The Suite Life (41 page)

As Alec struggled to stem the tide that was drowning him, he hit up every person he could think of to whom he'd lent money. Perhaps he hadn't been nice enough to them on his way up, or maybe they were enjoying his downward slide, but for whatever reason they were nowhere to be found in his time of need. Of course he was able to scrounge up five grand here and there, this week or next, but that didn't come close to supporting the life he thought he still had. He fought a losing battle, and the coup de grace was the lawsuit Ted Ross filed right after Labor Day to recover his two million dollars after six straight months of no payments from Alec.

“I need whatever money you have in that account of yours . . . badly,” Alec whimpered to me one evening in the den, where we were sitting on couches that needed cleaning. “There's nothing there,” I said without emotion, and that wasn't a lie. The piddling sum I had was already spoken for, and it was far too humble to make any difference in his life anyway.

“I wish I could help you, Alec,” I added, and that was true, too. Although I despised what he had done to us, he still had rescued the refugee I was and had paid my way ever since. One
doesn't forget that—or at least I couldn't. I would have coughed up big dough if I had it.

Hell, if I had big dough, I would have already been gone, but I still would have helped Alec.

And he wouldn't have been in this dire situation if I had managed the finances from the start. He'd have owned at least one home outright, and he wouldn't be facing eviction from the Luxe Regent. When he could no longer ignore the notices, Alec shuffled out of his mini-mansion with Isabella and me in tow.

I had no problem facing moving day; in fact, it felt as if I were being released from Luxe Prison, Biedermeiers and all. Of course, the two-bedroom apartment we were moving into back in our old neighborhood was much smaller, but I saw that as real progress toward a simpler life. To celebrate, I made sure I gave the moving guys a big tip to dispose of that hideous fountain in the foyer on their way out. That would not be coming with me.

I hadn't been looking for unimaginable riches when I met Alec; I'd just been looking for love and an escape from long, lonely years of hardship. It had been easy to take, and now it was easy to see that I should have been more forceful with my opinions, or at least spoken up more often and tried to inject some sanity into our financial situation. But the person who had gone along for the ride wasn't me anymore. Of that I was certain.

Moving down the ladder we were still several rungs above where I had been when I started moving up. Scrounging for welfare checks in my youth, enduring the snickers of my peers when I used food stamps to settle up at the register, and receiving all sorts of hand-me-downs had in some way been a blessing. I often wondered what a thirty-five-dollar salad and a block of welfare cheese had in common. It had made me strong, and I had no trouble doing without the trappings of wealth that Alec bemoaned losing and swore he'd get back. I didn't give a shit
about caviar and helicopters. What I yearned for did not come wrapped up in a Cartier box; it was love and that was free.

Marvin and Gregory didn't give a shit, either, about my not showing up with a tin of caviar on my next visit to Rhode Island. All they cared about was being with me.

I received another email from Spiro.

You'll be fine, Sam. The move and disruptions in your personal life are part of the cleansing process. Focus on the lesson now. Once it is revealed, understood, digested, and put away, the reward comes.

Enjoy your new place, enjoy the fact that you're not living some Luxe Regent fantasy anymore, and understand that where you live doesn't define you. You were proud and strong when you lived on five dollars a day and you're proud and strong now.

Spiro always knew what to write and the perfect time to send it. However, that was as far as it would go for now. I knew I had made the right decision

Even though he was still a mess at home, Alec managed to show his pride and strength to the outside world, and he kept repeating his oath that he'd “be back.” His resolve took a beating, however, when he had a hard time getting his phone calls returned, and he beat up his body more and more when he was at home, which was most of the time. I was suddenly forced to face my very real fear of his dying.

It was impossible to enjoy our new place. In fact, it was pure misery for Isabella and me. I think she still appreciated sharing her room with me more than she wanted her privacy, although I could tell that wasn't going to last. Neither she nor I deserved the hand Alec had dealt us. What I
did
deserve was having Spiro around to support me with words at every turn:

I'm in pain also for a multitude of reasons, but that's the way life works. We must consolidate and regroup sometimes before we grow. That can be a painful process, but it's necessary. If we focus on the end goal at the expense of the process, all we'll get is more testing and more pain.

There are great forces at work. Be bold, be strong, pray, and place your heart and emotions in the hands of God. He's always there for us. When you let go and let God, He'll reward you beyond your wildest dreams.

It had never been about money for me, so it was easy to accept my present circumstances, and I was always honest about that. But it had always been about finding a mate for that couch and a failed marriage was a lot harder to swallow. Alec was still, however, the father of my daughter.

I'd always been myself; that hadn't changed with my address. I prayed for the strength and courage to prevail. I was not built to break. Then I prayed some more as Alec sank into a greater depression when everyone continued ignoring his calls. As a last resort, he went to Filomena for the rent money so we wouldn't be thrown out of another place. Alec had failed as a man as he'd failed as a husband, and he was well on his way to failing as a father. I was beginning to think it was society that had failed by
causing him to believe that it was wealth that defined him. But ultimately it was the prospect of our crumbling family that was proving infinitely harder for me to accept than the crumbling of our empire.

Isabella spent most of her time at one or another after-school club or activity, and she hung out at her “normal” friends' homes as much as possible. I was happy that she had these good examples in her life, and I was determined to be a good example for her, too.

Alec shopped therapists and copped an assortment of
prescriptions for various pills that he continued to mix and match. If he couldn't live the reality he imagined, he'd live in a drug-induced one, which frightened both me and my daughter.

Gradually, however, for both of us fear morphed into pity. Isabella saw her father as tragically flawed and managed to be at peace most of the time when she was home. And the more he lost his bravado, the more I saw him as someone whose soul had been too hardened by the pursuit of money, too enslaved by the sports mentality and the killer instinct, and too destroyed to love. He had played on a street that was every bit as dangerous as the mafia streets of my youth, and he had lost.

It was a blessing that the power of money had brought him down rather than the power of a gun. And it was also a blessing that somehow, the lower he fell, the more powerless he became, the more I was able to forgive him. It was hard to stay afraid of or angry with someone who had become such a pathetic shadow of the person he wanted to be. To me, that was never more obvious than when he had a panic attack as we were driving home from one of the now-rare visits to his mother in Brooklyn, which usually occurred shortly before the first of the month. He jerked the used Toyota SUV he was driving to the side of the road so hard that the right front wheel jumped the curb. Then he slammed the transmission into park, flung the door open, and raced into the alleyway between two buildings to vomit.

But Alec being Alec, he was also still engaging in self-destructive behaviors that were too serious to ignore, let alone forgive.

One of the more regular acts requiring forgiveness was his nearly daily consumption of a liter of cheap vodka, cut with Crystal Light, and the subsequent spewing out of invectives. Alec liked to call it his pink juice, like the juice dogs are fed before they are euthanized.

In the end, I even forgave him for the free blow jobs from
escorts he finally admitted he'd gotten on a regular basis, as a “commission” for his services rendered. I forgave him for being a disciple of Bill Clinton and thinking that blow jobs weren't “sex.” I forgave him for debasing women that way because he could, and I forgave him for all the years he had ignored me when we were in bed. I had been through a lot since the world of Tony Kroon and now Alec DeMarco. Different worlds yet somehow the same. Mafia and Wall Street lead by money and self-loathing. Power, sex, and drugs. That feeling of being so important, when in reality you're not. It all made me wonder how Moses felt when the Israelites turned on him in the desert. It's the same in these worlds. People turn, sometimes so far they never can make it back.

I went from Brooklyn to Manhattan but never once, even with all the money, lost sight of who I was along the way. I played the game and did things I wasn't proud of to fit in. I was now done. It was now my turn. My turn to make things right.

Whether God will forgive him isn't up to me, but I think most people deserve a second chance to achieve a better outcome. And that would include me, too. I had to forgive myself for being far too docile while living the high life under a husband's thumb, for turning Isabella's early care entirely over to a nanny, for seeking comfort from another man in my darkest hours, and for failing to take care of myself for far too long.

What was past was past, and I chose to be thankful that I still had my health, my sanity, and hope for my future. I also remained thankful for the few humorous diversions Alec still provided now and then, like the time he burned his hair with a straightening concoction he simply had to try. I also had to forgive myself and my daughter for laughing so hard when he saw his singed hair.

“Can I ask you something, Mom?” Isabella asked after we'd milked the last drop of enjoyment from that more-comical-than-tragic experiment.

“Sure, honey, anything. You know that.”

“Why does Daddy stay in bed so much?”

“I don't really know, Isabella,” I said, shaking my head. “It could be that deep inside he's not really sure of himself. It could be he's unhappy with himself, or it could just be he didn't get to where he thought he could be.”

My deeper thoughts were that Alec didn't even realize just how depressed he truly was. I thought long and hard about all the Wall Street men who must have been. It seemed sad to have so much and be depressed; however, my empathy turned. They should start a committee or something, they were all good at that.

“I worry about Daddy.” Isabella sighed.

“Me too, honey,” I said softly.

But, despite my intermingling feelings of worry, pity, and forgiveness, I still didn't want to be around him. Like my daughter, I was out as much as possible. There was always a meeting to go to, a friend to visit, a writing class to attend . . . or a friendly interlude with Spiro. And through it all, I always had the publication of my novel—my personal achievement—at the back of my mind.

When Moira Jewison finally called in November to say that
The Blessed Bridge
was ready to go out to publishers, achievement moved front and center, and stayed there even after she added that it was just the start, that I was a first-time author, that it was a tough sell. I didn't care how long it took for her to sell it, because she'd said the words I'd longed to hear for more than half my life, and I planned on enjoying the ride.

What I hadn't planned on was getting tepid early readings and a couple of fast rejections. Moira, however, dismissed the dismissals and said to keep my chin up.

Then, right after New Year's, she called with more bad news about her personal life and not having been in touch with publishers. It appeared that my salvation would be delayed.

“Keep your chin up,” she said once more. “I still see good things ahead for your novel, and I'm sorry my own problems are still slowing things down.”

“That's okay, Moira,” I said through gritted teeth. “Your health comes first.”

“Thanks, Samantha. That's very kind of you.”

What else can I say? It's not as if I have a line of literary agents waiting at my door.

“Even if I get totally shot down,” she added, “it wouldn't be the first time a first novel got published second or even third in line after something else by the author.”

If it weren't for Spiro's words of advice I might have lost it right then and there.

Focus on the process, Samantha.

“I don't
have
a second novel, Moira,” I said.

“Surely you have a journal.”

“Of course.”

“Well, start pulling your notes together, Samantha. A writer writes.”

And an agent agents.

I clung to my hope and visions of Tim Robbins on the beach in
The Shawshank Redemption.
He climbed through fifty yards of foul-smelling shit and got clean on the other side.