With Friends Like These

by Sally Koslow

  It’s only when I pass Trump Tower that I avert my eyes, trying to ignore the shouting monument to glitz, to overkill, to everything charmless that this city can also be. The building spoils the avenue like a belch at a baby shower. Yet this was where Xander had asked to meet. I walked into a lobby so brassy it could be a set for a movie titled 1984: The Real Story. If I blinked, I could imagine that the women I saw weighted with shopping bags and dogs the size of Cornish hens were wearing linebackers’ shoulder pads, reeking of Opium perfume.

  Twenty feet from the entrance, I stopped. I wanted the man in pinstripes to be an impostor, the living proof that the last few hours had been imagined. But there was Xander, his arms crossed in a stance both defiant and defensive. I found it hard to focus. The features in his face slid around like pieces in one of Dash’s puzzles; his skin looked pale as a French mime’s. When he came close to kiss me hello, I withdrew.

  “Where are we going?” I shouted over the din of running water. A waterfall! In this humid atrium I wondered if a cockatoo might dart out of the shadows and peck at my head or if I’d be chased by an oversexed orangutan.

  “Follow me,” Xander said, leading us up an escalator and into a Starbucks. As if it were a first date, he pulled out a chair for me at the largest table, where his laptop was opened next to a pile of papers. “Excuse me for a second,” he added. “I need to thank Sophie for keeping an eye on my stuff.”

  I glanced in the direction of a brunette barista who gave me a wave. I had the feeling she knew exactly who I was. In a minute Xander returned with two coffees, as if it were nothing but normal to be meeting like girlfriends. He set down the cups and spread out packets of sugar. “French roast okay with you?” he asked.

  “Xander!” I snapped. “I want answers, not caffeine.”

  His voice was a whisper, higher than usual. “People are staring. Can you calm down, please?”

  I looked around. Faces at other tables blurred as if they’d been painted by Matisse, a Matisse who liked mink, the occasional shearling, and overpriced denim. I searched for self-control and compassion, but could get reception on neither channel. I felt duped, humiliated, scared. It was a killer combo, and I fought every instinct to cry, trying to act as Jules would, perhaps not the Jules of today, but the real Jules.

  “Xander,” I said, as evenly as I could, “please explain why you’re no longer at Denton. I showed up there and felt like a horse’s ass.” He winced. “The receptionist hadn’t even heard of you!” He looked in my direction, mute. “Did you suddenly get tired of hedge funds?” The pressure had to be daunting, though I always suspected that without it, my Master of the Universe wouldn’t have a pulse.

  “I loved my work,” he said. “You know that.”

  “Do you have something else lined up?” I took out the sheet of watermarked paper I’d found in the printer hours ago, when life as I knew it hadn’t yet imploded, and shoved the résumé in his face. “Why didn’t you discuss this?”

  “Strictly speaking, I didn’t really do anything wrong.”

  “Wrong? What are you talking about?” I felt a rising level of dread that was making me shiver as it turned my skin clammy. “I need answers!” My voice was raspy. “I deserve to know.”

  “Can we take a walk?”

  “Stop stalling! Tell me now. Here. Do you have any idea of how pissed I am?” Pissed off enough to use that word. “How worried? How mortified I felt at Denton?”

  Xander loosened his tie, one I’d chosen for a Father’s Day gift. The pattern of tiny black triangles hopped in front of my eyes like fleas, and the tie had a spot, which in itself was disturbing. The Xander I thought I knew was meticulous.

  “I was always one of the fund’s top five earners,” he began after a noisy sigh. “About four years ago a guy I trusted, a money manager type, offered to compensate me every time I’d steer customers his way.”

  I noticed that the tail on Xander’s fine Egyptian cotton shirt had bunched at the waist.

  “It was a slam dunk for my clients. His company was one of the first to go green—they made solar panels and that kind of stuff, for Christ’s sake. It was easy to get people to invest, made them feel like do-gooders while they racked up obscene profits.”

  As I started to catch the general drift, I felt my stomach cramp.

  “Believe me, no one complained when they saw their statements. My customers thought I was God.”

  God was sweating and cracking his knuckles. Near his nose, he had a pimple.

  “This went on without a hitch for a few years, with everyone all back-slappin’ happy, until an exposé appeared in the Journal. Internal problems at this company, rumors of the CEO resigning, then a market correction. Not a major dip, but noticeable. Around this time, it got back to me that the … person … I’d been dealing with had started shooting off his mouth on the golf course, saying he had me on his payroll. That’s when Edgar heard.”

  Xander rubbed his wrist. He wasn’t wearing a watch. Had the Patek Philippe, with its eighteen-karat white-gold case—which the average person, like me, might take for stainless steel—landed in a pawn shop?

  “Actually, it was Charlene who heard.” He called Cha-Cha Denton a name I thought only other people’s husbands used. “Edgar took me to his club. He was smiling over our martinis—you know that pit bull look he gets?”

  I was glad I didn’t.

  “I was such a fool that day. I thought I was going to get promoted, at least see a bump in my bonus. I made a boatload of money for the firm,” he continued, as if he were talking only to himself. “My numbers were double digits. But Edgar knew the history of every client I’d talked into the deal, had each one detailed in a dossier with the letterhead of the law firm he keeps on retainer.”

  As the magnitude of Xander’s wrongdoing unfolded, I wondered if he felt the way I did, wanting to be anywhere but here.

  “I didn’t lie or deny.” His eyes darted around the room, never connecting with mine. “For Christ’s sake, I wasn’t the first or the only guy to do this! It’s an open secret that Edgar was a pretty smooth operator himself—that’s how he was able to start Denton. I was just the moron who got caught.”

  Xander made a sound like a bitter gurgle. This alerted the rubber-neckers at the next table, who’d been drinking in our whole conversation along with their Tazo tea.

  “Edgar pontificated about how he was disappointed, that I’d been like his son, the son who’d let the old man down. How I’d tarnish the firm if word got out, and he wasn’t going to let that happen.” My husband ridiculously gesticulated with air quotes and looked straight at me, talking faster now. “I thought it was a warning, until he said I should let him know the day I’d be leaving. Offered me a settlement, all spelled out. Thought he was being generous. He gave me forty-eight hours to sign.” He mentioned the name of a Dartmouth friend, a criminal lawyer. “Sam said I didn’t really have a choice. I left Denton the next day.”

  “When was this?” I croaked.

  “Two months ago.”

  “You never said a thing!” The buzz around us deadened. Though a good wife might have laid her hand on the arm of her unhinged husband, I realized my only consolation, small as it might be, was that I was enjoying Xander’s discomfort. “The thing I don’t understand is, why?” I said, quietly and with immense control. “Why did you do something you knew was unethical? Corrupt. Taking kickbacks?” I choked on the word.

  “Gratuities. It’s common industry practice.”

  “Common was the last thing I thought you were. You broke the law. How could you have been so stupid? You’ll probably wind up in jail. Did you go to Harvard Business School to make license plates?”

  “Chloe, you’re getting hysterical. That’s not going to happen.”

  “Maybe not. But at the very least I can’t imagine you’ll ever get another decent job again, at least not in finance. And you’ve done something horrible—to Dash, to me. You’ve ruined your own name.” I didn’t care that my
voice was shriller with each accusation.

  “You’re wrong. Sam negotiated a rider so that the details of what I did—”

  “Your crime?”

  “My behavior would stay confidential.”

  “Everyone at Denton and all their friends must know about this. And it doesn’t mean you aren’t guilty. It doesn’t mean you weren’t …” What word to choose? “Sleazy. And let’s say no one’s aware of this but us and a bunch of lawyers and Edgar and Charlene.” I pictured her face, smug, and wondered what she had known when we were together in Beverly Hills. “I still have to know why you took such a risk.”

  I heard a laugh crossed with a grunt. “Why? You are such a child. Do you have any idea what our monthly nut is?”

  We both understood that the question was rhetorical. “You’re telling me this went on for years,” I said. “It must have started around the time Dash was born, when we bought the brownstone.” Xander nodded in agreement. “But we never had to buy that house, the antiques, all those rare books, the cars—we never needed any of it. When I think of what you spent on cigars alone …” I wagged my finger near Xander’s nose. “It was you who wanted it all, more than I did.”

  I didn’t expect him to say, “That’s BS—you wanted everything as much as I did. Maybe more. Cut the crap and stop being so dammed sanctimonious. I did it all for you.”

  I wasn’t going to ratify this comment. I felt ancient, haggard, ill, and—to be honest—guilty myself, of gullibility, of empty-headedness, of my own greed. I pictured Xander’s integrity whooshing down a toilet, along with my innocence, as I considered the questions I should have been asking every day for years. After close to five minutes I wiped away the snot that had dripped on my chin and took my husband’s hand.

  “Okay,” I said. “What now?” Xander, the captain of the good ship Keaton, failed to respond. I knew the plan would be up to me.

  CHAPTER 45

  Talia

  I have always loved the first day of school, the electricity of expectation crackling even when the weather is soupy hot. Today the calendar announced September, but the temperature was stuck at ninety, as it had been for five soggy days. The classroom was clean and orderly, so colorful it looked animated. It had, however, no air-conditioning. The head teacher was a large young woman with arms that looked as comforting as pillows. Her sleeveless dress, too neon green for her floury complexion, revealed darkening stains. She was deep in conversation, trying to make herself understood by a mother who apparently spoke no English.

  Henry had been magnetized by a tall, leggy girl, the bossy type who at four possessed the authority that frequently accompanies silky hair and impossibly long eyelashes. Behind her, my son was a wagging tail. The girl’s name tag said Ella. By the time Ella turned ten, she’d probably have more finely honed instincts about handling men than I ever would.

  I let my eyes survey the room and was drawn to a circle of mothers, strangers to me, jabbering. “Don’t look now, but that’s her,” one whispered, loud enough for me to overhear.

  “Who?” another mother asked, raising an eyebrow toward the doorway.

  “You know, that blonde whose husband swindled his clients? It was all over the Post for weeks.”

  “Mrs. Kickback Keaton? I think you’re right. Look who’s slumming.”

  That’s when I saw Chloe, here, after all those months. She was trying to detach herself from Dash, whose eyes were narrow with suspicion, his pinchworthy cheeks angled into planes and valleys that resembled his father’s. Dash had shot up over the summer and was no longer a full head shorter than Henry, nor was he dressed in anything remotely adorable. No suspenders, bow tie, or sweater featuring an animal. I could fast-forward and imagine that, year by year, Dashiel Keaton would become increasingly handsome. I missed that bashful boy.

  When the “Greed, Graft, and Glory” profile of Xander had appeared in New York, I’d called Chloe. My message went unanswered. The following week, after the bloggers latched on to Xander’s story, wearing it out with their self-satisfied puns and strained analogies, I’d sent her a string of e-mails. Each bounced back, undeliverable. Finally I snail-mailed a note I’d rewritten several times. This must be rough. Thinking of you. I’m here. Call me if you feel like it. I’d hoped for a response. Nothing.

  Seeing Chloe, Mean Maxine was urging me to avoid eye contact, to hide my face in my newspaper. You’re the last person she wants to talk to crawled along the bottom of my consciousness like a warning for a tropical storm. But there are times I need to tell Mean Maxine to take a hike. My heart was ready for a risk, no matter how bumbling.

  I gathered my tote and Henry’s brand-new backpack and sidestepped through the parents, students, and school supplies—you’d think these kids were off to war, not pre-K—and got within a foot of Chloe, facing her back. I willed her to turn, but my telepathic entreaty was no more effective than my earlier communication. I lost my nerve and turned to slink back to the other side of the room. That was when she swiveled.

  We’d last seen each other nine months ago, for her office going-away party. I’d wished her well and got no warmer a response than did the receptionist and the IT guys. Chloe’s face looked thinner now, and where there’d been fullness, newly revealed cheekbones created a sharper architecture. As if she were trying to recognize me, she squinted, and faint crow’s feet fanned her eyes. These signs of life took pretty to something more.

  “Hello,” I said, louder than necessary. “Isn’t it great that the boys will be together?” After smiling, barely, Chloe paused long enough for me to be certain she’d hoped Henry would have ended up anywhere but this school, this class. “Hello, Talia,” she answered, all business, and then she turned her attention to Dash. “What do we say when we meet someone?”

  He extended a small hand with newly clipped fingernails. “Good morning.” His face was stern.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fisher-Wells,” she corrected him. He repeated her words.

  “Good morning, Dash.” I shook his hand. “Are you excited about starting school?” He burrowed into Chloe’s thigh. “You remember Henry, don’t you?” I wondered if he did. “Do you see him over there?” I pointed to the playhouse. Henry appeared to be serving Ella tea. “I bet he’d love to see you.”

  “Go over and say hello,” Chloe said. When Chloe put a hand on his back, he walked toward the children.

  I’d gotten as far as putting myself near Chloe—what came next I hadn’t worked out. There was everything to say, but all I could grunt was, “How’s it going at Bespoke?”

  “Well enough,” she answered, composed, her gaze neither friendly nor unfriendly. “The hours are long. I’m fairly exhausted. There’s a lot of travel. You? How’s the full-time schedule?”

  When Chloe left, I’d taken over her half of our shared job. My salary had doubled, but so had my frustration; I felt bored and underpaid. Tom and I figured it would take until we were fifty to accumulate a down payment for an apartment. “The hours are long,” I said. And dull. “I’m fairly exhausted.” Boredom will do that to you. “But there’s no travel, unless you count New Jersey.” If I were sent to San Francisco—or Milwaukee—I wouldn’t complain.

  I considered the stampede of questions I couldn’t ask. Did you suspect Xander was up to something before it happened? I had not. What’s going on with him now? A while ago Jules had implied that he’d checked into a psychiatric facility, but out of loyalty to Chloe, she revealed nothing more. What does it feel like to have reporters on your stoop? I’d combust, along with my marriage. How do you like being a breadwinner? Proud but resentful, like I do? Are you upset that Dash didn’t wind up at Jackson Collegiate? Betsy O’Neal had told Tom that the Keatons had turned down a spot offered to Dash. Where are you living? I’d done my share of online stalking and spotted a listing for their house. After a few weeks, the ad had vanished. Had they found a buyer? Rented it? Left the house unoccupied? If Dash was in this school, had they moved to our district or had they applied fro
m a different part of Brooklyn?

  What I most wanted to ask was, Will you forgive me? On anyone’s ethical seismograph I’d admit that what I’d done was wrong, small-minded, hurtful. How wrong could be settled by Talmudic tribunal, though I was holding fast to the notion that chasing a job earmarked for Chloe was a misdemeanor, not a felony.

  Tell it to the judge, Mean Maxine sniped. You tried to steal a friend’s opportunity, intellectual property meant for her. You acted under false pretenses.

  No matter how I or any philosopher looked at it, my behavior diminished me, and apparently it had put a full stop to my friendship when, as it turned out, I was certain that Chloe needed me most. Whom did she have in her corner? Quincy had folded into herself, had moved on. Jules was as overwhelmed as anyone I’d ever known. That left Xander, whom Chloe most likely wanted to kill. I knew I wanted to kill him on her behalf.

  “Can you go out for coffee after we leave?” Eliot was expecting me, but what the fuck.

  This time Chloe responded quickly. “Sorry—can’t.”

  Not Let’s do it another time. Not I wish I could; let me look at my calendar. Not I’ll call you.

  I wondered what I could say next that wouldn’t send me shooting through a trapdoor to Chloe’s hell, bad friend division. I wanted to tell her that with me, she didn’t need to pretend to be brave, and that if she wanted to play a game of darts aimed at my head, we’d give it a go, as long as afterward there was the promise of laughter. I wanted to give her a hug, to say I was sorry. But I simply stood with my arms hugging my body to steady myself, certainly looking as foolish as I felt.

  “Mommy, Mommy.” Every mother turned toward the voice, but the call was for me. “Can Dash and I have a play date?” Henry had abandoned the lovely Ella, perhaps for the next decade, and he and Dash were perched atop a tower of large blocks, king-of-the-world style.