“Dear Lord,” Church intoned. “Our brother Dag needs you today. He needs your love. He needs your tender mercy, and he needs it right now. His body is damaged, but the man is a fighter, Lord, he’s had to fight for everything he’s ever received, and with your help, Dag’s going to fight through this, too, and he’s going to win, Lord! With your love, he’s going to heal. We know the body is a temporary home for our eternal soul, Lord, and for our soul to dwell for eternity in the Kingdom of Heaven we all have to vacate the premises. However painful it is to leave this Earth, in our hearts we understand. But we beseech you to hear our prayers today, Lord. Hear our prayers. Our brother D’Angelo Maxwell is not ready to leave his earthly incarnation. He’s not prepared to vacate the premises. We know you want him, Lord, and you’ll get him one day. But please, Lord, not today. Not today or tomorrow or the next day. He’s a young man, Lord. He’s a young man who tries to live right. His teammates love him, and his coaches love him. Jay and Nicole, they love him, too.” Turning his attention from the Lord to the supine figure on the bed, he said. “I love you, Dag.”
Taking Church Scott’s cue, Drew Hill said, “We love you, Dag.”
Giedrius cleared his throat. “I love you, man,” he said, his Lithuanian accent conveying a Baltic awareness of inevitable misfortune.
“I love you, bruh,” Odell mumbled, tears sliding down his cheeks. The giant rubbed them away with the heel of his massive hand.
The outpouring from the coach and the three players deeply touched Jay, who found himself toggling between paroxysms of guilt about Dag, sympathy for the players and coach, and the desire to murder his wife.
“We love you, Dag,” Nicole whispered as if the situation had knocked the breath from her chest. We love you. At least, Jay thought, she did not have the temerity to say I love you to D’Angelo Maxwell in front of her husband. It was then he realized everyone in the room was looking at him. They were waiting. Why hadn’t Church resumed speaking? Wasn’t the coach leading this service? Then Jay realized. He was supposed to express his love.
Jay again bowed his head as if redoubling his efforts at prayer and gazed at the floor. The squares of oatmeal-colored linoleum gleamed. Somehow the person who had last mopped it had missed a scuff mark. Was it from a shoe? Or had the wheels on one of the machines jammed when an orderly was sliding it into place and left a trace of rubber? A tone was coming from one of the devices Dag was hooked up to. Beedink, beedink, beedink. It emerged at a steady rhythm, and from the bee to the dink there was a climb of several notes on the scale. It was almost musical. Had it been making that sound the entire time? Or had it just begun? No one was doing anything about it, so it had probably been making intermittent noise since Jay had arrived. Bile dripped, acid drizzling his stomach lining. When had he last eaten? Was it on the plane from Africa? He took in Dag’s damaged body, felt the kind eyes of Church. Across the bed, the players formed an imposing wall. He saw Nicole with her head down. Everyone waited. Several more seconds passed.
“All right,” Church said, delivering Jay from having to speak. “Some prayers are silent.”
Odell said, “Amen,” looked at Jay, and winked in approval. The enormous center believed he had been praying. In his way, he was praying. More than anything, Jay wanted Dag to recover. But to profess love? That was going too far.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The lounge down the hall from Dag’s room was unoccupied save for an Indian woman wearing a yellow sari dozing in a chair. A television mounted in the corner showed a news program. At a window overlooking the East River, Jay and Nicole faced each other.
“I came to the hospital because I thought you might be here,” Nicole said.
“So you could confront me in public?”
“This is not public.”
“A hospital room with four team employees there?”
“I haven’t slept,” she said.
“I spent the night in jail. Let’s not play who had it worse.”
“Oh, no. Poor thing.”
“I don’t recommend it.”
“Are you okay?”
“I survived.”
“How’s your nose?”
“It’s broken,” Jay informed her.
“I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”
“They gave me painkillers.”
“I’m going to tell you one thing,” Nicole said, “and you have to believe me.”
“After I hear what it is, I’ll decide.”
“It was one time.”
“Was it?”
“Yes! God, of course!”
“Really?”
“One!”
“Does it matter now? D’Angelo’s down the hall and—”
“Do you think he’s going to—”
“Die?” Jay asked. “I don’t know.”
“Fuck.”
“I won’t be able to live with myself,” he said. “I’ll tell you that.”
“I’m ashamed,” Nicole declared. “Utterly ashamed. It’s my fault.”
“Fault isn’t the issue now,” Jay said.
“I think I might have a drinking problem.”
“That’s your excuse? Too much chardonnay?”
“No, no, no, of course not. No. There’s no excuse,” Nicole said. “It was unforgivable. I can be as abject as you want me to be. I will do whatever you want.”
“I hope you’ll get past it.”
“I hope you’ll get past it.”
“Well, I have a mental picture nothing can erase, so I don’t know that I’ll be able to get past it and, honestly, it’s not even the worst mental picture that got burned into my brain last night.”
“I will apologize to my dying day.”
“No one should have to do that.”
“But I will,” Nicole said.
“I’m not certain we’ll be in touch at that point.”
“I love being married to you.”
“Funny way to show it.”
“Everyone’s marriage has problems,” she pointed out. “We’ve both been married before. Mistakes get made. I don’t know if you’ve ever cheated on me. I wouldn’t ask.”
“I haven’t.”
“I love you,” Nicole assured him. “I didn’t do what I did because I don’t love you.”
“You did it because you have a drinking problem.”
“Don’t twist my words.”
Jay regretted his role in this exchange. He did not want to reduce the cataclysmic nature of their situation to the back and forth of a squabble. He glanced at the Indian woman. She was still sleeping.
“You know, Nicole, a hospital lounge is probably not the place to have this conversation. I have a lot to deal with today, like Dag’s medical care. He needs an advocate.”
“And it’s going to be you? I love that.”
Someone was waiting to talk to them. Jay looked over and saw a tall, athletic-looking doctor. “Mr. Gladstone, I’m Dr. Bannister. I performed the surgery on Mr. Maxwell.”
Jay shook the doctor’s hand and said, “This is my wife.” How strange the word “wife” felt to him.
“Nicole Gladstone,” she said.
“Well, I’m glad I have both of you, then,” Dr. Bannister said, turning his attention back to Jay. “I heard you got a little banged up last night, too.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jay said. “Don’t worry about me.”
Dr. Bannister did not press the matter. They listened as he walked them through what had occurred in the operating room, and Dag’s uncertain prognosis.
“Mr. Gladstone,” the doctor intoned, “I don’t have to tell a man like you what’s happened to medical costs over the last couple of decades,” and then began a fundraising appeal for the hospital. Jay and Nicole could have a room named after them, a wing perhaps, or if they liked, because a couple of thei
r means could certainly afford it, a pavilion.
“Imagine that, Mrs. Gladstone,” the doctor said. “The Nicole and Jay Gladstone Pavilion.”
“It has a nice ring to it,” Nicole said.
Jay looked at her. What did she think she was doing?
The doctor said, “For a donation of a hundred million we could make it happen.”
“Only a hundred million?” Jay hoped the mild irony in his tone was apparent.
“And your company could build it,” the doctor reminded him.
The notion of their names linked for eternity, carved into the marble façade of a major hospital was repellent, but the doctor, having no idea, pushed on and inquired whether they would not like to stand in front of a group of dignitaries at the groundbreaking of the Nicole and Harold Jay Gladstone Pavilion.
“That’s an arresting image,” Jay allowed.
“Great families like yours are the backbone of New York.”
“The Gladstones have always been about family,” Jay said, glancing at Nicole, whose attention was focused on the doctor.
“Some generous, family-minded donors choose to honor their parents this way,” the doctor helpfully pointed out. “The Bernard and Helen Gladstone Family Pavilion. How does that sound?”
Dr. Bannister had done his research.
“Your father would have loved that,” Nicole said.
“I understand he was a great New Yorker, Mr. Gladstone.”
“He was,” Nicole said, “a titan.”
“I’m sorry I was never able to meet him.”
Jay wished the doctor would vanish, but he listened politely and nodded. It was torture for him to hear Nicole talk about Bingo. Perhaps he would tell her he wanted a divorce now. Did he want a divorce? He still did not know. But he needed to get Bannister out of here so requested that the doctor call his sister Bebe, who handled solicitations of this scope at the Gladstone Family Foundation.
“Bebe is terrific, the best,” Nicole said, working overtime to curry favor with her husband, who ignored this remark.
Attempting to bring the conversation to a close, Jay said, “You’re doing great work, and I commend you for that.”
“With your help, Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, we can scale new heights,” Bannister replied, taking the hint. Jay asked for the doctor’s private cell phone number so he could call him directly to check on the patient’s condition and Bannister instantly provided it.
“Save D’Angelo,” Jay said.
“Please,” Nicole implored.
Dr. Bannister assured the couple he would do his best and departed.
Nicole said, “I don’t want a divorce, Jay,” as if they had not been interrupted.
“Did you just try to give away a hundred million dollars?” Fatigued and besieged already, the doctor’s request, and Nicole’s response to it, further overloaded his system.
“All I said was that having a hospital named after the family was an idea that your father would have liked. I’ll write the doctor a note and tell him I misspoke if you want.”
“Forget it.”
Jay felt enervated by the conversation with the doctor and Nicole’s ongoing presence was not helping. He craved solitude. To be alone on his horse, in the woods, riding along a quiet path. Nicole was quicksilver, mystification, and needs.
“I don’t want to split up,” she said.
“I haven’t mentioned that.”
“You just implied—”
“A lot of crap has happened. I’m processing it. There’s a legal situation and—” He didn’t want to get into it.
“What is it?”
“I feel like a lobster in a pot and, frankly, I don’t want to deal with your mishegas right now.”
“That’s fair,” she said. “I’m sorry for my behavior. I know you’re tired of hearing it.”
“Not as tired as I am of thinking about it.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Apparently, you can do whatever.”
Here she paused, as if trying to determine whether or not this was something she genuinely wanted to know. Jay waited. Her makeup barely concealed her pallor. She looked spent. He expected her to say never mind, or forget it.
“Did you run him over on purpose?”
“Of course not!”
“It would be understandable on some lizard brain level.”
“I told you—” Jay’s attention had wandered to the television over Nicole’s shoulder. His face darkened. “Oh, for godsakes.”
The reporter Mayumi Miyata was standing in front of the hospital. Footage of Dag nailing a three-point shot appeared on the screen followed by a still photograph of Jay in a business suit and a hard hat. The report cut to a shot of the Gladstones’ Bedford home, then to the site of the accident (Jay’s car no longer there), then to Northern Westchester Hospital. Even absent the sound, Jay could see they were hitting the highlights of the story. Mercifully, there was no footage of the pool house and nothing of Nicole. At least those details had not leaked. An African-American anchorwoman addressed the camera. As far as Jay could tell, she was not excoriating him. When a commercial for a life insurance company that featured two septuagenarians holding hands on a beach appeared, he turned his attention back to Nicole.
“I’m going to be in the apartment for at least the next few days,” he said. “I’m not ready to go back to the house.”
“I’m staying at the Pierre until we decide what we’re doing. I hope you can forgive me.”
There would be no commitment. When Nicole left he turned toward the window and stared at the Queens shore until he was certain his wife was gone. He texted his driver and requested they rendezvous at a side door to escape the attention of the media. A slow circuit of the hospital floor decreased the likelihood he would encounter his wife at the elevator bank. He reflected on his conversation with Dr. Bannister. Perhaps he would build the Gladstone Pavilion and name it after his parents. How had they managed to stay married for so long? As he reached the elevators one of the doors opened, and he saw the player agent Jamal Jones emerge with a striking black woman he recognized as Dag’s wife. Jay froze and waited while they proceeded down the corridor. It did not escape him that Jay Gladstone, this paragon of authority and success, a man admired and feted, was concealing himself from an agent and a reality TV star, skulking like a criminal.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Tightly packed storm clouds gathered over the borough of Queens. A high-pressure front had blown in from Canada causing the barometer to drop, and what started as an early spring day had turned blustery and cold. Winds whipped along the avenues. Scraps of newspaper caroused with discarded parking tickets and plastic bags on the sidewalks. The shiny black limousine stood out like a leopard in a herd of donkeys as it bumped along Astoria Boulevard surrounded by city buses, cabs, and delivery trucks. Nestled in the backseat, Franklin gazed out the window at the kebab shops, unisex salons, liquor stores, Greek diners, and discount furniture emporiums that comprised the neighborhood, relieved he did not have to live in a place like this. If high Manhattan rents kept those who lived here in the outer boroughs, then that was an added benefit to a landlord like Franklin, since Queens played a significant role in the Gladstone real estate portfolio.
The driver was a middle-aged Egyptian whose name Franklin could never remember. Ahmed, Ahmoud? It didn’t matter. He called him “Acky.” Why should someone like that expect to live in Manhattan? A person should live where he could pay his bills on time each month. Franklin couldn’t understand it when he would read articles that reported Manhattan was now “unaffordable.” Unaffordable to whom? It was only unaffordable if you couldn’t afford it. Plenty of wealthy Americans could, along with Europeans, Chinese, and Arabs. And many of the foreigners did not even live in the city. For most of the year, their apartments were empty. They were the best t
enants, even the Arabs. To Franklin Gladstone, the ideal building was one where every unit was rented or sold, and no one lived in any of them. In Franklin’s perfect world, tumbleweeds rolled down the deserted hallways of luxury buildings. The proletarians scuttling along the Astoria sidewalks—old-timers, immigrants, hipsters—they belonged here. Queens existed for the Mets and the U.S. Open tennis tournament; as far as Franklin was concerned, there was no other reason to be driving down this street. But the man he was meeting refused to come to the office.
The previous week Franklin and Christine Lupo had dined at a dimly lit restaurant in the east Sixties. Although he would not dream of cheating on Marcy, it felt, at least from his perspective, a lot like a date. He sat across from the glamorous public servant and gazed into her dusky eyes so intently he could see a reflection of flickering candlelight. The button-front blouse she wore was open at the neckline where a diamond pendant glinted. There was a whisper of cleavage, but Franklin forced himself to keep his eyes on deck. For twenty minutes, they discussed various plans to raise campaign funds, but by the time they had finished their cocktails—vodka, rocks for him, dirty martini for the DA—and were decimating the first bottle of wine, she alluded to her personal life. That afternoon she had spoken with her divorce lawyer and learned her husband planned to sue for alimony.
“The scumbag,” Franklin said.
“Tell me about it,” she concurred. “The guy cheats on me, and now I’m supposed to write checks to him?”
Seeing the door open a crack, Franklin wasted no time dashing through. He asked what happened and she told him how she had hired a private investigator. Not only were there incriminating photographs, but the PI was also a denizen of the cyber world and the guy Christine hired retained someone who hacked into her husband’s various devices and produced the texts, emails, and receipts that enabled her to reconstruct the entire sordid mess.
The Hazards of Good Fortune Page 35
