Thorns of Truth (3 page)

“Sunday evening you’re speaking at the Brandeis Women’s Committee banquet,” he reminded her. “We’d have to make it early to beat the traffic.”

“How about a picnic lunch in the park instead? Saturday or Sunday—your choice.”

“Sandwiched between appointments, so to speak?” he teased, but she could hear the barb buried there. “Actually, it’s supposed to rain all weekend. I’d suggest something indoors … if I thought I could talk you into shutting off the phone.”

“We’ll come up with something,” she told him.

Rachel felt an abrupt coolness as his hand fell away from her neck. The double strand of pearls dropped into place against her collarbone with a soft tick. In the little hollow at the base of her throat where they lay nestled, she was aware of a pulse leaping.

She watched him cross over to the window, where he stood gazing out at Gramercy Park three stories below, a shadowy island where flower beds bloomed like bright nosegays beneath the glow of cast-iron streetlamps. She felt a sharp pinch of anxiety. How had they come to this? Jockeying for stolen moments, negotiating hours like commodities on the stock exchange. Brian had always been the solid reef against which her days swirled. Except when he was on tour, he was usually here, in his office, hammering away at his keyboard. She could call him in the middle of the day to let off steam about the empty suits in the mayor’s office, or the stuffed shirts at Community Health. And in the evening, when she dragged home so late that dinner was out of the question, he never berated her—he just poured her a brandy, and put his arm around her while she talked.

Except these days, Brian wasn’t quite so available anymore. Sometimes he didn’t surface from his den until after she’d gone to bed. And when she called home, more often than not she got his machine.

She thought back to another time … a time when every choice had seemed as clear-cut as a road heading in only one direction. In her mind, she was seeing a dying soldier on a stretcher, covered in blood, a hole the size of her fist blown in his belly by a land mine. She hadn’t stopped to think then. She’d acted swiftly, decisively, insisting, over the objections of her superior, that they operate at once.

That young sergeant was Brian.

Two months later, they were exchanging vows in the back room of a dingy bar in Da Nang. Rachel remembered every moment as if it were etched in crystal—the hibiscus Brian had picked for her, the beaded curtain tinkling like chimes, the
chong sam
she wore in place of a wedding gown. And, most of all, the face of her bridegroom, gaunt and ravaged, yet suffused with love. A man still recovering from his wounds, who hadn’t hesitated to go back into that jungle to rescue her from behind enemy lines.

Rachel felt her chest constrict.

What had become of those two people? That fiercely idealistic girl with her heart on fire … and the young soldier who risked his life for her? Oh sure, they’d had their ups and downs, particularly in the beginning, but … how had they come to this? A middle-aged couple on their way to a party, with most of what there was to say to one another left unspoken.

As Brian turned away from the window, she longed to go to him, to smooth back the curls springing loose from the damp comb tracks over his temples. Did he know how much she loved him? How much she wished, sometimes, that she could just walk away from it all—the East Side Center, and all its demands—and just
be.
To enjoy the simple pleasures of having coffee with her husband in the morning … and falling asleep at night in his arms.

With his back to her, Brian remarked casually, “Avery offered us his place in Amagansett for the last two weeks in August. I was thinking I might take him up on it.”

“Oh, Bri, I don’t see how I can get away then.” Rachel almost hated him for dangling in front of her the very thing she craved. But he couldn’t have chosen a worse time—her grant proposal for the Sitwell Foundation was due to be submitted the week before Labor Day.

He shrugged, and somehow that hurt more than if he’d protested. “Either way, I could use the time to finish this draft before I go on tour in October. If you change your mind, you can always join me.”

“If it were up to me—” But she stopped when he didn’t turn around. What would be the point? He’d heard it all before.

Minutes later, gliding up Park Avenue in their hired limousine, Rachel wished she could grab hold of her husband and daughter, seated on either side of her, and never let go. She felt as if they were caught on a rock at high tide and at any moment a huge wave might sweep one of them away.

And if that happened to Iris, it could very well be for good.

Rachel shivered in the air conditioning that, in the enclosed back seat, surrounded her like a capsule of ice.

Then she remembered: Rose would be at the party. Someone with whom Rachel could share her concerns; someone who always seemed to know the right thing to do. Wasn’t it Rose who’d brought Iris to them in the first place, all those years ago? Besides, she had children of her own. She knew what it was like. Rachel wouldn’t have to explain to Rose what it was like to be a mother fearing the unthinkable.

The taxi was pulling to a stop at the corner of Eighty-sixth and Riverside when Rose Griffin leaned toward the front seat and ordered crisply, “Drive around the block, please.” She didn’t feel any need to explain to the cabbie why she wasn’t quite ready to get out. Who cared if he thought she was crazy?

The Pakistani cabbie shot her a look over his shoulder that said she
must
be crazy … but then shrugged. She was probably no worse than three-quarters of the city’s population. The hell with it, Rose thought. The meter was already into quadruple digits, thanks to a traffic jam on Eighth Avenue that had felt more like a wagon train crossing the Great Plains. What was another dollar or so? The few extra minutes of peace were worth the price.

The truth was, if she spent all night gearing up for it, she’d be no more ready to face the crowd at that banquet. It was only out of affection for Brian that she’d accepted the invitation in the first place. Now she wished she’d sent her regrets instead. What on earth could she have been thinking?

For one thing, she hated big parties. To her mind, they were nothing more than an excuse for avoiding
real
conversations: the social equivalent of the hors d’oeuvres that passed interchangeably from one function to the next—seldom as tasty as they looked, and not the least bit nourishing. It was Max who had made them tolerable, even fun. Just when she thought she’d rather have bamboo shoved under her fingernails than listen to another minute of some self-satisfied idiot droning in her ear, she’d catch her husband winking at her across the room. Or, fighting her way through the gridlock at the bar, she’d find Max, a fresh drink for her already in hand. Then the taxi ride home, slumped against him with her head on his shoulder while they giggled over Mr. Zweillerbach’s toupee, or the rumor that Myra Kennedy was having an affair with her doorman.

This evening’s event, with its inevitable onslaught of unfamiliar faces and names Rose wouldn’t remember—not to mention the yawn-inducing speeches that were sure to follow like wet towels in the wake of a pool party—would be no different from a hundred others like it. Except for one thing: Max wouldn’t be there.

On her way out the door tonight, her son Jason had gaped at her, commenting, “Wow, Mom, is that you? For a second, I thought you were Madonna.” A sixteen-year-old’s ass-backward idea of a compliment, she supposed. And he was right. Hadn’t she chosen the red crepe Dolce & Gabbana exactly for that reason? A crimson banner to be waved in the face of all those who might feel sorry for her. At the last minute, she’d been half tempted to tuck a rose behind one ear. Max, she knew, would have loved it. She’d have spent the evening flirting with him, and then gone home both delighted and amused at having seduced her own husband.

But tonight, as she had for the last three hundred twenty-seven nights. Rose would be sleeping alone.

The thought made her yearn to tell the cabbie she’d changed her mind altogether, would he please just turn around and take her home. She could think of a dozen things she’d rather be doing. Like, say, answering the stack of letters on her desk, mostly condolence notes that continued to trickle in, nearly a year after Max’s death. Or preparing her notes for yet another motion hearing in the Esposito case, which, God willing, would go to trial next month. Even cleaning out Mr. Chips’ cage seemed a reasonable alternative.

She cringed at the prospect of having to smile and nod in response to murmurs of sympathy offered by those who’d known Max. Then having to assure people she barely knew that she was getting on with her life. Yes, her husband’s passing had been a blow to the firm, but with time and some reorganization—did they know her stepdaughter, Mandy, just made full partner?—things were back on track. And, no, her youngest wasn’t going away to Deerfield as planned. Jason’s decision, not hers. She had no patience for grieving widows who clung to their children as if to life preservers; she believed in doing what was best for her sons. Take Jackie Onassis, she’d say. Nobody had had to tell that woman, “Get a life,” and look how well
her
kids turned out.

It was all a big fat lie.

Rose hated every single minute spent walking this earth without Max. She was furious at everyone from God to Mr. Mandelbaum, the hapless client Max had been on the phone with when he suffered his fatal heart attack. Something as innocent as driving to Port Washington for a Saturday visit with her eldest sister Marie was enough to trigger an attack of rage so profound it left her shattered and trembling. At toll booths, in stalled traffic on the LIE, all those couples and families in Range Rovers and Jeep Cherokees, talking animatedly, jostling each other, their heads thrown back in unheard laughter. How unfair! How wicked and wrong that those people were allowed to live—people with bumper stickers that read, “I Brake for Deer Hunters” and “Don’t Honk, Get Even”—while
her
husband, who twice had argued cases before the United States Supreme Court, who always remembered to fill the Volvo’s gas tank even when she forgot, and who never walked out the door without kissing her and telling her he loved her, was gone forever.

The only thing Rose had gotten over was her desire to be dead as well. Sometimes, she missed even that. Amazing, she thought, how many idle, aching hours it had filled, fantasizing about ways she might kill herself. A gunshot to the head? Quick and easy, but too messy. Slitting her wrists was equally unthinkable—Rachel and Brian, my God, how awful for them, after what they’d gone through with Iris. A barbiturate cocktail would be the cleanest, she’d supposed, but think of the trouble getting such a prescription filled, and what if it didn’t work?

Killing herself would merely have been taking a stand against the quiet little suicide of each day without her husband, the bit-by-bit crumbling of a heart gone stale and dry as old toast, the little throb in the back of her throat when she caught his scent on a sweater she’d forgotten to donate to the Goodwill, or came across his handwriting in a file at the office.

Rose blinked against the tears that had made a country-western ballad of an innocent evening out. Traffic lights wheeled and flashed overhead. She caught a glimpse of a homeless woman in a knit cap huddled over a steam grate, a sight that didn’t strike her as all that strange until she remembered it was the beginning of July. Wasn’t it just last week she’d been scurrying past Valentine’s Day displays in drugstores? Just yesterday that she’d noticed the first crocuses pushing up in the flower beds along Park Avenue?

As her taxi, for the second time that evening, pulled up in front of Avery Hammersmith’s building—its address discreetly displayed in brass letters over plate-glass doors thick as a vault’s—Rose offered up a little prayer:
Please, God, let me get through this in one piece.
One bad night could cost her days, send her spinning back to the time when the color blue made her think Gillette, and Guns n’ Roses was more than just a rock group her sons listened to.

And, God, while You’re at it, spare me from being seated next to some well-meaning hostess’s idea of a swell blind date.
Or, if there was no avoiding it, at least let him be a decent guy—someone who wouldn’t ask if she’d be interested in a Hamptons summer share … or a Broadway show for which he just happened to have tickets.

The penthouse owned by Brian’s publisher occupied the entire eighteenth floor of the prewar building, which overlooked the Hudson and Riverside Park. As Rose stepped from the elevator into a paneled foyer as spacious as her own living room, she felt oddly soothed. Places like this, she thought, were impervious to ordinary human woes. The only mayhem likely to slip past these solid walnut doors came tidily packaged in the
Times
, which no doubt was delivered each morning by a white-gloved doorman.

Even the elderly retainer from Central Casting who’d ushered her in spoke as softly as if they were in church. And in some ways, it
did
remind her of a church—the polished old wood giving off a faint scent of lemon oil, the towering floral arrangements, the crystal chandelier twinkling like a hundred penny candles.

When asked what she’d like to drink, Rose answered without hesitation, “Water. A glass of water will be fine.” When the time came, she’d lift the requisite flute of champagne to Brian … but only because it was easier than having to explain to a lot of busybodies that booze made her weepy and, worst of all, sorry for herself.

Rose passed through a set of double doors into what at one time must have been the ballroom—a vast arena with a walk-in marble fireplace, and a row of French doors that opened onto a wrap-around terrace. The view of the river, with the George Washington Bridge straddling it like a diamond tiara, literally took her breath away. For a moment, she hardly noticed the guests clustered about the candlelit tables—at least seventy, all of them chatting as comfortably as if they’d known each other all their lives.