Through the Heart (14 page)

“I was thinking we might grab a table today instead of eating at the bar,” Marcus said.

I knew what that meant. His wife was going to join us.

I said, “I can’t stay for dinner tonight.”

“Come on, Tim. You always do this.”

“If I always do this, then why are you surprised?” I asked him.

“You’re my best friend. I would like you to get along with my wife at least well enough to have dinner with her.”

“Okay, if it was your idea, I’ll stay,” I said. “Was it?”

Any other guy would have lied to get what he wanted. But Marcus just smiled and shrugged. “Okay, escape if you want.”

“Why do you let her push you around like this? You know women don’t respect men they can boss around.”

“So now I should take marital advice from the perpetual bachelor?”

He had a point.

“The thing is, women like to be included every once in a while in the guy events, otherwise they get suspicious,” he said.

“I wouldn’t put up with it.”

“That’s obvious. And that’s also why you’re a lonely, miserable bastard,” he told me.

“Better than a smug bastard,” I said.

Marcus had just gotten married the year before. Even I had to admit that his wife was perfect: American father, French mother, grew up in Europe, summers in the States, gorgeous, smart as a whip, and a successful artist. Her paintings sold for a fortune. Exotic, talented, completely self-possessed—and there was no way in hell I was having dinner with her and Marcus.

“She’s going to think you don’t like her.”

“I don’t care what she thinks,” I said.

“I have to tell you, Tim, I don’t envy the women who date you.”

“I’d be worried if you did.”

“Very funny. But I actually think that’s part of the reason Celia wanted to come.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, she feels left out of our Fridays, so a couple of weeks ago I told her some of the stories—”

I groaned. “No, tell me you didn’t.”

“What?” He pretended like he didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Marcus, what did you tell her?”

“Nothing really. Just some stories. Like that blonde last month who came up to us—”

“Oh, good Lord.”

“It’s okay. I’m not even sure Celia believed me. I think she wanted to see for herself.”

“That’s it. There’s no way I’m going to be put on display like some sort of zoo creature,” I told him. I stood up just as the bartender came back with my beer.

“You’re not even staying for one beer?” he asked.

There was something about the way Marcus was looking at me. I sat back down.

“Okay. I’ll stay for one beer.”

His face cleared, and he said, “Good, because I wanted to tell you about the rumor I heard today.”

“What’s up?”

Working on the trading floor, Marcus always did have the best stories.

“I don’t even know if I believe it. And there were no names attached, but I heard someone has been fudging the books and is about to get busted. And I’ve heard it’s big.”

“How big?”

“Billions.”

“Billions? Someone is pulling your leg.”

“Maybe. But the source is pretty solid.”

“Who is it?”

He just smiled.

“Come on, spill it,” I said.

I think I would have gotten it out of him, but Celia arrived before he could finish. I had my back to the entrance, but I knew she’d come in from the faces of the men farther down the bar who were facing the door.

Marcus got up from his seat. He still did that—got up when a woman arrived or left. I stayed seated. She came around me and kissed Marcus. Then she turned to me and gave me a frosty smile. “Hello, Timothy.”

“Hello, Celia.”

She gave me an air kiss. “How are you?”

“Good. Good. You?”

“Not bad. Working on my next show. I have one at a new, bigger gallery coming up in the spring.”

“That’s great. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

She eyed me.

I smiled at her. It was a smile calculated to annoy her. And it worked. I saw it in the way her face froze.

Marcus did too.

“I was just telling Tim about a crazy rumor,” he said quickly

“Is that right?” she said, obviously not interested at all.

I said, “I have to get going, but, Marcus, you can tell me the rest of it on Monday.”

“So you’re going?” Celia said.

“Yeah, I’m heading out.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she said.

Marcus and I looked at each other—and he shrugged apologetically.

This is what it was like to be married. Where was true love, outside of books and movies and songs? If I was tempted to believe, all I had to do was look at Marcus. He thought he’d found the perfect woman. And I knew better.

 

—From
The Human Side of Homicide
by Bruce
L.
Danto,
John Bruhns, and Austin H. Kutscher

 

 

 

 

 

 

The disaster that was dinner with Timothy happened on Tuesday. The rest of the week was an eternity.

Then I came home on Friday to find Deirdre and my mother sitting in the kitchen. Together. And they weren’t fighting.

When I pushed open the door, they both looked up at me like I was the last person they expected to see. I don’t know who they thought it might be.

I was annoyed. I’ll admit it. I was annoyed, even though I’d been trying for the last three years to get my sister and my mother to sit in the same room without fighting. For the last three years, I seemed to be the only one who was aware of the fact that they might not have much more time left to spend time together. I would have thought I’d be ecstatic to walk in and discover my mother and my sister deep in conversation. But I wasn’t. The moment I walked in the room and saw them I realized I didn’t just want them to make up—I wanted to be the one who brought them together.

It didn’t help that my mother took one look at me, turned to Deirdre like
she
was her best friend, and said, “Call me later.” Then she stood up and left the room without another word or even a glance at me. Apparently, the time since Tuesday night didn’t feel like an eternity to my mother.

My sister said, “You’re home early.”

“Actually I’m not. This is the time I get home. I didn’t know you were coming. Where are the twins?”

Deirdre seemed almost embarrassed. She couldn’t quite look me in the eye when she said, “A friend of mine is looking after them. And, actually, I need to get back. It’s later than I thought. I lost track of the time.”

“You’re going now?”

“Yeah,” and she got up and pushed her chair in as if to prove it. “I just came by to see Mom,” she added awkwardly. “See how she was doing.”

The fact that she tried to explain what she was doing there only made me more suspicious. Deirdre never bothered to explain herself.

“That’s a first,” I said.

“So?” There was an edge to her voice—her way of warning me that if I kept on in this direction I was going to have trouble.

“I’m just saying it’s a new thing.”

“Maybe I’ve come before and you just didn’t know it.”

That made me stop and think for a second. It was true I had no idea what happened here during the day. And if I’d been five minutes later, and Deirdre had left, I never would have known she was there at all.

Then I remembered our conversation the Sunday before. I felt a little guilty that I’d been so immersed in my drama that I’d completely forgotten her problems. But once I remembered her money issues, I realized what Deirdre must have come back for.

“So did you find out if Mom has any money?” I asked.

“I didn’t come back for money.”

I didn’t believe her. “I thought you were about to lose your apartment.”

“Yeah, well, Boyd came through. He’s giving me enough to get by.”

“You were so sure he wouldn’t help.” It was my way of saying I didn’t believe her.

She shrugged. “I was wrong. So sue me.”

“So you didn’t ask Mom for any money at all?”

“Why do you want to know?”

We were both standing—since I’d never sat down and she had gotten up as if to leave—and now it felt like we were facing off. But for once I didn’t feel like backing down.

“Well, maybe because I’ve been footing the bill, I’m deep in debt, and I’m kind of curious if she was telling me the truth.”

Deirdre rolled her eyes as if that was just the most ridiculous thing she ever heard, but I guess she decided to humor me because she said, “Okay, fine, then yes, I asked her for money. But she told me the same thing she told you.”

“Did you believe her?”

Deirdre finally erupted. “God, I don’t know. I’ve got enough problems—I don’t need to worry about yours, okay?” Then, abruptly, “I’ve got to go.”

And that’s exactly what she did.

The weekend brought another trip to Kansas City for chemo session number six. But this one was a silent trip. I was still enemy number one, according to my mother.

Sunday was a wasteland.

I was waiting for Monday.

It came and went. And the week slid by

Another Monday came and went.

And another.

It got bitterly cold. The wind blew down from the Canadian steppe. We had our first snowfall, just a dusting. Then we had a real early season blizzard that closed down the streets for a day.

My mother started speaking to me again. I don’t even know when. It came as a gradual thawing as the world around us froze.

I didn’t see Dan, and I didn’t even have to avoid his car. I wondered briefly if he might be avoiding me now. But then I asked myself if I cared, and the answer was no, so I didn’t think about it again.

Life went back to normal. My heart had long stopped racing every time the door to the coffee shop opened. What had happened with Timothy was almost like a story in a book I’d read—he was like a character I’d dreamed of but who wasn’t quite real. Though isn’t that what all our loves are?

How can I call him a love? Love after five minutes in a diner and a painful hour sitting across a table from each other not speaking?

Well, why not?

 

 

 

 

 

At the first family dinner after I got back, the theme was red. My mother loved to match: red tablecloth, red napkins, red flowers, red wine, beet salad, rare steak, red velvet cake.

It wasn’t just the table and the flowers and the food. She also wore red. She was dressed in a red Chanel suit. And that wasn’t the end of the matching either. She also liked to match designers. Chanel suit meant Chanel shoes and Chanel belt and Chanel bag and Chanel scarf and Chanel coat.