Everything Changes (24 page)

A few days later, the sheer emptiness of my life is staggering, an emptiness that is not simply the absence of things but an actual, weighted thing all its own lodged somewhere behind my throat, where my spine meets my skull. There’s a certain type of person, a person with access to vast inner resources, who would view my situation as a grand opportunity, a chance to rebuild my life, bringing to bear all the wisdom from my past mistakes to create something vibrant and new, a streamlined life that will allow for only the most honest of relationships, the truest of motivations. I am not that guy. I’m more like the guy who makes it necessary to train lifeguards in the art of underwater self-defense, the guy who will thrash violently in his panic, unable to discern peril from salvation. I’ve got nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no one to see. I’ve become a cipher, and the only proof I have that I haven’t disappeared is that if I had, I probably wouldn’t be feeling this shitty.

For the last three days, I’ve been alternately writing and deleting the opening pages of the screenplay that I am now pretty confident I will never write. I can see the movie in my head, the characters, the conflict, the story arc, and I can even construct funny and authentic dialogue, pages of it, actually. But I’m missing something vital, the binding ingredient that moves the story along, and my pages are like fully formed bones without the requisite sinew and tissue to hold them together, let alone move them. Every few hours I take a break to dial Hope’s number at work, then hang up before it can ring and register on her caller ID. My line is blocked, but she’ll know it’s me anyway.

I miss Tamara.

I think about Hope. Stupid things. Did she go back to work on Monday, or is she taking some time to get over the whole thing, torturously reviewing the past few months to discern all the signals she’d missed, berating herself even as she burns me in effigy? No doubt she’ll recover quickly, hitting the dating scene with a renewed sense of purpose, undeterred by this tragic detour from her life’s greater plan. I give it three months until she has another boyfriend, some tall, athletic MBA with thick hair and cut abs, a long-distance runner who reads The Wall Street Journal and fucks like a porn star. And as they lie glistening in the sweaty afterglow, she’ll tell him about me, pleading temporary insanity, and he’ll listen sympathetically, agreeing with her that I’m a total asshole, saying he’d love to track me down and beat the shit out of me, all the while caressing her breast with one hand, keeping the fire stoked so that as soon as she’s done talking, he can pull her on top of him to watch the way she throws her head back, eyes closed, as he slides into her for the third time that night, his head on the pillow where mine used to be, his hands grabbing the soft flesh of her ass where mine used to, as he thrusts deeply, driving any lingering thoughts of me out of her mind once and for all. God, I miss the way her room smelled in the aftermath of our lovemaking, a complex amalgam of sweat, sex, and her perfumed linens. You never know when it might be the last time you’ll ever make love to someone. If you did, you’d pay more attention.

On Wednesday, I ride the elevator up with the morning crowd, same as always, everyone staring in silence at the brushed-steel doors, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and feminine perfumes filling the air. I’ve always wondered why no one sells advertising space in corporate elevators. People will look at anything to not have to look at each other. I get out and swipe my magnetic Spandler ID card at the electronic doorplate. I don’t know what I’m expecting, flashing lights and alarms, armed guards maybe, but there’s a mechanical click and the door swings open, same as always. I walk unmolested through the halls, since everyone’s in a sales meeting, and make my way to my cubicle, where I slide into my chair and log on to my computer. Three hundred some-odd e-mails fill my in-box, frantically jockeying for position on the screen. Riding to work, I didn’t know whether I was coming here to save my job or to gather my belongings. But now, as I scroll through the angry minutiae of the communications, the drab details of my chosen profession, a certain calm comes over me, and I shade the e-mails in blue and bulk delete them in one fell swoop, and then conduct similar electronic genocides on my cell phone and BlackBerry, feeling a confounding mixture of terror and jubilation, like an alcoholic pouring the last remnants of his stashed bottle into the toilet. It’s counterintuitive, but on a deeper level, I know there’s a greater good behind it, and for the moment, I’ve somehow amassed the will to back it up.

Bill’s door is partially closed, and I can hear him on the phone discussing critical competencies and supply-chain solutions. Bill is all about the jargon. I don’t know if I’ve been fired or not. I suppose I should find out, because there are ramifications as far as unemployment and severance. The right thing to do would be to step in there and let him vent a little before terminating me or, failing that, formally present him with my somewhat belated notice. Go out like a professional. But even as I hear him pontificating on the merits of outsourcing (flexible access to assets without capital investment), I can feel the walls closing in, and I know I have to get out of there before I lose my nerve and start begging for my job back. I toss my ID card into the mail slot on his door, and by the time I reach the elevators, I’m actually running. Toward what, I have no idea.

Hope doesn’t notice me right away. She steps out of her office lobby, dressed conservatively in a long black skirt and a faded orange blouse, her hair tied back in a modest ponytail. She’s just turned to head east when she sees me leaning uncertainly against a building across the street, one leg up as if I’ve been standing there all day, which isn’t true. It’s only been about two hours. I wanted to catch her if she happened to leave early.

I debated long and hard over whether to come and see her. Maybe she would welcome the closure of seeing me one last time, to spit in my face and tell me what a pathetic excuse for a man I am. But it’s equally possible that she’s already written me off, accepting the admittedly less satisfying option of venting her pain through other channels in favor of never having to cast eyes upon me again. In that case, seeing her now could be detrimental, might set her back, but on the other hand, not seeing her might be unintentionally compounding the hurt, leaving her with the notion that I didn’t even care enough for her as a person to call and apologize. Not that an apology would be worth anything to her at this point, but I at least owe her an explanation, the only problem being that I don’t really have one other than the obvious, that I’ve failed her and betrayed her, and she hardly needs me to point that out.

And so, with no clear direction in sight, what it came down to was this: I simply had nowhere else to go.

So here I am, waving tentatively from across the street, and where I expect her eyes to narrow into baleful slits, they grow wide, her hand flying up involuntarily to her lips, which are parted in surprise, and by the time I manage to traverse the busy street, she’s wiping her running mascara with a tissue from her purse. “I’m shaking,” she says.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take you by surprise,” I say, even though I suppose I probably did.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t know. I needed to see you. To tell you how sorry I am about everything. I still can’t believe this all happened.”

“Trust me, it did,” she says, but strangely, without any malice. “It’s still happening.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She looks at the bruise on my face, grimacing sympathetically, without a hint of the satisfaction I might have expected. “Daddy really clocked you, didn’t he?”

I’m staring at the graceful architecture of her face, always so miraculous to me, and only at this moment does the full impact of losing her, of the death of us, finally hit me, and it’s like watching helplessly as your home goes up in flames, with a lifetime’s accumulation of memories inside. “Hope,” I say forlornly.

“I know,” she says. “Just tell me. Are you with her now?”

I shake my head. “I’m not with anyone.”

“Was it going on for a while?”

“No. That night was the first time.”

She nods, her eyes once again brimming with tears. “You know what I keep thinking?” she says.

“What?”

“I keep thinking that whatever happened was just this terrible, momentary lapse, a single instant of insanity because you were scared and anxious. And if my father hadn’t walked in when he did, you would have felt awful about it but ultimately gotten over it, and I never would have known, and we’d have been just fine. And I lie in bed at night, and instead of hating you, I hate my father for walking in like that, for ruining everything. Isn’t that crazy?”

“I’m so sorry, Hope.”

She opens up her purse and pulls out a little ring box. “Look,” she says, showing me the ring. “I’ve been carrying it in my bag. And every so often I just slip it back on my finger, and wonder if we haven’t lost all perspective, if this wasn’t just a small incident that got blown out of proportion by all the drama. I mean, imagine if you’d kissed her somewhere else, and then you confessed it to me. I’d be furious, certainly, but I think we’d have gotten past it. So what makes this any different?”

I can see the desperate invitation in her wet eyes, the burning need for me to breathe life into the idea. I can feel my belly shudder at the possibility that what I’d thought was irretrievably lost might unbelievably be within my grasp, that I might end this day back in her arms, the terrifying desolation of our current circumstances already retreating into the past, shrinking until it disappears.

“I can’t,” I hear myself say sadly, and Hope looks as surprised as I am. I never trusted that she could love me completely, and only now, as I irrevocably finish us off, does the reality of her love become clear to me, and it feels like I’ve lost her all over again. “I can’t,” I say again, my voice thick with emotion, the light around us swirling madly through the prism of our tears. People brush past us on the street in endless waves, leaving somewhere, headed somewhere else, laughing, smoking, speaking into cell phones, completely oblivious to the holocaust of an entire world casually imploding in their midst.

I get back to the brownstone just in time to see a cherry-red Mitsubishi sports car pull over to double-park in front. A tall, striking woman with a long mane of wavy black hair emerges, dressed in spandex leggings that stop midcalf, exposing a rose tattoo just above her ankle, and a short, zip-up sweatshirt worn deliberately high so as to showcase her notable assets, both in front and behind, to great advantage. She opens the back door and pulls out a little boy about five years old, with a shock of curly blond hair and wide, thoughtful eyes that seem more suited to a man than a little boy. Holding his hand, she carries herself up the stairs with the practiced air of someone whose innate physical attributes are never far from her own consciousness.

“Can I help you?” I say, coming up the stairs behind her.

She and the boy turn to face me. Her skin is dark and clear, her nails painted a garish red with white tips. The boy is holding a toy in his free hand, a small blue train with a smiling face. “Is Norman King staying here?” she demands of me in a slightly hoarse smoker’s voice.

“He was,” I say cautiously, instinctively knowing that a woman like this looking for Norm can only mean trouble.

“I’m Delia,” she says, as if I should have known. “Are you Zack?”

The boy looks up at me when she says my name, and then quickly back to his toy train. “Yes,” I say. “What can I do for you?”

“Norm said to call you if anything happened to him,” Delia says.

“Okay.”

“I’ve left you half a dozen messages.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I haven’t had my cell phone on me the last few days.”

She nods. “So,” she says. “Has it?”

“Has what?”

“Has anything happened to him?”

“Norm’s fine,” I say.

“Then he’s a fucking asshole,” Delia declares, and then winces, belatedly throwing her hands over the boy’s ears. “Shit. Sorry, Henry. Don’t listen to me.”

“Okay,” Henry says.

“Why don’t you sit on the steps and play with Thomas while Delia talks to the nice man.”

Henry wordlessly lets go of her and sits down on the stairs. He pushes a button on the train and watches it roll slowly across the length of the stair. When it hits the wall, he turns it around to go the other way.

“Your son?” I say.

“No way!” she says, horrified at the notion, and something in me shudders, some organ that understands what’s unfolding here before the rest of me does. “He’s Norm’s kid.”

“What?”

“Listen,” Delia says. “Norm paid me five hundred bucks to watch his kid for two days, three tops. It’s been over a week now, and I can’t get ahold of him. Now I know why he left me your number. Between the two of you, I can’t get a goddamn callback. I dance nights and I’ve had to bring Henry to the club with me every night for the last week, and it’s not exactly Disney World, if you know what I mean.”

I lean against the banister, staring at the little boy as her words sink in. “Norm has a son,” I say.

“Right,” she says, speaking to me as if I’m a little kid. “I thought we covered this already.”

I nod, swallowing. The boy looks down, watching his train with a focused intensity. “Where’s his mother?”

“How the hell should I know?” Delia says, growing impatient. “All I know is, a deal’s a deal. He’s a great kid and all, but he’s not mine, and I need my life back. Now, do you know where to find him or not?”

“I can find him,” I say, my eyes glued to the little boy. “Do you want to hang out for a while?”

“I can’t,” she says. “I’ve got to drive back to Atlantic City. I’m on at nine.”

“You work in Atlantic City?”

She fumbles through her purse and pulls out a bent business card that has an artful rendering of a nude woman bending over, and her name and a phone number in large print. Below that, it says, Exotic Dancer. Bachelor Parties / Private Shows / Satisfaction Guaranteed. “Satisfaction” is underlined. “That’s my cell. You tell Norm that if I don’t hear from him by tonight, I’m calling the police. He’s a sweet kid and I don’t want to do it, but maybe I should, you know? I mean, what kind of father leaves his kid with a dancer, anyway?”

“Why don’t you leave him with me,” I say. “I’ll be seeing Norm soon.”

She raises her eyebrows, momentarily intrigued, but then shakes her head. “I don’t know you, and I’m not leaving him with someone I don’t know. I’m responsible for him, and you could be a pervert, for all I know. No offense.”

“None taken,” I say. “Norm’s my father.”

That surprises her. “You’re shitting me.”

“It’s the truth.”

She looks down at Henry, her expression softening. “That makes Henry your stepbrother or something, right?”

“My half brother,” I say quietly. Henry looks up at me, and then quickly down to his train. When it hits the wall, he makes the sound of an explosion.

“And you didn’t know?”

“Nope.”

Delia considers me for a long moment. “I’d better not,” she finally says. “I don’t know who anyone is in this mess. I just know I don’t belong in the middle of it.” She bends down and grabs Henry’s hand. “Come on, sweetie,” she says, helping him to his feet. “You just find Norm, okay?”

“I will,” I say.

I crouch down to look at Henry better. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Zack.” Henry hides his face behind one of Delia’s toned thighs.

“You guys should go on Oprah or something,” Delia says, leading Henry down the stairs.

“Wait,” I say as she’s helping Henry into the backseat. I come down the stairs, reaching for my wallet as I go, pulling out a wad of bills. “There’s about two hundred dollars there,” I say.

She eyes the proffered cash suspiciously. “I already told you I’m not leaving him with you.”

“I understand,” I say. “Just don’t call the police. I’ll get this sorted out, okay?”

She sizes me up, a woman not unaccustomed to spontaneous negotiations over a fistful of cash. Then she takes the money, unzipping her sweatshirt slightly to tuck it into a red satin bra. “I’ll give you one more day,” she says.

“That’s all I’m asking.”

As she drives away, I see Henry’s hand come up in the rear window, waving to me, and even though he’s too small to look above the bench and see me waving back, I do it anyway.

“Who was that?” Jed says when I come in. He’s sitting at the desk behind the couch, uncharacteristically dressed as he works on the computer.

“That was Delia.”

“So we’re dating strippers now?”

“How’d you know she was a stripper?”

He taps his temple. “It’s like a sixth sense.”

“Did you see the boy?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Norm’s son.”

“Norm and her?” he says skeptically.

I shake my head. “It’s complicated.”

He turns away from the desk. “Explain it to me, then.”

“I will,” I say, collapsing onto the couch. “As soon as someone explains it to me.”

“You had no idea, huh?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know if I’m still surprised, or just surprised that I’m surprised.”

He comes over to sit with me. “Did you see Hope?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

I think about it. It’s been one thing on top of another today, and I’m having trouble matching up the corresponding emotions and phenomena. “I don’t know. Ask me in a few weeks.”

“Deal,” Jed says.

“Can I borrow your car?” I say. “I need to go to Riverdale.”

“I’ve got a date,” Jed says. “I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks.”

We sit on the couch in companionable silence for a few seconds. “Hey,” I say. “Where’s the television?”

“Yeah,” Jed says, rubbing his chin self-consciously. “I got rid of it this morning.”

“You got rid of it.”

“I brought it down to the curb. Didn’t even take twenty minutes. Some guy rigged up a dolly with some Rollerblades and a board.”

I turn to look at him. “What are you going to do now?”

He nods, having expected the question. “I don’t know,” he says. “Ask me again in a few weeks.”