Heather, the Totality

by Matthew Weiner

  His Father, the football coach, had been a physical man and ever since Mark had flinched the first time he heard the grunt of a tackle during a scrimmage, his Father had regarded him as afraid. Of course he was afraid. His Father’s forearms were huge and his temper capricious and he took defeat very seriously in all aspects of his life so Mark learned to take a beating and try to correct his behavior to avoid such one-sided confrontations. Mark needed to run, and not in a loop, not from home and back but from home in one direction until he couldn’t run anymore and was too tired to do anything but start over wherever he was.

  Just before lunch, Mark decided to go home and get his running clothes and after he put on his coat, he erased the picture of the Worker on his phone. It disgusted him and made him angry and although he enjoyed the brief satisfaction of what was an intentionally symbolic act, he wondered if one could truly erase anything these days.

  Stepping outside the building into the gray noon light he was calm, hailing a cab and feeling a tingle in his nose of what smelled like the first wintry day. He thought about Heather and how if she had been a son, none of these feelings would exist. He also admitted to himself that she would be terribly damaged if her parents divorced and that he had been filled with irrational emotions lately from skipping both sleep and exercise.

  The years to come would probably go as planned with him and Karen together, both of them pursuing their natural lifespans, until statistically someone would be alone. From someone’s old age, he saw that Heather had a remarkable life as a lawyer or even the president and that thanks to him she wouldn’t end up like his poor Sister, the perfectionist of starvation, who never got to know what promise lay beyond that feat.

  When Mark got out of the cab he was relieved that the construction crew was at lunch but as he walked through the lobby to the elevator he noticed the Doorman was gone as well and the Worker was sitting on the radiator box looking at his phone and drinking what Mark assumed was liquor, from a paper bag. Mark waited for the elevator, his resolve to ignore everything undone by the hairs rising on his neck. He turned in time to catch the Worker staring at him.

  Their connection was brief but total and Mark felt his guts push down as if he was going to shit right where he stood. It was unmistakable now that an animal was in their lobby; eyes heavy-lidded with indifferent hunger, shoulders arched and taut, ready to pounce. Mark’s heart thudded as he considered how long this thing would be on his doorstep, unsatisfied with anything but his child.

  When the elevator opened Mark should have gone upstairs, changed into his running clothes and left, but instead he held the door with his forearm. His mouth was almost too dry to speak and he hoped he wouldn’t sound scared as he asked the Worker if everyone was at lunch. He couldn’t believe he had spoken, his voice so loud, every guilty syllable slapping off the marble walls. The Worker nodded yes, and Mark understood his mind had been far ahead that morning when he had erased that photo. In fact, it was probably hours ago even that he had decided what had to be done, readied himself for an opportunity, and begun covering it up.

  “Could you help me move something upstairs?” Heather’s Dad asked. Bobby had his back up a little when her Father stomped in more bitchy and annoyed than usual and, since the crew wasn’t supposed to eat in the lobby or certainly have a beer, Bobby thought the old man might give him hell or rat him out to the Foreman. Bobby had never even taken a good look at him; he wasn’t interesting, and when he was with Heather, he was just in the way, circling her like a bothersome fly. Now up close, he was exactly what Bobby expected, one of those douchebags who thought the whole world worked for him and despite his king-in-his-castle voice, he was just a fat-faced punk and scaredy cat, especially today without his fancy briefcase.

  None of this kept Bobby from the pleasure of anticipating how he could soon be inside Heather’s house and so he trotted to the elevator, putting his head down to hide his eagerness. In the foyer, Heather’s Dad rushed to their front door but couldn’t find the key right away and checked over his shoulder so much that Bobby thought he needed help. The front door finally opened and a wall of heat wafted out so rich with all of Heather’s smells, that Bobby had to steady himself in the doorway.

  He followed Heather’s Dad through the stifling entry past the lush living room and into a narrow hallway where Bobby knew the bedrooms were. He checked for any sign of her, a shoe, a sweater, and was tempted to veer off or just choke her old man out and be ready in her bedroom when she came home. But he just followed, half listening to her bragging Father, who was now in a sweat and led them towards the kitchen where the outside air was coming in from the open window.

  Bobby had seen many apartments this nice but only from a scaffolding and had never been inside one that wasn’t demolished or under construction. It would have seemed bigger without so much stuff in it; still, he was thrilled with the white walls and green carpet and all the TVs and brass trinkets and he wanted to sit in the stuffed red furniture and have a whiskey from that crystal glass. He knew that these were the people that went to the movies all the time and ate in restaurants and flew on planes and had pictures of horses on everything.

  He looked at her Father’s back and thought the poor guy probably wasn’t that bad; he had a wife with big tits and together the two of them had made Heather. In fact, these people had made all of this and whether they liked it or not, they’d made it all for him.

  Bobby walked into the kitchen where the cabinets and even the refrigerator had glass doors and were packed with food, and tried to imagine a way this could all work out. For the first time he thought far beyond killing her. He saw her at the stovetop in a baby blue bathrobe, frying him an egg.

  By the time Mark was at the front door, he regretted talking to the Worker at all. The two men had been so close in the elevator that Mark gagged on the stink of beer and cigarettes and dirty clothes and could clearly see a pulse throbbing under the shaved silver hair of his temples. He watched as the Worker leaned on the front door after closing it, taking a deep breath through his nose as if to inhale the whole place. Mark didn’t want to turn his back on him but couldn’t risk catching those eyes and revealing his fear and he found himself backing away from the Worker while yammering like a real estate agent about the various spaces that made up their apartment.

  Mark had imagined killing him many times but now in reality he had no gun, no big wrench, and certainly no physical advantage. He could never get his hands around that thick neck. He felt a chill in his spine as he realized he had done nothing more than invite the danger into his home where he could die at the hands of this short, hunched simian who still hadn’t said a word.

  Mark had to keep walking, and he inventoried every weapon they passed, the crockery umbrella stand, then the fireplace poker or that mahogany humidor; they were heading towards the kitchen. There were knives in there. If he could get to the kitchen first he could grab the chef’s knife and turn and surprise him. Or better, make a break for the door and run down the steps to the street.

  Mark sped up as he heard the heavy boots a few steps behind him but then just watched as the Worker passed by and landed in the open space of the kitchen, facing him. Mark’s heart sank and raced at the same time. The Worker was six feet away and out of reach, a hulking silhouette against the bright gray light from the window behind him.

  Bobby looked around the kitchen but now saw nothing, his mind and body too occupied with the future. He could never go back to school but was good at saving money and he could get Heather a house, no, a home. She was born rich, so her parents would never want to see her go without and so they would help them out, and happily, because Bobby would be working his hardest and everyone respected that. And he would come up behind her as she cooked and wrap his arms around her waist and she would smile back at him, the way he’d seen lovers do on TV.

  The Worker’s face was dark except for his blue eyes as he took a step towards the stove. Mark felt his quadriceps tighten as he lowered to a
tackling stance and drove with his full weight into the Worker’s hips, pushing him backwards into the low open window, and Bobby, off balance, folded easily through and fell the ten stories without even a scream, the wet thud of his body coinciding with a car horn.

  That day Karen had arranged lunch with an old friend from her publicity days who was now the executive secretary to an editor in chief of a women’s magazine. Karen wanted to share her rekindled ambitions but they mostly reminisced and while this friend hadn’t eclipsed Karen, she had many stories of their past underlings who now ran the world of media. Karen remembered why they’d lost touch as her friend made it clear there was no place for Karen in the publishing world and perhaps there never was and that she was best suited for the unpaid-mother work of charities and thrift shops.

  As she walked into the apartment, she felt years of regret in her stomach and a wave of warmth that could have been the onset of menopause and she plodded through the heat of the entry towards the cool air of the kitchen. Mark sat at the table in a T-shirt, his head down on his folded arms, the wide-open window blowing icy cold at his back. She called his name and he looked up with sickness, his face wrinkled and older than she remembered from this morning, if she had even looked at him this morning.

  Seeing that his weakness demanded her comfort, she crouched next to him and he told her in a low but steady voice that he had pushed the Worker out the window and that he was dead in the space between the buildings. Karen rushed to the window and looked down to see Bobby’s body, a pool of blood under his head, one of his legs bent impossibly backwards so that his foot was beneath his shoulder.

  She sat down next to Mark as he stumbled through a clear confession that was incriminating in every detail and as she listened, she became aware that he had ruined their lives and she slapped his face with full force. Mark didn’t react, but took her hands one at a time and looked her in the eye. “I know in my heart. I am certain.” He said, “Whatever problems this family has, there is no family without her.”

  She heard him and took in the whole room for a moment and saw from some bird’s-eye view that they were small and alone. She knew he was not able to think right now and the whole apartment was asking her what to do and she finally burst into tears, her hands loose in her lap.

  Mark stared as she caught her breath and then she sternly addressed him, wiping her eyes, suggesting they pick Heather up at debate practice and have dinner out and come home late enough to act surprised with whatever happened. Mark looked down again and nodded and she then stood and went to the espresso machine and in those next minutes there was silence except for the clink of china and the hiss of steam as Karen prepared a cappuccino and placed it before her husband and watched him sip it as if it were medicine.

  When the Breakstone family returned to the apartment some hours later, Karen expected that the street would be lit by police cars and the building surrounded by crime tape and she would have to do her best to shake Mark out of his daze and into an attitude of shock as they pushed past onlookers into the building. The officer on the scene would have little information and an investigation was pending and everyone should go back to their apartments and try to process that there had been an accident and this happened sometimes and luckily they were all okay. Karen would then suggest they stay in a hotel for the night and finally rouse Mark to agree and leave, his arm around their daughter in comfort as her backpack hung from her limp hand and dragged on the dusty marble.

  But the building was dark when they came home, never more quiet and seemingly abandoned, so they simply headed upstairs and went to sleep. Mark went first since he’d had many drinks and no food at the bistro where they had spontaneously celebrated how Heather had been promoted to varsity debate even though she was a freshman. Karen watched for Heather’s light to go out and then undressed and got into bed without brushing her teeth, resisting the urge to look and see if the Worker’s body was still there.

  She stared at Mark while he slept so deeply, her worry sitting in her belly like a cramp. She realized that in the days to come and perhaps long into the future, it would be her responsibility to keep him from any compulsion to confess. She would have to stand between his guilt and whatever ghost was rising from the alley at that very moment.

  In their dark bedroom, Karen looked at him and knew that he must have had his reasons because she knew him and could never be afraid of him and she was suddenly released from all anxiety because she knew now they were bound together forever. She touched him until he stirred and then made love to him and was aggressive and on top and he was drunk enough to forget everything he was and respond with the force of fresh desire.

  Bobby’s body was not discovered until the next morning when his replacement on the crew was relieving himself in the alley, and the newspapers, then the coroner, ruled his death a work-related accident. Heather was touched by the tragedy and marked the spot with flowers and Mark and Karen waited a full month before putting their apartment on the market.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing this book has been a life-changing experience and a childhood dream realized, and like everything I’ve ever done, I could not have done it alone. These thank-yous come in the order in which the encouragement and support were received.

  First, thank you to A. M. Homes, who was generous enough not only to share her writing but to sense my anxiety at the change in my writing life and suggest, then make it possible, for me to spend time at Yaddo. None of this would have happened without her.

  I owe so much to the spirit, energy and intelligence of the Yaddo residents in the fall of 2015, including Eric Lane, Patricia Volk, James Godwin, Christopher Robinson, Lisa Endriss, Nate Heiges, Gavin Kovite, Rachel Eliza Griffiths, Pilar Gallego, and especially Isabel Fonseca and Matt Taber who heard as many versions of the story as the trees did and pushed me just hard enough.

  Thank you to Semi Chellas for slogging through the first draft and showing me how to use blank space. She is a writer’s writer and makes everyone less afraid.

  Thank you to some other early readers who really filled my sails on an unsteady ship: Ann Weiss, Richard LaGravenese, Bryan Lourd, John Campisi, Jeanne Newman, David Chase, Blake McCormick, Karen Brooks Hopkins, Amanda Wolf, Gabrielle Altheim, Molly Hermann, Joshua Oppenheimer, James L. Brooks, Jessica Paré, Sarena Cohen, Madeline Low, Erin Levy, Gianna Sobol, Abby Grossberg, Lydia Dubois-Wetherwax, Christopher Noxon, Milton Glaser, Lisa Klein, David O. Russell, Lisa Albert, Jack Dishel, Regina Spektor, Sydney Miller, Michele Robertson, and my parents, Leslie and Judith Weiner.

  Thank you to Alana Newhouse for seeing the value in something so strange. She is a champion, a believer and forever my comrade.

  To my agent Jin Auh, for her unflagging confidence in me and her fierceness towards all others. Also to Andrew Wylie and Luke Ingram, of the Wylie Agency.

  To my editor and ally Judy Clain, whose remarkable smarts with both words and people have won my trust for life. She made this book better and kept me from making it worse. To Reagan Arthur and the incredible team at Little, Brown and Company: Lucy Kim, Mario Pulice, Craig Young, Nicole Dewey, Jayne Yaffe Kemp, Mary Tondorf-Dick, and Alexandra Hoopes.

  To Francis Bickmore, my editor at Canongate, whose guidance and care were essential.

  To Jenna Frazier, my writing assistant, whose insight, skill, perfectionism, and artistry guided me daily through the whole process.

  So many people helped me become a writer not only by taking me seriously, but by making me take myself less seriously. There are teachers, mentors, colleagues and most importantly other writers who have challenged me, scolded me, and answered my dumb questions. They are too numerous to name, but Jeremy Mindich has been the most consistent and loving friend that anyone could ever want.

  Okay, this is coming last on the page, but only because it supersedes everything else. To my sons, Marten, Charlie, Arlo and Ellis. You make me laugh, you make me cry, you make me not want to go to work, and I can’t get over how much I lea
rn from you. I hope to be like you when I grow up.

  And to Linda Brettler, my love and the truest artist I’ve ever known. How could I have been so lucky?

  About the Author

  Acclaimed storyteller Matthew Weiner has been entertaining audiences for two decades, most recently as writer, creator, executive producer, and director of Mad Men, one of television’s most honored series. He also worked as a writer and executive producer on The Sopranos, along with several comedy series, and made his feature film debut in 2014. Weiner studied at Wesleyan University and earned his MFA from the University of Southern California. He currently lives in Los Angeles with his wife, architect Linda Brettler, and their four sons.

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