Fire & Water (38 page)

I looked over the top of Ryan’s head to find Mary K spreading brie and caviar on a cracker. She caught my eye. “Thanks for coming,” I said.

“What? I’m going to turn down a private jet to New York, my own room in a penthouse suite in Bloom Tower, and a chance to watch the Mets whip the Yankees from box seats? Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski didn’t raise a fool.”

When Aaron Bloom had gotten wind of Jake’s installation, he’d begun his shower of offers. Jake, vulnerable and alone, had reconnected with his father and accepted his gifts on our behalf. New York was a place especially fraught with hazards for Jake. Aaron Bloom’s presence loomed as large as the towering buildings he’d erected in his own name. The press would swarm. Expectations following Jake’s two-year hiatus would be enormous.

I reluctantly agreed to go, just wanting Ryan to see her dad doing something positive.

I could not face New York and Jake alone. He’d agreed to stay at another of his father’s hotels, but I needed Mary K with me as my wingwoman. With her there, I’d be safe from the hypnotic poppy field of my love for Jake. Ryan had finally settled into our new, lopsided homeostasis. Her tantrums had ebbed. She’d grown accustomed to seeing Jake only with either Burt or me present. She’d made new friends and was functioning way above grade level in all of her subjects. Much like Mary K’s prosthesis, the new artificiality of our arrangement had become our norm. But Jake and I still suffered the acute phantom pain of what we’d lost.

Through the window of the jet, I spied the Statue of Liberty surrounded by the mercury-colored waters, her muscled arm unwearied by the weight of the torch she held. I’d seen her on my first trip to New York when Mary K and I had retrieved Ben Casey so many years before. Lady Liberty had seemed so powerful and noble when I’d seen her at eighteen. But at thirty-three, I saw her as utterly alone, suffering the cruelty of the elements.

Our pilot’s announcement pulled me from my thoughts. “We have clear skies, so enjoy the ride as we take a smooth wide curve around the island of Manhattan before we head toward the airport. We’ll arrive in about thirty minutes. As you can tell, we’re just beginning our descent.”

No
,
I thought.
My descent began a very long time ago
.

* * *

Morning cartoons and Ryan’s squeals from the main parlor of the hotel suite stabbed like so many needles through my skull. My head pounded me with insults. Both the plane and the hotel suite had been outfitted with full bars, and I’d taken advantage.

Mary K entered my room with a loud kick to the door, carrying a newspaper and delicate china cup smelling of coffee. She sat on the edge of my bed, eyed me through her thick glasses, and took a noisy slurp from the cup. “I favor a sturdy mug to this daintiness, but the grog’s pretty good.”

I sat up and squinted at the cup. “I thought that might be for me,” I croaked past the dust in my throat.

“Them that drink themselves to sleep fetch their own morning coffee.”

“Since when did you get so self-righteous?”

“Just acknowledging a fact. Seems you’ve been hitting it pretty hard. You were higher than our airplane for most of the flight.”

Fighting with the snarl of blankets, I sat on the edge of the bed. “When I want to wake up to a lecture from Nancy Reagan, I’ll let you know. If you’re not bringing coffee, why are you spoiling the raucous time I could be having alone with my hangover?”

“Jesus, you’re pitiful. Here.” Mary K held out her cup.

The coffee offered its sympathies with its rich aroma. “We shouldn’t have come.”

“That’s just your hangover talking,” she said. “The kid should see her dad’s work. He’s a major fucking artist, after all. Now get your ass in the shower, because you look like shit and I’m not going to be seen with you. New York is my town. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

I looked my friend in the eyes. I’d longed for years for her to see Jake as I did, to notice his talent and his qualities as a father. Part of me wanted to tell her about the putrid plan that had begun to take shape. But how could I? How could I look into those steady eyes and confess that I was thinking of ending the life of the father of my child? That I’d already amassed enough narcotics to do the job? I could make no one my accomplice. “You’re something, you know. I never know whose side you’re going to be on.”

Mary K stood and walked toward the door. “It’s simple. I’m always on your side, Murphy.” Her lips formed a crooked smile. “Look, I’ll take Ryan out for the morning. Show her some sights. Give you a little time to fix the disaster you’re wearing on your face. Show opens at three. We’ll be back by two.”

I gave a grateful, if painful, nod, and Mary K was out the door.

* * *

After my shower my head still drummed, my brain trying to fight its way out of my skull. Coffee, a lavish room service breakfast tray, and a half-hour of quiet brought me back to feeling near human again. I wrapped myself in a plush, white, terry cloth robe with
Bloom
embroidered in gold on the breast pocket and settled myself on the silk sofa with the Sunday
New York Times.

Jake’s photo gazed up at me from the front page of the Culture section, which featured a huge article about him and the “Wounded Mother” exhibit’s opening. Jake’s works seldom had titles, and this one intrigued me. I knew the photograph well. Burt had taken the brooding, black-and-white image for Jake’s exhibit in British Columbia, just before Ryan was born. Jake’s handsome face and soulful eyes made him appear mysterious and haunting.
It’s so artsy
,
I’d said. But now I saw it with new eyes. Jake’s pain. His potential for rage. His darker self lurking beneath the handsome, photogenic image. Burt had seen it all and, with a single click, had preserved it. The Jake I saw back then had helped me discover love and passion. The Jake I understood more fully now had taught me about love’s agony and heartache.

The article featured Jake as New York’s prodigal son, returned home for his fatted calf of adoration. It lauded his importance to the world of art and the city’s good fortune in hosting his reemergence. The article’s writer alluded cryptically to “troubled times” in Jake’s early adulthood, but framed him as “settled and secure” since marrying and becoming a father. Aaron Bloom’s press secretary had done his job well.

I lay my head back onto a luscious, down-filled sofa pillow. No sooner had I done so than a knock came at the door. Maybe Mary K had forgotten something—couldn’t find her key. Or room service was arriving with yet another “compliments of the hotel” basket.

When I saw Burt’s ginger beard and ruddy face through the peephole, it felt as if my whole body smiled. The distortion of the lens gave him a funhouse look that made me laugh out loud. “Burty!” I cried as I opened the door. “What a surprise. I thought you’d be running around like a madman today, working all your magic for the exhibit.”

Burt wrapped his burly arms around me and delivered a squeeze that left no doubt I’d been properly hugged. He kissed me on the forehead. “Nothing left for this madman to do, I’m afraid. No need for my tricks. It seems Jake-O has taken over the whole bully thing. Running with his own muse without me. I’m the lame duck, after all. Thought I might have a visit with you and Ryan instead of wringing my hands all day.”

“Ryan and Mary K are out on the town until early afternoon. But I’d love a visit. Come on in,” I said, realizing we were having a conversation in the doorway. “Have a coffee with me.” I grabbed his beefy hand and pulled him toward the couch. “What do you mean, lame duck?”

The spacious sofa looked dainty under Burt’s massive form. The coffee cup was miniature in his hand. “This will be my last Jake Bloom installation.” Burt’s voice was a mix of melancholy and excitement. “We decided together. Jake saw my paintings, and well—” Burt’s face reddened even further. “Said he’d feel guilty keeping me as his sidekick now that he’d really recognized my talent. Said I should be fully devoted to my own art.” He raked his fingers through his beard and looked up at me with a sheepish shrug. “A little grandiose, that one.” Burt reached toward the food tray on the coffee table and plucked a grape from the stem, popping it into his mouth.

“He’s right, you know. It’s your time, Burty.”

“So the new assistant has managed most of this. Jake hasn’t let me see a thing, so I’ll get to be a spectator just like the rest, I suppose.” Burt tipped his head toward the raspberry Danish on my tray. “You having that?”

“Help yourself.”

Our conversation was a warm blanket. He peppered me with questions about Ryan and laughed at the story of her losing two teeth in the planetarium. I got caught up on all the news about his family in Australia. His dad was getting on well, adjusting after losing his wife of fifty years. His youngest sister was having a new baby soon. He missed them all, but was glad to be back in the States. “Over here an Aussie accent is a novelty,” he said with a laugh. “There, I’m just another big-footed oaf from Sydney.”

He munched the Danish, crumbs landing on his beard, then dug into the chocolate croissant. He ate like a giant child, licking his fingers and wearing sugary pleasure on his face. Thoughts of Jake pierced the warmth of the moment. “How’s he doing?” I asked.

Burt stopped eating, wiped his face with a napkin, and turned toward me, but cast his eyes downward. “He misses you. And Ryan.”

My heart grew leaden. “Can I ask you something?” His open face invited my question. “Why didn’t you tell me about Jake’s history when we were in Japan?”

“I’ve asked myself that so many times. At first, I thought it wouldn’t last, so why spill the beans? Then, I could see that he was different around you. It was his chance at happiness. How could I spoil it? When it looked serious, I thought I should warn you. But I just couldn’t do what Aaron Bloom had always done.” I waited while he coaxed the words from their hiding place. “I might have prevented so much pain if I’d told the truth.”

“I’m afraid about leaving him,” I confessed. “Afraid of what might happen.”

“No,” he said, waving his hands to stop my words. “Don’t begin with the
what ifs
.
What if
is a dangerous, roundabout road to absolutely nowhere. I’ve gone round and round it myself. I think I’ve stayed right at Jake’s side for all these years because I was afraid. As if somehow, if I was just a good enough friend to him, I could save him from himself.” Burt pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose with a honk that instantly reminded me of my dad.

“Train’s in,” I said. We smiled at each other.

“I realize now that Jake will do what Jake will do. All of that control I thought I had was just an illusion after all. If love alone could protect him, I gave him enough. You gave him enough. Ryan gave him enough. It’s not in our control, Kate. You just have to do what you know in your heart is right. You’ve got Ryan to think about.”

“None of it seems fair somehow.”

“Nothing fair about it, Love.”

We sat together in silence for a while, occasionally sipping our coffee. I coaxed Burt to tell me about his paintings. He asked about my family and my work, and about Ryan’s progress in therapy. “I don’t know if I’ve ever thanked you well enough for all you’ve done,” I said. “It’s meant a lot to know someone truly understands. And Ryan, well, she adores you. You’ve done so much for her.” I suddenly ran out of words and tears pooled in my eyes. “Will you look at me,” I croaked. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re lovely,” he whispered.

My heart began to pound and my mouth went dry. A rush of sensations passed over me like an electric current, leaving me feeling both weak and exhilarated at the same time. Under the image of this comical giant was a man I’d come to admire. A sweet, kind, generous, smart, talented man. Though I’d never thought of it, I’d always seen Burt as some kind of extension of Jake.
His
friend.
His
supporter.
His
manager. Out from under Jake’s shadow, I could see the gentle glow of Burt’s own light.

With a movement so swift that neither of us had time to think, I was no longer on the opposite end of the couch. I tucked myself into the gentle nest of Burt’s strong arms. I felt delicate and small, cradled by him. For one split second, I let myself read the confusion on his face, but I ignored it and brought my lips to his. At first, it was only me doing the kissing, a monologue of sorts. Burt sat statue-like, neither responding nor pushing me away. But then his lips softened. He began to return each kiss with one of his own design—tentatively at first, and then the monologue transformed into a conversation, a tender exchange of affection discovered in that instant. His beard was softer than I’d imagined, and I could feel the thrum of his heart beating against my own. The taste of sugar on his lips made me want to laugh, but the strength of his arms around me made me feel that it would be all right to cry, too. He could hold me. All of me.

We pulled back from each other at the same time and looked into each other’s eyes as though we needed to see—really see—one another.

“Kate, I—”

I stopped his words with another kiss. It did not seem the time for words.