Disillusions

by Seth Margolis

  Disillusions

  Seth Margolis

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2001 by Seth Margolis

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition June 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-858-3

  Also by Seth Margolis

  Closing Costs

  Losing Isaiah

  False Faces

  Perfect Angel

  Vanishing Act

  Can our love subsist, except by sacrifices, by not asking for everything? Can you change the fact that you are not wholly mine—I not wholly yours?

  My heart is overflowing with thoughts that I want to tell you. O I think there are moments when language means nothing.

  O God, why must one leave what one loves so much?

  Eternally yours.

  Eternally mine.

  Eternally we.

  —Ludwig van Beethoven to his “Immortal Beloved,”

  July 6, 1812

  Prologue

  Because Jimmy Amiel’s bedroom overlooked the front yard, he saw the two men get out of the car, stop at the end of the walk, and stare at the house. He hoped they wouldn’t look that hard at the lawn. The grass was mostly brown and it needed cutting. With everything that had happened—or was probably going to happen—what difference would it make if two men in suits noticed that the lawn looked bad?

  He moved to the side of the window so if they looked up they wouldn’t see him. He was only six, but it probably wouldn’t be smart to look like he was spying. His breath fogged up the pane; then he breathed in and the cloudy area shrunk a little. He watched that for a few seconds, the fog expanding, then shrinking, like something alive.

  Why were the men out front? What were they waiting for? Nothing good, that much he knew. Everything had been kind of lousy lately. He should tell his mom. She was downstairs, in the kitchen, probably sitting on one of the high stools and staring outside.

  The kitchen window faced the backyard, where the browned-out grass looked even worse than the front. She had promised him a swing set when they moved in, and he’d reminded her of the promise every Friday, when she got paid. But then things got crazy for them and he stopped asking.

  He should tell her what was happening, except he wasn’t sure she could stand any more bad news, and two men in suits watching your house was bad news, especially after what she’d been through. What they’d both been through.

  Should he call his mom or keep on watching? He could use a brother right now, or even a sister. He knew grown-ups felt sorry for an “only” child, even though they never told you; they just smiled extra hard and said things to your mom like, “Isn’t it nice that Jimmy’s made a new friend?” But he liked having his mom to himself—they got along pretty good, better than most brothers and sisters he’d known. He’d worried that maybe Mr. Lawrence’s little girl would end up his sister somehow, once his mother started working for him. He didn’t want a sister, especially a one-year-old with twitchy fingers and a scream like a siren.

  But right now, a brother or sister, an older one, would be okay. Someone to ask advice from. A father might know what to do—not his dad, of course; he made everything worse, much worse. Anyway, his dad hadn’t been around at all lately.

  He felt a rush of relief when he saw the Pearsons’ dark blue car pull into the street and stop behind the other car, just like he felt every afternoon when they picked him up after camp. Mr. and Mrs. Pearson would know what to do. They didn’t think much of his mom, he could tell just from the way they said her name when she opened the door. “Hello, Gwen,” making the name shorter than it already was, as if they didn’t want to waste even an extra letter on her.

  The Pearsons walked around their car and stood next to the two men and talked for a few minutes. Finally Mr. Pearson nodded and they walked up the path, the two men in front.

  “Mom!” He tore down the stairs and raced into the kitchen. “Mom, there are two men outside—no, I mean on their way inside, with Mr. and Mrs. Pearson, and I think they’re…”

  She just stared at him for a minute, so spooky he didn’t know whether to go hug her or run back upstairs. But then the doorbell rang, and she got off the stool and went to answer it.

  “You stay here,” she said.

  He started to follow her anyway.

  “Stay. Here.”

  She sounded like someone else, someone he’d better listen to. She closed the kitchen door behind her. He walked over to it but couldn’t hear much, just a man’s voice, like it was coming from under water or something.

  A few minutes later the door almost hit his head. His mom got down in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders.

  “Jimmy, listen to me…” He saw the younger man standing outside the kitchen, watching. “I’m going away now, just for a little while. I saw the Pearsons out front. They’re going to take care of you while I’m…”

  “I’ll try to be back by dinnertime, but just in case, you should get your pj’s and toothbrush and…”

  “Mr. Meeko,” Jimmy said. He never went anywhere without his panda.

  “Right. Just in case, okay? You’ll show the Pearsons where everything is, okay, sweetie? I may not have time to help you pack.”

  She wrapped her arms around him, holding him so hard he almost coughed.

  “You’ll have to come with us now,” the older man said.

  “Hey, back off for a minute, okay?” she said. “My son is here, in case you haven’t noticed.” Her old voice was back, the strong, I’m-in-charge, New York voice.

  Jimmy felt better just hearing her talk that way. He saw Mrs. Pearson staring at the ground; a teardrop fell onto the small brick patio.

  “Take care of him?” she said quietly to the Pearsons. Mr. Pearson nodded, Mrs. Pearson snuffled.

  She knelt down and hugged him tight.

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  He just nodded. If he tried to say anything he’d probably start crying, and that was definitely something she didn’t need right now. She needed him to be strong for her.

  She kissed his cheek, stood up, and headed for the door. He’d be strong for her, he would. If he just didn’t move, didn’t open his mouth, he wouldn’t—

  “Wait!” He sprang at her, leaped right into her arms. “You can’t go, you can’t go!”

  Now he’d done it. She was crying, he was crying, both of them holding on to each other; then somebody was pulling at him, hard. He wouldn’t let go. They’d have to take both of them, together, he’d just—

  “Go with the Pearsons, Jimmy.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Jimmy.” Mrs. Pearson yanked his right arm.

  “No!”

  His mom put her hands over his fingertips, which he was digging into her shoulders, and slowly forced them open.

  “I don’t want you to go!”

  His mom took a step back. Mrs. Pearson finally pulled him away.

  “Jimmy—”

  The older man put a hand on her arm. She shook it off but walked with him anyway, right through the door and out to the car, then got into the backseat with the younger man. People were standing outside their houses on both sides of the street, watch
ing. Mrs. Pearson held Jimmy close to her, which made it worse.

  In the car window he could see his mom’s face, already kind of like a ghost, practically invisible. She put a hand flat against the pane, watching him while the car pulled away from the curb and drove off.

  “Let’s go collect your things,” Mr. Pearson said.

  “She’s coming probably back tonight,” Jimmy said. “She promised.”

  Mr. Pearson held the door to their house open.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “Not tonight.”

  As soon as they were inside, Jimmy turned around and faced them in the hallway.

  “She’s coming back tonight,” he said. “She told me.”

  They looked at each other, then back at him.

  “Of course,” Mr. Pearson said. “If she told you, it must be true.”

  But being an only child, Jimmy was good at reading the looks grown-ups give each other. They didn’t believe him, and they didn’t believe his mom one bit.

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Gwen Amiel figured the Mecca Diner would have been considered chic back in Manhattan. The booths had orange vinyl seats and speckled Formica tables with individual juke boxes that played twenty-year-old pop hits; Peter Frampton and the Bee Gees were still very big at the Mecca. Along the counter, pies and cakes and the cheese danish they could never sell were displayed under glass domes like antiques, which is what they were.

  All of which, back in Manhattan, would have cost the owners a fortune to re-create, and people would have lined up on the sidewalk to get in. But in Sohegan, New York, two hundred miles to the north, population five thousand, give or take, the Mecca Diner looked just plain dreary.

  Like the town itself, really. The big textile mills had gone out of business decades ago. Their hulking carcasses loomed over downtown Sohegan, keeping three-quarters of the town in shadow most of the day. During bad storms, bits of siding or roofing would break off and plunge into the Ondaiga River, then float downstream to God knew where.

  Sohegan Tack & Hardware was the only significant business left in town. Most of the people who lived in Sohegan were employed by T & H, churning out nuts and bolts—literally—and switch plates and phone jacks and other things that people never really think about being made anyplace. But they were made some place, and that place was Sohegan. Last year, the town threw a big party when the company was added to the Fortune 1000. Not the Fortune 500. The Fortune 1000.

  Some days she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, stuck in a town that made nuts and bolts, for chrissake, and threw a party for itself because its one and only employer had made the Fortune 1000.

  Gwen sponged off the counter and sighed. All that had mattered earlier that spring was getting the hell out of Manhattan. She’d strapped Jimmy in his booster seat and driven north from Manhattan until she was too tired to keep going. Checked into the Fishs Corner Motel, just outside of Sohegan, which didn’t know grammar or housekeeping but was dirt cheap and close to the highway. The next morning she’d found the Mecca Diner in the middle of town, gone in for breakfast, and come out with a job. The next day she had a small rented house on Glen Road, Jimmy was enrolled in first grade, and Gwen was taking orders for the blue plate special. Jump-starting a life was a lot easier outside the big city, that much she’d learned.

  “You got a customer, Gwen, if you’re done mooning over there.”

  She made a face at Mike Contaldi, who was working the grill. Forty something, fleshy as a Cabbage Patch Doll and about as bright, he’d inherited the place from his parents and couldn’t keep his hands off the waitresses, which explained the high turnover. The first time he’d touched her ass she wheeled around and jabbed a bread knife at his groin. “Do that again, Mike, and you’ll be singing soprano.” In Sohegan, a line like that from a woman actually worked. He never came near her again.

  She looked around the restaurant, found the customer, grabbed her order pad from the counter, and walked over to the booth at the far end of the restaurant.

  “Morning,” she said as she removed the pen from over her ear. Yes, she kept it there—it had taken her a month to succumb, but after losing at least a dozen pens and having to replace them at her own expense, she’d given in.

  “Just coffee for now.”

  He glanced up at her and something went soft inside. It was the eyes. Gray blue, wide and narrow, pale yet somehow insistent, and haloed with a trace of shimmering mauve.

  She wrote coffee on the pad, all six letters.

  He patted the plastic-covered menu in front of him. “I’ll just take a look at this.”

  “Right.” She turned and headed for the counter. “I’ll get your coffee.”

  “You know who that is?” Mike Contaldi stood as close to her as he dared while she poured coffee. The diner’s coffee always managed to smell bitter and watery at the same time, just the way it tasted. If Starbucks came to town Contaldi would be out of business in an hour.

  She shook her head.

  “Nick Lawrence,” Mike whispered. “The Nick Lawrence.”

  “What kind of name is the?”

  “Ha, ha. He’s married to Priscilla Cunningham.”

  “Daughter of the Cunninghams?” Whoever they were.

  “Owners of most of this town, including Tack and Hardware.”

  She turned and studied Nick Lawrence. He had a strong profile, a long nose with a slight bump halfway down, and thick brown hair that curled somewhat at his collar. Handsome and aloof—just the aristocratic type of son-in-law you’d choose for your heiress daughter. Except it was nine-thirty in the morning on a Tuesday and he was wearing a denim shirt and khaki pants, eating a late breakfast.

  “How come he’s not at the plant?”

  “You mean and getting his hands dirty?” Mike rolled his eyes, but he sounded more awestruck than contemptuous. She brought the son-in-law his coffee.

  “Something for breakfast?” She held her order pad chest-high, the nib of her pen pressed against the top line.

  “Just rye toast,” he said. “Strawberry jam, if you have any, no butter. Who’s Jimmy?”

  “Who’s—”

  He pointed to her order pad with the longest, most elegant finger she’d ever seen on a man.

  “On your pad?” he said.

  She turned it over and smiled. Jimmy had written his name on the cardboard backing, along with a self-portrait.

  “My son. He comes by sometimes after school.”

  Back behind the counter, she tried to recall what he’d ordered. Rye toast with no butter was easy enough to remember—not too many people in Sohegan worried about saturated fats. But what else had he asked for? She popped two slices of rye in the toaster and took breakfast orders from a couple of phone company workers at the counter.

  “I guess you don’t have strawberry jam,” he said when she placed the rye toast in front of him.

  Damn. “We do, actually.” She fetched the jam from behind the counter. “Homemade just yesterday,” she said as she placed two tiny sealed packets next to his plate.

  His laugh brought out a fine cross-hatching of wrinkles on either side of his eyes. About thirty-five, she guessed, or a really fit forty.

  “You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” he said as he tried to peel off the top of a jam packet.

  “I’m not.”

  “Downstate,” he said. “Not the city…Long Island?”

  She felt her face warm. “Somewhere like that.”

  “I’m good at accents.” His own voice, deep and precise, offered no geographical clues.

  “I moved here from the city.” He spread jam over one-half of a rye slice. “I’ve been doing time up here for almost a year and a half.”

  Doing time? The son-in-law of the man who owned most of Sohegan?

  “My condolences.”

  He left her a twenty-cent tip on the $1.35 bill. Fifteen percent to the penny.

  Sheila came in at noon for her chicken salad on
rye, iced tea with lemon, black coffee.

  “Nice suit,” Gwen said. “New?”

  “Just arrived yesterday.” Everything Sheila wore came from a catalog. You couldn’t buy good clothes anywhere local, and Sheila liked to dress the part she was paid to play: assistant director of the local savings and loan. She smoothed the lapels of the pale peach suit with her palms. “You think it’s a keeper?”

  “Definitely.”

  Gwen got her iced tea, placed it on the counter in front of Sheila, and took care of a few other customers.

  “I met Nick Lawrence today,” she said when she brought the chicken salad sandwich.

  “Here?” Sheila crinkled her nose and glanced around.

  “He came for breakfast. I was beginning to think they didn’t let men that good-looking into Sohegan.”

  “Not my type. The penis, you know.”

  The man sitting a few stools away glanced at her and frowned. Everybody in town knew about Sheila Stewart. She and Betsy made no secret of their living arrangement.

  “Although, to hear some people talk, he had his”—Sheila turned to the man at the counter and smiled—“his organ removed the day he moved up here to Sohegan.”

  “Huh?”

  “The old man, Russell Cunningham? Almost had a cow when his precious Priscilla married him. Insisted they move up here or he’d cut them both off without a cent. So sonny boy did as he was told. How’s his voice, kind of high and squeaky?”

  Gwen laughed. “Low and sexy. I’d say his vital parts are still functioning.”

  “You’re glad we moved here, aren’t you, Jimmy?”

  They were playing go fish, an after-dinner ritual. She worried sometimes that they were getting too close, too sealed off.

  “Sure. Got any twos?”

  “Go fish. School’s okay?”

  “I guess. What do you want?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “No, I mean what card do you want?”