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Authors: Evan Marshall

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BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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Chapter 30
T
here were six consecutive messages from Father on the answering machine when I returned to New York. First, he called to tell me what a great time he had last weekend. Then another asking if I was free this weekend. Then he called to ask why I wasn't calling him back. Next, he left a message saying that he remembered I was out of town for the weekend and to disregard his last message. The next one was to let me know he forgot if I was returning Sunday or Monday night, but that I should give him a call either way. Then, he called Sunday. “Okay, I guess it's Monday that you're due back. Call me when you get home.” Then Monday. “Must be a late flight you're coming in on. In any case, call me back, please.”
“Yes Father, what is it?” I said when he answered. “Is there an emergency?”
“No, I just wanted to talk to my little girl,” he said. “How was Los Angeles?”
“Okay. Listen, I've really got to unpack and get to sleep. I've got to be back at work in a few hours.”
“Can we get together this weekend, Prudence? We can hang out at your apartment again. Whatever you want.”
“Don't you have some sort of Easter egg hunt thing I'm coming to soon?”
“Prudence, that's nearly two months away.”
“Okay, let's catch a movie together in the first week of March, okay? No, wait, I can't do it then. How's the second week for you?”
“Prudence, I'm retired. Every week is good for me.”
I didn't like the sound of that. It was as if Father was only taking an interest in me now that it was easy to fit me into his schedule. This overture would have been appreciated a lot more if it were made during the height of his busy career.
“Every week is not good for me, Father. I happen to have an extraordinarily busy schedule,” I snapped.
“Prudence, I realize that. That is why I'm telling you to pick any date. My calendar is wide open for you.”
For me? Or just wide open?
“Okay, let's say the second week in March. I know that's a few weeks out, but it's the best I can do, okay Father?”
“You can't see me any sooner than that?” he asked.
“Please Father,” I clipped. “I enjoyed our day together, but this is too much for me right now.”
“Why, what's going on? Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Everything is fine,” I said. “I just, I don't know, it's just too much. Can you give me some space?”
“I thought that was my capital offense with you, Prudence. Giving you too much space.”
No need to get sarcastic about it.
“You've got to let me—” I stopped. “I don't know, Father. I've got a shitload of mail to open and I still need to unpack. Can we talk about this another time?!”
The next day during lunch, I went to the post office to close my box and pick up Reilly's mail. The matronly postal clerk remembered me from my first visit.
“We've been waiting for you to come around,” she said with both hands on her hips.
“Really? Why is that?” I asked. “Did I get any more letters?”
“You could say that,” she answered. She opened a door to the back room and shouted, “She's here!” She rolled three full crates of letters out on a moving dolly.
“Oh my God!”
“This isn't the half of it,” she said. Postal workers brought out box after box of letters to Reilly. “We had a pool to guess how many letters you got here. I won a hundred bucks last week for guessing closest to the actual number.”
“How many are there?” I asked.
“Twenty-eight hundred and forty-two,” she said. “I guessed twenty-eight fifty and Billy over there eyeballed 'em at three thousand.”
I stood in the lobby of the post office for my entire lunch hour tossing each letter into the trash can. I felt like as long as I was going to discard these people, I'd at least have the decency to look them straight in the envelope before doing it. I imagined each of these women sitting down writing hopefully to their anonymous Prince Charming. I found myself humming the old Beatles song, “All the lonely people, where do they all come from?” I felt a heaviness as I tossed their swirling script handwriting, their pink envelopes, their computer-generated labels into the trash can. But there were simply too many to respond to. I wondered how Reilly's ad from November was still generating so much interest. “Shit!” I said aloud as I remembered Jennifer telling me that the ad would continue running until I called the paper to cancel it. I was nearly hit by a taxi as I ran on my crutches across the street to the newsstand. I scanned
The Post, The Times,
even
Newsday
before I saw a copy of the
Village Voice.
Sure enough, the ad was still running.
When I returned to my office, I closed the glass door and dialed the phone number listed on the
Voice
masthead. Reilly's personal ad had run for four months now and yet I was treating it like a bomb about to detonate. With each ring of the phone, I became more anxious, more desperate to get Reilly's ad out of the paper. When the receptionist told me that Reilly's ad would no longer run, I was so relieved I didn't even flinch when she told me how much I owed. It wasn't the ad I was paying for; it was withdrawing it.
The ad never mentioned Reilly by name, and there weren't any recognizable details that would reveal his identity. But for the first time, I felt that my putting a personal ad in the paper on Reilly's behalf was a humiliation.
I dreaded the call I had to make to him. Surely, I could put it off until the next day, I thought. I was scheduled to have dinner with Jennifer that night and seeing her would give me the boost I needed before I had my first post-blowout conversation with Reilly.
When Jennifer showed up for dinner that evening, she wore an expression that told me her life had changed radically. She held up her left hand to show me her diamond ring from Adrian. “So bummed you missed the party,” she said. “Valentine's Day. I'm thinking chocolate and maybe some flowers, then boom, this.”
“That was quick,” I said.
Jennifer laughed as if to remind me that I, the queen of impulsive engagements, had no right to talk.
“Quick is good,” I said. “It shows you have no hesitation. I like this Adrian. He's my type of guy. When do I get to meet him?”
Jennifer explained that they already hosted an impromptu post-engagement party the night after the proposal, but that they were planning on a more formal affair at Adrian's house. “We're not going to lose you, are we?”
Our waiter poured ice water and told us about the chef's recommendations before realizing that we weren't paying any attention to him. The pianist played “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” on a black Steinway grand piano as a group gathered around and began singing along and pulling their imaginary train whistles. A woman in a dark business suit slipped a large bill in the player's brandy snifter of tips as she passed on her way to the rest room. A man I'd seen in the bar before requested “Mack the Knife” and began singing like he was standing at an old-fashioned radio microphone. He placed one hand in his pants pocket and swung the other from side to side as he kept the beat by snapping.
“Hey, does Adrian know you're not a movie buff?” I asked.
“He thought it was sweet,” she smiled. “Funny thing is that after going with him to all of these old flicks, turns out I really like them. An aspiring film buff with a clean conscience.”
Chapter 31
T
he next morning, I ate Reilly's stale Wheaties to toughen myself up for the much-dreaded phone call I had to make. I decided to call from home so I could enjoy a bit of privacy.
“Reilly Sheehan please,” I asked his assistant. I could tell she recognized my voice by her momentary hesitation.
“And whom may I say is calling?”
“His wife,” I said in a tone that let her know the next question out of her mouth had better not be,
“And may I tell him what this is regarding?”
Instead she said, “Please hold” and transferred me quickly. This was a woman who used to jabber away incessantly to me before she'd even bother to check if Reilly was in the office. Now, I was greeted with less warmth than she'd give an MCI salesperson pitching savings of three dollars a month on international calling. Admittedly, there wasn't much to like about my cheating on Reilly, but my effort to help him start a new life with someone else hadn't won me any leniency in the court of public opinion either.
“Good morning, Prudence,” Reilly said in a measured but cordial tone. “How are you this morning?”
“I'm okay, Reilly. How are you doing?”
“Well, you know how it is. The wife just left me for another man. Tried to auction me off to the highest bidder at a singles party while she thought I was out of the country. You know, the usual stuff,” Reilly said.
He certainly didn't sound friendly, but he also did not sound as bitter as I'd expected. It was almost as though he got a kick out of the whole situation until he remembered it was happening to him. “I'm glad you called,” he said.
“You are?”
“Yes, I was going to have you served with divorce papers today, but I can swing by the apartment later and do it myself. Save a few bucks. Would that be okay? I mean I won't be interrupting a Tupperware party or anything, will I? Oh that's right, you don't sell Tupperware, just old husbands.”
“Reilly that's not fair,” I defended. “I never tried to sell you. No money ever changed hands.”
“Yes, how insensitive of me to make that mistake,” he said. “I stand corrected. You tried to give me away. You tried to find me a loving home like I was some sort of cocker spaniel that peed on your carpet one too many times.”
“Are you sure you want to see me at all, Reilly?”
“More than I want to see you, I want you to see me and be forced to look right at the man you cheated on and lied to. I can't think of any worse punishment for you than to have to face me. Well, I can, but it would land me in prison, so I'll settle for the pleasure of watching you squirm with discomfort.”
That night, Reilly came to the apartment and went back and forth between hostility and civility toward me. “I'm sorry I was a bit harsh with you this morning. Not that you don't deserve it, but I don't have to stoop to be an asshole just because you are, Prudence.” He sat down on the couch and sighed with his face in his hands. “Every time I think about that night, my blood just boils. I've got to just stop thinking about it already.” Reilly wore jeans with a white shirt and tie, and held a white envelope that would sever our marriage. I don't know if it was his casual dress, or that I hadn't seen him in so long, but Reilly looked strikingly handsome that night.
Hunger softened Reilly for a moment and he accepted my invitation to grab a bite to eat while we went over the terms of the divorce. Who gets the apartment, how we divide our assets, all that fun stuff. As we walked down the staircase of our once-home together, I felt as giddy as if I were on a date with Reilly. At the same time, I was equally relieved that we were ending our marriage. Without Reilly, I felt lost. And free.
We sat at the dinner table at our favorite Italian restaurant, ordered a bottle of merlot and actually toasted to our divorce. “Reilly, it was a good marriage for a long time, and you were a great husband,” I said.
“You're not giving me the ‘it's not you, it's me' speech, are you?”
“But it
is
me,” I pleaded. “Can't you see how fucked up I am?”
“Actually, Prudence, I can. It's the only thing that keeps me from really hating you. Don't get me wrong, there are days I want to break down the door and kill you for what you did. I thought we were happy. You were running an escort service so you could dump me for another guy. It wasn't enough for you to divorce me, you had to humiliate me in the process. I'd better stop thinking about it because honestly I can't guarantee that I'm not going to jump across this table and strangle you right now.” He took a sip of water and resumed with a calmer tone. “I go through this every single day, Prudence. Every goddamned day I am enraged by you, I am humiliated by you, I am heartbroken by you. But after all this, one question kept lingering in my mind. And that was, What kind of person does this?”
He paused to take his first bite of salad. Then his second. It didn't seem as though he was going to finish his thought.
“And?” I said.
“And what?” he asked.
“And what did you come up with? What kind of person am I to have done this to you?”
“Oh,” he laughed. “A screwed-up person. I'm sorry, I thought that was clear. A very screwed-up person. But not an evil person. Just very screwed up, and I'm not trying to be nasty by saying this, but if this is who you are, I think I'm better off without you.”
Why bother lunging across the table to strangle me when you can kill me with your words? You don't even have to take a break from your salad this way.
“So, what happened to your leg anyway?” Reilly said in an obvious attempt to shift to neutral. When I told him about my ski accident, he seemed to take a bit of pleasure at the thought of my ankle snapping against the frozen earth. “Since when do you ski anyway, Prudence?” he laughed a bit.
“I was on vacation and decided to give it a try,” I said sheepishly, hoping this conversation would not continue its logical progression. “You know, Reilly, remember what you said back at the apartment, about needing to think about other things so your blood wouldn't boil every time you think about me?”
He nodded affirmatively.
“I don't think that's such a great idea,” I said. “I'd understand if you don't want my opinion on this, but can I give it to you anyway?”
He nodded again.
“Let your blood boil over what happened, Reilly. You've got every right to be angry at me. I mean, I really, really wasn't trying to hurt you, but I can see that I did. I think you really ought to get angry about it, and let yourself feel hurt over it. Don't try to think about something else instead.”
“I don't get it, Prudence,” he said. “You
want
me to hate you?”
“No, I don't. I want you to get over it, but I think the only way to get over your anger is to go through it first, you know?” I said. “I want you to hate me for a while so you don't have to forever. Does that make sense?”
Reilly smiled. “You know, it does. I hate that you're making sense. I prefer to think of you as totally off-the-wall. So much easier to be rejected by a mental case than by a woman who, once in a blue moon, says something somewhat insightful. One more thing to hate about you, Prudence. My list just keeps getting longer and longer.”
After we ordered our dinner, a familiar-looking blond woman and her mother passed by our table. The older woman wore a felt hat with a beaded peacock sewn on the left side. They both had the same hair, sloped noses and wide-set green eyes, making it clear they were related. The younger woman turned to our table and pointed at me as if she was trying to recall where she knew me from. “Cooking Without Recipes, right?” she said.
“Yes, yes, I thought you looked familiar,” I said to her. “Wasn't that teacher bizarre?”
“Oh my God, when she made you eat that bloody omelet, I thought I was going to hurl,” she said laughing. “Oh excuse me, this is my mother Renée Petersen. Mom this is, I'm sorry I can't remember your name.”
“Prudence, Prudence Malone, and this is Reilly,” I said, unsure of his title. I could see the chemistry that had sparked between them. Reilly looked at Sarah the same way he did me back when we were at Wharton together. Only this time he did not seem shy and awkward. Reilly looked confident, like he knew how to handle himself with a woman.
“I'm Sarah Petersen,” she said to me. Then to Reilly. Sarah had a lovely grace about her. She was tall and slim with a Norwegian look about her. Very exotic and yet elegant. I felt her wondering what the relationship between Reilly and me was. Which made three of us.
“Reilly is my soon-to-be–ex-husband,” I told Sarah matter-of-factly. “We're just going over the terms of our divorce. It's all very amicable. That's just the kind of guy he is. It's just impossible to hate him, even after what he put me through,” I winked.
Reilly shot me a look as if to say,
“Put away the commemorative mug.”
“Renée, Sarah, won't you join us for dinner? We just ordered our entrées three minutes ago,” I told them.
“Thank you for the offer, but we've just finished,” Sarah said. She lifted a small paper bag. “See, these are
my
leftovers.” How anyone could say a bitchy thing like that and have it come out sounding so completely charming was beside me. Reilly and I were simultaneously falling in love with her.
“What do you do, Sarah?” Reilly asked.
You go boy!
She pursed her lips together to keep from smiling too broadly. “I'm a freelance journalist.”
“Well, that's a bit modest, Sarah,” sounded Mom. “She writes for
Business Week, Fortune, Forbes, The Economist
and wrote for
Success
before they went under. No fault of Sarah's, of course.”
“Mom, I've
never
written for
The Economist
,” Sarah corrected.
“That's right, you wrote about one. Sorry, I get confused with all of these financial magazines. She writes for the
Wall Street Journal
too.”
“Mom's my agent,” Sarah rolled her eyes.
“Reilly is actually an international business consultant,” I added. “Yes, he's at Sheehan, Walsh and Warren. They do—”
“You don't have to tell me what Sheehan, Walsh and Warren does,” Sarah interrupted before turning her attention back to Reilly. “You guys are legendary after what you guys did for Cheung Kong after the Hong Kong property market collapsed in '98. People are still talking about how you got a meeting with Li through Tung Che-wa, then floored him by giving your entire pitch in Cantonese. Wait, you're not Reilly Sheehan, are you?”
Eighty-seven dates and a gallery exhibit, and all I had to do was take Reilly out to divorce dinner to find a woman for him?
“Wow, well now I'm even more sorry that we're done with dinner. I'd love to talk with you more about where you see Hong Kong going in light of China entering the WTO.”
Did you hear that Reilly? Did you hear how she said she's “even more sorry” than before. She was sorry before because she was missing out on dinner with such a cutie, but now she's “even more” sorry. That's code, baby. And let me translate—She wants you!
 
 
Reilly walked me back to the loft with a lot less hostility than he had on the walk to the restaurant. He muted his smile and turned to me. “Don't even think you orchestrated this, Prudence,” he said. “You're not claiming credit for my meeting Sarah. You cannot walk away from this thinking your plan all worked out in the end, do you hear me? This was a coincidence, nothing more.”
“Reilly, why can't our story have a happy ending?”
“Because what you did was screwed up.
You
are screwed up, Prudence,” he shouted.
“So! The screwed up deserve only misery? Who needs a happy ending more than the screw-ups of the world?”
Reilly put my arm around his shoulder and told me it was simply because he couldn't stand watching me hobble anymore. “We are not friends, Prudence. We will never be friends, do you hear me? I just happen to be in a charitable mood.”
“Reilly, she's all over you. Call her tomorrow like you said you would. Don't play the wait-three-days game.” And then I remembered, he never did.
“You are not off the hook, Prudence Malone. I'm not kidding. You can never undo what you did to me, do you understand? I think you are a liar, a cheater and an absolute nut case. I could kill you and a jury would feel sorry for me because I had to spend eleven years with a screwed-up bitch like you.”
“That's it baby, feel the rage,” I said, swatting his leg lightly with my crutch.
BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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