then she stood, pulling the sheet off the bed and holding it in front of her. He covered himself with the blanket.
“What’s the matter, Eddie? You. You’re what’s the matter.”
He stared at her, not knowing what to say. He watched as she put on her bra, and then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her pantyhose on. He started to get hard again. She stood and reached for her blouse.
“I thought you wanted to talk.”
She stared back at him as she buttoned her blouse. Finished, she reached for her skirt. “I thought I did, too. I guess I didn’t.”
“So what does this mean?”
“I don’t know.” She put her jacket on.
“You don’t know?”
She picked up her high heels. “I’m confused, Eddie.”
“You’re confused about what?”
Leaning against the dresser, she slipped her high-heels on. “You, Eddie. This whole thing.” She moved to the bedroom door, stopped, and turned toward him. “You know, when I married you, I thought you were Russell Crowe. But you turned out to be … Jason Biggs.”
Jason Biggs? From American Pie? “I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.”
“Bye, Eddie.”
He listened as her high-heels clicked along the hallway. Seconds later, he heard the apartment door close.
*****
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: (no subject)
Eddie, I’m writing this at work. It’s after seven and I’m the only one here. I’ve been thinking about what happened this morning. But more than that, our problems have forced me to think hard about our marriage, our feelings for each other, and what I want to do with my life (I hope that doesn’t sound totally like something from Cosmopolitan.)
I said I was confused. I guess, in some ways, I still am, but in other ways, I’m not. Not anymore.
Remember how we used to drive in the country, looking at houses? Pretty houses, with flower beds, and green lawns, and white picket fences? And we’d talk about having children? I think I wanted that, once. I wanted to be a housewife. I wanted a couple of kids. I wanted to kiss you goodbye and wave to you as you pulled out of the driveway and headed for work. But I’m not so sure that’s what I want anymore.
I am sure I loved you, Eddie. I was head over heels for you in college, and the first few years we were together were wonderful. But I just got tired of it, Eddie. Not tired of you, specifically. I think I just got tired of “being married” and living as a couple. It’s gotten to be a chore.
You know I’m good at my job. The more I work at it, the more I like it. I’m going to focus on that for a while, and see how far I can go.
I’m still confused about some things, but I know that I need to get on with my life. And you need to get on with your life. That’s why I’ve decided to go ahead with the divorce. I’m going to call my lawyer this evening and tell him to file the papers.
I still have feelings for you, Eddie. We were together for a long time.
…Alison
41
Friday, April 7, 2000
Lois Lane Smith hurried across the street, scanning the opposite sidewalk for any sign of her mother. One minute from my office and I’m five minutes late! She approached the nondescript wine bar where they were to meet. The few tables scattered about the sidewalk were empty. Too cold to sit outside. She strolled through French doors and spotted her mother just sitting down.
She approached the table. “Hi, Ma.”
Having just settled into her chair, Rachael Smith looked up, saw her daughter, smiled, and pushed herself back to her feet. They embraced and kissed. Lois looked at her mother for the first time in weeks. Yeah, she’d put on a few pounds over the years, but who hadn’t? She still looked great. And what a beautiful dress—midnight blue!
“Ma, you look lovely!”
“Oh, please!” her mother’s smile grew wider.
“Where’d you buy that dress?”
“Bloomie’s … where else?”
They sat down and ordered glasses of wine.
“So, Ma, your first time in the city in what, a month?”
“Yes.” Her mother put on her best ‘sad face,’ the one she used at school. “My only child never visits me in the country, so I guess I have to come to the city.”
Lay some more Jewish guilt on me, Ma. “Since when is Queens the country?”
Her mother smiled. “I already told you why I’m here. Your father’s having dinner with the big shots. Wives are invited … spouses, I guess I should say.”
You go, girl! Equal opportunity! “How wonderful. Where?”
“I don’t know yet. We’re meeting at his office. But he told me to dress up, so, I’m dressed up.”
“Mmm . . .”
“I have an hour and then I have to run.”
“So, how’s school?”
“Wonderful. Third graders; so grown up these days. The girls are wearing lipstick and eye-shadow. Little ‘Britney Spears’ look-alikes.”
“Really?”
“And the boys … I think some of them are already shaving.”
“Third grade? What are they, eight? Nine?”
“Maybe I exaggerate a little.”
The waitress returned with the wine: a dry chardonnay for her, and a sweet chablis for her mother.
“So, what’s new with you, doll?” Rachel Smith sipped her wine. “You sounded terrible on the phone last night.”
She made a face. “Man trouble.”
“So tell me about it . . .”
“Remember the guy I’ve been dating? Phil?” Talking to her parents, she’d mentioned Phil a number of times, but, prudently, had never mentioned that he was married.
“Yes, I remember you talking about him … the latest in a long line of disposable men.”
Disposable? “Well, we split up, finally.”
“I told you: disposable. So what happened?”
“He was a piece of shit, that’s what happened.”
“Such language!”
“Then I started up with a new guy.”
“Another disposable one?”
She ignored the remark. “Remember my Steely Dan articles? From last month?” She knew her mother always scanned The Post for her stuff, clipped the articles out with her sewing scissors, and filed them away.
“How could I forget such memorable reporting.”
“Remember the guy in the stories? Eddie Zittner?”
“I remember the name.”
“That’s the guy I started up with.”
Her mother thought for a moment. “He’s married, isn’t he?”
“Separated.”
“Still, a bad habit, going out with married men.” With as much dramatic effect as possible, Rachael Smith raised her glass, slowly sipped her wine, and majestically put the glass back down.
Lois avoided her mother’s eyes. Had she somehow caught on that Phil was married?
“And you have enough bad habits, doll.”
“What bad habits?” She couldn’t tell if her mother was being serious or not.
Her mother smiled and thoughtfully tapped her chin. “Well … for one thing, you eat too much cheesecake.”
“Oh, really?” She stood and struck a seductive pose. She worked hard to keep her figure, and was damned proud of it. “Is all that cheesecake showing?”
Her mother hissed at her. “Sit down … you’ll make a scene.” She sat. “Okay,” her mother continued, “you can afford a piece of cheesecake every now and then. But wait until you get older.”
“I can wait.” She smiled. “What other bad habits do I have?”
“Pish!” Her mother brushed her off. “So tell me about this Zittner fellow.”
Lois explained: At first, she thought he might be some kind of crazy stalker. Then she thought he was just a harmless flake … but he turned out, finally, to be a nice guy. He had a certain charm: he was funny, he was
smart, and he was reasonably good-looking. He kind of grew on you. They had some things, some interests, in common. And he didn’t give up easily: he was low-key, but persistent. On the other hand, he could be a bit of a doofus at times. And he was stubborn: he wouldn’t give up on his obsession to get Fagen and Becker’s autographs. She wondered if he was really worth investing her time in, or should she just write him off?
“Invest? Write-off? You’ve been listening to your father too long.”
“You know what I mean, Ma.”
“I know what you mean, doll. I read all the articles. I have a photographic memory, remember?”
“Right, Ma.” Lois smiled at her mother. This was a running joke in the family. Rachael Smith was a wonderful teacher who never missed a beat in the classroom, and could make a lesson plan appear out of thin air. But around the house, she was a disaster. Her husband was still trying, without much success, to get her to make a “things to do” list. “So,” Lois continued, “what do you think?”
“What do I think? Well, from what I read in your articles, and what you just told me . . .” Her mother thought for a long moment. “Follow my logic: How did you first meet him? Demonstrating on the sidewalk, right? Doesn’t that tell you something about him? For some people, that takes guts. For others, they just have to be a little meshugenah. So, if he can give up his obsession, then maybe, just maybe, he might be salvageable.”
Salvageable. “What about his wife? He said she’s already filed for divorce.”
“But there’s no proof, is there? You’re a reporter, doll. Keep digging.”
Keep digging … what a reporter I am. Three articles, and three dates, and I still can’t figure this guy out. I’m way too dumb sometimes . . .
42
Sunday, April 9, 2000
Eddie rang the bell. A few seconds later the door opened.
“Well, if it isn’t my long lost son.” Elaine Zittner—again wearing an apron!—stepped outside and gave him a hug.
