Indiscretion (22 page)

“I know you did. Since when have I ever listened to you?” Then to Johnny, “Hey, tiger, how you doing?”

“I’m okay, Uncle Walt. Have you talked to Daddy?”

Maddy shoots me a look. “Why, no,” I answer. I ruffle his hair and say, “Great to see you, pal. I bet you must be tired.”

He nods his head and says nothing.

“You must both be tired. Let me help you with that,” I say, taking the bags. Maddy is too drained to argue, which she normally would. “I have a car waiting just outside.”

“Cool,” says Johnny when he sees the limo. I hired a stretch. I normally find them vulgar but had hoped it would elicit that kind of response. Johnny clambers in, sits on the seat that runs along the side of the car, and begins fiddling with the glasses and decanters and different knobs and switches.

“Have you ever been in one of these before?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

“God, after Europe I forgot that there even were cars this size,” Maddy says with a laugh. “It’s so big.”

“I know. Completely ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“I feel like a rock star or a prom queen,” she says. Serious, she turns to me. “Thank you, Walter.” She puts her hand on my knee.

“Cone of silence?” I ask.

She nods. “For now, if that’s okay. Let’s talk about other things. How are you? Any news?”

Taking the cue, I fill her in on the little gossip of the town, studiously avoiding any allusion to marital strife. Who’s broke, who’s drunk, who’s come out of the closet, whose children got into Yale, whose didn’t. I conducted alumni interviews with several of them. I don’t know what surprised me more, how young they seemed or how hard they all worked. And not just schoolwork but community service, drama, violin lessons, summer jobs, sports. I know I never had that intensity or diligence at their age.

One of the boys I met with didn’t get in, I tell Maddy. He had gone to a good school, had good grades, and seemed a personable youth. I had given him a positive review, but for some reason the powers that be in the admissions office found a reason to reject him. I tell Maddy about the angry phone call I received from the boy’s father, a classmate of ours, demanding to know what happened and what was I going to do about it. I opine to Maddy that the admissions office would have probably been happy to take the boy if the father hadn’t been part of the package.

“He always was a pompous ass,” she says and laughs, shaking her head. I am glad to make her smile. She had looked so sepulchral getting off the plane.

We arrive at my building. I am just off Park in the 70s, not far from my parents’ vast old apartment. I still get my hair cut at the same barbershop I went to as a boy. Attend the same church in which I was baptized and confirmed, patronize the same restaurants. My life is defined by the geography of my childhood. On the streets are boys from my old school wearing neckties and blazers looking eerily like me and my friends several decades earlier. Is it any wonder that I don’t feel that I have really grown up yet?

One of the doormen helps us with our bags. I introduce Maddy and Johnny to him, saying, “Hector, this is Mrs. Winslow and her son. They will be staying with me for a few days.” He welcomes them and tells me he will put them in the book. He cannot do enough for me. It pays to tip well at Christmas.

We go upstairs. I help carry Maddy and Johnny’s luggage to their room, which is actually where I read or watch television most nights. The couch unfolds to make a double bed. It is also my library. I love this room. Books, mostly histories and biographies, line the Chinese red walls. Military prints. On the shelves are miniature painted model soldiers. Mamelukes, hussars. One of my hobbies. I am especially fond of Napoleon’s Grande Armée. A sword that had reputedly belonged to Murat, and for which I happily paid a small fortune, hangs over the mantel. There’s a small bathroom and a closet where I store odds and ends, ancient skis, winter coats, suitcases. I had cleared out a lot of my old junk to make room for Maddy’s things.

“I hope you’ll be all right in here,” I say.

“It’s perfect, Walter. Thank you.”

“I’ll leave you to unpack. There are fresh towels in the bath. Let me know if you need anything else.”

That night we order in. “I’d kill for a hamburger,” Maddy confesses. After dinner, she puts Johnny to bed and joins me in the living room, where I have made a small fire and opened a bottle of good claret.

I know better than to launch questions at her. She will tell me. Or not.

“You know, actually I wasn’t entirely truthful at the airport,” I confess, handing her a glass. “I have heard from Harry. He sent me several e-mails asking if I knew where you were. I wasn’t sure what to do. So I wrote him that, yes, I had heard from you and that you and Johnny would be staying with me. But that I didn’t know what was going on. I hope that was all right.”

She nods her head. “Yes, I suppose that was the best thing. I did leave in a hurry.”

“That was the impression I had. Sort of a spur-of-the-moment decision on your part, was it?”

“You might say that.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I knew I couldn’t stay.”

“You weren’t in physical danger? Or Johnny?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Then what happened?”

She put her glass on the table. “He’s cheating on me, Walter. I had some suspicions about a month ago, and I asked him point-blank about it. He swore he wasn’t. Then I found out yesterday that he was. That it’s been going on for months. You know, it’s not even that I really care that he was having an affair. What I can’t forgive is the lying. I just had to go. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t.”

We sit there in silence, staring at the fire. I am letting all of this sink in. It is obviously still a shock to her too. I am amazed by her once again. If I had discovered my spouse of twenty years cheating on me, I’d probably collapse in a self-pitying pile on the floor.

“Do you know who he is having the affair with?”

“No. He’s been traveling a lot, though. Mostly Paris, but also London. Barcelona. He told me it was for business. Meeting publishers, giving readings, interviews. Then a few weeks ago this woman I knew from New York e-mailed me that she had seen him in a restaurant in Paris with a young woman with dark hair. When I asked him about it, he said it was someone from his French publisher. I didn’t doubt him. We’ve never lied to each other. At least, I didn’t think we did.”

“Then how do you know he was having an affair? Do you have any proof?”

She tells me about the credit card bills, where he had been, what he had bought. The banality of the discovery, the carelessness. Her eyes are rimmed with tears. “I couldn’t believe it, but I just know it. I know it in my heart.”

“I’m sorry. But, I mean, it’s Harry we’re talking about. Your Harry. Our Harry, for Christ’s sake. It just doesn’t seem possible. I would never have imagined such a thing in a million years.”

“That’s what I thought too. Shows how wrong we both can be.”

“Do you want to find out who it is? I mean, who the woman is?”

“Actually, I couldn’t care less. It’s all beside the point. Maybe I will in a week or so. I’m not jealous. I’m angry, hurt, disappointed, shocked, and, frankly, very tired.”

“So what are you going to do?”

She sighs. “I don’t know. Right now, I’m just going to take it one day at a time. Get Johnny settled. Move back into the apartment. Baby steps. Is it all right if we stay here until then? It’s just to the end of the month.”

“Of course. You don’t have to ask, you know that.”

“I know. But you’re such an old bachelor. You aren’t used to having people underfoot. Especially nine-year-old boys and mopey middle-aged women.”

I smile. “Not at all. In fact, I’ll rather enjoy it. It’ll be nice to have the company. But then what? What about Harry?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s still a big question mark.”

“Are you going to talk to him?”

“I honestly don’t know what there is to say.”

She is not the sort of person to do things by half measures. “Are you thinking of divorce?”

Stiffening, she says, “Don’t push me. I really haven’t thought that far ahead. All I know right now is that I don’t want to think about it or him.”

“Sure. You’ll let me know, okay? In case you need a good lawyer.”

She rolls her eyes. “Knock it off, Walter.”

“I’m serious. If it comes to that and you need someone, I hope you’ll let me help—or at least find you someone good.”

“Okay. I promise.”

5

I
more or less take the next few days off. I head into the office late in the morning and then come straight home around one so I can spend the time with Maddy and Johnny. We go for walks in Central Park, where there are still patches of snow and most of the grass has been fenced off. The winding lanes. The bare trees. The ground underfoot is beginning to thaw. Johnny climbs on the rocks. We eat hot dogs and ride on the carousel. The same deranged-looking bas-relief clowns that used to terrify me when I was a child still line the walls. One night we go to a Broadway show. Something puerile and entertaining. Johnny loves it. I must admit I sort of do too. Another night we have a mini-feast in Chinatown. Maddy tells me the Chinese food is terrible in Rome.

We are on holiday. The real world is waiting for us to rejoin it. I am in my office when my secretary informs me that Harry is on the line. It is not the first time he has called, she reminds me. I can’t put him off forever.

“Walt, thank God.”

I am not sure how to proceed, my emotions conflicted. We have not communicated since Maddy arrived. I am angry with him, angry for Maddy and angry for our friendship. He has let us all down. I am not especially happy to hear from him, and I let my tone show it.

“Harry.”

“How are they? How’s Maddy? How’s Johnny? I am going out of my mind.”

“They’re as well as can be expected, under the circumstances,” I answer coolly. There had never been any question of whose side I would take.

He doesn’t respond to my gibe. “Walt, you need to get Maddy to answer my calls. I need to talk to her. I must have called a hundred times.”

“I can’t make her do anything. She’ll talk to you if she wants to.”

“I’m coming to New York.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. Please tell her that I want to see her. And that I love her.”

“I’ll tell her, but I’m not sure what good it will do.”

I can hear him sigh on the other end. “Thanks, Walt.”

“Not at all.” I hang up. If I wasn’t so angry with him, I’d feel like an utter bastard.

H
aving Maddy living in my apartment allows me to indulge in more than a few domestic fantasies. What if this was all mine? What if she was my wife? What if Johnny was my son? What a different arc my life would have taken. When we go out on the street, each of us holding Johnny’s hand, we look like a family. I even wake up early every morning to make waffles for Johnny. They are one of his favorites.

Tomorrow Harry will be coming to my office. He had begged me. I haven’t even heard her so much as breathe his name.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask Maddy after dinner. Our new ritual is to eat, read Johnny a story before bed, and then have a glass of wine in my living room. It is my least favorite room in the house. I rarely sit here, preferring my library. It has the same salmon pink silk sofas and chairs, antique end tables, English landscapes, carpets, and lamps that were once in my parents’ apartment. Of course this room is considerably smaller than their living room, so I had to wedge in what I could and put the rest in storage.

Maddy has started smoking again. I can’t blame her. I even join her in the occasional cigarette.

“Not really,” she replies. “Thank you for seeing him, I suppose. I am sure it’s a comfort to him, but I am not ready to see or talk to him.”

“I understand. What do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him just that. I am still in shock and can’t really get my head around what I need to do. I need to first figure out what is best for Johnny and me.”

“Very well.” I pause. “Do you mind if I ask him one thing?”

“What one thing?”

“Well, it’s the lawyer in me, but in this country we presume that people are innocent until proven guilty.”

She looks me, her eyes narrowing. “What do you mean? I saw the credit card bill. What more proof do you want?”

I hold up my hands. “I agree it’s damning, but it’s not conclusive. What I propose to do is to ask him directly whether or not he had an affair.”

“Why? I already know.”

“You think you do, but what if you’re wrong? What if there’s some perfectly simple explanation and this whole thing is one huge misunderstanding?”

“That’s impossible.”

“No, it’s not. Until you are one hundred percent certain, nothing is impossible.”

She sits quietly, taking in what I have just said. “I have asked myself that same question thousands of times. What if it’s just one terrible overreaction on my part? But each time the answer is the same. I can’t tell you how I know it. I just do. And I wish to God I was wrong.”

“As do I.”

“And what’s to prevent him from lying to you? He lied to me.”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. But remember, I don’t know he did lie to you. I need a confession. Or some other way to prove his guilt or innocence.”

She nods her head.

“So it’s all right with you? If for no other reason, it would assuage my lawyerly soul.”

“Fine. Suit yourself,” she says, extinguishing her cigarette in the full ashtray. “I’m going to bed.”

She stands and leans over me, her breath strong with tobacco, to place a sisterly kiss on my cheek. “I know you mean well, Walter. Ask him anything you want. If he says anything that you think I should hear, I know you’ll tell me. Thank you again for seeing him. I honestly don’t think I could.”

,

I
f it had been up to me, he would have been forced to travel to New York on bleeding knees like a Mexican pilgrim, praying for forgiveness the whole way. Even that would not have been enough, but it would have been a start. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s not entirely wide of the mark. It was his job to protect her, and he let her down. Now it’s my job. At least I am taking it on. Part of me just wants to punch him in the nose.