by K. C. Maher
When I asked Sterling why no progress had been made, she acted peeved and defensive. There had been backups for new demolition equipment. The electricians were on strike. And the men who were supposed to lay the foundation were building condominiums upstate.
She had quit playing golf and tennis and hadn’t hosted (or, to my knowledge, attended) a party since before the financial crash. More and more frequently, she phoned me at work, saying she’d be home late.
One night she said that Kevin had Broadway tickets to a Eugene O’Neill play.
‘You know, Sterling, I like Eugene O’Neill as much as the next man.’
‘Oh, you do not.’ She laughed in a way that sounded as if she might cry.
*
Olivia’s cast came off and her doctor manipulated her thumb, moving it back and forth, asking, ‘Does this hurt?’
‘Does this?’
Everything hurt.
After being fitted for a brace, she was scheduled to attend physical therapy three times a week. After the first week, I learned she had skipped the second and third sessions. Because, she said, instead of meeting professional athletes at the sports clinic, she had to roll Play-Doh into little balls with a bunch of old people.
‘If you keep your appointments,’ I said, ‘you could be all done in three weeks.’
Amanda offered to walk to the hospital with her. More than once, Olivia told me, they had stopped at a tattoo place on the way. The man let them look at the designs but wouldn’t tattoo them until they were eighteen.
‘But Daddy, I bet if you were with me, he’d do it.’
I laughed. ‘What do you want inked and where?’
‘That’s the big question,’ she said.
June 2014
Olivia didn’t do well on her Regents exams, and the teacher requested a conference. Sterling and I sat in undersized chairs at eight in the morning. Sterling said, ‘You must have noticed Olivia’s been depressed. What did you expect?’
‘I want you to know it’s just a formality,’ the teacher said. ‘She can still start eighth grade in the advanced track. Then, in six weeks, we’ll reconsider.’
‘Reconsider what?’ Sterling asked.
‘The first six weeks are a probationary phase.’
Sterling was incensed—but, for once, on Olivia’s behalf. It had been a long time.
When I arrived home from work that Friday, Sterling, Olivia, and Amanda were laughing in the kitchen.
*
School ended for the summer. Madison went to ‘oboe camp’ in Connecticut. Olivia made a face. ‘The oboe’s weird.’
Amanda was baby-sitting for twin three-year-old boys, Leo and Theo. Their nanny had quit without notice. The mother, who knew Amanda from the Y, had hired her until she could find someone able to drive and live with them. But Amanda and the twins liked each other so well that after two weeks, the parents offered Amanda a live-in job until school started. Olivia said the parents had a big play-set and lived a few blocks from the park, so during the summer, they didn’t really need a driver, anyway.
‘Amanda’s getting paid a ton and only has to do, like, half the work she usually does. No cleaning, laundry, or grocery shopping. She makes breakfast and lunch but the mother makes dinner.’ Olivia also said that when the twins’ mother had asked Amanda’s mother about her living there, Cheryl had said, ‘Great timing!’ Because Cheryl and her boss wanted to attend a golf tournament in Wisconsin, at a resort he had invested in.
‘What about you?’ I asked Olivia. ‘Let’s make of list of things you want to do this summer.’
‘No, thanks, Daddy.’ She slammed the front door on her way out to ‘hang in town.’
That night, I asked Sterling if there were plans for Olivia’s summer.
‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ she said. I wasn’t sure if she meant she would talk to me tomorrow, or to Olivia, but I didn’t press it.
The following evening, Sterling cozied up beside me on the living room couch, where I had been reading about the House of Borgia.
‘I was thinking I’d take Olivia to visit my mother next week.’
‘Next week? Ordinarily, the bank requires a few weeks’ notice, but it shouldn’t be a problem. I’m overdue for a vacation.’
She took the book and patted my leg. ‘Just Olivia and me, this time. Mother, daughter, and grandmother.’
‘Don’t take Olivia. If you want to leave me, Sterling, let’s talk about it. But don’t take Olivia.’
‘We’re visiting my mother for a week!’
I didn’t believe her. And when I told Olivia that I’d miss her, she shrugged. ‘It’s one summer, Daddy.’
The next evening, I arranged to take Olivia to a fancy restaurant for dinner. During the car ride to Millbrook, I gave her two gifts from Grand Central’s Apple store: a new iPhone and some expensive headphones. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I won’t be gone forever.’
‘I’ll miss you, sweetheart.’ We sat in the garden, away from other diners. While we waited for dessert, I took her right hand with mine, lifted our clasped hands so our elbows were on the table, and wiggled my thumb. ‘Care to wrestle?’
‘With my broken thumb?’ Her face took on a dubious and particularly feminine expression I had never seen her make before.
‘No longer broken,’ I said. ‘Let’s see how strong you are.’
She giggled, her thumb pushing and pressing one way, mine the other. ‘Don’t let me win,’ Olivia said.
I didn’t. We called it a draw and laughed.
Tiramisu was her new favorite dessert. When she kissed my cheek, I smiled and squeezed her hand, hiding my anxiety.
The night before Sterling and Olivia were to leave, I lay awake, watching the moonlight traverse one wall and then another.
‘Sterling, are you awake?’ I saw her eyes open. ‘Don’t take Olivia from me. If you take her to Maine for the summer, you’ll find reasons to stay . . . which is when you’ll ask for a separation that’s already occurred.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Are you in love with Kevin Dalton?’
‘Don’t be stupid. It’s a lot of work to create a beautiful home. And he knows how to do it.’
‘That wasn’t my question. You’ve seen Broadway plays together. You’ve gone on trips upstate and charged expensive dinners to my account.’
‘One play, Walter.’
‘You and Olivia are everything to me.’
‘I’m not everything to you.’
‘Olivia is.’
‘Stop worrying.’ She kissed my neck. ‘Nothing’s changed.’
It had for me. I had broken through a wall of silence, addressing out loud a menace that had been hovering for too long. Sterling rolled back to sleep. But I couldn’t. Saying what I loved and dreaded no longer frightened me. All my life, I had shut out premonitions and denied my real feelings. Why? Denial couldn’t save me, or anyone, from the perils ahead.
Sterling had been harping on my state of mind since 9/11. More than a decade later, I discovered an open chamber beneath a thousand layers of wreckage and remnants of death—its lid blown off.
At least since Jimmy Quinn’s death, if not earlier, our marriage had been mostly one of convenience. Sterling knew that I didn’t care if she wanted to leave. But she also knew perfectly well that I cared about Olivia—that I lived for Olivia! She kept me from despair.
I accepted that Olivia would grow up and move away some day. But I was looking forward to her adolescence. Olivia was certain to raise hell. Since rising from her broken-thumb depression, she practically buzzed, as if her whole being were preparing to make trouble.
I simply hadn’t foreseen—hadn’t thought it possible—that Sterling would take her away. The two of them quarreled constantly. Olivia loved me, and even at her lowest, confided in me.
In fact, I wondered why she hadn’t refused to go with Sterling. And then it came to me: Kaye. Olivia loved her Granny and Kaye loved Olivia. Kaye offered the type of feminine n
urturing that Olivia needed and didn’t get from Sterling.
As much as I would miss her, Olivia would thrive, being with Kaye. Further, I told myself, Olivia during adolescence wouldn’t want to spend time with me the way she used to. Better for her to be with Kaye now than with her depressive father and distracted mother in a marriage that was falling apart. And Maine wasn’t far; I would visit.
*
I always ran and went to work hours before Sterling and Olivia woke. But that morning, the morning they would pack their stuff in the Volvo and drive away, Sterling slipped out of bed while I showered. In the kitchen, wearing a white robe, she handed me a cup of freshly brewed coffee. ‘Want breakfast?’
‘No, thank you.’
I was halfway out the door when I turned around and begged Sterling again not to take Olivia.
‘You’re being silly,’ she said.
I begged some more.
‘Stop.’
Finally, crestfallen, I left in a hurry. I was no longer worried; I was certain. I had lost my family.
Eight
July 2014
I threw myself even deeper into work. Several years earlier, the bank had tapped me to design algorithms for high-frequency trading. The trading system had been generating small but steady profits. Now they had spiked. This triggered a frenzy for similar systems in other groups, which kept me in back-to-back meetings. My practice had always been to limit risk first, and for the moment, at least, the managing directors seemed to agree. When I spoke about letting profits accrue within a continuum of peaks and lulls, they apparently heard, ‘limitless wealth.’ Rampant greed stalked the meeting rooms like a feral beast.
Still, I liked the work, and it filled my waking hours. I decided to ask an unassuming associate to assist me. Denise Gold and I worked hard, eating in the late afternoons at our desks.
So, although I came home each night to an empty house, I wasn’t unhappy. The first night, I fixed an omelet with four serrano chili peppers from my garden, drank a beer, and listened to Sterling’s voicemail. She affected a blasé tone, talking about the drive up and the beauty of Maine’s coast. She asked me to call back, but I couldn’t stomach the charade of pretending we were merely taking a break from each other. The next night, I heard her voice on the answering machine and listened only to make sure I didn’t miss any news about Olivia.
After a few nights of this, Sterling’s messages became plaintive. She said she wanted to talk about our ‘situation.’ I did not. Sterling began leaving messages at my office, which I ignored. At home, she would call late and demand that I pick up, and when I did not, she would sob and sniffle, promising to try again tomorrow.
*
Olivia disliked talking on the phone, and starting the day they arrived, she sent me texts. I responded, and our little chats kept her close to me. After two weeks she began mentioning Karl, a boy her age, fourteen, who loved Granny just like she did. Karl had a sailboat and he took Olivia exploring. In a grassy, shallow pond, they had discovered tiny frogs and millions of minnows.
Friday evenings, I no longer left the office early. I stayed late. Near the end of July, Olivia’s incoming text sounded while I waited for the elevator.
Hey Daddy, Karl showed me a secret spot of velvety green moss Love, O
I texted, O, does Karl call you that?
Yep
I like it.
Soon she was referring to Karl as her boyfriend. Karl knew how to swan dive and could play Rachmaninoff on the piano.
On weekends, I ran, cleaned, and picked fresh lettuce, cucumbers, and herbs from our garden. My tomatoes that summer were the best crop yet. One Sunday afternoon, I was eating an excellent salad topped with feta cheese, anchovies, and vinaigrette dressing when I heard Kaye leaving a message on the answering machine, and picked up.
‘Walter. Have you met this opportunist? This Kevin person?’
‘Many times, yes.’
‘And did you know he’s renovating Bar Harbor’s municipal building?’
‘No. But it’s not a complete surprise. His brother lives in Maine.’
‘The man’s a glad-hander! He’s not welcome in my home. Susie’s lost her mind.’
‘Is Olivia there?’ I couldn’t help asking.
‘She’s at Karl’s. She’s fine. It’s Susie who’s up to no good. Not just with this opportunist, either. She undermines Olivia’s self-esteem. She calls my beautiful granddaughter “fat.” I’ve half a mind to boot her out.’
‘Don’t let me stop you,’ I said, but Kaye drew a doleful breath.
‘I didn’t—’ She paused, then said, ‘I have to tell you—’
I saved her the distress of informing me that my wife would be staying with the glad-hander. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s theirs, and, to a lesser extent, mine.’
Kaye hung up. She never said goodbye. It wasn’t her style.
Even though school didn’t begin for another month, I wrestled with the inevitability that Olivia would not be returning for eighth grade.
August 2014
My work continued to be almost gratifying. My systems spread across the bank’s trading floors. Glen Engle congratulated me.
In the mornings, I woke with a spurt of optimism. I ran, worked, and slept better than ever before. My dreams filled me with sensations of renewal and freedom.
Then, one Friday evening, Denise and I were analyzing a new risk metric for top management when she asked if she could leave early. Everyone else on our floor had already left hours ago.
‘Early? It’s late. When I told you not to stay late unless you felt like it, I meant it. You never need to ask.’
She started to cry. Her girlfriend was leaving her.
‘Take some time off, Denise. Find out if you can save your relationship.’
‘We tried. It’s not that I work too much. She found someone else.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve found that throwing myself into these puzzles offers kind of a buffer. But if I could, I’d find a less exhausting distraction.’
A few years older than me, and the only female quant, she cried for a while. I brought her tissues and a bottle of water. I asked how I could help her, and she swallowed a sad half-laugh. ‘You can’t help, Walter, but thanks for offering.’
A question appeared in her expression, flickered there, and disappeared.
‘Were you thinking of asking me about how I’ve handled my wife leaving me?’
She said, ‘No, no—’ but when I laughed, she laughed, too, confessing, ‘Yes.’
I told her that I missed my daughter, not my wife. Denise backed away from her own loss, saying that my daughter’s absence must be much harder. I told her what we all know deep down but often forget: You can’t compare losses or sorrows. My greeting-card wisdom embarrassed me, but Denise hugged me. I was the only one at the bank who had ever shown any interest in her as a person.
‘Go home,’ I said. ‘Take all the time you need.’
The second I was alone, a foreboding descended. My phone pinged—something from Olivia. She sent photos that she and Karl had taken of each other. He was a lanky, lank-haired boy with acne, and dark heavy-lidded eyes. In one photo, he had his arm around her, their heads touching.
Two days later, she texted to say that she had enrolled in Karl’s school for eighth grade. She sent a link for the Connors Emerson School, which boasted of high academic credentials and a concern for ethical behavior. It’s not snotty, O wrote, like school there!
Saddened, I texted, Happy 4 U, O. And I was. After months of lying listless on the couch, her hand in a cast, Olivia should live her life. She wasn’t obligated to brighten mine.
September 2014
Right after Labor Day, Glen Engle arranged a meeting with me. Big news, he said. The chieftains were promoting me to managing director, putting me in charge of the New York City mortgage traders—fifty or so adrenaline-charged alpha males—in addition to the risk-management work I already was doing. Face-to-face in Glen’
s austere office, I thanked him—‘What an opportunity.’ Then I looked at him directly. ‘Risk manager and head of trading in one? I haven’t heard of that before.’
‘We have no doubt,’ Glen said, ‘that you need a new challenge—a real challenge.’
I nodded and offered another ‘thank you.’ But I wanted him to know who I was. ‘I’ve always worked with mathematical constructs. Not over-amped gamblers.’
He smiled. ‘Take the job. You’ll be surprised at how soon it becomes natural.’ He added that, as a managing director, I could expect a bonus of five million—and that was in an ordinary year. (This one had been extraordinary.)
Aiming for measured enthusiasm, I said, ‘Five million dollars—a year.’
‘Minimum,’ he said. ‘Your skills are renowned. But it’s your composure that will make the traders listen to you. They’re used to running all over people. But when they stand toe-to-toe with a man who won’t back down, they’ll do as he says.’
I finished the day’s work, taking care not to hurry. On the train, I thought about how there was no need to tell the wife who had left me. No need to tell anyone. The additional millions of dollars didn’t scare me. Over several years, if I invested well, I could set up a charitable foundation. Running my own foundation for a cause I cared about would be work I liked.
But they had me pegged as someone I was not. Calm and steady on the outside—yes. But I didn’t know how to manage people who cannot manage themselves. More to the point, I hated giving orders to another person.
Of course, had I been ten years older with less time remaining to make my name, I might have gone for it. But I was only thirty-three and still hoped to achieve something of merit. I wasn’t aggressive. I wasn’t mean. And I didn’t want to be.
Not long after the cleaning staff finished, I was pushing the button to the elevator when I remembered my phone. Finding it on my desk, I saw that Olivia had sent me a photo of herself on a sailboat. Hey, Daddy. Karl took this! He says I’m gorgeous! Isn’t that silly?
Not to me, it wasn’t. Within the past two months, my daughter had developed curves even her father had to acknowledge as gorgeous.
