by K. C. Maher
Sterling said the time was right: We should sell this place, take the profit, and find a big, beautiful house we would enjoy all our lives.
I dreaded Sterling’s idea of ‘a big, beautiful house,’ and told her we had all the space we needed.
‘But we can afford a mansion.’
I laughed. ‘Yes, but why?’
‘Do you have any idea what Jimmy Quinn’s house sold for?’ His wife and son had only recently moved to Rochester.
‘Sterling, don’t.’
‘All right. I’m sorry.’ She kissed me. ‘I can wait.’ And she kissed me again. I liked this so much I asked if she wanted another child.
She didn’t. ‘Olivia’s more than enough. Besides, I loved being an only child.’
I held her close. ‘All right. But I’ll love it if you change your mind.’
That same afternoon, I sat at the kitchen table, watching Olivia and Amanda through the big bay window. They were wearing bright bathing suits and alternating between skipping through a sprinkler in our yard and leaping hand in hand over to Amanda’s yard, where they twirled through a sprinkler Jade had set up.
Sterling opened a light beer and sat beside me. She wondered aloud if my interest in the girls stemmed from having missed the second half of my own childhood.
‘Why would you say that?’
‘Because if I were you, this is just about the time I’d start wondering if an unstructured childhood was a beautiful, irreplaceable time which I’d thrown away because I hadn’t known better.’
‘Few boys where I grew up acted out fairytales on their parents’ lawns.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘True, I can’t prove it.’ I took a sip of her Amstel. ‘When did you get so whimsical?’
‘I’m not whimsical. But I did my fair share of running through sprinklers as a kid, so I suppose it doesn’t hold the same fascination for me.’
Usually, Sterling appreciated my interest in the girls, because it meant I was willing to babysit while she played with her adult friends. Tomorrow she was going to a party at the country club. If I wanted to join her, she said, she would hire a babysitter.
‘Do you need me there? Because otherwise, I’d rather babysit.’
She tore at the beer bottle’s label and said her friends envied her freedom within a secure and happy marriage.
Secure and happy—my feelings exactly—provided I was equally free to do what I wanted, which in this case was to stay home while Sterling swam among a morass of friends that weren’t friends at all, but a self-centered group that traded supposedly funny insults.
2005
Lehman Brothers divvied up the year-end bonuses in February and that year the windfalls were larger than many expected. Even more unexpected to me was Vince Ferraro’s retirement. He had bought a ranch in Montana, a lifelong dream. Out of protectiveness, which would prove more or less prescient, Vince set me up with his friend at Bank of America.
I was offered an attractive role, as a director in risk management. Before accepting the position, however, Sterling and I quarreled about my preference for law school. Finally, I rooted out the problem—me being a law student would embarrass her. How could Sterling explain that her hotshot Wall Street husband had jumped ship to become a graduate student? Yale full-time or Fordham’s night program would inflict equal shame upon her. This, despite every assurance that we possessed ample resources for her to continue buying whatever she wanted, within the bounds of decency.
That made her laugh; what I considered decent. Most of her friends lived in grand estates and belonged to an unjustly exclusive country club, but that was another argument.
Overall, I was not unhappy with my work or my marriage. And while my plan had always been—someday—law school, I still had no idea what kind of law I wanted to practice.
*
To celebrate my promotion, Sterling suggested we take a vacation.
‘Great. Choose a place,’ I said. ‘Invite your mother.’
Immediately, Sterling and Kaye decided on Hawaii, specifically a spectacular resort in Honolulu. So I reserved adjoining suites with ocean views at the pink, palatial Royal Hawaiian Resort in Waikiki. Sterling and Kaye, with Olivia in tow, would luxuriate on the beach, at the spa, and indulge in shopping expeditions. I claimed time for separate adventures, which suited Sterling just fine.
Our hotel had brochures for all sorts of aquatic experiences, but the pictures of hang gliding captivated me. In school, I had studied Leonardo da Vinci, and the hang gliders in the brochure were strikingly reminiscent of his drawings for gliding machines. My guidebook rated a hang-gliding school on Maui as best, so several mornings I took a puddle jumper there.
I learned to work the emergency parachute and flew with an instructor strapped beside me. Gliding in the boundless, silent sky above lush tropical valleys and turquoise water, my imagination soared as if freed from its cage. Initially, the pilot operated the machine, but when he let me take the controls, the truth of Leonardo’s work struck a chord in my mind and, it seemed, tugged at a deep internal cord in my being. His principle that all knowledge refers to nature seemed to spread through me.
In Waikiki I bought an edition of Leonardo’s Notebooks, in which he declared: ‘Let no man who is not a Mathematician read the elements of my work.’ And, I thought, let no mathematician formulate unnatural theorems.
Most of my life I had excelled at work based not on nature, but on abstraction. For my Ph.D., I had derived proofs that were conceptually ‘groundbreaking’ but could not be tested in the natural world. Not surprisingly, within five years my proofs were replaced by others inferred from real occurrences at the edges of the universe. Since then, that field of inquiry had fallen by the wayside. Styles come and go in mathematics just as in fashion or finance.
The days I didn’t go hang gliding, I took Olivia to the aquarium and the zoo, and we hiked to various nearby waterfalls in preparation for the thirty-five-minute hike at Diamond Head. I found the perfect walking stick for Olivia’s hiking costume. To avoid the crowds and heat, we woke early, ate cereal, and slathered on sunscreen, arriving at 7:15. My backpack contained water bottles and my camera. Olivia, in pink shorts and pink-and-white checked shirt, posed for photos within the volcanic crater’s cavernous spiral. After the hike, Olivia and I ate the same neon-green snow cones we had at the zoo.
Throughout these excursions—in fact, constantly at the back of my mind—I mulled over how removed Wall Street’s derivatives and financial structures had become from reality. Inevitably, they would soon dissolve. Whether as an analyst at Lehman or a director at Bank of America, my job was nothing more than creating elaborate structures comprised of thousands of empty bits. Hollow structures bound to collapse. Unlikely but perhaps possibly, as an overseer of risk management I might slow the inevitable—by days or weeks. But no one could stop the industry’s foolishness and greed, which was already spiraling out of control.
*
Bank of America felt different from Lehman Brothers. It was bigger and the trading desks didn’t dominate its culture, which helped repress my twinges of foreboding. My new boss, Glen Engle, shaved what little hair still grew on his round head. Muscular and approximately six feet tall (compared to me at six-five), his focus and intensity made him appear giant-like. He appreciated my unobtrusive demeanor and in meetings often asked my opinion. Apparently, my reputation as a former wunderkind remained advantageous.
Within several weeks, I felt at home there. My new job, the same as the previous one, absorbed sixty hours a week, occasionally more. But I thrived on intense mental challenges. And not only was I was paid vast sums, I enjoyed the congenial atmosphere—even if it left me lonelier than ever for Jimmy Quinn.
*
Sterling escalated her ongoing campaign for us to join the country club. I was resolute, however, refusing on principle.
To me, belonging to a club established to exclude anyone of a different race, background, or religion was wro
ng.
Well into our usual argument, Sterling said, ‘You know, the country club runs a great summer day camp for kids, swimming lessons included. Don’t you want Olivia to learn to swim?’
‘I’ll take her to the Y.’
‘Really. Just so nobody will think you’re a snob.’
‘Or a bigot.’
‘But you don’t mind living here.’
‘I appreciate this town but it’s as select as I’m gonna get.’
‘Like Exeter’s not select. Like Harvard’s not.’
‘Maybe they’re the reason I can’t understand adults spending their leisure time playing who’s in and who’s out.’
She pouted, which was nothing new. But a shadow fell, or the light changed, and I gleaned the extent to which Sterling participated in the country club activities: how often she played tennis and golf there; how routinely she enjoyed ladies’ luncheons there . . . all those weekend theme parties held in the club’s hilltop pavilions she attended while I stayed home and babysat.
From across the kitchen table, I said, ‘Why not have dinner parties here, at our home, for your friends? Feel free to go all out: cocktails, fun, and games.’
‘You make it sound stupid, but it isn’t.’
‘It’s a compromise, Sterling. Have parties here once a month. Spend whatever feels right to you.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll help you.’
‘How, Walter?’
‘You tell me. First of all, I’ll attend them.’
‘Thank you.’ She stood up, sat in my lap, and kissed me the way she did when preparing to ask for something more. I was assuming a bigger house, but instead she merely described how sleek and inviting all her friends’ homes were.
‘So hire a decorator and get creative.’
Within weeks, the local interior decorator became Sterling’s new best friend. Nina Malloy wasn’t eligible for the country club because she was a single woman. Nevertheless, she was friends with Sterling’s friends, having attuned their feng shui.
Before long, our house at the top of Oak Grove Point had metallic-hued draperies, sliding glass doors, and an elaborate lighting system, among other things. The effect, I told her, was very nice.
‘You mean elegant.’
‘Yes.’
Sterling invited about twenty people, most of whom brought flowers or wine. Nina Malloy brought a jazz playlist and wanted everyone to stop talking and listen to Nina Simone singing I Put A Spell On You. Sterling tapped a glass for everyone’s attention, but to no avail.
I should have known better than to invite Wayne, Pete, and Dennis, with their wives. I sat with the men in the kitchen, drinking whiskey and laughing at things Jimmy Quinn said or did years ago. But when I approached their sober, unpretentious wives, they sank deeper into the low bright-orange couch in the hallway. When I carefully poured more Bordeaux into their glasses, I felt the waves of their misgivings.
Thereafter, I left Sterling’s guest lists alone. Every six weeks, I fixed drinks and listened to people’s selfish opinions as if intrigued.
Before long, the parties morphed into occasions for flirting with other people’s spouses. Sterling snuggled up to a lawyer named Harvey, assuring me it was all in fun.
These dalliances (pretend or not) were not my idea of fun. Middle-aged women in dresses cut so low I could count their stretch marks clung to me, asking how tall I was. Did it occur to them that I was twenty-seven years old? Of course not. I spent my life in disguise.
And yet, what had happened to me? I used to love older women. What was this?
All right, the older women I loved had been smart and determined. The women at our parties were sloppy and aggressive. I might have pitied them if they weren’t always spilling their drinks on me. To compensate for being so judgmental, I behaved with extra attentiveness.
Until Nina Malloy pressed me into a corner, whining, ‘Why don’t you like me?’
‘I like you fine.’
Why this angered her, I don’t know. But Sterling arrived in an instant, set down a tray of drinks, and said, ‘Don’t waste your breath. Walter’s a paragon of rectitude.’
But for two things I would have despaired: Olivia had a laugh to stop prayers, and her friend Amanda, a smile to stop time.
2006
Again, the rhododendrons bloomed. And every Saturday, while Sterling and her realtors scoured the school district for dream houses, I drove Olivia, Amanda, and Jade to the YMCA for swimming lessons.
Jade took the girls through the locker rooms, helping them get undressed, showered, and into their suits. When the lesson ended, she met the girls in the showers and helped again, even combing the tangles from Olivia’s wild black curls.
From a glassed-in area, with the other parents and nannies, Jade and I watched twelve little kids splash and kick across the pool.
Jade told me that Cheryl Jonette, Amanda’s mother, sold sports equipment throughout New York State. She was only home for a few days a month. Where Amanda’s father was, or even who he was, Jade had no idea. When I wanted to know more, Jade cupped her hands like a megaphone and called, ‘Amanda, kick! Kick, girl, kick!’
Of course, Amanda couldn’t hear her, but we all did that.
The following week, Jade said Amanda was better off when her mother stayed away. Those monthly visits were brutal.
‘Or no,’ she corrected herself. ‘They’re not brutal. Just unpleasant.’
*
In early September—my most difficult time of year—Jade, Sterling, and I waited at the bottom of the spiraling hill as the girls danced around a birch tree, waiting for the school bus on their first day of kindergarten. I asked Jade if Amanda was enrolling a year early.
‘No, she’ll be five in November. The cut-off is December.’
The bus driver let us take photographs. Olivia draped an arm around her friend and stuck out her tongue. Amanda covered her eyes and smiled.
Climbing the hill home, we learned that Jade would be caring for Amanda only when needed, now that school had started.
‘She’s not even five years old,’ Sterling said. ‘When aren’t you needed?’
Jade wasn’t sure. ‘I’ll be around, just not as much.’ At the front door, she waved.
*
The housing bubble was close to bursting, but Sterling said that if she found the right house, we were buying it. She couldn’t wait. Except the more she searched, the less she saw.
Sterling’s dream house had expanded during this searching phase. ‘I know you won’t buy anything grand. But I want a home of beautiful proportions, large enough so my mother can live with us.’
‘Fine by me. I love Kaye. But you don’t get along with her.’
‘My mother and I express love by opposing each other. Unlike your fawning obsession over Olivia.’
‘How—’ I could not speak. How could she drag our innocent daughter into her greedy search for an ever-larger house?
‘That’s right!’ Sterling said. ‘It’s creepy the way you fixate on her every development.’
‘Creepy? I’m her parent; parents should pay attention to their children’s development. You’re the one, Sterling, with the abnormal fixation, obsessing over a dream house instead of your daughter.’
‘My desire for a beautiful home is normal. Not like your bizarre desire to keep Olivia and Amanda just as they are, sweet little girls who will love you forever.’
I stepped back and checked my impulse to smash something. Then I walked outside and down the hill. About halfway down, behind four deserted townhouses, I noticed a basketball hoop. The half-court lines had faded. A basketball lay by the fence.
I shot around the key. Loving Olivia, cherishing my time with her, was a blessing. I dribbled, spun the ball, and tossed in a swish. Sterling got greedier by the day. She talked about perfect houses but was rarely, if ever, seized by the beauty of life. The girls would be grown up before we knew it. I dribbled and weaved and dunked. Their long-runnin
g fantasies, playing make-believe heroines in magical lands, were the ideal of childhood. I spun fast, jumped, and sank one, nothing but net. Let Sterling play her ridiculous grown-up games; I was going to enjoy the girls’ childhood. I hit another from far away and jumped up from behind the pole to let the ball roll in off my finger. The air dimmed and I bounced an overhead off the backboard. Suddenly (it seemed), Jimmy Quinn tried to snatch the rebound. Running ahead of me but backwards, he was saying, Give it up, Walter. Come on, it’s mine. I dribbled fast, imagining him trying to swipe it away while delivering his mischievous rap. As the sky darkened, he grew more distant yet still encouraging. Nice one. Nice again. From that day forward, Jimmy Quinn was always with me—just out of range, but cheering me onward.
2007
Initially, Bank of America had touted me as their risk-management genius, but as the housing bubble inflated and Wall Street’s money machine whirled night and day, Glen Engel’s bosses began insisting that my inputs were unnecessary. Soon I realized that the less work I did, the happier they were.
So, I saw a doctor for my first physical since college. I paid a long-delayed visit to the dentist, which revealed an immediate need for several more visits. On lunch breaks, I indulged in my love of Renaissance art by visiting the Morgan Library. One afternoon, I walked in the rain through Central Park and then went home.
Sterling wasn’t there, but I heard the girls. Following Amanda’s voice, I found them in the basement. They had been playing spies until Olivia became stuck between two slats of the open basement stairs. The top half of her body fit through, but her feet were planted on the other side because her bottom wouldn’t fit. Amanda was poised on the floor, her legs tucked beneath her, reading Roald Dahl’s Matilda out loud. Olivia was saying, ‘Don’t make me laugh.’
When she saw me, she said, ‘Daddy, don’t laugh at me.’
‘This is easy to fix,’ I reassured her. With a screwdriver and a flashlight, I removed the upper slat, careful not to step on her feet. During the process, we both asked Amanda to continue reading. I for one enjoyed hearing about the extraordinary, clever little girl and her dull and tasteless parents. Olivia was fine, but maintained that the squeeze had exhausted her and she needed to rest upstairs. ‘Come with me, Amanda, and read some more.’
