The Up and Comer (24 page)

Tracy and Amanda had already started talking about their outfits when I made my way around the table to deliver the patented mother-in-law lean-down-but-don't-smear-the-makeup kiss hello.

"Not to put you on the spot, Philip," said Amanda as I took my seat, "but do you think it's right that your wife should have a better wardrobe than the woman who brought her into this world?"

Instant minefield. "I plead the Fifth, naturally, on the grounds that my answer could have me sleeping on the couch later tonight,"
 
I said, trying to charm my way out of it.

"We wouldn't want that, now would we?" said Amanda. "It would mean one less chance of me having a grandchild."

Zing.

She didn't do it often, but when she did it was with the deft touch of a wrecking ball. That being the reference to the fact that Tracy and I were childless. The subject was taboo for Lawrence, never wanting to upset his Precious, though it was obvious that he shared with Amanda the desire to have a new trust fund to establish. Personally, I found the remarks to be harmless and paid them little mind. Tracy was less understanding. She construed them as a condemnation of our marriage and the choices that the two of us had made together — at least I think that was how she once phrased it. Clearly, it was one of those mother-daughter things.

The fact was that beyond looks and money, another component of Tracy's appeal for me had been her ambivalence toward raising a family. It wasn't that she absolutely didn't want one. She simply wasn't champing at the bit, that's all. In light of my trust fund reference, it was as if the whole idea of our having kids was in escrow, to be decided upon at a later date. Which was perfect, as far as I was concerned. Tracy's ambivalence was mine as well.

Vodka, caviar, and blinis to start. Lawrence and I partook of all three, while the ladies said
nyet
on the vodka, and opted for champagne. Taittinger. The restaurant was buzzing with the pretheater crowd, and the waiters, mostly Russian, were scampering about trying their best to speed things along. Few things in life created a greater sense of purpose than an eight o'clock curtain. Lawrence and Amanda were in the city that night to see a play, something about a prominent English family in the early 1900s that was immersed in politics and scandal, or so Amanda described.

"Politics and scandal... a little redundant, if you ask me," said Lawrence. "Though perhaps with enough Stoli here, I might enjoy it."

"Fall asleep is more like it," Amanda came back.

The question about my bandaged hand was asked and answered. The topic became the annual trip that Lawrence and Amanda took to Bermuda, which was fast approaching. A week at Cambridge Beaches.

"We're going to be Tenners," said Amanda to me.

I looked at her, puzzled. "Ten-what?"

"Tenners,"
she repeated. "It's what the resort calls people who have been coming for ten years. They actually post your name on a big red board outside the main dining room."

"It's the least they could do for all the money we've pumped through there," said Lawrence.

Retired oil executives, it should be noted, didn't spend money, they pumped it.

"You're the one who always wants to go back," said Amanda to her husband.

"Because you can't find a better meal on the island, that's why," he said. He turned to me. "Did you know that their chef is the only one in Bermuda to have the Meilleur Ouvrier de France designation?"

More than not knowing that, I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. On the other hand, Tracy, ever the foodie, not only knew but was dutifully impressed.

More Bermuda talk ensued. The brightly painted homes, shopping in Hamilton…

"Maybe this is the year I finally get your father on a moped," Amanda said to Tracy.

Somehow I didn't picture it.

As we were talking vacations, Tracy segued into a description of the cottage in the Hamptons that "we" were renting for the month of August. East Hampton, to be exact. It was Tracy's gig, really. She stayed out there for the entire month. I showed up on the weekends. This was the year she was going to take up painting, she excitedly explained. Sitting behind an easel, brush in hand, looking out onto the ocean and capturing the moment.

Again, somehow I didn't picture it.

A short time later we ordered our entrees and various
zakuski
for appetizers. We had begun to carry on with our conversation when out of the corner of my eye I saw it coming. At first I thought maybe Lawrence had asked for it while I was still immersed in the menu. His expression, however, said otherwise.

It was another bottle of champagne.

With a heavy Russian accent, our waiter announced, "You have friend at other table."

No fucking way.

I spun my head around so quickly I nearly gave myself whiplash. It was impossible. It couldn't be. Tyler Mills, back from the dead. Maybe I only thought that he was dead, thought that he had no pulse before I left him in his apartment. Or maybe, through some weird scientific phenomenon, his heart's stopping had been temporary. My mind raced with the possibilities, logical or not. In that moment, anything was possible, anything. My eyes jumped from table to table. Show yourself, Tyler Mills. Show me that goddamn face that I thought I'd never have to see again.

There was a tug on my sport coat. I didn't react to it right away, as I was consumed by looking for Tyler. The tug grew stronger, becoming a yank, and I turned around impatiently.

It was Tracy and she was saying something to me. I was looking at her and I could see her lips moving. I could hear her, but the words weren't getting through. They weren't making any sense. It was all just noise.

"I
said… Philip, look what you did!"

With that, I heard her. It was like tuning in to a radio station. From static to clarity in an instant. She let go of my sport coat and pointed to her knocked-over champagne glass on the table. My doing, apparently, in my haste to turn and search for Tyler. I looked at Tracy and I looked at her parents. Another waiter had rushed over to lay a napkin over the spill, and I looked at him too. Of everybody, he was the lone person not staring at me wholly perplexed. Amid my acute horror and hysteria, I realized what a minor event I had caused.

"You can dress him up, but you can't take him out," I said, trying to take the self-deprecating route back to composure.

"At least you could've made it my water glass instead of the champagne," said Tracy, half kidding at best.

"I think we have plenty to go around at this point, Precious," Lawrence declared, pointing to the new bottle and attempting to defuse any possible tension between his daughter and son-in-law. There wasn't any. Had the champagne spilled on Tracy's outfit, however, it would've been a completely different scenario, I assure you.

"I can't believe we didn't see them. It was such a nice thing for them to do, wasn't it?" said Amanda, glancing over her shoulder and returning a wave. "Now exactly what is the protocol here, honey? Do they come to us, or are we supposed to go over to their table and thank them?"

"You're asking the wrong guy," said Lawrence.

Alas, there would be no life after death for Tyler Mills. The champagne and the coincidence were courtesy of Ted and Allison Halpert, friends of the Metcalfs from Greenwich who were in the city themselves for a show. They happened to be sitting on the opposite end of the China Room. To be on the safe side etiquette-wise, Lawrence and Amanda both got up and went over to their table. Tracy and I stayed behind.

"Are you okay?" Tracy asked me. "Because you certainly don't look okay."

"I'm fine," I told her.

"Are you sure? You've been acting kind of strange lately."

"Yes, I'm sure. I'm okay."

Our waiter had given Tracy a new glass as well as bringing two for Lawrence and me. The remainder of the first bottle was poured and the second bottle, a matching Taittinger, was opened.

"How bizarre is this?" said Tracy. "Everywhere we go, someone sends us a bottle of champagne."

"It's bizarre, all right," I said.

"You know, this reminds me, I never did call Tyler after that night we saw him at Balthazar. I should really do that."

I was afraid she'd say that.

I
 
considered trying to
 
talk her out of it, choosing ultimately to let it be. I would allow nature to run its course. There would be a natural evolution of events. Tracy would page Tyler. She wouldn't hear from him. She would page him again, and for the second time, she wouldn't hear from him. That would tick her off and she would resent Tyler.
How dare he not return her call?
Then one day, in the not too distant future, word would make its way through the grapevine that Tyler had been killed. The news would send Tracy reeling. She would be shocked. She would resent herself for ever resenting Tyler. There would be crying.

Ever the Good Husband, I would be there to console her. Ultimately, after her tears began to dry up, she would decide that she needed to take her mind off of everything. She would go shopping or get a pedicure, or perhaps both, and within a rather short period of time, all would be right in the world again. At least her world.

Yes, that was definitely how it would evolve. It was as sure as Darwin.

Lawrence and Amanda returned to the table after thanking our champagne benefactors, the Halperts. Their youngest daughter, Mindy, had become engaged the night before, so they were "bubbling over with excitement." Thus, the champagne. Lawrence went on to reveal that some years back he had tipped off Ted Halpert about a certain oil company trading on the NASDAQ Small Cap that was about to be bought. (By Lawrence's company, of course.) Halpert had made a killing. In return, Lawrence made sure that the guy would forever be in his debt. Some men collected cars, others rare stamps or coins. Lawrence Metcalf, I had come to learn, collected friends. He was awfully good at it.

By the time our dinners arrived, Tracy and Amanda had already professed to being stuffed. Even Lawrence, a man who prided himself on having a hearty appetite, was looking down at his giant tureen of borscht with less than excited eyes. As for me, I was still starving. My grilled, marinated lamb loin was devoured within minutes, and I was only too pleased to help Tracy with her plate of salmon. Dessert, anyone? Had the Metcalfs not been pressed for time to make their play, the charlotte russe would've had my name all over it.

"What shall we do now?" Tracy asked me. We had said good-bye to Lawrence and Amanda and were standing outside the restaurant, not quite eight o'clock on a Saturday night. All dressed up and nowhere to go. Which was kind of weird for Tracy. Always one to make plans, for whatever reason she hadn't thought past our dinner with her parents. We started to talk about calling some friends, maybe catching another couple in the same "nothing to do" predicament. As Tracy took out her Star Tac, though, I had a different idea. A movie. I called it the makeup movie, for my having canceled on her the night before. Moreover, I told her, she could pick the film. That all but guaranteed that I would soon be subjecting myself to some type of chick flick.

Thirteen blocks south later....

In the darkness of a theater at the Cineplex Odeon in Chelsea, I paid little attention to what was on the screen. While I had fully recovered from my earlier episode about Tyler, I couldn't get him completely out of my head. Mostly, I wondered about how and when his body would be discovered. Who would be the one to find him? A friend, a neighbor, the superintendent? Whoever the person was, it was sure to give him or her a nightmare or two. I, for one, knew it wasn't the easiest of images to shake from memory. In fact, by that point I had given up trying. The stillness of his apartment. His body lying there limp, up against the radiator. It didn't take long to realize that I'd be carrying it around with me for some time, if not forever. It wasn't quite on par with guilt. That was reserved for had I actually gone through with my original plan. No, this was more like a scar. A little unsightly blemish on the psyche.

Okay, maybe it was a rather large unsightly blemish.

TWENTY-FOUR

There's an old saying in the legal profession: "The only thing that matters more than what you know as an attorney is
who
you know." I'd like to offer up a slightly revised version: "The only thing that matters more than what you know as an attorney is what you know about another attorney." How else could you explain what happened with Sally Devine's DMV hearing?

It started back when Jack came by my office the day after the poker game.

JACK: You lucky little shit. A straight flush?!

ME:
    
All skill, baby. Besides, you dealt it.

JACK: I did, didn't I? You being my guest, I'm surprised no one accused me of rigging the deck.

ME:
    
You mean you didn't?

JACK: (laughs) Tell me, have we heard from our friends at the DMV?

ME:
    
Earlier this morning, in fact. They scheduled Sally's hearing a week from tomorrow, eleven
a.m.

JACK: No good. No good at all. Call and say you've got a conflict, make it medical, and tell them that Tuesday next week at any time in the afternoon would be good for you.