by Adam Mitzner
What Harrison Kaye lacks in physical menace he more than makes up for in psychological warfare. He has just managed to hurt Jonathan more acutely than any punch to the face could by openly shaming him for only being able to afford a $12.9 million summer home.
* * *
“I really think we should put in an offer on that house,” Natasha says that night while they’re in bed. “Harrison says it’s a steal.”
Jonathan snorts at the thought of a thirteen—sorry, twelve-nine—million-dollar house being a steal. “I think he’s the one committing larceny here. You do know that he’s going to net an eight-hundred-grand commission for an hour’s work.”
“Don’t think about him, Jonathan, think about us. Relaxing in that hot tub, looking out onto the water . . .”
She nuzzles next to him. He allows her to nibble his ear, but when she reaches down to his boxers, he knows he’s being played.
“You mean the water that is not the ocean, which is the one thing I said I wanted,” he says bluntly. “No, that’s not right—I also said I wanted a traditional, which that house is also not.”
Natasha rolls away from him. Whatever sexual energy she had a moment ago is gone. So much so that she actually hikes the blanket up a bit, bringing it to just below her shoulders.
“Jonathan, we can’t get an oceanfront house in our price range. Not in East Hampton, anyway. It’s that simple.”
“Fine. So we’ll rent this summer on the ocean and we’ll buy next year.”
“Jonathan, renting something on the ocean in East Hampton is going to cost four hundred thousand for the summer. At least.”
“Then that’s what we’ll pay. You know . . . I want what I want, Natasha.”
“That’s a ridiculous amount to spend for eight weeks.”
“You say that like you earned it.”
She lets out a loud sigh, feeling no obligation to hide her disappointment. After a moment, in which she looks as if she’s measuring her words, Natasha says, “Jonathan, someday you’ll see that you can’t always get exactly what you want.”
He raises his head and looks at her as if she’s just uttered the worst form of blasphemy he can imagine.
“Of course I can, Natasha. I have for my entire life, and I have no intention of stopping now.”
6
Seven Months Later/December
Jackie wishes she could sleep. After tossing and turning a few hours, she’s awake for good by six.
There’s a silver lining to her insomnia, however. On a Sunday morning, she’ll have the run of the house for several hours. Emma is sleeping at a friend’s, and Robert never wanders out of his room before noon on the weekend. Based on how much Rick imbibed, he likely also won’t show his face until afternoon.
Diana Matarazzo or somebody else last night must have gotten Rick all hot and bothered, because when they got home after the reunion, he was like a dog in heat. She didn’t protest, having long since realized that her resistance only revved him up more. And so she endured, thankful when he turned her over, so she didn’t have to look at his goddamned face. That he was drunk made him last longer than usual, which only gave her more time to think about how much she absolutely hated her husband.
After making herself a pot of strong coffee, she takes a seat on the corner of the living room sofa, staring out the large bay window onto Farmington Lake. Clasping the mug with both hands, she allows the coffee’s warmth to enter her.
Jackie knows that right now, clad in her flannel pajamas, taking in the view of the serene lake from the comfort of her home, she looks like an actress in a commercial depicting the idyllic suburban life. But her existence is far from a fantasy. As she does most mornings when she finds herself in this position, she wishes she were dead.
* * *
Jonathan doesn’t feel the same sense of dread when entering Lakeview for the second time. He walks through the hallways and says hello to the African American nurse from yesterday. Today he notices she’s wearing a name tag that says Yorlene Goff.
“I’m Jonathan Caine,” he says. “How’s my dad doing today?”
“I remember you, Mr. Caine,” Yorlene says with a warm smile. “He’s good, but why don’t you go on in and ask him yourself?”
As if he was expecting his son’s visit today, William Caine is sitting up in bed, watching television, when Jonathan enters his room. That it’s figure skating and not playoff football is enough for Jonathan to surmise that one of the nurses selected it.
“Hi, Dad. How are you feeling today?”
“Johnny!” his father says rather brightly, as if he hasn’t seen him for months.
“I was here yesterday, don’t you remember?”
His father looks lost for a moment. “You were?”
“Yeah. I told you that I’d be back today because I was going to be staying at the house.”
There’s no sign of recognition from his father, but he accepts the truth of Jonathan’s statement without further inquiry, and a silence falls between them as thick as any wall. Jonathan wishes his father would say something—anything—if only to prove that he’s still connected to the world. But by the way he stares at the television, Jonathan knows that, at least for the moment, there’s nothing for William Caine except figure skating.
Jonathan takes a seat in the recliner under the window. A Russian skater is performing to Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off.”
“Do you like figure skating now, Dad?” Jonathan asks.
“I like the costumes. They’re pretty. Especially the ones with lots of colors. I don’t like the ones that are either all black or all white as much.”
Jonathan always found his father to be a weak man. Part of that was because for as long as Jonathan was sentient, he knew that his mother called the shots. But Jonathan pinpoints the exact moment when he lost all respect for his father to be during a Fourth of July barbecue when he was fourteen. It was a small gathering at their home. The guest list was limited to his one living grandmother, his aunts and uncles on both sides, and their kids, as well as his mother’s childhood friend Joan Samuelson, her husband, Barry, and his father’s closest friend, Phillip Levinson, and his wife, Gayle.
At some point, Jonathan went inside—he can never remember why—and went upstairs to his bedroom. At the top of the steps, he heard something from his parents’ room, and when he found the door open, he entered.
From behind the closed door to the master bathroom, he heard the unmistakable sound of his mother groaning. Even at fourteen, Jonathan knew why.
He ran downstairs, and then outside to the yard with the other guests, his stomach in knots. The first person he saw was his father, who was busy manning the grill, a stupid-ass grin on his face.
Jonathan figured out who was with his mother by a process of elimination, but he nevertheless kept a careful eye on the door. Not more than five minutes later, his mother returned to the backyard. A minute after that, Dad’s buddy Phillip Levinson exited the house.
Burned into Jonathan’s brain to this very day is the self-satisfied look on Levinson’s face. Like he’d just won a medal for valor or something.
The Levinsons were the last to leave the party. When they made it to the doorway, Mrs. Levinson air-kissed his mother and then turned to make actual cheek contact with his father, at which time Mr. Levinson moved in to kiss Jonathan’s mother good-bye. He most likely was planning to kiss her on the cheek, but at the last moment Jonathan’s mother’s head shifted so she caught him full on the lips, and then she lingered there. It couldn’t have been more than a tenth of a second, but it was long enough for Jonathan’s eyes to shoot over to his father. His gaze was still turned to Mrs. Levinson, however, so Jonathan was the only witness to the transgression.
And then the absolute worst part happened—the part that still makes Jonathan wince when he thinks about it. Phillip Levinson, his father’s best friend, turned and said, “Bill, as always, I thoroughly enjoyed your hospitality.”
Jonathan un
derstood in no uncertain terms that for Phillip Levinson, cuckolding his supposed best friend was far more pleasurable than having sex with his supposed best friend’s wife. Jonathan also knew that the proper response would have been to direct his anger toward his mother. She was the one, after all, who had betrayed their family. And yet, since that day, he always laid blame solely at his father’s feet. None of this would have happened if William Caine had been more of a man. Able to satisfy his wife, and capable of putting the fear of God in the hearts of the Phillip Levinsons of the world, so that they knew they took their lives into their own hands if they even thought about interfering with what was his.
Jonathan was far from an introspective person, but even he knew that the experience was formative, not only in creating the distance between him and his father that persisted to this day, but in shaping the man he had become. In the end, it was Phillip Levinson—a man who took what he wanted—who became his role model, and Jonathan’s father was reduced to a cautionary tale.
When the skater’s routine is completed, the elder Caine turns away from the screen. Jonathan views it as his cue to speak.
“So I went to my high school reunion last night.”
“Yeah?”
“I told you about it yesterday. Do you remember?”
“Um. Okay.”
Jonathan assumes that his father has no recollection of the previous day’s discussion, and that rattling off names of his long-lost classmates will only confuse him. But when the next figure skater takes the ice, his father’s focus stays with Jonathan, as if he’s trying to engage and is looking for help.
“Do you remember Jacqueline Lawson?” Jonathan asks.
“No,” his father says. “Is she your friend?”
“I went to high school with her. We weren’t friends back then, but she was the prettiest girl in the class. Prom queen and all that.”
“Your mother was the prettiest girl in my class,” he replies.
This isn’t true. Jonathan’s parents didn’t attend high school together. He sees no reason to correct his father, however, so he continues about Jackie.
“She still lives in East Carlisle, so we may see each other for lunch while I’m here. She’s married to this guy who was a real jerk in high school and, by all accounts, hasn’t changed much since then.”
Silence ticks by, which Jonathan has by now realized doesn’t necessarily mean that a response will not be forthcoming. But this time, none comes. William Caine has since retreated into the black hole that is his illness.
* * *
Two hours later, Jonathan is back at his house—his parents’ house, more accurately—composing a text message.
So nice seeing you, Jackie (I remembered, not Jacqueline). Do you want to get lunch tomorrow?
He reads it again. His main concern is that he’ll frighten her away, and he almost mentions again that he’s married, but that’s protesting too much, he thinks. After checking his handiwork one more time, he presses the send button.
She answers almost immediately.
Love to. Just tell me where and when.
How about that? Love to.
He gives fleeting thought to waiting until later to respond, but then decides he’d just as soon not play such games.
1 pm. Does the Chateau still exist?
LOL Sure does. C u there.
7
June
The e-mail came at 10:00 a.m. on the dot. It was from his key investor, Michael Ross at Maeve Grant, although Jonathan had little doubt it was drafted by someone else. A lawyer, most likely. The subject line read simply: Redemption.
Pursuant to section 8(a)(1)(i) of the agreement between Maeve Grant Capital Fund Inc. (defined herein as the “Investor”) and Harper Sawyer Derivative Currency Fund (defined herein as the “Fund”), Investor hereby provides notice of redemption in full of all monies invested by Investor currently held by the Fund. As set forth in section 16(d)(1)-(3), such payments should be made as follows:
$250,000,000.00
Within 7 days of this notice
$250,000,000.00
Within 30 days of this notice
Balance
No later than 60 days from this notice
A spike of pain drives into Jonathan’s head. He pushes it aside, telling himself that every second counts now, and he starts to think through a strategy.
Maeve Grant has nearly three-quarters of a billion invested. Paying that back would be bad enough, but it’s the fund’s nearly four to one leverage that makes the situation critical. It means that in addition to coming up with Ross’s money, the fund will have to reduce its borrowings in order to remain within the collateral parameters imposed by the banks. The bottom line is that by redeeming Ross, more than $3 billion is going to go out the door in the next sixty days, and that’s enough of a hit to bring the entire fund down.
* * *
“Please hold for Mr. Ross,” an administrative assistant says.
At least Ross isn’t ducking his call, which is the first bit of good news of the day. It means he doesn’t think that Jonathan’s already dead in the water.
Jonathan has left the trading floor—and the building entirely, for that matter—to make this call. He almost never leaves the desk, particularly first thing on a Monday morning, so his underlings must already suspect that something’s amiss, but he figures that’s better than their overhearing they all may be unemployed by the end of the day.
“Good morning, Jonathan,” Ross says into the phone.
“Not for me, Michael. What the fuck?”
The other end of the line is completely silent, as if he’s been put on mute. Jonathan assumes Maeve Grant’s general counsel is right there beside Ross.
“I take it you received my e-mail, then?” Ross asks, back on the line.
“Yes,” Jonathan says, trying to keep his anger in check. “I have to say I’m very surprised, Michael. The fund is doing great, and just a month or so ago, when we were at Wolfgang’s, you said you were very pleased. You talked about backing me in my own fund, or don’t you remember?”
“I remember drinking a lot that evening, is what I remember,” Ross says with a laugh.
Jonathan lets the remark pass. He hopes that his silence is enough to convey that he doesn’t find this to be a laughing matter.
“Bottom line is that I really don’t understand why you’re now considering pulling out,” Jonathan says.
Ross answers quickly. “We’re not considering, Jonathan. We are pulling out. The timetable was in the redemption notice so there’d be no misunderstanding there.”
“Look, Michael . . . I think this is a discussion we should have face-to-face. I’m willing to meet you wherever you want. Right now.”
The mute sound again. This time the silence is longer, almost half a minute.
“I don’t see the point, Jonathan,” Ross finally says. “Everything I had to say is in the redemption notice.”
“The point . . . ! Michael . . . ! The point is that we’ve known each other for some time now, and I think you understand what kind of major Category Five shit storm is going to rain down on me over this.”
Calm down, Jonathan says to himself. He’s got to project that he’s in total control if he’s going to talk Ross out of redeeming.
Jonathan takes a deep, cleansing breath and tries again, this time from a different direction. “Michael, a gentleman would have the decency to meet with me. I thought you were that type of man. Are you?”
Jonathan can only imagine that the lawyer is shaking his head vehemently to tell Ross that there’s no way he should agree to a face-to-face. Jonathan knows Ross is too vain not to grasp the gauntlet Jonathan has thrown down. Ross prides himself on being a man of honor, as if he were some type of medieval knight, rather than an obscenely paid paper pusher.
“Okay. I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes at . . . the Pulitzer Fountain, in front of the Plaza Hotel,” Ross says. “I’ve got an eleven at the Plaza, so I can give y
ou a few minutes before that.”
“I’ll be there.”
* * *
It’s less than a ten-minute walk from Jonathan’s office to the Plaza. As he’s approaching his destination, it starts to drizzle. Even in his dispirited state, Jonathan finds humor in the rain cloud that seemingly hangs over him. He considers ducking into the Plaza for shelter but fears he’ll miss Ross, so he stands there in the rain, which is only increasing in intensity. He’s well on his way to being drenched when a stretch limousine pulls up.
The glass is tinted. When it comes to a stop, the back window rolls down.
“Get in,” Ross says.
Jonathan hesitates. He has the feeling that he’s about to be kidnapped, like in a Mafia movie. But at this point, that would be a good development, so he climbs into the back of the car.
The partition is up, but Jonathan has no idea whether that means the driver is blocked from hearing what is about to unfold. Not to mention that Jonathan assumes the car is equipped with recording devices. At least Ross came without a lawyer.
“Thanks for seeing me, Michael. I’m not going to beat around the bush here. The fund’s position is very precarious at the moment, and I’m afraid that if we have to liquidate to redeem you, the whole thing might collapse. But if you hang in there for . . . I don’t know, a year, maybe less, I personally guarantee we’ll redeem you then, and you’ll be twenty, twenty-five percent richer.”
Ross’s expression is worse than anything Jonathan could have anticipated. It’s not rejection, but pity.
