The Up and Comer (17 page)

Nonetheless, it couldn't have hurt my cause.

SEVENTEEN

That Wednesday in my office, four days later. It was a couple of minutes past noon. My direct phone line rang and I picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Room three-eleven."

"Okay," I said. I was about to say more when I heard an all-too-familiar
click
on the other end. This one, however, I didn't mind.

The moratorium on Philip had ended.

I dusted off my gym bag, had Gwen reschedule a conflicting appointment, and within minutes I was on my way back to the Doral Court hotel, a measurable spring in my step. I walked into the lobby and hopped onto a waiting elevator. Third floor. When I arrived at the room, the door was open about an inch. Walking in, I didn't say a word. I simply peeked around the corner at the bed. There, lying atop the covers, was Jessica. Completely naked.

There were no hellos. No rehashing of our last conversation. Just sex. Colossal sex. It was one of those sessions where we had to check each other for scratches and bite marks when we finished. Not that that was anytime soon. Once on the bed. Once on the chair near the bed. Once in the shower, a previously never-before-tried location for the two of us. "If I'm the one paying for the room," said Jessica, whispering in my ear at one point, "I want to be sure to take full advantage of all the amenities."

After, wrapped in towels, we settled back into the bed and traded jokes about how we'd be sore for days. Jessica nearly forgot that she had brought lunch. Salads from Pasqua. We ate and talked about everything and nothing, at one point who we'd want to be if not ourselves. Anyone in history.

Cleopatra, said Jessica.

Euripides, said I.

The following day saw an encore performance, the lone difference being that we exchanged once in the shower for twice on the bed. A thousand calories burned between us, we were lying side by side and staring up at the stucco ceiling. For whatever reason, Jessica wanted to talk about my brother. That made one of us.

"Have you heard from Brad recently?" she asked.

"No, not recently."

"How do you think his painting is coming along?"

"I guess okay."

"Does he like living in Portland?"

I shrugged. "I assume so."

"Is he dating anyone?"

"I don't know."

Jessica frowned. "You don't like to talk about him much, do you?"

I wasn't about to admit it. "I've got no problem talking about my brother," I told her.

"How about talking
to
your brother, though?"

I turned my head and looked at her. "This is a bed, not a couch, Jessica."

"I'm not trying to be a shrink, Philip. I just want to know what's up between you and your brother. You said you were really close as kids."

"We were."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing happened," I said. "You grow up, you have less in common. He wears jeans and paints all day. I wear suits and go to court. We're different, that's all."

"That's no reason not to be close," she said. "He's still your brother — your only, brother, I might add."

She was pissing me off. But with how much we'd been through in the past few weeks, I was determined not to get into a fight over it. "Okay, you're right," I told her. "I should probably do a better job of keeping in touch with Brad, shouldn't I?"

"Yes, you should," said Jessica. She smiled and let it go at that, although she probably suspected there was a little bit more to the story.

She was right.

It turned out that Brad didn't like what his older brother had grown up to be. He didn't like what I did for a living or who I had married, and he didn't have any problem telling me so to my face a couple of years back while visiting over Christmas. A stubborn
and
outspoken little bastard. He claimed I was no better than the people I represented and that I had sold out for the almighty dollar.

In return, I told Brad that he was a charlatan of ideals. That if he could, he would sell his paintings for a million bucks a pop. To a pimp, to a dope dealer, to the fucking Antichrist, so long as they had the cash in hand. The desire for fame and fortune had no less of a grip on him than it did on me. He knew it, and I knew it. I told him that what he really didn't like was the fact that his older brother could buy every piece he'd ever sold to that point with one month's paycheck — and still have enough money left over to buy him some art lessons.

We nearly came to blows. Brad caught the next flight back to Portland and we rarely if ever spoke thereafter. We had argued before, plenty of times. This time was different. There was permanence to it. Things said that couldn't be taken back or easily forgotten with an apology.

And all because of one question.

I had asked Brad what he planned to do if he couldn't make it as an artist.

EIGHTEEN

You're only as good as your next reservation....

It was another Saturday night and another dinner out for the four of us. Connor and Jessica, Tracy and me. This time at Balthazar. The topic at the table was religion, specifically the age-old question as to the existence of God. We weren't even stoned.

Jessica was making the case that there had to be some form of higher being. Otherwise, we'd have no explanation for what preceded the universe. Before there was something, she pointed out, there still had to be
something.
There couldn't have been
nothing.
It was that paradox that had her convinced there was some type of deity out there.

Connor disagreed. "Okay, let's assume you're right, that there is in fact a god out there. I have one question. Who or what created him?"

"Or
her?"
Tracy was quick to allow for.

Jessica seemed ready to answer when we were interrupted — though at the moment, I was more inclined to say spared — by a waiter brandishing a bottle of Perrier-Jouet and four champagne glasses. As he began to place a glass in front of each of us, we all looked at one another.

"Excuse me," I said to the waiter, "I think there's been a mistake. We didn't order this."

"No mistake, sir," he replied. "This is courtesy of the gentleman at the bar."

We all turned and looked over in unison. I saw him first. Probably because he was looking directly back at me. There, sitting at the bar, was Tyler, and this time he was really there.

Welcome to Risk Factor 8.

"I don't believe it; it's Tyler," Tracy announced.

"Who?" Jessica asked.

"Tyler Mills. He's a friend of ours, actually more a friend of Philip's. The two of them went to Deerfield together," she explained.

I sat there stunned, staring at Tyler, while Tracy began to wave hello to him across the restaurant. He acknowledged her with a wave back, prompting Tracy to motion for him to come over. He seemed all too happy to oblige.

I braced myself for the next storm.

Pop!
went the champagne as I watched Tyler leave his bar stool and start to head our way, weaving through tables.

"Good buddy of yours?" Connor asked me as the waiter began to pour.

"Casual acquaintance at best," I said, leaning in a bit. "To be honest, kind of a loser."

"A loser, however, with great taste in champagne," said Connor.

I faked finding that amusing. Tyler arrived.

"This is so funny!" Tracy said, standing up to give him a hug. "You and I have to stop meeting like this."

"I know — first Saks, now here," he said. "What a coincidence."

Tracy pointed at her glass. "This was so nice of you, but totally unnecessary."

"The best things in life are," was his response.

Tracy smiled.

Tyler turned to me. "How are you, Philip?"

I stood up and put out my hand to shake his. "I'm doing okay," I said. "What a surprise to see you."

"I can only imagine. Did you get my e-mail?"

"Yes, and your fax as well."

"Glad to hear it."

Tyler was dressed in a sport coat and tie, hair slicked back. The consummate "man about town" costume. It helped him appear not at all as sickly as when we had last met. I continued to stare at him. I wondered if it was only my evening that he planned on ruining.

"I want you to meet some friends of ours," Tracy said to Tyler. "This is Connor...."

Connor did a half stand from his chair and shook Tyler's hand. "Tracy was wrong, by the way; this was totally necessary," he joked, raising his glass. "Thanks."

"My pleasure," Tyler said.

Tracy continued. "And this is Jessica...."

I watched as Tyler extended his hand to her and the two made eye contact. He instantly appeared perplexed.

"My, you look awfully familiar. Have we met before?" he asked Jessica.

"Gee, I don't think so," she replied.

Tyler shook his head and shot me a quick glance before looking back at Jessica. "I don't know, it's strange, it's like I've seen you somewhere before," he told her.

My knees were starting to buckle.

"So what brings you here?" Tracy asked Tyler.

"The food, normally," he said. "It's so good I'm willing to overlook how disgustingly trendy this place is. Though tonight, I only stopped by to pick up a credit card that I had left behind here a couple of days ago. They were holding it for me behind the bar. That's when I looked up and saw you guys. Small world, isn't it?"

"Well, the least you can do is join us in a glass of your champagne," Tracy said.

"Yes," said Jessica, seconding the motion.

Tyler looked down at his watch. "I'm supposed to be meeting a friend uptown," he said, hedging, "though I suppose maybe I can stay for one drink."

"Oh, good!" said Tracy, immediately flagging down a waiter to ask for an extra glass.

We had one of the perimeter tables at Balthazar, which meant where Connor and Jessica were sitting was part of one long continuous booth. Connor, ever the nice guy, slid over to make room for Tyler. If he had only known. That's when I decided that in a previous life, Connor had probably been the gatekeeper in Troy.

So there we sat, all cozylike. Me, my wife, the woman I was having an affair with, the husband of the woman I was having an affair with, and the guy who knew about the affair and was trying to blackmail me for a hundred grand so he'd keep his mouth shut. More champagne, anyone?

"Tell me, what conversation did I interrupt before coming over?" Tyler asked.

"We were discussing whether or not God exists," said Jessica.

"Oh, that's an easy one," Tyler responded. "God definitely exists."

"Oh, he does, does he?" said a suspect Connor.

"Sure, only he's not a
he,"
replied Tyler.

Tracy sparked to the comment. "I know, isn't it amazing how everyone assumes God has a penis?"

"You're saying God is a woman?" Connor asked Tyler.

"No, I didn't say that. What I said was that there's a simple explanation for God."

"And that is?" said Connor.

"Fear," Tyler said.

"You mean, as in the
fear of God?"
asked Connor.

"No, as in the fear is God," was Tyler's reply. With that, he had the floor. "You see, God is nothing more than human fear. Think about it. If there was no fear in this world, would anyone still believe in God? If there were no plane crashes, no diseases, no homicides to speak of; if we all knew for sure that there was no afterlife, no hell to be afraid of, or no heaven to be afraid of not getting into, would anyone still believe in God? Of course not." He looked at Connor. "That's why they call it the fear of God, only they don't know that's why they call it that. That omnipresent entity that we pray to doesn't exist out there in space, it exists inside us. God is merely the fear that each and every one of us harbors."

It was time for commentary around the table. Though I was fairly certain that Tyler had lost the rest of us pretty much after
Think about it.
Nonetheless, as a diatribe, it had the appearance of being profound, which was pretty much all you needed to get by in this city. Tracy, for one, was eating it up.

"So I guess we have nothing to fear but God itself," she said, being clever.

Tyler smiled. "Something like that."

Quite the impression our table guest was making. The jittery banter and manic interjections that had dominated our chat at the Oyster Bar were nowhere to be found. The Tyler that night at Balthazar was articulate and insightful. Dare I say charming. One thing was for certain: he was loving every minute of it.

"Philip, you've been awfully quiet. What do you think?" Tracy asked me.

I was in a daze. "Huh?"

"About God being the fear that's inside of us," she said. But before I could answer, her expression abruptly changed. "My god, honey, look at you, you're sweating. Are you okay?" Tracy put her hand on my forehead. "You feel hot. You must be coming down with something."