The Job (8 page)

“Nature had nothing to do with it,” I said grimly.

“You’re scared of this, aren’t you?”

“Not scared-just worried.”

“Don’t you want this child?” she asked, absently touching her stomach.

“Of course I do,” I lied.

“It’s just… well, it’s not exactly the right moment, is it? Especially considering the professional pressure we’re both under.”

“It’s never going to be ‘the right moment.” There will always be some pressing deadline, some deal going down. That’s how life works. Okay, a kid will make things a little more complicated. But he or she will also be the best thing that ever happened to us.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said.

She withdrew her hand and looked at me with care.

“I wish you were happier about this news.”

“I wish I was, too.”

To be straight about it, I was never comfortable with the idea of parenthood. In fact, it was an event I was hoping to indefinitely postpone. To me, the notion of children has always been terrifying, because I know I’d be the sort of father who would live in fear of getting it wrong, who would obsess endlessly about my children’s welfare. And because I remembered that look of profound disappointment in my father’s eyes whenever he felt he had failed me.

Anyway, I rationalized, why create unnecessary havoc in your life-especially at a time when you have, professionally speaking, hit your stride? Things were going far too well right now for us. One day we’d be ready for a third party. But only when we could afford to give the kid the best.

So, I panicked. Lizzie’s dismay at my hesitation was obvious. And though I tried to make up for it by being extremely attentive when she was hit with morning sickness, she was a little wary. That’s the thing about Lizzie-she’s nobody’s fool. She comes equipped with an extra-sensitive bullshit meter that can always discern whether what I’m saying is what I’m actually thinking.

Still, after around eight weeks, I began to convince myself that I should calm down and embrace the news. Lizzie was right: Having a child would be the best thing that ever happened to us. Because, after all, she was the best thing that ever happened to me.

And then, one afternoon I received a call at the office. It was Geena. Her tone of voice immediately disturbed me. It was so controlled, so steady.

“Ned,” she said, “I don’t want you to panic, but…”

I instantly panicked.

“What’s happened to Lizzie?”

“Lizzie is going to be just fine. But we had to rush her to New York Hospital, she had started to bleed heavily….”

I eulned.

“The baby?”

“Ned, I’m really sorry….”

I was at New York Hospital fifteen minutes later. The attending E.R. resident told me that Lizzie had miscarried, and had been whisked up to surgery for a fast DC.

“She’s going to be very weak when she comes around, not to mention a little traumatized when the loss of the baby sinks in. But from what I could determine, the miscarriage was a very straightforward one-so there’s no reason why she shouldn’t conceive again.”

It was over three hours before I was allowed to see her. She was tucked in bed, attached to a drip, her face ashen from the loss of blood. But what immediately struck me were her eyes. They were shell-shocked.

I sat down and clasped her hand tightly.

“I suppose you’re relieved,” she said quietly.

I felt as if I had been slapped across the face.

“You know that’s not true.”

Suddenly she leaned forward, buried her head in my shoulder, and began to sob uncontrollably. I held her until the crying subsided.

“It’ll be fine next time,” I finally said.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” she said.

So the subject was dropped for the night. The next day, when I returned to the hospital to take her home, I made the mistake of faking an upbeat tone.

“As soon as you’re better, we really should try again.”

She stared at the floor and said nothing. So I took the hint and didn’t raise the subject of the miscarriage again. For the first week her anguish was palpable-yet so was her equally strong desire not to discuss the matter with me. As she tried to cope with her grief, she erected a temporary wall between us. And though I respected her need for that thing called “space,” I couldn’t help but fear that a distance had opened up between us-that, for the first time since we met, an aura of doubt about me had been raised. And I kept privately kicking myself for having greeted her pregnancy with gloom, for letting my own anxieties and self-doubt cloud what should have been a great moment between us.

But after that first week her mood seemed to lift, and with relief

I watched the gap between us begin to close. I didn’t mention the failed pregnancy again. Nor did Lizzie-until tonight, when we had yet another of those silences that now seem to occasionally descend onus.

But hey-this is probably par for the course after a miscarriage. Most of the time neither of us is exactly taciturn. We’re still happy as hell together. It’s just a phase, something that we’ll get beyond in time. By which I mean soon. Real soon.

“I’m going to try to sleep,” Lizzie said, turning to kiss me.

“Don’t worry about anything. That’s my job.”

She turned off her light, embraced her pillow, and was unconscious within seconds. I stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to arrive. And telling myself, There really is nothing to worry about. Because you’re a winner, right? And only the winner goes to dinner.

Dan Sugarman was serving for the set when he began to have doubts. Having broken my serve in the sixth game, he was now up five-three, thirty-love, just two more points to win in order to clinch the set. But then he double-faulted, slamming down a blistering second serve that went way east of the box.

Thirty-fifteen.

I glanced at my watch. 6:41 A.M. Nineteen minutes to go in our designated hour on court. Sixty-four minutes before my breakfast with Chuck Zanussi. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, I told myself. Just concentrate on the next point.

Sugarman’s first serve was another slam-dunk attempt at an ace-and one that I just managed to get my racket on, sending it airborne. It was a shallow lob and Dan came racing in, ready to perform the coup de grace. But taking his eye off the ball, he volleyed it right into the net.

Thirty-all.

Now he tried a change-of-pace serve: low velocity, yet with considerable tops ping But I managed to position myself properly and hit a clean forehand winner right down the line.

Thirty-forty.

As Dan returned to the baseline, he shook his head, muttering something inaudible. Then he glanced up quickly at me-a look of ambivalence and uncertainty, of hesitancy and lack of belief. The look only lasted a second-but it said it all. I knew that I was going to win the set.

A ferocious first serve, just wide of the center line. Then an ultra-cautious “shit-it’s-break-point” second serve that plopped right down in the middle of the box. I moved forward, racket way back, ostensibly poised to hit a deep shot. But as Dan hovered behind the baseline, I switched tactics and chipped a little drop shot right over the net. Dan scrambled to reach it, but it was into its second bounce by the time he was within its vicinity.

“SONOFABITCH!” he screamed as ran straight into the net-but then he raised his hand in instant apology. Tennis is a gentleman’s game, after all. Until you start having doubts and begin to make mistakes. Then it suddenly becomes a do-or-die battle. With yourself.

Dan Sugarman was always having this sort of battle with himself. From all accounts, he was an attack dog of a metals trader, a guy who gave nervous breakdowns to all his underlings and stalked the futures pits of the commodities exchange like a psychotic general. Or, at least that’s what I’d heard around the locker room at the New York Health and Racquet Club, where Sugarman and I played at 6:00 A.M. twice a week. Having faced the guy over a net for the past three months (we were put together by the club’s resident pro after I mentioned I was in the market for a regular early-morning game), I still knew nothing much about Sugarman’s background-except that he was in his early forties, was worth big bucks, lived on Sutton Place, was married to a shopaholic named Mitzi whom he worked hard at rarely seeing … and had this habit of slamming his 375-dollar Wilson graphite racket into the court whenever he blew a point.

Yeah, Sugarman was a real type-A, I-gut-the-competition specimen-for whom life was an ongoing combat zone. And, of course, being five foot four, he also had his Napoleonic thing on constant auto-drive-a real little man’s need to assert himself at all costs. That s the thing about tennis-after you’ve played against a guy a few times, you get to see all his limitations, his fears and self-doubt. Because winning on the court is only partially dependent upon your skill and your physical stamina. What ultimately determines the outcome of a match (especially when you and your opponent a^e evenly matched) is whether you can maintain the advantage when it comes your way. Can you convert it into success? Do you really want to win that badly? Or is there some nagging, latent uncertainty regarding your ability to pull it off?

This was Sugarman’s problem. Every time we played, he’d grab an early advantage-and then inevitably screw it up by becoming agitated. Maybe that’s because, on the court, he’s so nakedly determined. I’m the sort of competitive player who simply worries about winning the next point-and, as such, looks upon a match as a string of little victories. Sugarman, on the other hand, is a maniacally ambitious player-for whom every match is a war in which he simply has to triumph. But whenever the guy has victory in his sights-wham-a couple of aggressive bad shots and he starts to fall apart.

Serving at four-five, I quickly won the game, thanks to his series of unforced errors. But at five-all, his first serve came back to life. He aced me twice, then placed a brilliantly executed lob that totally wrong-footed me. Suddenly he was up forty-love, serving for the game, smiling smugly at me. A smile that said, And you think you’re a winner.

That’s when I went on the offensive, punishing his tentative first serve by dropping it right at his feet. Then, on the next point, I hit a clean forehand straight down the line.

Thirty-forty.

His next serve arrived with plenty of tops ping but I managed a cross-court backhand that was unreachable.

Deuce.

He had an attack of nerves and double-faulted. And then, having delivered a shallow volley at the net, I was suddenly up six-five and serving for the set.

Sugarman was no longer smiling-because he knew I was determined to end this thing fast.

Two aces, followed by a vengeful overhead smash, and it was set point. I tossed the ball up and slammed a clean winner down the center line. Sugarman dived for the serve, but it shot past him and he stumbled across the court like a drunk.

“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!” he screamed. With that, a bell chimed on the club’s loudspeaker, announcing that our hour on the court was up. Sugarman wearily approached the net. I followed suit. We shook hands.

“My mind’s elsewhere this morning,” he said.

“Yeah, so’s mine.”

“Didn’t look that way to me. You were judge, jury, and executioner out there. A comeback like that, you’re set up for a good day, pal.”

“Your lips to God’s ear,” I said.

Within fifteen minutes of leaving the court I was showered, suited, and barreling uptown in a cab. Just south of Forty-ninth Street we drove directly into a massive gridlock. For a quarter of an hour we sat there without moving a yard.

“Anything you can do?” I finally asked the driver.

“I ain’t a helicopter,” he said.

Seven-thirty-seven. There was no way I was going to make the Waldorf in fifteen minutes. So I tossed ten bucks at the driver, threw open the door, and said, “Thanks, I’m outta here.” Then, to the accompaniment of three dozen wailing car horns, I started weaving my way through the bottleneck. Heading toward Fifty-first Street I charged across the overpass. Seven-forty-one. And Fifty-first going west was just as bad as the Drive: one long coronary occlusion of traffic. I began to jog, dodging pedestrians, bicyclists, dachshunds on leashes, and kamikaze D’Agostino delivery boys. First Avenue… Why are cross town blocks so long? .. . Second. Third.

“Watch where you’re running, jerkoff,” snapped an elderly woman after I nearly collided with her. Lexington. Park. Fast turning south. Seven-forty-eight. Look out for the guy with the takeout tray of Starbucks coffee. The Waldorf was now in sight. Five, four, three, two, one … I burst through the front doors and leaned against a wall, panting. Though it was barely twenty degrees outside, my shirt was soaked and my face saturated with sweat. I wanted to retreat to the men’s room and clean up, but I was already five minutes late. So I turned to the bellhop standing by the door and asked for a handkerchief.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of Kleenex. I ripped it open, grabbed the wad of tissues, and quickly mopped face. Then I handed the empty plastic back to him, along with dollar.

“Thanks-that should buy you another one,” I said.

“You okay now, sir?”

I straightened myself out, un kinked my shoulders, and took a deep, steadying breath.

“I’m great. Just great.”

Chuck Zanussi was sitting at a corner table that faced into an alcove. Anyone glancing into the Peacock Alley Restaurant would have noticed Chuckie right away. Because-at six foot three and two hundred and seventy pounds, and with a treble chin, two bear claws for hands, and the belly of a Sumo wrestler-he was a guy who, like Mount Rushmore, commanded attention. As I approached the table I noticed a steaming stack of pancakes at his place. They were drenched in a small reservoir of maple syrup.

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” I said.

“Traffic on the Drive was fucking impossible….”

Chuck cleared his throat and nodded uncomfortably across the table at a man in his thirties, hidden from view in the alcove recess. Tall, rail thin, with slicked-back hair (jet black), dressed in a well-cut charcoal gray suit, white spread-collar shirt, and a discreet polka-dot tie. Definitely a “Euro.” And from the way he was now pointedly studying his fingertips, a guy who could be instantly filed away under Trouble.