Indiscretion (21 page)

Angela has hailed a taxi, and the driver has already put their bags in the trunk. She kisses Johnny, her eyes ringed with tears, pressing his small form to her.
“Addio bel ragazzo.”

It is time to leave. Maddy doesn’t want to start crying again. “Leonardo da Vinci airport,
per favore
,” she says. They will buy tickets there. Johnny huddles close to her in the car. “When will Daddy join us?”

“Shhh,” she says. “Soon, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

The industrial suburbs flash by as in a dream. She inspects small things. The back of the driver’s seat. The veins on her hand. The strands of hair on her son’s head. The thin fibers mesmerize her. It is the same as when her father used to beat her; she would stare at his shoes, fascinated by the pattern of the seams, the grains, the texture of the leather, pushing out the pain. Johnny sings softly to himself an Italian nursery rhyme he had learned in school:
“Farfallina, bella e bianca, vola vola, mai si stanca, gira qua, e gira la poi si resta sopra un fiore, e poi si resta spora un fiore.”
He flutters his hands together like the wings of a butterfly.

At the airport she pays the driver, and they enter the vast departures hall, a testament to postmodernist architecture. She sees the logos of many airlines. Royal Air Maroc. Air China. Air Malta. TAP. The endless possibilities. The chance to start over completely, randomly. Pick a place on the map blindfolded and go there. But that is too much. She knows what she wants, where she needs to go. She sees the same American carrier that brought them over. Walking to the ticket counter, she asks the agent for the next flight to New York.

“I am sorry,
signora,
” he says in excellent English. “There are no more flights this evening. The next is tomorrow morning at six. But nothing until then.” Maddy has forgotten that there are no flights to the United States this time of day. It wouldn’t have made a difference.

“Grazie, signore,”
says Maddy. She shoulders Johnny’s bag and grabs the handle of her roller bag. “Come on, sweetheart. We need to go try a different airline.”

The news is the same at the British Airways counter. There are no more direct flights this time of night. They would be happy of course to book the
signora
tickets for tomorrow morning. What time would she like to leave?

“How about London?” she asks. “Are there any flights left to London tonight?”

“
Sì, signora
. There is a flight at 20:25. It gets in at 22:25.”

“I’ll take it,” she says, handing over her American Express card and their passports. “And can you book me on a connecting flight from Heathrow to JFK tomorrow? Both one-way.”

“Of course. What class would you prefer?”

“Business, please.”

“Bene
. You are booked on the 20:25 to London Heathrow. Your flight tomorrow leaves at 15:05 from Heathrow, arriving in New York at 18:10, eastern standard time. Would you like to check your bags?”

“Sì.
Thank you.” She places first her bag and then Johnny’s on the scale. Her hand trembles as she writes their names and New York address on the luggage tags. They have never flown without Harry.

“
Prego
. Here are your tickets. Present them at the British Airways Executive Club on the second floor of Terminal C. The agents there can help facilitate your passage through security.”

In the lounge Maddy finds a quiet area for Johnny to sit among the well-dressed executives chatting urgently in many languages or staring intently into the brightness of laptops. She hands Johnny his Game Boy and says she’ll be right back. “I have to go talk to the concierge, sweetheart.”

She asks the concierge to book a hotel room for them tonight in London. Does the
signora
have a preference? It has been a long time since Maddy stayed in a hotel in London. They usually stay with friends, but she doesn’t feel up to that right now. She remembers a hotel where she once stayed with her grandmother. It was charming, discreet, on a cul-de-sac off St. James’s. She doesn’t know if it is still there. The concierge affirms that not only is it still in business but it has availability for tonight. A deluxe king room. The price more than seven hundred dollars.

“Fine,” sighs Maddy. “We’ll take it.”

Returning to where Johnny is sitting, she looks at her phone. She had purposely put it on silent mode. She sees several missed calls from Harry. She doesn’t want to talk to him. Not now. Maybe not ever. She checks her e-mail. There are also several e-mails from him. She doesn’t open them.
Where are you?
reads one of the subject lines.
Call me
reads another. She cannot. She ignores them and puts the phone back in her pocket. But it doesn’t stay there. She has to think, to plan ahead. So what does she do?

She e-mails me, of course.

I am sitting in my office when her message arrives in my in-box. The subject line is
Maddy,
and it reads,
Johnny and I flying back to NYC. Arrive from London. Stay with you for few days? Thank you. Love, M.

I immediately e-mail her back.
Mi casa su casa. U ok????

Fill u in tom. Thx. U R an angel.

My fingers tap out
Can I do anything? Pick you up at airport?

Not ncssry,
comes the reply.
Arrive @ 6. Take taxi.

3

A
nd what of the third person in this drama? Naturally I don’t include myself. I am merely the amanuensis. What of Claire?

I am filling in details I learned only later. When she is not with Harry, she lives her normal life. He had told her he would not be able to see her for a few weeks, and that he and Maddy would be returning to New York sooner than originally planned. She was excited but also nervous. How would this proximity change their relationship? Would she be able to see him more? Or less? It was a question she ignored, like a crack in the ceiling, knowing that at some point, it would have to be addressed. So she waited.

Waking early while it is still dark. Showering, selecting clothes, underwear. Riding the subway to work. Alone in her thoughts, in her bed. Spending the day on the computer, attending meetings, making phone calls, lunching at her desk or maybe with a colleague, writing e-mails and articles. At night there are yoga classes or dinners with friends. She is popular, as she would be. Pretty girls and ironic young men in narrow suits. Restaurants in Tribeca, Williamsburg. Parties and openings.

The days pass waiting for Harry to call and tell her about their next adventure. She keeps a bag packed by the door. She is content, wrapping herself in a secret, her unguessed-at other life. Hoping for something none of them really wants. Terrified of the consequences but doing nothing to forestall them.

To everyone else she is a single woman. At a dinner party one night, she is seated next to an architect. The hostess, an old friend of hers from college now married, had told her about him. He is about her age, handsome. White teeth. He has sensitive fingers and an easy laugh. He has just come back from Shanghai. It is his third trip there. The city is growing like an anthill, he says. His firm is very busy. The incredible wealth, the drive to create a new future. He is studying Mandarin. Halfway through dinner, it is understood that he will take her home. On the stoop he kisses her. There is a light rain. Can I come up? he asks. She bites her lip, avoiding his eyes. Her hand rests warmly on his chest.

“I’d like to but I can’t,” she says.

“Is there someone else?”

She nods her head. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” he says. “I had fun anyway.”

She watches him walk off into the night, turning around and waving at her from the corner. In the taxi, she had decided she would sleep with him but had then changed her mind. For a moment, she almost calls after him.

Why doesn’t she? Why shouldn’t she take her pleasure where she finds it? Why does she deny herself? Does she think that being loyal will swing the balance in her favor or even exonerate her? A sacrifice to appease the gods? That somehow, miraculously, a small act on her part, like pulling petals off a daisy or avoiding cracks on the sidewalk, will make things turn out all right? No, she knows by now that it cannot. It is too late. Whatever happens will be terrible for at least one of them, maybe for everyone. Like a sailor in a storm, she prays for dry land.

She is at work when his e-mail comes. The subject line reads
Maddy knows
. A momentary horror grips her. Her hand cups her mouth as she screams silently. She stares dumbly at the screen. Disbelieving the words, reading them several times. She opens the e-mail, fearful of what she will see, but there is nothing more. The lack of information makes it even worse.

What does Maddy “know”? How much does she know? She e-mails him back.
Are you sure? What happened? Where are you?
Her words disappearing into the void, uncertain of a response. There is none. She waits. Five minutes. Ten. It is torture. She sends another e-mail with simply the subject line
Hello?
but, like pulling up a lifeline that has been severed, there is nothing at the other end.

She cannot stay at her desk. She needs to get outside, walk, escape. “I have to go,” she tells her editor. “I’ll be back later.” On her way out, she stops in the ladies’ room and throws up.

It is late when she returns home. She stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes look haunted. Her face pale. She has been checking her phone all afternoon, waiting for the familiar beep of an incoming message. The fear she felt earlier has now been replaced by anger. She feels cut off, adrift, abandoned. Why won’t he write or call? It would be so easy. Just a word or two to offer comfort, information, guidance, absolution. The screen looks back blankly at her. The usual e-mails come in from colleagues, friends, but she ignores them. They are unimportant, a dinner reservation during an earthquake. Pouring a glass of wine, she puts on music and sits on the couch. She stares at the photograph of them taken on Montmartre. There is nothing else to do.

When the call comes, it is after nine, past three in the morning in Rome.

“It’s me,” he says.

“Why haven’t you called? I’ve been going out of my mind.”

“Me too.”

“Where are you? What happened?”

“I’m in Rome.” His voice is thick. She can tell he has been drinking. “Maddy’s gone,” he says. “She took Johnny.”

“Oh my god.”

He tells her about coming home. About finding his desk overturned, and Angela yelling at him, abusing him in a language he does not speak. She had been waiting to tell him what she thought of him. It wasn’t hard for him to understand the gist of what she was saying.
“Sono partiti stronzo stupido. Non si poteva tenere il cazzo nei pantaloni.”
They are gone, you stupid asshole. You couldn’t keep your prick in your pants. She spat on the floor and slammed the door on her way out.

He called Maddy’s cell, but she did not answer. He had no idea what had happened. He looked around the apartment for clues. Open drawers, empty hangers. He righted his desk and had started collecting the papers when he noticed the crumpled-up credit card bill. He closed his eyes, the enormity of his stupidity piercing him.

“I’ve been calling hotels, friends,” he tells her. “I can’t find them.”

“Did you try Walter?”

“Not yet. He’s my last resort.”

“Could they have left Rome? Would they come back to New York?”

“I don’t know. It’s too late to fly to New York. They’d have to wait until morning.”

“What will you say when you find them? What will you tell Maddy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does she know about me?”

“I honestly don’t know what she knows.”

She does not respond, and for a moment there is silence on the line. “What about us?” she asks finally. It is the only question she cares about.

He sighs. “I don’t know. I need to talk to Maddy first.”

“Of course. I understand,” she responds. A light scrim has fallen between them. It was not the answer she had hoped to hear.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “This is a big mess. I need to sort it out. It’s very late here. Right now, I’m tired, anxious, scared, and a little drunk. I’ll call or e-mail you when I know more, okay?”

She puts down the phone. “Fuck you, Harry,” she says and starts to cry.

4

I
could barely sleep the night Maddy told me she was coming. Partly I was excited about her staying with me. I even took the rest of the day off and rushed home shortly after her final e-mail and began tidying up, making beds, going to the market, looking for food that a nine-year-old boy might like. I bought cookies, cereal, fruit juice, popcorn. What else? We could always order in pizza if he wanted, but he’d just been living in Rome so he might not find Italian food as appealing as he otherwise might.

But I was also worried. In my e-mail in-box the next morning there were several frantic messages from Harry sent very late. Had I heard from Maddy? Did I know where she was? Where Johnny was? I stared at the screen, my insides hollow. Clearly something terrible had happened. But I didn’t know what. I wavered, wondering whether to answer or not, worrying if by doing so I was somehow betraying Maddy. Finally I wrote:
Maddy and Johnny are flying to New York. She e-mailed me last night. What the hell is going on?

There was no response though. At least nothing immediate. I could only imagine the worst.

Needless to say, I ignored Maddy’s request and hired a limousine to take me to the airport so I could meet her there. I was early, of course, not wanting to risk missing them. I saw them before they saw me. Maddy looked drawn, but still beautiful, her mane of strawberry blond hair haloing her face. Johnny straggling after her like a nine-year-old refugee.

“You’re too much,” she says, hugging me. “I thought I told you not to bother.”