Nine Women, One Dress (18 page)

I was sitting at my desk in my study looking out the window at Central Park. It's a two-sided desk with chairs on both sides, one facing the interior of the room and the other facing the window. I choose where I want to sit depending on whether I want to concentrate or daydream. I had a tall stack of papers to grade and should have been concentrating on them, but my mind was elsewhere.

I was thinking about Andie, wondering what she was up to and why she hadn't stuck around for that coffee after class last week. My hope was that she had stood me up because she was a good person and knew that although nothing inappropriate was going on, it still wasn't right. A part of me had been relieved. I hadn't felt this way about anyone since meeting Caroline. I wondered if it was just a byproduct of the growing distance between us—if that void allowed for something, or in this case someone, to step in and fill it. It
is
the classic excuse people give for cheating: filling a void.

I knew my marriage felt shaky, but it seemed to me that the problem could be traced to a time before I met Andie. The day-to-day looked the same. Caroline greeted me when I got home with the same warm smile, but now it seemed oddly forced. I asked her many times if something was wrong, but she always denied it. But I felt alone even when I wasn't. There's nothing as sad as feeling lonely when you're lying next to the person who is meant to complete you. Still, I would never use that as an excuse for infidelity. I don't believe there's any excuse. I decided that tonight I would sit Caroline down and insist that we go talk to someone.

Eventually I gave up grading papers and looked up what was playing at the Paris movie theater. It had been weeks since my last visit; I imagined the movie would have changed by now. It had, so I left and hailed a cab to my number-one place to escape.

As I climbed the steps to the balcony, my favorite place to sit at the Paris, my anxiety began to melt away. I sat down in my usual seat, balanced my popcorn on the ledge, and took off my coat. Then I saw her. My heart skipped a beat. Andie was seated at the other end of my row. I felt guilty and exhilarated at the same time. I felt alive. I felt terrified. I felt like I should run. Then she saw me. A smile washed over her face, and I could swear her eyes welled up. The lights went dark and we both silently met at the seats in the middle of our row. We didn't say a word. When the movie began I offered her some of my popcorn. A few minutes later we reached into the bucket at the same time. As our hands touched, the bucket fell to the floor. I grasped her hand in mine and didn't let go for the rest of the film. I can't even tell you if the film was any good, because all I could feel was her hand in mine. When the film ended I felt as if I had been holding my breath. I didn't know what had come over me; I knew this was wrong, but it also felt so natural, so comfortable, so
right
.

As the credits rolled we put on our coats and left the theater, still not speaking. I took her hand again as we went down the stairs from the balcony. At the bottom of the stairwell the light of day shone into the lobby, an unwelcome beam of reality. We dropped each other's hands. I shot her a forlorn smile. She returned the same.

Outside on 59th Street we stood at that particularly Old World cross-section of New York, looking out at the square in front of the Plaza Hotel. As a professor of film, I often had scenes from movies running through my head. But this particular location seemed ironic to me now. As Andie bent down to tie her shoe, the final shots of
The Way We Were
, a film about two people who couldn't be together, played before my eyes. Barbra Streisand saying, “Your girl is lovely, Hubbell,” before running her hand through Robert Redford's hair for the last time. “See you, Katie,” he says, pain in his eyes. “See you,” she says to no one as he runs off to a waiting cab.

I had really lost it—a few meetings with this woman who was a virtual stranger to me and I was comparing us to the characters in one of the greatest cinematic love stories of all time. I had to start watching more sci-fi and apocalypse movies. I had a loving family that meant the world to me, and I to them. When Andie stood back up I would say it: “See you, Andie.” And I would leave. In fact I would run, and never look back.

“Oh my god,” she said as she stood. Her face was white. She looked as if she'd just witnessed a murder.

I touched her shoulder. “What is it?”

She recoiled. “Don't touch me!”

I was totally confused. She sighed, looked again at her shoes, and then explained. She was calm and straightforward.

“John, there is a photographer taking pictures of us from across the plaza. He was hired by your wife, who's trying to prove that you're cheating.”

I couldn't believe my ears. It felt like I'd been sucker-punched. “How do you know that?” I managed to stammer.

“I know because I'm a private investigator and I sometimes use that same photographer.”

At this point I thought she must be joking. I even laughed, relieved that she was just fooling around. But she went on.

“Your wife, Caroline, hired me a few months ago to try and find evidence that you were having an affair so she could take advantage of the infidelity clause in your prenup.”

“My prenup? What the hell do you know about my prenup?” I was feeling unsteady on my feet. Betrayed. Confused. My heart was racing; my neck felt like it was on fire.

“I told you, your wife hired me as a private eye. I'm sorry, John, but it turned out she was the one having an affair. She's cheating on you but wanted to make it look the other way around, for the money.”

The fountain in the middle of the square started to spin before my eyes. It was hard to comprehend what she was saying. I steadied myself against the wall.

“Give me a minute,” I said. She lowered her head and let me stand, leaning against the side of a building, while I tried to wrap my head around what was happening here. Was this the end of my marriage?

When I could feel my feet on the ground again, I asked her, “You mean this was all a setup? You and me—we're a setup to catch me being unfaithful?”

Tears started to run down her face. I felt a flash of anger that she was playing the victim.

“No, no, no!” she shouted. “Only our first meeting, the one in the dress department at Bloomingdale's—I was on the job then. But I fired Caroline when I found out the truth about her. I guess she's hired someone else. I'm sorry, John, I should have told you, but it's unethical. God, listen to me talking about ethics.”

I looked into her eyes searchingly.

“We never met because of fate. I kept on tracking you even after I fired her. I know that sounds so stalkerish and awful. But the awful thing is, today was truly an accidental meeting.” She paused and looked down, dejected. “And now, I'm sure, it's our last meeting…of any kind.”

I was so nonreactive that she just kept on talking. It was a lot to take in, and I wasn't sure what I wanted to say.

“John, I don't want to contribute to her false case against you. As of now there isn't one compromising photo of us—we came out of the theater like two friends who just saw a movie. If I need to, I will testify to the truth—that she's trying to set you up and that there's nothing going on between us.”

“The photographer is still watching us?” I asked, finding my voice.

She looked over my shoulder. “Yes, his lens is pointed right at us.”

“Why did you keep tracking me?” I asked her, praying for the words I wanted to hear. “After you fired my wife—Caroline, I mean—why did you keep following me?”

“I'm sorry,” she said quietly. “I…like you. I missed you. I tried, but I couldn't stay away from you.”

And there it was. All of a sudden the whole mess seemed to resolve into clarity. My wife of twelve years wanted to get away from me so badly that she had resorted to entrapment, and Andie couldn't stay away from me. My silence must have scared her, because her next words were spoken in a tone that was all business.

“Listen to me,” she said. “This will be a long fight and most definitely a court battle, but no matter what happens to my career, I will testify about what I've done and what we haven't. I can testify to her attempt at collusion and procurement. It won't be easy, but she will leave your marriage with nothing more than she came in with.”

Scenes from every divorce movie from
Kramer vs. Kramer
to
The War of the Roses
ran through my head. The fountain in front of the Plaza began to spin again. I squeezed my eyes tight. Maybe it was the cinematic setting, maybe it was the sudden moment of clarity, but I knew what I had to do.

In one of the most storied spots in all Manhattan, I took Andie Rand's face in my hands and kissed her with a passion I had not felt in years. In my head I imagined I could hear the shutter of the photographer's camera.

She broke away in protest. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

I smiled at her, feeling sure of myself for the first time in a long time. “Kiss the girl or waste months in a drawn-out court battle with my cheating wife and, let's not forget, the mother of my child? I am most definitely not crazy.”

I kissed her again. This time she gave in. When we finally came up for air, she laughed. “That kiss is going to cost you.”

I laughed as well. “What's five million dollars, give or take, when you have more money than you could ever use?”

She smiled. “I meant lunch.”

“How about the Oyster Bar?” I asked.

“It's a date.” She laughed again.

“Our first,” I said, taking her hand in mine as we both practically skipped down Fifth Avenue, our own personal photographer in tow. I knew I had a lot of important decisions ahead of me, but for now I would just concentrate on the first: lobster bisque or clam chowder?

I work at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel on Madison Avenue. It might sound to you like I'm saying that with pride. I'm not. The only thing I'm proud of is my biceps. Other people who work here definitely do it with pride. Even the security guard who works the night shift acts like he's guarding the crown jewels. I will say, if you die in New York City, the Frank E. Campbell funeral home is the place to go—the last club worth becoming a member of. You would be counted along with famous actors, singers, politicians, and a whole slew of over-the-top rich people. My boss still goes on about Judy Garland's and John Lennon's funerals, but if I was going to name-drop, I would mention Biggie Smalls and the mobster Frank Costello. I wouldn't have minded being here for those two. Most days are just normal people—normal dead people, that is.

Today I was hoping to be out by five so I could pick up a present for my new girlfriend's birthday, but the undertaking business is so damn unpredictable. That's what my boss was always preaching:
You have to be available, Seth
. “People don't phone us on Tuesday saying, ‘We'll be pulling the plug on Aunt Becky on Thursday.' No one forwards an advance copy of his suicide note to the mortician—‘Feeling desperately depressed and will not be able to hold on much longer. Please expect me next Thursday by three.' ”

He thinks he's being funny, and everyone makes it worse by laughing at him. Personally, I don't think it's funny at all. Everything else has to be booked in advance—dinner reservations, back waxing, car detailing, everything but death. And that's how the woman from the front page of today's
Post
has jammed up my Friday night.

They brought her in at two to be embalmed. Embalming usually takes around three hours, dressing and casketing around one. My job was just the last part, to dress and casket the body. I wasn't trained to be an embalmer, and I've been told I'm not nice enough to handle the intake process—dealing with grieving family members takes some kind of sensitivity that I apparently don't have. I'm better with dead people. Whatever. I'd been here longer than at any other job I'd had since failing college, and I was getting used to it. Though believe me, it took some getting used to.

I even told my new girlfriend the truth about what I did. I'd lied to the last two girls I got with. But this one seemed so open and understanding. I met her online two months ago. My profile still says penny stock trader, which was actually four careers ago. I haven't held down a job long enough to bother changing it. And this isn't really a job you want to write on a dating profile. But I told her, and she was pretty nice about it. She knew that Heath Ledger had been embalmed here and even thought that undertaking was an admirable profession. Maybe next week I'll tell her that I'm not really five-foot-nine.

I tried to skip out during the embalming process, but my boss caught me and asked me to assist. One of our top embalmers had cut his hours and it was a scheduling nightmare. My boss was always pushing me to go get my embalming license, saying he would even pay for it if I signed a long contract with him. But there's no way I was ever going back to school. This really was a
dead
-end job.

I told the embalmer, a really strange guy named Gus, that I was in a big rush. I had to shower and pick up a gift for my girlfriend's birthday tonight. He said he would help me dress and casket too. This was good, except it meant that I had to listen to his endless stories. By the time we were ready for my part it was after five. If I hurried, I would still have time to pick up something for my girlfriend but not to shower. I guess that's what Drakkar Noir is for.

I made the mistake of commenting on the dead lady's casket outfit as I pulled it out of the Bloomingdale's bag. It was a new black designer dress with the tags still on. “What a waste of a new dress,” I said. This led to Gus rattling off death fashion trivia—an endless list of who wore what to the grave.

“Princess Diana was also buried in a black dress that she had recently purchased,” he said, sounding like a walking, talking Wikipedia page.

I nodded and tried to keep us moving.

“Whitney Houston was buried in so much jewelry that she still needs a bodyguard!” He waited for me to laugh. I didn't.

Just as he started in on whether or not Michael Jackson was buried with his white sequined glove, my boss interrupted, holding a pair of black pumps and an emerald-green suit.

“The family dropped off her clothes…Great Scott, what are you two doing?”

“His name is Seth, sir,” Gus answered, like an idiot.

“Two morons,” my boss said, shaking his head.

I wasn't being put in a category with Gus. I defended myself. “Someone already dropped her clothes off, right there in that Bloomingdale's bag.”

“I told you, that bag was one of her personal effects at time of death. The whole city knows this woman died with a bag from Bloomie's.” He held up the suit. “This is what the family is expecting.” He put it down and left, still shaking his head and mumbling curses under his breath. I, on the other hand, spent the next hour cursing out loud so everyone could hear except the dead lady in the wrong dress.