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After the meetings they stopped on the sidewalk in front of the school building.

“So they’re okay,” she said.

“They’re good kids.”

“How are you? What’s going on?”

“The usual. Did you see the wolf girl column?”

“No.”

“As you wish.”

“It is not in the divorce agreement that I have to see everything you write.”

“True. Maybe you should see the checks I write. Tuition is up. Six hundred dollars the child.”

“That’s fifteen thousand a year.”

“I didn’t think you’d know that.”

“I know it. It’s the least liberated thing about me, that you pay the tuition. But I’m working on it.”

“Fine with me.”

“Doug, I’m changing jobs. Maybe it will speed matters along. At first this is going to be a parallel move. Actually, it’s a little decrease in pay.”

“Oh—”

“Eventually I’d be making it up in bonuses.”

“Well, I wish you luck—” and in awkwardness he extended his hand and they shook hands.

“Does Andy let you touch him anymore?” he asked.

“Not as often.”

“What happened to those times when the children used to snuggle in our laps and we’d read them bedtime stories?”

“The children grew up, Doug.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant.”

They looked in each other’s eyes for a moment, then they both looked away.

“So—give me some time. I’m going to try to settle my bill,” she said.

He reached out and touched her hair. I still love you. And I still hate you.

S
PORTS DAY
WAS SOLD
, not to Europeans, to Houston Enterprises, an innocuous name for the aggressive company run by Robby Reynolds, 36, who began with family money from oil, then moved on to acquire electronics firms, real estate and newspapers. A telegram was sent to staff members in the bureaus saying Reynolds would be coming to each of their cities to visit with them personally. He arrived punctually for his meeting in the New York office conference room: Reynolds with a broad Western smile, wearing an impeccable gray suit, cowboy boots, six feet two, slender, a handsome, narrow face, wavy black hair, capable of playing himself in the soap-opera version of his life and family. He unwound himself in a chair opposite Doug, Lahey, and Wilkes, placing his feet on the conference-room table. Doug noticed the soles of his boots were not only unscuffed, they were totally clean. How did he walk around with clean soles? Of course. If you were rich enough, you never had to walk in the street.

They were to call him Robby. He was going to take a close interest in the newspaper and was naming himself publisher. Prior to purchase he had ordered an extensive market-research study, he told them.

“Circulation has been holding firm, but we’re soft in some of the major metropolitan areas. I’d like to know why you think that is.”

Doug did not like the challenge aspect. If Reynolds had the results of competent research, he probably knew the answer.

“Pat?”

“Maybe advertising hasn’t been strong enough. It’s expensive to advertise in large cities and maybe there hasn’t been enough.”

“Maybe.”

Doug presumed Lahey had failed the little quiz. Reynolds turned next to Wilkes.

“Brian?”

“People watch more sports on TV in the big cities?”

“That wouldn’t relate to our circulation discrepancies,” he said with a slight tone of annoyance.

“Doug?”

“Why don’t you just tell us, Robby?”

“I want to hear from you because I’m interested in your opinion.”

“All right. My sense is that large cities have the strongest sports sections in their daily newspapers. The most loyal readership. And that would be the hardest competition for us.”

“I would tend to agree with you.”

So I passed, did I?

“We’re going to have to develop some new strategies,” Reynolds said. “With coverage the big-city papers aren’t providing. Your other sports, like wrestling.”

“Wrestling isn’t a sport,” Doug said.

“Let’s not split hairs. We’re going to initiate wrestling standings and run wrestling results.”

Reynolds outlined his other plans, a new “Big Games” feature with writers from other bureaus coming to New York when necessary. Lahey was to minister to their needs. Wilkes was to concentrate on articles about personalities, such as “What is Hulk Hogan really like?” Doug’s work was deemed by Reynolds “A good all-around feature.” He added, “But I do expect you’ll favor us with the occasional wrestling column.” He talked a while about sports in general and ended by saying, “We’re going to revise the layout, outplay the competition. We’re going to win!”

After Reynolds left, Lahey commented, “Downright rousing. We’re working for good old Knute Rockne.”

“There’s nothing old about him,” Doug said. “This is strictly the new corporate bottom line. Do the research, check the demographics and produce the numbers. And if wrestling sells, give them wrestling.”

According to a
Women’s Wear Daily
clipping sent by Doug’s friend Jeannie Martins, who owned a public relations firm in the fashion field, Susan was joining the newly formed Merchandising Unlimited as a “merchandising consultant to create in-store promotions for department stores nationwide.” Her parallel move, her gamble for future bonuses. Men who have to pay for the tuition and for the extras that were not specifically covered in the divorce agreement, the costs of day camps and gymnastics sessions and painting classes, those men don’t get to gamble with parallel moves. If a genie came and said, “What may I grant thee?” I would answer, “Parity.” An even split. If you get a divorce and have joint custody of the children, of the
dog,
then you should also share the anxiety. The
Women’s Wear Daily
piece referred to Susan as “Susan Brook.” She had been using her marriage name until then. The reversion to her maiden name seemed to Doug as if she had suddenly found a last possession of his lying around the apartment and decided to ship it back.

Robby Reynolds sent Doug an interoffice memo, modern communications style. A flashing indicator light on Doug’s computer signified a message waiting for him and he brought it up on the screen.

“I notice wrestling matches in your area this week. You might want to check them out.”

He showed the screen to Lahey. “Big Brother lives,” Doug said.

“I got the same message. Only I’m supposed to see that you go. Maybe you should, then you can decide how you want to deal with it.”

“Is this playing up to the new boss, Pat?”

“It won’t be so bad. I’ve got a new friend dying to meet you. We’ll have a few beers, a few laughs.”

“I have a feeling
he’s
listening. That the screen is going to flash, ‘Right, Doug, it’s just one night. What can you lose?’”

“I think you have to check it out, Doug.”

Lahey had been either separated or divorced from his wife for many years, he was vague in telling Doug the details. He was the father of two married daughters who lived on Long Island, and he had a place in Queens. In a cab on the way to the wrestling matches at Madison Square Garden, they stopped at an apartment house in the Thirties for Lahey’s friend, a middle-aged blonde with a substantial bosom.

“This is Rhonda. Rhonda, Doug.”

“I can’t believe I’m meeting you. I read you all the time.”

“Thank you. You’re a sports fan?”

“I used to live with a football player, but I can’t tell you his name on account of because he was married. You won’t write that up, will you?”

“No problem.”

“Isn’t this exciting?” she said. “Wrestling!”

Doug subscribed to nineteen periodicals. He had hours of decent reading waiting for him at home, and instead he was going to wrestling matches. They were seated down front but out of immediate range of the falling and tossed bodies, chairs, managers. Rhonda was shrieking with excitement. Lahey was pointing out the finer points, making up names of wrestling holds as he went along in order to impress her.

“It’s the double back lock, darling.”

“Isn’t that the Heimlich maneuver?” Doug said and then slid lower into his seat. He had slept uneasily the previous night and was close to nodding off, thinking dreamily about Antonino Rocca, the star wrestler when Doug was a boy, whom Doug watched on the off-brand Sky King seven-inch set his parents bought on time, and he didn’t know then that the matches were fixed. Maybe it’s better to be like Rhonda.

“What do you think?” Lahey asked as Rhonda went to the ladies room.

“It’s Roller Derby without the skates.”

“You could use that. But I was asking what you thought of Rhonda.”

“I like her. To come here and find something to cheer about. But where does this leave Caria?” Caria was Lahey’s previous woman.

“I’m still seeing her, too. You know how it goes—”

“I don’t. My social life is not that intricate.”

If only it were. If only I were dating Jacqueline Bisset and Julie Christie at the same time. No, one of them would be enough. Either one. They both have good diction. We wouldn’t go for wrestling, we’d go for Chinese. Or I could make tuna croquettes at home. This was one of his main short-order dishes for the children, loaded with protein. These successful actresses, they’ve had enough exotic food in their lives. The children could be there, too, at the outset, part of the appeal, a solid father, a good short-order cook. He had seen a picture of one of the actresses recently. She was at a European film festival with a good-looking guy, the kind of European guy who probably has women all the time. Were Jackie and Julie accustomed to European guys? He wondered if he could last long enough to satisfy them. Or Rhonda. How did Rhonda get into this? Like FM drift, the signals were sliding, his fantasies blurring. The last person he slept with was a dress buyer, a health food aficionada he had met through his friend Jeannie. They were together a few nights, they ate in health food restaurants, and at home she made steamed vegetable dinners, no butter, no salt. Everything was theoretically healthy about the affair and bland like the vegetables. “Recreational sex” the magazines were calling noncommittal couplings. “Interchangeable sex” was more accurate to Doug in describing these unfulfilling little affairs that don’t lead anywhere. He was interrupted from his reverie by the noise in the arena from the main event pitting Mega-Killer Chandler and Bronco Billy Chandler in “The first fight to the death between blood brothers.” The match ended when Mother Superior Chandler, the boys’ mother, a wrestler herself, wearing a nun’s habit, entered the ring and vanquished the forces of evil, knocking out both her sons.

Doug had done his research, he decided he was not going to file a column on these burlesque routines. As Doug, Lahey, and Rhonda made their way up the aisle, Doug was approached by Raymond Morri, a boxing promoter, a short, stout man in his 50s.

“Doug Gardner, just the man I wanted to see. I got myself a wrestler. You remember the Swedish Angel?”

“I do. There was even a later Swedish Angel, as I recall. Sort of Swedish Angel Two.”

“He’s in that mold. You gotta do a piece on this guy. He’s fabulous.”

They reached the lobby and Morri was still promoting.

“He’s five feet five and weighs about four hundred pounds. I call him the Swedish Meatball.”

“The Swedish Meatball. A fitting end to this evening.”

“When can we set up an interview?”

“I’m going to pass on this. But I’ll send it along if we ever get a food editor.”

He received a note in the mail from Susan; her new company was having start-up problems with slow-paying accounts and they had missed their first two payrolls. Could Doug pay the bill enclosed for the children’s winter jackets? She would make it up at a later date. He wrote back and told her he would pay for the jackets and she could reimburse him for her share when she had the money. Three hundred ninety-five dollars for two ski jackets. He had gone through several childhood winters in a twenty-five-dollar navy peacoat.

He took the children to buy sneakers on a Saturday morning, one pair each, and a few pairs of socks, and the bill was over a hundred dollars. Susan generally took them clothes shopping, Doug was the sneakers-and-shoes man. This dated back to the children’s younger days when buying shoes was a difficult process in overcrowded shoe stores and you had to cajole them into being calm. He always had patience with them. He could lose himself in their world, in their bedtimes, bathtimes, the bubbles and ducks. He thought he might have been better at that, at being a father, than he was at anything else.

On Saturdays at eleven in the morning Karen attended a gymnastics class for a couple of hours and Andy usually read or did homework. On this clear, cool day, after they bought the sneakers, Karen went off to her class and Andy suggested he and Doug take a football into Central Park. Although he was uninterested in athletics, occasionally Andy would make such a suggestion. They went out to the park. As they threw the football, Andy’s passes were erratic and he caught awkwardly. Nearby, another father and son began to play, the boy several years younger than Andy and smaller. The boy threw swift, accurate passes and caught the ball fluidly. Andy’s face was downcast, Doug reading him as saying, “I wish I could do that. I wish I could do that for you, Dad.” No, not for me. This should only be for you. He wanted to gather his 15-year-old in his arms, embarrass him with kisses, hold him as he did when he was little. I don’t care. I love you more than you could know. You don’t have to be a ballplayer for me.

Doug’s closest friends were Jeannie Martins and his lawyer, Bob Kleinman. The three had met when they had shares in a singles summer house in Amagansett. They had stayed in contact with each other through single life and married life and, after their divorces, through single life again. Bob Kleinman specialized in legal disputes between law firms and between individual lawyers. He was Doug’s age, overweight; the constant adversarial nature of his work seemed to be written in his face and he tended to be sullen and suspicious. He had been married to Helena, a matrimonial lawyer and a feminist. When they were divorced, Bob created a master plan for his next wife. After a year he found her, Sarah Steinmetz, who had taught in a synagogue nursery school but believed a higher calling for a Jewish woman was to be the wife to a man like Bob, the mother of his children and the provider of his hot meals. Bob sat through the lighting of candles he had never bothered with, and the observance of Jewish holidays he had never heard of, to gain a male-dominant position in his household so complete Doug imagined one would have to go to the animal kingdom to find its equivalent.