The Job (17 page)

“I think we’ve all been through a lot in the last two weeks.”

“You can say that again.” He stuck out his fleshy right paw.

“Despite all the crap that went down, we’re still buddies, right?”

“You bet,” I said, reaching for his hand. But suddenly I found myself in the middle of an M.B.A. (Male Bonding Alert) as Chuck gave me a drunken, fraternal hug. I was glad he couldn’t see my face-for what he would have glimpsed was guilt. Okay, I hadn’t sold him out. It was Kreplin’s call. But, returning his embrace, I still felt like Joe Judas.

“I’ve got to get on home,” he said.

“We’re off to Mary Ann folks in Buffalo tomorrow. Back at the office on the twenty-sixth, if you need me. I envy you the Caribbean, guy. Catch some rays for me.”

“I’ll see what I can do, boss.”

As he headed off in search of his coat, I began to dread January 2-and the appalling scene that would unfold when he got the news.

But I tried to put such thoughts on hold. And for the next few days-in an attempt to get into the holiday spirit-“Herr Publisher” went out and spent money. A lot of money. The way I figured it, half my debts were settled, all my credit cards were now back to zero, the remaining bonus check would cancel out my bank loan. Then, as of January 2 … So why not blow a little dough? It was Christmas, after all. And Dr. Barney Gordon was more than happy to install my new front tooth on short notice (especially since he’d made up the bridge months earlier and had been sending me increasingly testy reminder notices).

“About time you showed up, Mr. Allen,” Doc Gordon said when I trooped into his office on the morning of the twenty-third.

“We were starting to wonder if you’d left the country.”

“I was just incredibly busy.”

“Well,” Doc Gordon said, “I’m glad you found time for this. But, just in case you get so busy in the New Year that you forget about our bill, our practice now accepts Visa or MasterCard-so you can settle up with the receptionist on the way out. Now, open wide….”

Thirty-two hundred bucks for that little stint in the dentist’s chair (though, I have to admit, the new bridgework is a considerable improvement on the battered old false tooth that was shoved into my mouth by some navy dentist twenty years ago).

Anyway, $3,200 for a new front tooth seemed cheap when compared with the $3,400 I splurged on a Jaeger-LeCoultre watch for Lizzie. Okay, okay-without question, an over-the-top extravagance. But I knew she’d been admiring that watch for years. As Herr Publisher I could afford it. Just like I could also afford to FedEx my mom a $2,000 set of Callaway titanium golf clubs-because I felt guilty about not staying in closer touch with her.

And. as Herr Publisher. I could also afford to upgrade Lizzie and myself to first class on our December twenty-sixth American Airlines flight to St. Kitts/Nevis.

“Are you deranged?” Lizzie asked as I shepherded her toward the first class checkin at JFK.

“I mean, the watch was a big enough shock.”

She had been dumbstruck when, on the previous morning, she opened the elegantly wrapped gift box and found herself staring at the Jaeger-LeCoultre she’d always coveted.

“You’re insane, you’re totally insane,” she said, not sounding at all happy.

“It’s just a watch,” I said.

“Sure-and the Concorde’s just an airplane.”

“Then you do like it?”

“It’s… wonderful. Beyond wonderful. But it scares me. Because we can’t afford it.”

Now, as we waited behind one other passenger at the first class desk, Lizzie turned to me and asked, “Are you keeping something from me?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But the way you’re spending money … either something’s going on, or you’ve become pathologically self-destructive. I just don’t understand this recklessness….”

“It’s just money.”

“I know how much one of these watches costs. We’re talking too much money.”

“I can handle it.”

“I wish I could believe that,” she said.

I kissed her.

“Relax. I haven’t broken the bank.”

We drank champagne all the way to San Juan, then switched to a small sixty-seat aircraft for the fast forty-minute puddle jump to St. Kitts. On this last leg of the journey, Lizzie nodded off for around ten minutes. Watching her sleep, I couldn’t block out that Persistent little voice which inevitably begins to haunt your inner ear after you’ve made a dumb call. You’re blowing it here. She knows something’s up. You’re out of the country now-so to hell with K^eplin’s obsessive need for secrecy. She’s your wife, for Christ’s sake. It s time for a complete about-face. Get it over with. Tell her.

And I resolved to do just that as soon as we checked into our room.

We landed at St. Kitts, where the mercury was punching ninety and the air had that heady, fragrant kick of cheap rum punch. A Four Seasons minibus picked us up at the airport and drove us past whitewashed shacks to a jetty where we were whisked aboard an inter-island motor launch. The engines revved, we gently cruised out of the harbor, then the captain opened up the throttle and we shot across the narrow bay that separated St. Kitts from Nevis. The sun was incandescent, the water was as level as plate glass, and-I couldn’t believe this-looming up ahead was this vast mountain plopped down in the middle of the Atlantic. The top of this mountain was covered in a fine, white dust, making it appear to be frosted with snow. As we approached, I could see that its slopes flattened out and were covered by a deep green tangle of tropical foliage. The foliage stretched out, north to south, for around ten miles, and was bisected by one paved road. Below this made-for-Tarzan habitat was a narrow, pristine strip of pure white sand that appeared to encircle the entire island.

“That’s Nevis?” I asked one of the crewmen.

“The one and only, mon.”

Lizzie gave me a radiant smile.

“I approve of paradise.”

Our room was at one end of the resort, far from its noisy epicenter. And it fronted the beach, giving us a wide-screen view of the Atlantic.

As we stood on the little verandah that faced the water, Lizzie asked quietly, “Didn’t we originally rule out an ocean view because it was an extra thousand bucks for the week?”

“I thought I’d surprise you.”

“You’re full of surprises, Ned.”

“You’ve got to admit, it’s one hell of a view.”

“I suppose the bottle of Dom Perignon was another of your surprises?” she said, motioning toward the ice-bucketed champagne that had been waiting for us on our arrival.

“Sweetheart, it’s Christmas,” I said, picking up the bottle and tugging on the cork.

“And you’re acting like Donald Trump. What gives, Ned? I want to know.”

I pulled the cork, I poured two glasses, I handed her one. And said, “On January second, I’m becoming the new publisher of CompuWorld.”

She flinched as if I’d slapped her. It was not the reaction I was hoping for.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you….”

“For what?” she interrupted.

“Days? Weeks?”

“A little while,” I said, sounding sheepish.

“Nothing was confirmed until-” “So you have known about this for quite a while.”

“I didn’t want to say anything until I was absolutely certain….”

“I don’t believe this.”

“Klaus Kreplin swore me to secrecy.”

As soon as I uttered that sentence, I regretted it. Lizzie’s reaction was glacial.

“Secrecy-even from me?” she said.

“Take it easy….”

“I will not take it easy. You do this all the time.”

“Do what?”

“Lie to me.”

“This is hardly a lie, Lizzie. All right, I admit it, I was wrong. I should have told you.”

“No-what you should have done was trusted me to keep a secret.”

“I do trust you, darling….”

“No, you don’t. Nor do you take me seriously enough to want to share anything important in your life.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me about truth.”

“I was just being cautious.”

“You were shutting me out, as usual.”

“I don’t shut you out….”

Go fuck yourself,” she said, throwing her champagne glass on the terra-cotta floor and storming off down the beach. My first instinct was to pursue her. But I held back-in part because I knew from experience of previous domestic skirmishes that it was best to stay clear of Lizzie while she was still fuming, and also because.

after that verbal brawl, I needed to give myself ten minutes to calm down.

Jerk. Jerk. Jerk. You never learn, do you?

I drained the glass of champagne, wishing it was something more nerve bracing, like vodka. Then, grabbing the bottle and two fresh glasses, I left the verandah and started strolling along the beach. Past my pale, fleshy compatriots courting skin cancer in the merciless West Indies sun. And the waiters carrying trays of pina coladas. And two little kids throwing wet sand at each other. Past the shack where you could rent sailboards. Past the eastern wing of the hotel. Past the line of demarcation that marked the end of the Four Seasons beachfront. Past a place where local dudes with dreadlocks sold lobsters on the beach. And then onto a stretch of beach where there was nothing but water, sand, and a lush thicket of palms.

It was empty-except for my wife. She was sitting by the water’s edge, staring out at the deep blue bay. I walked over and sat down beside her. She didn’t acknowledge my arrival. She kept her gaze firmly fixed on the horizon.

“Drink?” I said, holding up the bottle. She said nothing. I poured two glasses and placed one in front of her on the sand.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, raising my glass.

“Don’t humor me, Ned.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Do you really want this marriage?” she asked.

“Of course I do. You are everything-” “Oh, please…”

“I mean it.”

“I don’t know if you do mean it, Ned. You never act like this is a partnership. You run up crazy bills but keep telling me not to worry about it. You keep crucial stuff from me-which leads me to believe that you can’t trust me with a secret. You seem to be so totally absorbed in making it all the time-in proving to the world you’re ‘a player’-that you forget there are two of us in this marriage. In it together.”

“I don’t forget that,” I said.

“You do. All the time. And then, when I found out I was pregnant..

.”

I avoided her accusatory gaze. And felt shame.

“I was scared,” I finally said.

“You were a selfish asshole, thinking only of yourself and your precious job. And you made me feel very alone.”

“It wasn’t just the job…. I was wrong.”

“You’re going to lose me, Ned.”

I reached for her hand. She didn’t push me away.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“Then make me believe that.”

She picked up the champagne glass from the sand and downed it in one gulp.

“Merry Christmas, Publisher,” she said cheerlessly.

By the end of the day an uneasy armistice had been established between us. Over dinner that night, I told her everything about the job offer, assuring her that I didn’t scheme against Chuck, that it was Kreplin’s decision. She didn’t seem entirely convinced. She worried about how Chuck would take the news, and whether I would be perceived within the company as a conniving, backstabbing shit. Then I mentioned the salary and she looked both electrified and concerned.

“That’s crazy money,” she said.

“We’ll be rich.”

“We’ll be comfortable.”

“Very comfortable. And you know what they say about money-it gives you options. If we want to buy a co-op, rent a weekend place in the Hamptons, have a kid-” She cut me off.

“One thing at a time, Ned.”

Careful here. I kissed her, then put my arm around her shoulders, pulling her toward me.

“You’re right,” I said.

“One thing at a time.”

The sunstruck indolence of Nevis eventually forced us to kick back, to slide into low gear for the rest of the week, never waking before ten, breakfasting on the verandah, taking extended hikes on the beach, spending the late afternoons in bed, dodging the company of our fellow compatriots at the resort by eating at one of the run ky local lobster shacks on the beach. The days effortlessly merged into one another. My nails grew back, my overloaded nervous system began to decompress. Though everyone at the office had my number, the phone never rang once. Domestic calm had been reestablished-but several times I caught Lizzie glancing at me with concern.

And then the week was over. We saluted the arrival of the New Year with a bottle of champagne and a drunken stroll along the beach, collapsing into the sand and letting the warm water of the bay wash over us. It drenched our clothes. We didn’t care. Instead, we lay on our backs and stared up at the floor show in the sky. After a long silence, Lizzie said:

“Say we didn’t go back.”

“Yeah, sure…”

“I’m serious. Say we just said ‘fuck it.” To hell with the career, the pressure, the endless ass-kissing, the nights made sleepless with worry, accumulating all this stuff we don’t need…”

“What would you suggest? Finding an island like this one, and moving into a grass hut?”

“It’s a nice dream, isn’t it?”

“Sure, but…”

“Yeah?”

“We’d be bored to death within a week.”

“You really need it, don’t you?” she said.

“Need what?”

“The city. The pressure. The deal.”

“Yeah, I need it. Don’t you?”

“I used to think so,” she said.

“Now, I’m not so sure. Anyway … so much for my tropical fantasy.”

“It’s nice in theory. But…”

“I know. Back we go….”

“Yeah. Back we go.”

And early the next morning, back we went-trading the sun-dappled haze of the West Indies for an ashen Manhattan sky. It was sleeting when we landed. We hit traffic on the BQE and crept slowly into the city, as if we were part of a funeral cortege. The frozen rain kept dripping down. The taxi was overheated, the radio blared Estonian pop tunes, and I was suddenly seized by edgy anxiety. Lizzie-sensing my apprehension-squeezed my hand.