One Last Lie (4 page)

“I don’t need the guacamole now.” Jonathan said, “We can wait until dinner.”

“Please, boys, not on my account. You eat as you always eat. No special treatment. It makes me feel uncomfortable when people hold back because of me.”

Philip picked up his glass and tapped Jonathan’s stomach. “Some of us could use a little of Angela’s discipline, couldn’t we?” He made a dash toward the lounge chair before Jonathan could slap his backside.

“Ignore him, please” Jonathan said. “No, really how did you lose all that weight?”

Angela exhaled into her glass, letting the coolness of the ice reach her face. She looked away from them both into the darkening sky to the west. “Okay… here’s the short version of a very long story. On my thirtieth birthday, I sat in my studio apartment on 16th Street eating an entire birthday cake by myself. To this day, I don’t know where the realization came from, but all at once I knew I had three choices: Remain an unhappy, unhealthy, fat nurse without a social life, or
any life
for that matter, and die from a heart attack; or I could kill myself and just get the whole thing over with — and honestly, that was so tempting; or I could actually try to make a life for myself. I must’ve cried and yelled at myself for more than five hours before I finally decided on the third option. I actually threw the cake out the window. It’s a good thing it was three in the morning or an innocent passerby might’ve been slammed with chocolate icing.”

“I’ve been slammed with worse,” Philip said, “Jonathan and I were eating some split pea soup for dinner one night at the kitchen island…”

“Don’t go there…” Jonathan sighed.

“And he wasn’t feeling too good to begin with…”

“I said, don’t go there.”

“Oh, now you have to go there, Philip!” Angela leaned over the arm of the lounge chair, her French braid dangling over her shoulder like a bungee cord.

“Before I knew it, my white tee shirt was green with his vomit!”

“That is so nasty!” Angela said, covering her mouth.

“I told you not to go there.” Jonathan smugly took a sip of his drink.

“Although,” Angela started, “when I was a nurse, I’d have someone vomit on me practically every day. It was like I was a puke target — patients waited just for me to enter into their rooms before they’d heave their load and try to hit me dead center.”

The three of them groaned in unison. Jonathan told himself this was not pleasant pre-dinner conversation and figured he’d better put an end to it before all Philip’s hard work was put to waste.

“What do you mean
when
you were a nurse?” he asked.

“Well, right now I’m a nurse manager at New York Presbyterian. I make sure all patients in specific areas are attended to. I recruit staff, work on increasing nurse retention, and basically spend my nights doing paperwork.”

“But I remember how much you wanted to be a nurse,” Philip said, with a tinge of sadness in his voice. “You talked about wanting to take care of people, holding their hands, saving their lives, blah, blah, blah. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. But honestly, for me it got old very fast.”

Jonathan was surprised at the harshness of her tone, although he realized being a nurse, especially in Manhattan, must take its toll sooner before later.

Angela took a sip of her drink, the sky now reflecting a pink hue on her face. She smiled and shook her head. “And once I lost the weight, it seemed the execs noticed I had a brain too. After a few classes and some great recommendations, I now make a lot more money and get to manage puke instead of clean it up.”

“Okay,” Jonathan said. “So we’re back to
that
again.” He walked to the French doors and slid one open. “Let’s eat now before we get into any other bodily functions.”

Angela jumped up from the chair, ran to Jonathan, and stood in front of him holding up her glass. “Time for another one of these anyway. And by the way, what do you do Mr. Jonathan?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Wow, a creative guy! I always thought Philip would go for a numbers guy like himself.” She swirled the remaining ice in her glass. “What do you write? Books? Magazine Articles? Advertisements? TV Shows?”

Jonathan gestured with his arm for her to go inside. “Yes. All the above.”

“You have to tell me everything you’ve written. I want to read all of it.” She walked past the piano, through the living room, and into the kitchen as though she’d been living in the house for years. “You might even end up writing a book about why I’m here,” she called back to him from the kitchen.

Jonathan stopped moving mid-step. He felt a weak throb in his chest.
I knew it was too good to be true.
He swung around, about to ask Philip if he’d heard what Angela said, but was stopped before he had the chance.

Philip smiled. “I heard. Just stay calm and take that sour look off your face. I’m sure it’s not as bad as what your imagination is stirring up.” He kissed Jonathan on the cheek and started into the kitchen after Angela. He paused mid-stride and called back, “She’s great, right?”

Philip didn’t wait for an answer. A few seconds later the oven door slammed and he called, “Dinner’s ready!”

Thinking about Philip’s question, Jonathan had decided it was too soon to make up his mind.

4

The mind chatter wouldn’t cease, and the pit of Tommy’s stomach began to burn. Angela’s voice was inside his head and her words from their telephone conversation only moments earlier reverberated like a booming bass from the speakers of a souped-up ’62 Chevy.

“You’re smothering me, Tommy. I need room to breathe,” she’d said. Through the telephone he could hear her shoes clacking on the floor and the echo of voices around her. Damn it! She was actually in Grand Central Station making good on her promise to escape to Connecticut.

“I don’t mean to, Angie. I just wanna spend more time with you. I like being with you for Christ’s sake. Don’t you get that?”

“I get it,” she said curtly. “And I have to go. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He waited for her to continue, but there was silence. She’d hung up.

Tommy stared at the phone in his hand, wanting to smash it against the cubicle wall. Instead he slammed it into the cradle and banged his fists on the desk. He swiveled his chair around the tiny stall where he spent his days stood up, and glanced over the partition. The office was empty — not a soul, not even the cleaning people. He listened carefully: nothing but the whirr of a computer a few spaces down.

He walked to the wall of windows lining the west side of the giant room. From the thirtieth story, the floor-to-ceiling glass showed the entire expanse of Manhattan below him. The Hudson River twisted and turned along its jagged shoreline, heading south from the mouth of New York Harbor and north past the George Washington Bridge. The setting sun spread dust through clouds as thin as paper, slicing the light and layering intense reds and simmering pinks onto everything it touched. A Circle Line Ferry puttered silently downriver; offering tourists and native New Yorkers a new perspective of Manhattan. A few sailboats darted through the channel, lucky, he imagined, to be going nowhere in style. If his mind wasn’t so consumed with dire thoughts, he might’ve been able to appreciate the view.

He rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch: 7:07. What is she doing now? Why wouldn’t she let me go with her? Who the hell is Philip and what is she
really
doing in Connecticut?

He kicked a recycled paper bin into the middle of the hallway, sending paper up to the ceiling and fluttering into the cubicles. Chunks of shredded paper settled as far away as the main hallway.

He stared at the mess he’d just made, his left eyelid twitching. This had happened the way always did: Something would get under his skin, incessant thoughts took over, and before he knew it there’d be a mess — a hole punched in a wall, his dirty shoeprint on a taxi door, or blood splatters dotting his clothes after a bar brawl that started over a meaningless glance from an overfriendly patron. Up until this moment, the new combination of Zoloft and Clozapine seemed to be making a difference. This was the first episode in three months, but now he was even more enraged by the fact that his medication didn’t kick in when he needed it most.

Maybe he should boost the dosage. He’d ask Angela her opinion if she wasn’t running off to some guy’s house in Connecticut. What the hell was she doing out there, anyway? They were all fucking snobs, for God’s sake.

“What the hell happened here?” Karen Martin stood before him, the tip of one red high heel pump buried in a pile of paper. He stared at her legs, following the sheer, silk stockings leading to a black Dior pencil skirt. The fabric hugged her slim frame, showing curves and shapes he’d never seen during working hours. She always wore asexual dresses or dull pantsuits, the exact opposite of what she had on now. He blushed at the twitch in his groin.

She looked at the paper scattered around the room and rolled her eyes. After a deep breath and a look at the ceiling as though asking God for assistance, she put both hands on her hips and stood over him. “What’s this mess all about, Tommy?”

He shook his head to clear the thoughts about Angela, and then sank to his knees and began scraping the paper into piles.

“Hey, Karen. Sorry about this. I was trying to finish the numbers for Davis and Company and there was one page I couldn’t find.” This sounded reasonable, and since she didn’t interrupt, he kept talking. “I searched through all my folders and still couldn’t find it, so I figured I threw it out. Anyway, to make a long story short, I’ve been going through the garbage.”

Karen had started tapping her toe on the papers. She glanced up and down the length of the mess, pursed her lips, and puffed out a breath.

“Jesus, Tommy. Just make sure it’s cleaned up, okay?” She turned and walked toward her office. “I don’t have time to discuss this now. I’m just here to pick up a brief on my way to Lincoln Center.”

He continued to gather papers and shove them back into the recycle bin, forcing himself not to watch her walk away. Breathing a sigh of relief, he mentally patted himself on the back for keeping everything under control.

But her facial expression told him she was skeptical. He’d exploded a few times before, the most recent a little over three months ago. He went off during a meeting while the client was in the room, but Karen wasn’t there — she didn’t know the details. She heard about it third hand and wouldn’t even listen to his side of the story.

She’d called him into her office two days after the event.

“Tommy, you know I like you. I really do. You’re a nice guy and good at your job. The problem is, we have no tolerance for outbursts like the one you had the other day.”

Tommy shifted in his chair and tried to speak, but she held up her hand.

“Please don’t explain. I’ve heard detailed accounts from other employees, as well as the client.” Rustling the papers in front of her, she grabbed a sheet and began fanning her face with it. “And I read the explanation you submitted to Human Resources. I’m sorry, but this just doesn’t cut it.”

She tossed the paper back onto the desk and swiveled her chair toward the window. Tommy saw his own reflection next to hers in the window — stringy blonde bangs sweeping his brow; the dark circles beneath his eyes, probably from overwork and over-worry; the fat knot of his tie dangling too low over his shirt to be professional enough for Karen. He was a mess, inside and out. He knew it and was very much aware of the fact that Karen, the woman who held his future in her hands, knew it too. He caught her gaze in the reflection and immediately shut his eyes.

She swiveled back, placed her elbows on the oversized mahogany desk, and clasped her hands. “This is strange, Tommy. You’re usually so quiet and even-tempered. You don’t look like the type of person who’d behave this way. And more than once, no less. Looks can be deceiving, I guess.” She intertwined her fingers, sliding them back and forth against each other. “So, the long and short of it is, I’m asking you to sign up for an Anger Management course. That’s the only way I can justify keeping you with the firm.”

Tommy still didn’t look up. He felt her staring at the top of his head. She was full of shit; she didn’t like
him
, she liked the work he pumped out… the long hours researching cases… the weekends typing up contracts… the extra time he’d put in writing dispute and deposition summaries when no one else would. She was a goddamn user. He wouldn’t look up, but he had to say something.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I appreciate this.”

“Tommy, don’t thank me. Just use the course to get your anger under control. Who knows? Maybe you’ll figure out some other things that might be bothering you.”

Thoughts of jumping over the desk and strangling her with his tie forced him to reposition himself in the chair. He needed more meds… and fast.

“Okay.” Tommy’s voice trembled. “Will do.” He stood, glanced at Karen one last time, and walked into the hallway. Heads bobbed from inside cubicles; faces wearing curious expressions, trying to figure out what had happened. Tommy kept his head down, maintaining a steady pace until he reached his desk. He grabbed his leather bag and searched frantically for the bottle of Xanax. Throwing two pills into his mouth, he washed them down with a long swig of a warm Coke that had been sitting on his desk all day.

“Goddamn piece of shit,” he muttered. “Goddamn piece of shit,” he repeated until he felt the medicine kick in and the tightness fade from the pit of his stomach.

And here he was again, 7:30 at night, cleaning papers off the floor like a scavenger, feeling the same tightness in his gut he’d felt three months earlier. In the end, he had no one to blame for tonight’s fiasco but this son-of-a-bitch Philip — some shitbag from Connecticut Angela just had to see. He’d begged her to stay with him in the city, to go out for dinner, maybe hit a movie, and then do the sex thing he’d been looking forward to for weeks. But she rejected him again, muttered something about visiting her old friend Philip in Connecticut. Now, thanks to this fucker Philip, he’d been humiliated instead of enjoying an evening with the woman of his dreams.