by Rick Goeld
“What’s with the ‘long lost,’ Ma?”
“It’s been a month.”
A month? It couldn’t be that long. They walked through the living room. “How’s Dad?”
“Tired. Tax time, remember?”
Shit! He followed his mother into the kitchen, where a cornucopia of vegetables sat draining in the sink. “Where is he?”
“In the back.”
He glanced out the kitchen window. Is that my father, grilling steaks? “He’s cooking?”
“He insisted. He got home an hour ago.”
Eddie checked his watch: six-thirty. It wasn’t that unusual for his father to work on the weekends. But a full day at the office? On Sunday?
His mother picked up a chopping block. “Look, I’m going to make a salad. Why don’t you go out and join him? Take a beer with you.”
He took a beer out of the refrigerator, twisted the cap off, stepped outside, and started down the walkway. Oleanders, growing outside my door.
His father spotted him and waved. “Hey, Easy.”
Eddie saw his father smile, and his eyes dance, just like he’d seen them dance a thousand times before. But his father looked dead tired. “Hey, Dad.” They hugged. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. Just busy as hell at the office.”
“Yeah, Mom told me.”
Harry Zittner turned his attention back to the grille. The steaks needed another five minutes or so, he said. He picked up a pair of tongs and turned the thick, well-marbled rib eyes, sending bright tongues of flame licking skyward. Stepping back, he grabbed a spray bottle and squirted a mist of water over the coals. Eddie watched as the flames gradually diminished. His father mopped his forehead with a towel.
“So, what’s new, Dad?”
His father had a few well-chosen words for the Justice Department, and the damage they would do, to the economy as a whole, and the stock market in particular, if they filed an anti-trust suit against Microsoft. “The beginning of the end” was how he described it: “Time to start hedging your bets.” Eddie nodded and chugged the last of his beer.
Moments later, declaring the steaks “done”, Harry Zittner loaded them onto a stainless steel platter and headed for the kitchen door. Eddie followed, grabbing the tongs, the towel, and the empty beer bottle.
Soon, father, mother, and son were seated in the dining room, each with a steak, a split baked potato, a salad, and a glass of red wine. Eddie wedged butter into his potato, and covered it with black pepper and chives. He watched as his father sprayed his potato with a stream of golden something-or-other.
He nodded toward the squeeze bottle. “Is that stuff any good?”
“It’s not bad,” his mother said.
His father smiled. “A concession to the evils of cholesterol.”
“And the steak?” Eddie asked.
“I’m entitled.” Harry Zittner glanced at his wife.
Eddie saw the look that passed between his parents. “Once a month, Lovey,” his mother said. “That’s what we agreed on.” She smiled, but Eddie could see the look of concern in her eyes. His father grunted as he sliced a piece of steak and dipped it in A-1 Sauce.
They concentrated on their food. Eddie noted that his parents had avoided the subject of his marriage since he’d arrived. Now his mother took yet another detour: “Mark tells us he and Marcie are getting serious.”
Eddie felt a twinge of regret, and his father looked uncomfortable. “Maybe Eddie doesn’t want to talk about Mark and Marcie.”
“No, Dad, Mom, its okay.” It had been a raw nerve for the first week or two, but now he was comfortable with it, even philosophical about it, and happy, genuinely happy, for his brother. Ugly duckling blossoms into swan … and gets the girl. “Mark and I have talked about her a couple of times. I’m happy for him … for both of them.” Maybe the fact that he had gotten laid—twice in one week!—had something to do with his accepting the loss of Marcie. But he’d never really had any claim on her, had he?
He watched as his parents exchanged another glance. I’m sure they’re happy about Mark and Marcie … why wouldn’t they be? Now if he could just find a way to “win back” Alison, everything would be perfect.
“Has Mark told you much about Marcie?” Let’s make this conversation really uncomfortable!
“A little,” his mother replied. “She’s in law school, right?”
His father swallowed a mouthful of food. “Mark said she was at N.Y.U. She graduates in December, right?”
“Right.” Eddie smiled. “And she’s Jewish. Did Mark mention that?”
“Yeah, Mark told us she’s Jewish,” his father said, and Eddie saw the grin on his mother’s face, confirming the fact.
But Reformed or Conservative … isn’t that the question? He was sliding into quicksand, but couldn’t stop himself. “Pretty, too. She reminds me of Liv Tyler.”
His mother looked puzzled. “Liv Tyler, the actress?”
“Yeah. She was in Armageddon … you know, with Bruce Willis?” He poured more wine for himself, ignoring his parents’ half-empty glasses.
“The daughter?” Elaine Zittner looked concerned. “She looked so young in that movie.”
“Make-up, Ma. She’s in her mid-twenties.”
“Liv Tyler? Or Marcie?”
“Both. I think they’re both in their mid-twenties.” Now thoroughly disgusted with himself, he picked up the bottle of A-1 Sauce and shook it with as much hostility as possible.
His father put down his knife and fork. “Eddie, take it easy. Look, let’s talk about you and Alison.”
He took a deep breath. What was there to talk about? He’d called his parents yesterday, and given them a highly edited version of his meeting with Alison, and her subsequent email. Both parents had insisted he come to dinner so they’d have more time to talk.
“Tell us again what happened,” his mother asked.
He repeated the story, modifying the truth to protect his parent’s fragile sensibilities: Alison had been in Manhattan and she’d wanted to talk. She came to Mark’s apartment. They went to a nearby coffee shop. They’d had a good talk, but hadn’t made any progress; they still disagreed on many things. Later that day, she had emailed him, telling him that she was filing for divorce.
His mother spoke first. “I still don’t understand how a simple disagreement about a rock and roll band could break up a marriage.”
Harry Zittner glanced at his wife. “That’s an over-simplification, Ellie. You know there’s more to it than that.”
“That’s right.” Looking for courage, Eddie took a generous swallow of wine. “It’s not just a simple disagreement. We’ve got lots of issues.” Jason Biggs? “I think Alison and I are moving in different directions.” Assuming I’m going in some direction … “She said she doesn’t want to be part of a ‘couple’ any more. She wants to focus on her career.”
His mother looked doubtful. “And she can’t do that while she’s married to you?”
He had no good answer to that question.
His father said, “Eddie, don’t give up. I mean, you shouldn’t give up.”
“I don’t know, Dad. To tell you the truth, I’m not so sure I want to go back to her.”
His mother glanced at her husband, then back at him. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t expect you to, Mom. Not completely, anyway. Things happen in a marriage.”
“Yes, things happen, and you talk about them, and you work them out, and you go on.”
“It’s a different generation, Mom.”
“Yeah … the Sex and the City generation. Everyone wants to wear Prada, and Manolo Blahnik.”
Yeah, maybe that’s it. He remembered the sound of Alison’s high heels as they clicked down the hallway.
His father jumped in. “Okay, Eddie, let’s say, hypothetically, that you and Alison don’t get back together.” This earned him a sharp glance from his wife. “What will you do? You can’t stay at your brother’s place inde
finitely.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m a full-time employee at Borders now . . .” Damn! “Uh, didn’t I mention that last week?” Quick glances at his parents’ faces said no, he’d neglected to tell them. Lies and omissions were catching up with him—and there was no choice but to plunge on. “So, I’m earning enough money to afford my own place now.”
“You’d stay in Manhattan?” his father asked. “I didn’t think you were that crazy about Manhattan.”
He took a deep breath and remembered how Lois had called him “Easy Eddie.” “Manhattan’s not that bad. It kind of grows on you.”
43
Monday, April 10, 2000
Lois Lane Smith stared at the words that glowed on her computer screen. The words seemed to be staring back at her. It’s been a long day.
Since the meeting with her mother, she’d talked to her friends, her co-workers, and her landlord. She’d had a long telephone conversation with her father. All had weighed in with advice, which had run the gamut from “everyone is different” to “sounds like a flake” to “you’re scraping bottom, girl.” She’d been told to use her head, follow her heart, go with her gut, and give him the boot. The advice was well intentioned, but, for the most part, useless. And sometimes unwelcome, she thought, remembering last week’s phone call with Phil. Her mother had been the one voice of reason in a symphony of jibberish.
After covering yet another absurd story—a hot-dog-eating contest, of all things—she’d returned to the office at four. She’d been greeted by the flashing yellow light on her phone. There were two messages, both from Eddie, the first at noon, and the second at three. His break times … he must be at work. Both messages had said pretty much the same thing: a week had elapsed and he wanted to talk. He’d also called her cell phone at about the same times—she knew it was him from the Caller ID. She’d let those calls roll into her voicemail. Probably the same message. She wasn’t ready to talk, not just yet, but she knew she’d have to, eventually. And he’d call her, again, on his next break.
Just after five, her cell phone buzzed. She saved her work, leaned back in her chair, and took the call.
“Hello?”
“Lois, it’s me, Eddie.”
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.” Lie number one.
“Are you at work?”
“Yeah, I just walked in.” Lie number two.
“Did you get my messages?”
“I see the message light flashing, but, no, I haven’t listened to them yet.” Lie number three … he’ll never believe that one.
“You must be busy.”
“I am.” Lie number four.
“What are you working on?”
“You won’t believe it if I tell you.”
“Try me.”
“Man bites dog … literally.”
“I don’t get it. Sounds like an inside joke.”
“No joke. I just covered a hot-dog-eating contest.”
“You’re boss must really like you.”
“Yeah. He told me I’ve really been cutting the mustard lately.” Silence. Did he miss that? Or is he playing with me? “Anyway, I told him I didn’t relish the idea of doing more human interest stories.” Still nothing . . .
Eddie waited a beat before speaking. “So, how are you gonna spin it?”
He sounds so serious … “I’m writing it as a David and Goliath story: don’t bet against the little guy, particularly if he’s Japanese.”
“No kidding.”
“No kidding. The little bastard wolfed down forty-two of the suckers.”
“My God!”
“Yeah, and he barfed them all up about five minutes later. Not something you’d want to see. I had to wait for him to get cleaned up before I could interview him.”
They quickly ran out of conversation, and an uncomfortable silence descended.
Eddie broke the ice: “Well, it’s been a week. I thought we might go out again.”
“You mean just to talk?”
“Well, yeah, to talk and to have some fun. I thought we might go back to Iridium.”
“Why Iridium?” Red flag, girl! She got up and walked toward the hallway.
“It was fun, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Who’s playing there?”
“I believe it’s the Mark Whitfield Trio.”
“Mark Whitfield?”
“Yeah, he plays jazz guitar.”
She arrived at the window overlooking West 47th Street. “Do you figure you’ll spot Fagen or Becker this time?”
Silence. She figured Eddie was trying to come up with some kind of response.
Finally, he said, “No, Lois, it’s not like that. I just thought we had a good time there, and we could do it again.”
“Eddie, why is this so important to you?”
“It’s not that important. If one of them is there, fine, if not, we’ll have a good time anyway.”
“Eddie, I don’t think so. Not this time.”
“Why? Because of the Steely Dan thing?”
“That’s part of it.”
“What else?”
“Eddie, it’s just that, well, I’ve been thinking, and, to tell you the truth,” Lie number five? “I’m just not totally comfortable with you. I don’t know what to make of you. I don’t know if I can trust you.”
“Trust? What do you mean by trust?”
“Well, for one thing, you’re still married . . .”
“I told you we’d split up. She’s filed for divorce.”
“I know you told me that.”
“So you don’t believe me?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Okay, forget about Iridium. Let’s just have dinner. We can talk over dinner.”
She stared out the window. Rush hour traffic clogged the streets. She didn’t know what to say.
“Or lunch,” he continued.
“Eddie . . .”
“Or coffee … meet me for a cup of coffee.”
“Eddie . . .”
“Lois, I thought we had something good going . . .”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Lois, please? We should talk face-to-face, not on the phone.”
Do I owe him that? Or am I just being stupid? “Okay, Eddie, I can meet you tomorrow morning. I have an appointment at ten.”
“Can you meet me at eight?”
“Where?”
“The Café Indulge. It’s right across the street from the Borders where I work.”
I guess I could do that. “Give me that address again?”
“The Café Indulge, corner of Second Avenue and 31st Street.”
She jotted the name and address into her day planner. “Okay, eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
She heard him say, “I’ll be there,” and disconnect.
44
Tuesday, April 11, 2000
It was Eddie’s favorite table in his favorite corner of his favorite coffee shop.
The back of his chair almost touched the window overlooking 31st Street. Early morning sunlight flooded through the windows on his left, which overlooked Second Avenue. From there, he could watch customers—mostly pretty young students and nurses—file through the entryway and line up in front of glass display cases filled with delicious pastries. Or he could watch the Russian waitresses as they floated from table to table. When the restaurant wasn’t crowded, the waitresses would gather on the sidewalk and smoke their cigarettes—so close he could almost reach through the windows and touch them.
He sipped his coffee. A pecan danish sat half-eaten on his plate. Across the street, Borders and the Loews theater complex were closed and dark. Another beautiful spring day … perfect for screwing up yet another relationship.
A cab rolled to a stop, and he saw her getting out. He watched as she got her bearings and started walking toward the entrance. She was wearing spring colors: a creamy blouse with flowers on it, and a blueprint blue pantsu
it. Tan shoes. Her oversized handbag was slung over her shoulder. And her hair was pinned up like the first time he’d seen her.
He watched as she pushed through the doors, scanned the room, and spotted him. A ‘Mona Lisa’ smile … A minute later they’d given each other a polite hug, and were sitting, silent, trying to decide how much eye contact to make, or how they might begin a conversation. Eddie’s favorite waitress, Katrina, glided up to the table with her customary “Das Vadanya,” poured Lois some coffee, refilled Eddie’s cup, and asked if they wanted anything else. Lois responded with a “Nyet,” and Katrina smiled as she glided away.
Eddie finally broke the ice. “Thanks for coming.”
“You were right,” Lois replied, “serious discussions should always be face-to-face.”
He smiled. “So this is going to be a ‘serious discussion?’”
“I guess so. There are some things we should talk about.”
“Well, then, let’s get right to it.” He stirred more sugar into his coffee.
“I don’t want this to sound like the Spanish Inquisition.”
“It’s okay. Ask me anything you want.”
“Eddie, I don’t have a list of questions. I have … concerns.”
“Concerns. My marriage obviously being first on your list?”
“Yes.”
She looked very serious sipping her coffee. He decided to play it straight. “I already told you everything.”
She looked up. “Everything? You’ve told me very little.”
“I told you my wife filed for divorce. Or at least she said she did. I haven’t seen any papers yet.”
“How do I know that’s true?”
“I don’t know how I could prove it.” He tried to keep from sounding annoyed.
“How do I know that you’re not trying to reconcile?
Stay in control, Eddie. “I live full-time in Manhattan, with my brother, in his apartment. Remember? I’ve seen my wife once in the last month.”
“I’ve never met your brother. Maybe he’s working overseas somewhere. Maybe he doesn’t exist.” Eddie watched her. She seemed to be getting agitated. “For all I know,” she continued, “you could be leading a double life. Maybe you spend half your time with your wife in Jersey, and the other half chasing women in Manhattan. Or maybe you have one of those open marriages—screw who you want, when you want, just not in front of me.”
