Nantucket Sawbuck (12 page)

When he got home, he poured himself a little vodka over ice, squeezed some lemon into it, and took a sip. The effect was instantaneous. He shoots, he scores. He took one more swallow, set the glass aside and picked up the telephone.

It didn't take long to find out what had happened. His third call was to Elaine Bailey. He could tell from the tentative way she said, “Hi, David,” that he had guessed right.

“What's going on, Elaine?”

“I was going to call you. But it's just been so frantic at the office. We had to let Teddy go and Doris is out on maternity leave, so…well, it's been a madhouse down there.”

“You probably made a million dollars this month. So don't complain. It's unseemly.”

“I'm not complaining, I'm just saying. We're way behind with everything right now.”

“Are you pulling your ads?”

“David—” The apologetic whine told him everything.

“The insert, too?”

“I don't really have a choice. We do a lot of business with the LoGran corporation. A lot of business. And not just sales, though the sales have been huge. They refurbish these houses and rent them out to corporate customers at premium rates and we have the leasing contract also. We're the sole agent for an enormous project I really can't talk about right now.”

“The Moorlands Mall.”

That stopped her. “No one knows about the mall.”

“Now they do. Didn't you see the paper today?”

“No, I didn't, I haven't had time to do any—this was in your newspaper, David?”

“It's news.”

“It's a secret.”

“How long have you lived here? Thirty years? And you expected to keep a secret?”

“Who told you?”

“I don't reveal my sources.”

“I could force you to tell me. I could sue you. It's a new era. You can't cover up for people anymore. People get arrested for that now. And they get convicted. That WikiLeaks soldier is cowering naked in solitary confinement
as
we speak.”

David took a deep breath and another swallow of vodka. The last thing he needed to do was antagonize Elaine Bailey.

“Listen, Elaine. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned the Moorlands Mall project. I'm certainly not going to write anymore about it in the paper.” He was lying and he knew it, but the lie just squirted out. He didn't care, he wasn't thinking about ethics. He just hoped she'd believe him.

“Not good enough” she said.

“It's the best I can do.”

“People always say that when they know they've done badly.”

David took a breath. “I'll be honest with you, Elaine. The paper is hanging on by a very thin thread right now. We don't have the classified ad revenue because our circulation is too low, so we need every advertiser, every member of the business community who thinks it's important to have an alternative voice on the island that isn't afraid to—”

“David. Please. I don't need to hear your stump speech. If an ‘alternative voice' really was so important, people would be
buying your paper.
And you wouldn't have any circulation problems. Frankly I'd been questioning the value of our financial commitment to the paper long before Preston spoke with me. It's simply not a cost-effective way to position ourselves.”

“Maybe not now. But the paper is growing, and the idea was, we'd grow together so that we could—”

“I run the largest independent real estate firm in southeastern Massachusetts, David. I don't need to grow with you. Perhaps you need to find some struggling new firm who can share your adventuring spirit. You'll have plenty of room in the paper from now on.”

“I won't have a paper from now on if you pull out!”

The sentence was a high-pitched shriek.

Elaine waited a moment, as if to let the reverberations of his hysteria die down. “Well, perhaps that's for the best.”

“Elaine—”

“It's late, David. I have to go. Good luck. And take care of yourself.”

“You've already done that, bitch,” he said to a dial tone. Why did people always say “Take care of yourself” when it was painfully obvious that they didn't give a shit?

He hung up the phone, and leaned back into the frayed sleeper sofa. It smelled like the inside of a laundry hamper. The little apartment was a mess. He closed his eyes. There had to be some way out of this. Bailey Real Estate was his biggest single advertiser. He'd need at least three new accounts to fill the gap. But he'd already been everywhere and tried everyone. They were all very encouraging and supportive. But he didn't need them to be supportive, whatever that meant. He needed their support. He needed their ad revenues. He needed their money. And he wasn't getting it.

Bailey Real Estate's monthly check was due in the next few days. Without it he wouldn't be able to meet payroll. He could dip into his savings to keep things going, but eventually he'd be broke and in the same situation he was in now. He thought of Orson Welles in
Citizen Kane,
responding to the fact that his newspaper was running at a deficit, costing him a million dollars a year. “Hmmm,” he said, “At that rate I'll have to close in just…sixty years.” David could go two months, that was the difference. After that, he'd be bankrupt. He didn't know what to do. There was nothing to do. He poured himself a second drink. After the third one he managed to shut his mind off and go to sleep.

Patty's phone call woke him at eight thirty the next morning. He would normally have been up for hours. The vodka must have gotten to him. He felt sluggish. His head ached. He hadn't woken up with a hangover in years. He reached for the clock, but he couldn't turn the alarm off. He finally realized it was the phone, and picked it up on the fourth ring, just as his answering machine activated. The call would be recorded, for what that was worth.

“That's it. I've had it,” Patty said into his ear: no greeting, no pretense of civility. “You can flaunt your sex life all over town if you feel you have to, but not in front of my children.”

He sat up in bed. “What?”

“There are laws against this shit, David. We're still married, technically. You're traumatizing my children and I won't stand for it.”

David was waking up. “Your children? You have kids you haven't told me about?”

“You can turn your life into a porn movie, you can do whatever you like now, but I won't have them exposed to it.”

“But exposing them to you and Grady is fine.”

“Oh, so that's what this is about. If you're just trying to get revenge on me for Grady, you're deluded. I couldn't care less what you do with that disgusting pig. Just don't tell me she's the love of your life because we both know that's ridiculous.”

“I don't do that ‘love of my life' stuff anymore, Patty.”

“You should take a good long look at yourself. Grady and I have a real relationship. We have mutual respect and common interests and passion and—”

“And I'm sure the kids find it very uplifting when they catch you smooching in the kitchen.”

“How did you—?”

“Just a guess. But clearly a good one.” He was waking up now. “You know, Patty, you really are the queen of the double standard. Nothing applies to you, nothing sticks to you. Nothing counts when you do it. You make the rules and you're above the rules. Well, not anymore. You don't scare me anymore. There's nothing you can do to me, so stop dancing around making scary faces. You just look like an idiot.”

“I certainly can do something to you, David. I can take the kids away from you. And that's exactly what I'm going to do. I'm suing for full custody and no visitation rights.”

“Good luck then, because you won't get it and you don't even want it. You're the one who calls me up screaming when you have to have them for
an extra night,
or I screw up your love nest by having to work through the weekend. In case you've forgotten that was
three weeks ago,
when I was getting out the Christmas Stroll supplement.”

“Fine. I admit it will make things harder for me. There'll be some sacrifices, but I don't care.”

“Oh really? When was the last time you made a sacrifice? When you had to settle for just one pair of shoes on sale?”

“At least I dress appropriately. I don't wear blue jeans to work”

“I have to go.”

“Fine. You'll be hearing from my lawyer.”

David hung up the phone, climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom. The headache got worse when he stood up. His stomach was upset, too, but it wasn't from the booze. He knew this feeling: anger as acid indigestion. Patty's accusatory whine was in his blood like two cups of bad coffee. He drank a full glass of water at the sink. As he turned to lift the toilet seat, there was a knock on the door. He took a few steps and stuck his head out of the bathroom. The top half of the front door was glass.

There was a cop standing there, squinting, his hand to the dirty pane, trying to see inside.

A cop. Just as Lomax had predicted. No, no, not predicted. Arranged.

He stood up straight and took a breath. It didn't matter. He had nothing to hide. He walked to the front door and opened it A gust of cold air cut through his robe and his pajamas. Accumulated snow that had been piled against the door fell in on his feet.

“Can I help you?”

“David Trezize?”

“Yes.”

“We've had some calls—can I come in?”

“Of course.”

The cop stepped inside and unbuttoned his coat. David had forgotten to turn the heat down last night.

“Mr. Trezize, I'm here this morning because we've had reports about physical abuse. Apparently, you struck one of your children and pushed the other one down during an altercation in the Stop & Shop parking lot two days ago. When the children started crying you told them forcibly to be quiet and continued to—”

“That's absurd. I'm sorry, Officer, but I mean really—I would never do something like that.”

“The report goes on to say—”

“I don't care what the report says. Who made this report? Who told you this shit?”

“I'm going to have to ask you to watch your language, sir. The report was anonymous.”

“One report?”

“That's right sir. Now we have to make a full investigation of—”

“I beat up my kids in the most crowded parking lot on Nantucket and
one person
called in a report. Just one. Doesn't that strike you as a little weird?”

“Not at all, Sir. We generally figure that for every call we get, there are ten people who choose not to get involved for whatever reason.”

“So now there are eleven ‘witnesses' to something that didn't happen because you automatically multiply any crank call by ten? I can't believe this. Listen to me: I could never hit my kids. I don't even yell at my kids. I'm a New Age pussy who doesn't believe in discipline. Ask my ex-wife.”

“We fully intend to interview your ex-wife, Mr. Trezize. And your children. But from what I can see just talking to you, you clearly have some serious anger issues. And you've been drinking.”

“I had some vodka last night,” David said, slowing his voice down, speaking softly. “There's nothing illegal about that. Come on. My children weren't even with me.”

The cop seemed to physically ease off, leaning back a little. “All right, Mr. Trezize, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. After we talk with your family, if they confirm your story, we'll let it go. But I still have to file a report, and if there's even one more complaint against you, the DSS will have to open a full investigation. This is very serious. You could lose your kids and wind up in jail.”

“With no proof? What happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty'?”

“Well, that's a luxury the state can't afford, Sir. When the health and well being of the children are involved.”

David stared at him. “What if you're wrong? What if you made a mistake?”

“The Department of Social Services would institute full restitution at that time. But it rarely happens. Where there's smoke, there's fire, Mr. Trezize. That's been my experience. You be careful now. Have a good day.”

He turned and walked back to his blue and white cruiser. It criminalized David's yard, just sitting there. David watched the cop pull out and drive away. The day was still and bitterly cold. For some reason he didn't move. He felt as if he could stop time by standing here. As long as he didn't think about anything or feel anything he could maintain the stasis. He was a figure in a diorama, a member of some extinct tribe, posed stiffly, going about his ancient daily business, everything beyond his driveway artfully painted to give the illusion of three dimensions: “The Lost Middle Class of Nantucket” exhibit in the Natural History Museum.

David shut the front door and leaned against it. His feet were frozen and his head was on fire. He had to do something, some action was necessary now, but all he could think of was socks. He needed to put on some socks.

He climbed the narrow stairs and rummaged in the top drawer of his dresser for the thick pair of woolen socks Patty had given him for Christmas two years ago. He grabbed it and sat down carefully on the bed. He tried to put the right one on with his legs crossed, but in that position his foot was sideways and he couldn't line up the heel properly. He tried twice. Finally he gave up and propped his foot on the edge of mattress. It slid off the sheet. He was going to have to lean all the way over. It wasn't worth it. Everything was impossible.

Part of him wanted to find Lomax, grab him, scold him, shame him.

He sat up suddenly, rubbing his palms along flannel of his pajama pants. He could do it. Lomax was throwing the traditional Nantucket end-of-the-job celebration party for the tradesmen, where the worker bees got to dress up and mingle with the one percent. David hadn't been invited, but so what? It would be the perfect place to confront the troll: under his own bridge, with all his cronies around him.