Trail Markers
A furious up-rush had driven Zachary since adolescence. He craved every advantage, trophy, scholarship, and fellowship a man could attain. The youngest Boy Scout in his region to attain Eagle, at age 13: That he considered the trailhead from which he would ascend to ever greater honors. He lived by the Scout Law, Scout Oath, Motto and Slogan, all of which he knew by heart, and was glad to recite should anyone want to hear them.
He had graduated from high school a year ahead of his classmates and attended the University of Illinois in Champaign. He paused only long enough to marry Beth Lawrence, a Presbyterian minister’s daughter from Wisconsin, before earning his doctorate in Public Policy. With his eye on the Younger Institute in Washington, D.C., he attended every policy forum and conference around the country, even the minor ones.
Blond and strongly built, he possessed a commanding voice and military bearing. With vigilance and discipline, he taught himself to regulate his extraordinary energies so that they worked like a magnetic field, coloring the air around him. After years of monitoring how others responded to him, he perfected a trademark style. Seeing anyone he deemed important, Zach would march up, shake hands, and lavish direct praise. Thanks to countless hours practicing in front of a mirror, he managed never to appear calculating or sycophantic. His over-the-top compliments suggested only a straightforward style and a discerning mind.
Still, his trek was long. No amount of inspired boot-licking could propel him to the summit quickly enough. Year by year he had to blaze his own path. He found opportunities to write for the Institute’s newsletter. He promoted events for the website and contributed research to white papers that carried the bylines of Younger’s Senior Research Fellows.
Zach Severins endured three years teaching political science in Champaign before a tenure-track position arose in Public Policy at Columbia University—which was closely connected with the Younger Institute. The department director and the provost had conducted telephone interviews with him before extending an invitation to meet formally.
The night before Zach’s interview, really several interviews, Beth put the children to bed while he rehearsed in his basement office. Beth read to two-year-old Rosalind first, kissed her good night, and turned out the light. She then read a chapter of “James and the Giant Peach” to five-year-old Matthew, only to find Rosalind whimpering outside the door because she wanted to hear both stories. Beth rarely finished the children’s nighttime rituals before nine. Afterwards, she insisted Zach share a few hours with her, relaxing.
He always protested—no time—but Beth held her own. If he wanted a family, Beth expected him to share his last waking hours with her and no one else. Marriages didn’t work any other way.
Zach found no ground for disagreement. His own father, a dentist, had run off when Zach was ten. The man had made sure to attend the big events in Zach’s life, but his son would always see him as a cheater and a quitter. His once admirable father was morally weak and thus, reprehensible.
But tonight Zach could not relax, even with glasses of wine, watching television with Beth in bare feet. Zach punched one hand into an open palm, sparring with himself.
“What time’s your flight?” Beth asked.
He peered into her eyes. “Damn it, Beth, my head feels like it’s going to explode!”
“Well, yes,” Beth said. “Tomorrow is your big chance. But who on earth knows better than you how to walk the walk and talk the talk?”
Zach punched his hand even harder. “I know you’re trying to help. But you have no idea how annoying it is to hear such a stupid cliché: walk the walk; talk the talk! You don’t understand anything about this. You know about young children, cooking, and pottery.”
“Don’t be mean to me just because you’re anxious, Zach. You’ll do great.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Thanks, Beth.”
She touched his cheek and remained standing in front of him until he looked at her. Finally, he kissed his cheek: “Don’t stay up too late.”
**
Flight Change
Zach woke at five a.m., a habit he had developed in high school. Getting a jump on the day mattered much more to him than sleeping. Before sunrise he had showered and dressed in clothes for the flight. His carry-on was divided: one side structured for business attire with appropriate slots for his shoes; the other side for gym clothes.
In the afternoon light filtering in through beveled windows, he would not smell like someone who had driven two and a half hours to the St. Louis airport, sat stuffed in the middle seat for two hours, arrived at LaGuardia and waited for a cab. He had packed clothing for a good long run outside, whatever the weather. At four this afternoon, he would look sharp and casual when the conversation in cozy chairs turned to what he, Zachary Severins, might do teaching undergraduate political science classes at Columbia.
Before he got to the airport, however, his neck, chest, and arms itched as if covered with hives. His leg shook up and down until he tensed his muscles, planting his left foot heavily on the car floor. While he circled, looking for parking, his head grew light. These symptoms, he knew from previous incidents, meant he needed a brief, side excursion if he were to perform at optimum level.
Since he worked with such intense single-mindedness, he grew dizzy when facing occasions of freedom. In these cases, his Eagle Scout ideals, keeping him always trustworthy, always loyal, kind, cheerful, brave, and reverent, needed a short, secret respite. Not that he believed anyone, himself especially, lived above the law. These rare side-trips, like switchbacks to a hiker, were acceptable diversions from the straight path. Enough hesitation: he parked in the extended lot.
Impromptu reconnoitering was risky, but he had managed it before. He would change his ticket for the next flight to Washington, D.C. and book a next-day flight to LaGuardia, postponing the interview. Done correctly, it could work to his advantage, making him seem in demand. He handed his printout of an e-ticket to a stringy-haired woman, who was not altogether unattractive. She blushed, taking his credit card to change his flight itinerary.
The telephone call to William Emerson, the Public Policy department head, was the tricky part. He phoned while he was actually hurrying. The background sounds and his breathing would be genuine as he proceeded to his gate. “Bill, this is Zachary Severins. I’m at the St. Louis airport, but before I passed through security…Linda Simmons from the Treasury called. We wrote a white paper together for the Institute and the editor there wants us to meet this afternoon to discuss some fine points.
“I told her I didn’t think so, but I’d ask you—on the off chance rearranging my schedule wouldn’t inconvenience anyone—a long shot, I warned her. Because, Bill, you know how much I want this interview. If tomorrow morning won’t work for you, I’ll call Mark Levine, the editor, and tell him to make whatever changes suit him…
“Ten-thirty tomorrow? You can do that?” Zach asked, keeping his voice slightly tentative. “And the others…last time we spoke my impression was…” He paused, holding the phone down near his leg. What if this switch backfired?
“Oh, thank you.” He stopped and paused again. “Bill, you don’t know how much I appreciate it. The Institute makes a big deal out of everything. But I’d rather deny them than inconvenience anyone at your end…
“Well, if it you’re sure…okay, ten-thirty tomorrow. You don’t know how eager…or no, of course you know how much I want this. It’ll be great to see you, Bill. Really great.”
So far so good—he hoped. Walking the other direction, he telephoned Beth. “The more time they want, the better it looks. I’ll be home Wednesday evening. Thank you, sweetheart. Sorry if I was brusque last night; don’t know what I’d do without you…love you, too. Kiss the kids for me.”
He sank into a chair, so relieved he watched the jets rolling in and out before phoning Susan Cottler, an IBM lobbyist he met at a conference several months ago. They had sneaked off, enjoying two days at the Atlanta Omni suite.
They chatted about how busy they were, (“Grueling, really. The pressure never lets up…”) But they both knew why he was calling.
The Fairmont. Did she prefer a garden or a city view?
**
One Pinch Humility
When he and Susan had sex—this being their sixth or seventh rendezvous—Zach would have preferred classical music for atmosphere. Mozart, Schubert? He didn’t know. He and Beth listened to the hymns sung at the Presbyterian Church, and of course he knew Boy Scout campfire songs. But otherwise, he never deliberately listened to music—it wasn’t his field. While driving, he listened to lectures or how-to books on tape. He imagined, however, that an appropriately gentle but seductive instrumental might relieve any pressure to offer compliments or emotional declarations. But Susan, despite her no-nonsense style, liked to listen to them breathe. When it was in sync, she felt sexier. Zach thought the idea was weird and wanted to ignore it; his grunts and her giggles made him self-conscious. (Thank God she didn’t want him to talk dirty—what an unpleasant little tryst that had been—some anonymous adjunct on her way out.) Susan did require him to express urgent desire for her before, and affection after, which only slightly taxed him beforehand but inflicted irritation afterwards.
What really excited Zach were the differences between Susan and Beth. Susan’s smaller body was more cylindrical, and her muscles were smooth and sleek. Her breasts, which had never fed babies, were pointy little triangles poking up, the nipples small and dark brown. Her skin felt oilier. Beth was an avid, ecstatic lover, eager for experimentation. Susan timed herself so that she finished just when he did.
Afterwards, she took a whirlpool bath and he scanned the in-room on-screen listings. Bracing himself in the doorway, he asked her, “Do you want to go out? I need to leave painfully early. We discussed it, remember?”
She slid her whole head under the bubbling hot water. Coming up, she spit water in an impressive arc. “Yes, Zach. I remember.”
After the bath, she showered and washed her hair. “Let’s just stay here. Order room service,” she said, studying herself and her fancy underwear in the mirror. She winked at him, which he was supposed to find wickedly sexy. He smiled in appreciation. “Such a vixen.”
A few seconds passed in which he worried that she had registered the word literally. She did have a little fox face that was too pointed and narrow to weaken his knees. His affair with her had begun when the Institute group at an urban planning conference had stopped at a busy, noisy bar. Zach and Susan had talked over the noise and continued to talk after the crowd had gone home. What was it they had talked about? He was certain they began agreeing on a political theory.
Now she lolled on the bed in her leopard print bra and panties and watched a ballet, or a movie about the ballet. He showered and dressed, and wondered again if she did not want to go out, see if they could find something new. She didn’t.
That’s when he realized he should tell her: after tonight, no regrets. Maybe she would understand. They couldn’t risk their professional reputations on an ongoing romantic attachment. This explanation sounded reasonable and kind enough to him.
They ordered room service and over an expensive Sauvignon Blanc, salad, and seafood risotto, Zach told her about Columbia University and how much he wanted the job. After saying that much, he said he wanted it too much to say another word about it. They had sex again, fierce but fast. First he washed up and then she did, taking her time.
He patted the place on the bed next to him. “Sit here.” He held her hand, saying this had to be their final fling. If he got the position at Columbia, which he definitely would, they’d be too close—geographically. New York to Washington and back—basically the same neighborhood.
“So for you this was a quick fuck before your interview. To make you feel you—what, more relaxed?”
“Susan, no. I wanted to see you because I knew after being with you, I’d go in there full of confidence. Brimming with ideas.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” she said. “It’s not only reasonable but flattering: Is that how I’m supposed to feel, Zach? You’ll be brimming with ideas from now until the day you die and so have no need for me?”
“Susan, I’m sorry. Were you seriously hoping we would do this indefinitely?”
She dressed and packed in a huff while he watched, acting as if he were in mute shock. After she slammed the door, leaving him alone in the hotel bed, he waited in case anything else happened. Then he turned off the lights. Lying there, the room swarming with trails of relief, bouncing pinpoints of righteous indignation, the beauty of his adventure struck him. He had run on instinct, sensing a need to free himself. And he had achieved a sublime balance, coolly reordering the dean’s schedule, and minimizing his physical desires.
By the time Matt entered sixth grade—and the Boy Scouts—Zach had earned tenure and acquired adjunct scholar status with The Younger Institute. Now he had time to direct his son’s progress. Naturally, he enjoyed coaching the other boys, but by volunteering as sectional Scoutmaster, he could direct Matt’s ascent to Eagle Scout without interference.
After four years as den mother, Beth felt kicked of out the club. Rosalind disliked scouting. From a very early age, she opted out of any adult-run recreation, much preferring to invent her own adventures. To Beth’s delight, Rosalind displayed a fondness for fantasy. After learning about the seas of the moon, she declared one as yet undiscovered by anyone but her and her girlfriends: “The Sea of Mermaids” (no boys allowed).
One evening at dinner, Beth suggested that Matt could benefit from some free-form play like Rosalind’s, to balance the regimentation of scouts. Zach slammed his fist on the table. “You want him to grow up a homosexual?”
Beth felt sick. She knew the Boy Scouts did not allow gay people, but tried not to dwell on it. Now she dropped her fork loudly. “Zach, how could you say something like that to our children, or really, to anyone?”
He asked the children to wait while he spoke to their mother in the kitchen. But Beth spoke first. “Your attitude is paranoid and grotesque,” she hissed. “Don’t show it to my children again!”
His right hand formed a fist while the other slipped through her hair, grabbing the shorter, more sensitive strands at the nape of her neck. These he pulled hard, yanking her head back. “If you know what’s good for you, Beth, you won’t disagree with me in front of ‘your’ children again.” He released his grip so suddenly she staggered backward. His fury stung as if he had smacked her face.
“If you hit me, Zach, I’m calling the cops.”
“I didn’t hit you. So stop with the hysterics.”
Without another word, they stepped into the dining room. The children were gone. Matt and Rosalind had retreated to their bedrooms, leaving food on their plates.
Before Zach could get to them, Beth hurried up the wide, carpeted stairs, knocked on each one’s door, opened it, and jerked her head and thumb, motioning the children back to the table. Matt marched to his place, glanced at his father, and sat down. Rosalind dragged her feet, her still baby-soft expression all truculence. Only after making sure her father saw her eyes roll in childish derision, did she take her seat.
Still shocked by Zach’s near-loss of control, Beth stood at her place.
“Matt and Rosalind,” Zach said. “You know better than to leave the table without being excused.”
At eleven, Matt obeyed, respected, and feared his father. Rosalind did not. At eight, her protests were limited, but she showed signs of a defiant disposition. Beth had noticed this for more than a year. Zach still had no idea, because he paid little attention to his daughter.
“May we be excused?”
“Yes, Matt. Go do your homework. Rosalind, help your mother clear the table and clean the kitchen.”
As it was, Rosalind swung her leg so it knocked over an empty chair. The pouting child picked up her plate and glass of unfinished milk. Her father walked down the hall to his study and Rosalind stuck out her tongue.
Zach had reached that stage in life where four years feels like one. His goals and hopes loomed within easy reach now—one clear path to the Younger Institute, an organization that elicited respect and admiration around the world. He spent several days each month in Washington, participating in every roundtable and conference the Institute arranged. His personal life still rivaled falling down rabbit holes, but he steered with one hand and oriented with the other.
Now that Matt was fifteen, Zach became the region’s Scoutmaster. Thanks to Zach’s role in so many boys’ development and Beth’s skill at hosting dinner parties, the Severins suddenly appealed to the town’s more prominent families.
Invited out or entertaining in, Zach and Beth shared a sense of belonging neither had known before: Zach, always disciplined, had grown up fatherless in all but name; while Beth, the minister’s daughter, had grown up tethered to her father’s pleasure-abhorring Protestant church.
The Severins’ new friends invited them to join the Hilltop Club, which was expensive and exclusive. The Club wielded prestige but Zach demurred: Why bother? It existed mostly for the benefit of the wives and children; Zach’s important contacts were in Washington. And besides, their new friends entertained them frequently at the Club’s fancy restaurant overlooking a golf course—renowned to enthusiasts, which Zach was not.
From Thursday afternoon until Monday evening, Zach was a strict but available father. Unsurprisingly, Matt interested him more than Rosalind, who was pretty and played the flute. Matt was finishing his Star rank and ready to move onto Life—and then—Eagle.
His son’s progression tracked flawlessly, and Zach himself was due for the DESA: Distinguished Eagle Scout Award. To earn this a man must have held his Eagle rank for twenty-five years. A committee in White Plains had asked if he were interested: The procedure required several meetings and a few training courses. But the question was pro forma. Zach would merit the DESA distinction before his fortieth birthday. At the same time, the area’s unit chief was considering him for the Scoutmaster Award, for which he also qualified.
These commendations had represented his lifelong goals and should have filled him with the satisfaction of reaching the summit with its magnificent overview. His goals, however, had changed as of three months ago, when Zach’s professional life accidentally merged with his secret pleasures.
One Friday afternoon at the Younger Institute’s Washington office, Zach was gathering his papers in an empty conference room before flying home to New York, when an alluring woman—someone he’d vaguely imagined but never met—slipped past the open door. A few weeks later he noticed her walking ahead of him, the hem of her skirt swinging in rhythm with her steps. He followed from a distance. The way she walked stirred him. Anytime he heard her small quick steps, their sprightly rhythm stayed with him for hours.
**
Better Than Fine
For weeks, Zach followed Vida Korbett at a careful distance through the Younger Institute’s elegant curving hallways. Long before they were introduced, he sought an impression of her in his rare still moments. Every time he worked in Washington, D.C., he took surreptitious pleasure in the way her long legs propelled her rhythmically forward, the action of her hem grazing the backs of her knees, and the streaming of her shiny, reddish-blonde hair, which swung when she turned and settled in loose waves around her shoulders when she paused. Zach’s senses grew keen whenever she passed the open door of a committee session he was attending. Yet he listened in vain for her voice, deciding on his own that it must be low, almost throaty, and so steeped in knowledge she deliberately added a vaguely sweet silence between sentences.
Finally, she attended a seminar on public policy. At either end of a middle row, they waited until the last speaker finished before passing the people separating them, saying, “Excuse me,” and “Awkward, I know, but I must get by,” until they faced each other in the narrow confines. When they shook hands, “How do you do? I’ve been meaning to meet you,” both on full wattage, their similar style at the same game, made them laugh. They had heard quite good things about each other, and laughed at that too—and at how obviously and avidly they were about to pursue each other.
Zach gleaned Vida’s attitude and humor as quickly as he had put together the details he had watched during the weeks before they met. She regarded her voluptuous beauty, in which she seemed entirely secure, like a perk, as trivial yet prestigious as a preferred parking place. Zach, however, found her soft, shapely mouth and her big, many-hued eyes (Her light brown irises took on the colors of her surroundings) extraordinary. Her plump chin looked as smooth and rich as a scoop of ice cream. Her luscious appearance was as strong and commanding as his.
As Director of Development, Vida headed the Institute’s entire fund-raising operation; she oversaw twenty to thirty employees and interns, training and inspiring them to gather capital, meaning she would have impressed Zach even if her dimpled cheeks and ample figure didn’t fascinate him.
After their first meeting, Vida took Zach to dinner. Three times in three weeks they ate at a discreet and private club to which Vida had belonged since graduate school. The dining staff kept her favorites in stock. She liked single malt scotch, Veuve Cliquot, Chateauneuf du Pape, Sancerre, soft-shelled crabs, lamb chops, filet mignon, tamarind sorbet, and many kinds of bitter dark chocolate. She also liked, and the club also provided, micro-brewed beer, Kosher hot dogs, and super skinny French fries. The fourth week, Zach took her to the Capital Grille, after which she invited him to her townhouse in Georgetown.Her wholesome, prolonged sexual pleasure spurred Zach’s endurance and prompted him to employ his cache of erotic tricks. That was their first time. Past that, he abandoned all calculations—no conscious maneuverings. He succumbed to Vida and they experienced high-flying coupling, after which, they lay drenched in each other. Zach felt as if he and Vida could reconfigure time. Her innate power made Zach’s double life simple. In fact, he didn’t think of it as a double life at all. Vida had triggered something magical in Zach, so that he lived as two separate men at once.
Although, perhaps the first Zach’s life wasn’t quite so simple. In New York, sleeping with his wife, another dream unreeled, and his nights with Beth began to feel like a rodeo. He dreamed repeatedly of straddling two galloping horses, one foot squarely on each animal’s back. The wild horses ran faster and faster until they veered in opposite directions. He often woke with a cry that woke Beth, who assumed it was she who had screamed and woken him. For, of course, Zach never screamed—never had and never would, Beth believed. She apologized for waking him and grew teary, confessing that a nameless but terrible fear seized her whenever she closed her eyes.
“Something is wrong,” she said. Her every intuition hovered over an as-yet undetected fault that was already ruining them.
And Zach told her, “No, sweetheart. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. Better than fine. All our wishes are coming true.”
**
Best of Both
Zach adapted fast to the best of both words: On Mondays, he taught honors classes in Public Policy at Columbia. Tuesdays he flew to D.C., stayed with Vida in Georgetown through Thursday, but arrived home before Beth served dinner in their dining room, which was identical to thirty other dining rooms in the leafy development overlooking the Hudson River. After Beth’s soothing home-cooking, he checked his email and corrected his students’ projects. He taught three classes on Fridays, worked out at Columbia’s underground gym, and drove home, spending an hour or two preparing for that night’s Boy Scout meeting. If necessary, he attended to more academic pursuits on Saturdays. No one complained.
At the Younger Institute, he no longer sat on the roster of adjunct scholars. As Vida’s partner, he successfully wooed billionaire hedge funders, buyout moguls, and occasional celebrities eager to show their solidarity with conservative Senators.
Statuesque Vida, with her dimpled smile and long, bright, reddish-blonde hair, elicited moneyed interests by staging award ceremonies in a dignitary’s name and filling the Institute’s auditoriums with a corps of attractive university students.
Afterwards, Zach and Vida treated the awarded personage and his or her friends to a long night on the town. At Washington hot spots, Zach provided insightful comments leavened with his ready wit. His manly good looks and obvious intelligence did not go unnoticed. Receptions—or even two-day “think sessions”—infringed on his family routine yet involved little thinking and a good deal of fine dining, and even finer drinking, before and after operas and symphonies. Vida squeezed his hand and gazed up at him with obvious affection. As a couple, they entertained some of the most powerful individuals in the world.
One night as they undressed in Vida’s bedroom, he confessed his admiration for a particular power-broker. Vida embraced him, smiling, and kissed him with real intent. “That adulation, along with some of the fun, will fade,” she said. “You’ll be surprised how quickly.”
Yet Zach wanted Vida to know how much he enjoyed being her partner, and that he was grateful to her. He didn’t admit that he sometimes felt slightly awed by their guests, for he realized how important it was that he and Vida maintain an equally impressive profile. If he didn’t give off an aura of nearly historical significance, Vida would not risk being seen with him.
“I’ve been rolling with the highest of high rollers for almost fifteen years. And only once did I make a mistake. A man who held a position parallel to mine, and therefore should have known better, leaned in too close and shook a potential Presidential candidate’s hand too zealously.”
“What did you do?”
“I took him aside and told him to call the valet. I was staying; he was leaving. ‘Good-bye and good-luck.’”
After this conversation, Zach and Vida made love and as his hand rested on her waist and he silently marveled at how
it dipped as neatly as ever. He had no idea how she kept her voluptuous body so fit. The several-course lunches followed by extravagant dinners, brimming with countless cocktails and an endless supply of vintage wines and champagnes had resulted in Zach gaining so much weight it embarrassed him.
This coincided with the plentiful “comfort food” and irresistible desserts that Beth, who was a wonderful cook, had begun providing in greater abundance—since Zach had apparently quit his previously strict diet. Returning to his family always felt like a huge relief. And Zach realized how much he needed the haven of his wife and two children.
Beth had always catered to him, and always would. No need to don an air-tight, inspiring demeanor with her. He wasn’t on stage. His family was his greatest achievement and the fulcrum for his honor—officially so, according to the Boy Scouts. And in fact, Matt had progressed to within one step from Eagle classification—while Zach’s own DESA (Distinguished Eagle Scout Award) remained on track as well.
In contrast, twelve-year-old Rosalind’s behavior was becoming worrisome. Zach tended to view Beth’s concerns for their daughter as trivial, but even he couldn’t write off the girl’s decisions to drop her friends and the flute at the same time. Rosalind now preferred the girls and boys who lived in a run-down town several train stops north.
Zach had always depended on Beth to know what the kids were doing. He didn’t doubt she could reorient Rosalind onto a more productive path. Much as he loved his high-flying adventures with the luxuriant Vida, she had unexpectedly led him to a greater appreciation of Beth, who kept an attractive but unassuming home, and was well-known, and even sought-after in their storybook New York City suburb.
One Thursday afternoon in late spring, he had licked a bowl of whipped cream while she fixed ice cream parfaits for dessert. When he maneuvered her into the bedroom before the kids got home, the smell of pork chops and fresh potatoes baking permeated their love-making.
Zach might love Vida with a passion. But he needed Beth. He loved her more than she could possibly know. Dressing her as she rose from their bed, he said, “I cannot imagine my life without you.”
**
The Same as Any Other Woman
Apparently Zach had failed to notice his and Vida’s first “anniversary”—October fifteenth—when she first took him to her home in Georgetown and they had made love all night. The first year she had anticipated a celebration that never happened and recalled feeling hurt, then hopeful, then hurt. When it turned out that Zach hadn’t planned a belated but especially romantic escape for them, Vida’s expectations had bounced from the peak to the pit so many times, she hadn’t the energy to talk about it. Thinking about it made her sad and so she let it go.
This year, to make certain Zach realized exactly how important it was to her, she began talking about their “second anniversary” in early September.
“You have six weeks to come up with a get-away or gift worthy of the entire two years we have shared together.”
Two years, really? Zach was surprised. Two years sounded like a long time.
“Surprising, Zach? Or do you mean unbelievable?”
“No, I believe you, Vida. It feels as if time doesn’t matter when we’re together.”
“Let me count the days,” she said, tossing a rolled up magazine at him, before storming off to collect papers and calendars.
“Vida, please. Put those away. Of course I believe you.” More than that, he understood: She wanted him to give her a significant gift.
Why the hell hadn’t he seen this coming? Because he had been fool enough to assume that his and Vida’s sophistication sky-rocketed them above middle-class conventions like “taking stock of their relationship.”
Yet here was powerful, entitled Vida whimpering about a commitment, or his lack of one. Once she dropped her bon vivant style, Zach could swear her home’s flattering lighting turned harsh.
“Tell me what you want, Vida.”
“The same as every woman who’s madly in love with a man. I want a future with you. Don’t tell me you’ve confused my public front with who I really am.”
She left him in her living-room full of upper-crust, colonial charm. Aware she had locked her bedroom door, Zach poured a glass of fine scotch, straight up. Taking long, fortifying sips, he paced her wide planked floors and studied yet again her collection of early American antiques.
Vida entered the main room, wearing a satin slip that cast different colors as she moved. Taking his hand, she led him to the closed door of her velvety, white bedroom and stood so close to him he felt the heat from her breasts, but nothing of their soft resiliency. Standing tall and steady, she held herself just shy of physical contact and lowered her face, eyes closed. Once she knew he had registered her expression—thoughtful, submissive—she opened her eyes wide and tilted her smooth, plump chin.
He pulled her against him, lifted her up, and opening the door, carried her to the bed. Afterwards, he lay beside her, kissing her shoulder. “Vida,” he whispered, “do you really want me to give up my family and marry you?”
Eyelids fluttering, lips momentarily pursed, she said, “I do and I don’t.” Wriggling back into her satin sheath, she rolled onto her side and arched an eyebrow. “What I really want, Zach, is for you to want me the same way I want you.”
He allowed no sound to escape. But shit! Did every woman demand more than any decent man could give her? After two happy years did all lovers grow dissatisfied?
Zach told Vida he loved her more often than anyone could possibly care to hear it. Except she and Beth both expected him to repeat the words continuously.
If Zach didn’t love Vida, he would have said good-bye long ago. True, tightly woven through the spell she cast over him was the luster of her friends in high places. Career aside, however, his sexual need for Vida equaled his need for air. And she knew it. They both knew he couldn’t control his need for her. Otherwise—he would have.
In honor of the day Vida had designated their “second anniversary,” Zach gave her a deep blue sapphire ring flanked by small diamonds. The ring had cost more than all the jewelry he had ever given Beth put together—over sixteen years of marriage. And Vida knew that, too, or at least she knew the ring was insanely expensive, enough to make her happy with him and with herself. She held her small hand up to the sunlight and to the mirror and under a reading lamp, saying again and again, “Have I told you how much I adore the ring, Zach?”
At an earlier phase, he might have thought she was being funny. Not now. They celebrated that night with lots of her favorite champagne and caviar, his treat. Later she cooked the live lobsters he had arranged to have delivered. She dropped both one-and-a-half-pounders in a huge vat of boiling water and they watched the shelled creatures turn bright pink. Once the lobsters had cooled a little, they devoured these with butter and lemon and more champagne.
The next morning, after coffee and muffins, Zach explained that during the next six months or so, he would not be working in Washington quite as regularly. His responsibilities in New York had grown more pressing, with his son about to become an Eagle Scout and his daughter’s various rebellions. He would attend Institute events on isolated days, consequently limiting his overnight stays—but only for six months or so.
Gambling that Vida would accept this with slight annoyance if any, he repeated the schedule, “For the next six months, that's all.”
She smirked, raising her morning coffee cup toward him. “A slight reconfiguration, then.” Perhaps the sapphire ring had thoroughly satisfied her. Or—perhaps he had been outwitted.
She stood up—“That’s fine, Zach”—and turning, walked barefoot across the room to look at fluffy white clouds rolling in low and thick in the backyard, gathering it seemed to Zach, unusually fast. Shrugging with noticeable lack of concern, Vida said, “Really, Zach, don’t worry.”
**
Crash Dive
“Eagle Scouts do not commit adultery.” There, he had said it. “Did you hear me, Beth? I am an adulterer—in love with a woman named Vida Korbett, who lives in Washington, D.C.
**
The Wounded Beast
Beth staggered backward from his confession, her round face bobbing, looking much the way it did when they were first married—soft, sweet, and young.
The overhead fluorescent light flickered blue, casting a ghostly illumination that washed out her rosy complexion. After another step back, her eyes narrowed. The surprise confession prompted bitter laughter, which she repressed fast. And yet—he was in love with another woman after all. They stared at each other and their nineteen years of marriage vanished.
Zach’s animal instinct took over with a bestial desperation he had never known before. Beth hugged her robe tighter around her body.
Fear besieged him; he stood straighter and thrust out his chest to counter sickness and remorse. He gaped watching his gentle, nurturing wife morph into a predator, an enemy of a different species. Within a timeless gap, she tipped her feral head to appraise him critically.
Beth’s expression filled the room with scorn. He could see she wanted to laugh at him and her eyes did: in the middle of the night, taking a hammer to an award he had longed for since he was thirteen years old. Then she shook her head laughing at herself. Why had she fooled herself for so long? One half of her brain shamed her deliberate ignorance, while the other half groped among the flickering suspicions that had disrupted her sleep for years. Possibly, for the first time in her life, her self-deprecating side lost. Her mouth twisted in amused disbelief.
“Are you sure, Zach?” Against her will, her voice recalled her father’s sarcastic cadence. “You’re sure you’re in love with a woman? And not a Boy Scout?”
Zach’s right fist lashed out as Beth was already turning away. The impact clipped her jaw. Without a pause, without glancing at him, she proceeded regally up the stairs.
Crouching beside his workbench, Zach hung his head and sucked in deep, long breaths, eyes closed. After he recovered a modicum of dignity—or assumed he had—he tiptoed upstairs to his bedroom. Which Beth had locked.
He reeled before the closed door. What had happened? Zachary Severins would never hit his wife. The mother of his children? Never!
Groaning, he clung to the banister, easing his over-sized body onto the top step. Here he waited for an explanation to arise. That didn’t happen but his shock lessened. After an unknown span of time, he knocked lightly on the clean, pressed wood door. “Beth, baby, please. Let me in. You know I’m sorry. I can’t believe what happened. And you know, you must know, I’ll never strike you again.” Ordinarily, he would have added, “Scouts’ Honor.” The loss of this essential value brought forth the tears he so despised.
Locked out of the master bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face in the powder room. He had strayed so far off course, he couldn’t get into his own medicine cabinet. He couldn’t take a shower in his own home.
For years, Matt’s troop had collected soup, sandwiches, candy bars, and travel-sized shaving implements, distributing them late Friday nights to homeless men squatting under bridges, curled inside doorways, lying on subways grates. And here he was—needing to leave but unable to shave. When was the last time he had stayed with Vida? He had given her some excuse last week and this week as well. Itching to shave and shower, he didn’t trust himself to drive to an all-night drug store. The Hudson River towns had zoned them off to the cheaper suburbs. To find a Walgreen’s, Zach would need to navigate unfamiliar roads for twenty minutes. All he needed now was a car wreck.
So he sat at the top of the stairs, wearing his constrictive uniform, stinking from failure, waiting for sunrise.
**
Woman Trouble
He drove to Columbia well ahead of the morning rush, closed the blinds to his office and shed the constrictive Boy Scout uniform, along with its chafing residue—the all-night slough of a guilty conscience.
The campus hadn’t risen for the day either, allowing him to work out at the gym free from hearty hellos and good-mornings.
After forty minutes on the elliptical machine and twenty on the recumbent bicycle, his pangs of conscience lost their sting. He felt as if a storm had passed. He showered, shaved, ate a small breakfast and returned to his office with a tall double latte, his usual composure restored. Mentally, he tested it. The ground felt as solid as if he had never stepped knee-deep in mire.
At nine-thirty, busy assistants and secretaries further solidified his position. He drew his office blinds open to blue sky and green grass and phoned Beth.
“Don’t hang up, baby. Let me apologize.”
“I’ve already called a divorce lawyer, Zach. The one Isabelle used last year.”
“Beth, let’s be calm. I’m asking you to forgive me. Can’t we try counseling first? I know you’ve pleaded with me for years. You’re always right. I’m sorry and want to make amends.”
“Ha,” Beth snorted, in part from physical pain. “I’m always right—you say that and treat me like I’m an idiot. You need to know, Zach, I’m seeing a doctor who’ll document the damage.”
“Beth, honey, how bad is it? God, I’m sorry. Bruises, swelling, what else?”
“I haven’t decided if I should go straight to the emergency room or to the dentist.”
“Beth, Jeez. Don’t do anything that can’t be undone until we discuss the next step. If I drive home right now, will you sit down with me?”
“Stay away, Zach. Call your lover and tell her you’re free.”
“If you say the word, honey, I’ll never see her again.”
Beth laughed.
“Beth. What I did makes me sick. But you have the reflexes of a pro. You turned your head—I barely clipped you.”
Her voice softened, almost to a whisper. “I think Matt knows. The bruises above my jaw are obviously your knuckles. I covered them with make-up and popped a couple of painkillers. But before he left for school, Matt asked if I was okay. And when he kissed me good-bye, he moved toward the injured side and then pulled back and kissed my other cheek.”
“I’ll call him.”
“Zach, don’t. Give us some time. Maybe I won’t show the bruises to a lawyer. But don’t fool yourself. I’m divorcing you for the best settlement—that is, the biggest settlement I can get.”
He hung up, closed his eyes, and gathered his books. At ten-thirty he met with his teaching assistants. At eleven-thirty, he called Vida. When the receptionist said she wasn’t there, he asked for Sally, her secretary, who said, “Didn’t she tell you she’s taking a leave of absence? She won’t be coming into the office for at least a year.”
“A year? Since when?”
“Since very recently. Call her mobile.”
He hadn’t made the trip to Washington last week because it was Rosalind’s fourteenth birthday. And last night was the ceremony for his undeserved twenty-fifth Eagle Scout anniversary. If Vida wasn’t working, something had happened.
“Hello, Zach.” She sounded even more matter-of-fact than usual.
“Sally said you’ve taken a leave of absence. What’s happened?”
“Something I’ve always wanted without realizing how much I wanted it until a few months ago.”
“What?”
“If you’re not too busy to see me, I’ll tell you. But not over the phone.”
“Vida, I know I haven’t been as attentive lately as I should have been. But I love you as much as ever—more. All this extra time I’ve been spending in New York was so we could be together. And now it’s done: I’m divorcing Beth.”
“Tell me another one and maybe I’ll laugh.”
“No, I’ve been hammering this out all year. I’m divorcing Beth to marry you.”
“Too bad you didn’t say that a year ago. We might have made a happy family.”
“Why not now?”
“Because in the last several weeks, I’ve learned what I want in life—and what I don’t.”
“What? You’ve found religion?”
She laughed long and hard enough for him to realize that both Beth and Vida were laughing at him today. He stated critical intentions, wishes, and apologies and both women laughed. The sound echoed so that at the back of his mind, their mocking hilarity ran together, Vida’s duplicating Beth’s and Beth’s foretelling Vida’s.
Vida was still laughing. “I’ve dropped enough hints. I may as well tell you.”
“Good.”
“You’re sure you’re ready?”
“What is this? I’m always ready.”
“I’m pregnant, Zach. Both babies are healthy. The genetic tests came back two days ago. My doctor has given me the go-ahead, although I need to stay still. In another month, I’ll need complete bed rest.”
“How did this happen?”
She laughed louder than he could remember. “I can’t believe you actually said that. Do you want me to explain it to you?”
“All right, laugh all you want. I’m just surprised. Did you plan this?”
“Not really. I thought I’d missed my chance. By all indications, I was too old. It so happens, however, that last-gasp fraternal twins are not uncommon. I’m pregnant with two little girls.”
“Jesus, Vida! Twin daughters.”
“So will I see you at the Palm, twelve-thirty?”
“Maybe dinner would be better. I need to check on a few things.”
“Fuck you, then.”
“Vida, honey, cut me some slack. I’m beside myself here.”
“Take the shuttle. Be at The Palm by twelve-thirty.”
**
It's My Body
On the shuttle Zach recalled the challenges of off-trail hiking. A man could take every precaution and still run into trouble: the weather; shifting elevations; swamps; rock face; even animals. His solo treks had always rewarded him with a sublime mental clarity, which he tried to summon now.
As the jet began its descent, he vowed to honor Vida’s needs and his unborn twins’—yet remain loyal to Beth and his two adolescents, Matt and Rosalind. The wheels hit the runway and the thud jolted through him.
By the time he was sitting at his and Vida’s usual table at The Palm, his phone rang. Vida was talking before he said hello.
“After my doctor’s appointment this morning, I don’t feel like eating. You can stop by if you want.”
“I’m flagging a cab now, Vida.”
She answered the door in a snug, stretchy black dress with a crisp white collar and wide, white cuffs. The hem skimmed her knees. Her lower legs were clad in black footless tights. Vida’s bare feet were pretty, and she knew it, lacquering her toenails deep red or a translucent white. Now they were plain. Her shiny, reddish-blonde hair, which swung in loose waves, was pulled tight and clamped in back. It looked darker and…well, lackluster. He kissed her round cheeks and pulled her closer for an ardent kiss on the mouth. She pushed him away and reclined on her white leather couch.
Her brownstone on Hopkins Street, built in 1910, was huge. Zach hadn’t really looked closely before; he was always busy with Vida; the excitement from the night before and what awaited them at the Institute. They slept in her bed with silk curtains tied behind it, on the second floor with its bathrooms, library, and music room. They sometimes ate in her kitchen or beneath a great, shimmering chandelier in the dining room. But mostly they slept here and hurried to work at the Institute.
Now Zach registered the expanse of light and luxury: Early twentieth century art decorated the walls; mirrors brightened and altered the space; gold-leaf or mahogany trimmed the tall ceilings and arched doorways; Persian rugs; marble counters, and fine antiques. She had stretched her long legs on the couch, leaving him an adjacent wing chair covered in navy twill. He sank uncomfortably into it, certain it must be an antique. “How are you feeling, Vida?”
“I’m fine. How are you?”
Her darker, duller hair showed white roots when she dipped her padded chin. As he noticed this, it struck him that her hair had been darker and duller for a couple of months. His thoughts must have shown on his face.
“Safer for the babies if I don’t dye my hair,” she pushed back a stray strand. “Or paint my toenails,” she wiggled her bare toes and explained that this morning’s sonogram indicated she hadn’t been still enough. “In another month, complete bed rest will be mandatory.”
“You’ll need someone to shop for you, and everything else.”
“My sister’s coming next week.”
“You have a sister?”
“Samantha’s a freelance graphic designer. Her son was accepted at Columbia. And no, I didn’t pull strings for him.”
“Who said you did? I’m happy about this, Vida.”
“You’re scared, Zach.”
“I’m half the equation.”
“No, you’re not. It’s not your body. You don’t need bed rest. No worrying about food additives, diabetes, or high blood pressure. You don’t need to quit working or drinking or traveling.”
“Vida, please. Trust me.”
She lifted her feet in the air and hooted.
“Go ahead, laugh.”
“Stop saying every laughable line, Zach. I don’t need you, and no longer want you. True, you have rights. We can get a lawyer to sort them out or play them by ear.”
Uneasily, he managed to move from the arm-chair to the couch and held her feet in his lap. “So fine. Don’t trust me.”
“That’s the mistake your wife made.”
“Not anymore.” He took her hands and looked at her large pale brown eyes. “Vida, will you marry me?”
She pulled her feet away. “Zach, if you had asked me earlier?” She shrugged. “But it wouldn’t have worked. I know that now.”
He asked if he could get a glass of water from the kitchen and one for her.
“Thank you.”
Setting two clear glasses on the coffee table, he felt enormous, shifting his overweight body among the antique furniture. He resumed sitting at her feet, delaying a sip from the delicate water glass.
“Vida, if you tease me about every word, of course I’ll sound insincere. But I don’t know how else to say I love you. I want to be with you and our daughters.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not? What if I visit once a week; you can’t say no to that.”
“Call me on the phone. I doubt I’ll be in the mood to entertain you.”
“I want to take care of you.”
She didn’t laugh but rolled her eyes. To distract from his embarrassment, Zach offered to make lunch and then Vida did laugh. “When was the last time you made lunch, Zach? Even just for yourself?”
She withdrew her feet, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with a tray of sharp cheddar, sesame crackers, and a blue bowl of green grapes. “Everything affects me differently now. I always thought I had no interest in having children. At the last minute, it seems it’s all I ever wanted.”
Zach massaged her feet. “I know you’re having twins. But are there other complications? Women have babies in their mid-thirties all the time now.”
She smiled wryly. “How old are you, Zach?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“I’m forty-five and if these babies are born in their third trimester, which is the goal, I’ll be forty-six.”
He masked his surprise. But getting up, doing anything like sorting through his briefcase, felt risky. A terrible awkwardness had invaded him. So all afternoon he remained still and silent. Finally she suggested a swim in the brownstone’s basement—another surprise.
“Even with complete bed rest, the doctor suggested a little swimming would be good as long as I don’t get too tired.”
“You have a swimming pool in your basement?”
“Yes, well, I’ve made very good money in my time. Enough so that I can raise two girls with every privilege they might want—on my own.”
**
Forgive or Forget
Zach slept fitfully on the jet, worrying that Vida’s resolutions would damage his career. Then he had to wait almost an hour at LaGuardia’s taxi stand for a yellow cab so thick inside with marijuana smoke, he almost choked.
“Morningside Heights?” the taxi driver asked.
Zach didn’t bother to answer; the man knew the way. Beth would take him back—she always did. Of course, he had not hit her before. And, he had never confessed to an affair before. But he would promise her, first thing, that she was the only woman he loved and from now on, she would have no reason to think otherwise. As for his open fist punching her in the face? Unspeakable!
Unless, of course, she wanted to hear the words: “Christ, I'm sorry; it was an accident. But it's an accident I swear will never happen again.”
Beyond that, Zach would wait for her faith to kick in. Beth’s big thing was forgiveness. She prided herself on her capacity to forgive without forgetting. (What was the point of that?) She believed in “The Lord’s Prayer.” “And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us.” No other laws were necessary.
Real forgiveness, however, took effort, time, and patience. So Zach would call her the day after tomorrow. By then, Beth would have concluded that what he had done wasn’t much worse than what most men did at one time or another. He was a selfish, greedy bastard who didn’t deserve her but needed her desperately. Zach would make amends; he would woo her and do all he could to make her happy. “Please,” he practiced begging, “give me another chance.”
He leaned forward in the taxi.“You can drop me off between 115th and 116th.” When the taxi pulled away, he stood beneath a dim street light and recalled Beth claiming at nine-thirty this morning that she had already contacted a lawyer. Was that possible?
He stood there, recognizing his arms and hands, his pants and shoes. And for a minute or two, he was too stupefied to move. After a chill wind blew, however, he walked briskly to his office on Columbia’s campus.
Both Beth and Vida grew dreamy after making love. The minute he moved onto something else—sex was over; what next?—Beth and in her turn Vida asked if she was his one great love. The question arose ritually and yet he answered incorrectly every time—talking about his next Boy Scout excursion or whatever he was honestly thinking. When obviously what he should say was: “My darling, yes, of course, you are my one true love! Didn’t I just show you that?”
Women wanted to measure love as if it were solid matter, an inert thing that would never change. When Vida had called his home weeks ago, she must have known she was pregnant. She must have wanted to talk about it with him. Before the test results proved the pregnancy viable, she must have phoned for reassurance. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied, he would have said not to worry. No wonder today she told him to go away. She had every right to feel angry. But her anger just like Beth’s would fade sooner rather than later. In which case, this afternoon wasn’t the end at all. It was a tiff!
He shouldn’t have neglected her. He should have guessed she wouldn’t have phoned his house unless it was dire! But up until these two weeks out of pocket, Vida had clung to him. She acted so absurd and moonstruck, he might have thought she was joking, except Vida never joked. And so naturally he took her seriously, when she played the needy other woman.
Now that she wasn’t afraid, she had every right to let him know: “Too little, too late.“ He admitted that. In his mind, he rehearsed: “Vida, please, accept my apology. We have twin girls on the way!”
And yet, what if the next time she saw him, Vida didn’t light up? What if?
In that case Zach would be lost. Amazed and enchanted by Vida since they met, he hadn’t calculated the risks. At the Younger Institute, Vida was the queen bee. And until further notice, Zach Severins was the buffoon.
Since leaving his home early this morning, he felt as if eons had passed. He fumbled in the dark with his key and cursed in frustration. When he finally opened his office door and flicked on the lights, he closed his eyes and rubbed them hard. When he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. His Scoutmaster’s uniform lay strewn across the dingy room—trousers wadded up; the dung-colored shirt flung on his desk chair. The overhead light cast a sickly glare and the stale, stagnant office air stunk of panic and sweat coming from his dirty cloths.
After he strained and shoved to open the window behind his desk, Zach fell back on the rough tweed couch that Beth had bought him when he earned tenure. Without removing his trench coat, he slumped and dozed long enough for his neck and shoulders to ache. Waking, he shuddered, both overheated and chilled.
**
Separate Cars
Zach’s confidence and winning style, once so abundant, had vanished. He couldn’t think straight: Beth or Vida; Vida or Beth? All the years he’d imagined he had possessed them both, their different but limitless loves and loyalties, he had forgotten about the inevitable changes through time. What he couldn’t control, he thought he could ignore. But not anymore. Beth or Vida, Vida or Beth? No doubt he had lost them both. A day, a night, another day and another night, and Zach stood alone.
The third morning after he had sneaked out of his own house like a craven beast, he decided to return—and find out what was next. When he was certain the children would be at school, he drove home. Beth wasn’t there and he speeded across the railroad tracks to the pottery studio she rented at the edge of town, a shack really, set up with two others in a fifty-yard strip beside the Hudson River. He parked and his feet sank in the soggy grass. He knocked on the first door, no answer. On the next door, he knocked and although Beth didn’t answer, he entered. Beth, dressed in clay-caked, faded denim, jumped from her pottery wheel, dashed forward and slapped him so hard the impact caused her to fall sideways. Her hands sticky with slurry, she grabbed his shirt to hoist herself up.
Apparently, he didn’t understand her ethical foundation as well as he had imagined. Yes, forgiveness was her first principle—her dirty, furious face communicated this much. But blanket, automatic forgiveness? No. He had to ask for forgiveness. And promise: No more lies.
So he begged her and promised her in the tiny, muddy shelter, making his hard face go slack and keeping his mouth gentle.
“You think I’m stupid. I’ve always known that. But the question now, Zach, is how stupid?”
He froze. Any response here increased her accusation’s power, because they both knew he had believed her easygoing and naïve manner bordered on stupidity. Now his manner was under scrutiny. If he shook his head, meaning, you were never stupid, or came right out and said that, she might well use her new, rueful laugh; she might point out that his insensitivity made him stupid. And he certainly couldn’t say what he was very close to barking: “Are you serious?”
Obviously, she was serious. If he wrote her off as silly that didn’t make her silly: he wasn’t God. And so, she wanted to know: Just how stupid did Zach imagine her to be?
Within her enraged perception, Zach became idiotic. The longer he stood there, allowing this—Zach the idiot—the angrier he grew. But today, Beth matched him there. A disturbance in the air prompted him to look up. He could see her thoughts writ large: How stupid he was not to have listened to her most heartfelt understanding; how stupid to dismiss emotional priorities; how stupid, in fact, to dismiss almost all emotion; to suppose that logic held a greater truth!
Admit it, her stance insisted: He was stupid! But he was not, no matter how insistent she might be. Soon, Beth’s staring at him with such earnest outrage brought him dangerously close to laughing in her face. But he stopped in time—he couldn’t afford that any more than he could tolerate her unbound fury. Unable to act supplicant another moment, he engulfed her. His body covered hers and to a degree he hadn’t known before, he swore he loved her. More aroused than he could remember, he kissed her mud-smeared face and matted hair. He tugged at her oversized shirt so it unsnapped. While kissing her mud-caked palms, he yanked the shirt off and caressed her naked shoulders. He held up her wrists and bent to lick the inside of one long arm slowly but avidly, and then the next. His fingers had released her bra and moving his face from her arm, he sucked one breast and then the other. He held her breasts tightly and tipped her backwards to slide his tongue along her extended throat.
Egos at war; their bodies caught and submerged in currents of pleasure. Their physical selves lifted and fell in waves. With their life together immersed in darkness, anxiety, and loss, the sexual heat between them reached a heretofore undiscovered crest.
Afterwards, they each drove back to “their house.” But between her studio and their front door, Beth and Zach in their separate cars shared a boomerang resentment. How dare she! How dare he! How grotesque he was—she was!
Inside their house, occupying the same area provoked each to gasp in indignation. They stepped apart and started to turn away from each other only to be hurled into a baffling but fervid embrace. They rolled together, frantic in the living room, leaving the fine Indian rug smeared with muddy clay.
Beth showered first and Zach cleaned the rug with something from an aerosol can and the vacuum cleaner. Barefoot, his pants rolled up, so as not to muddy anything else, he paced back and forth while Beth fixed her hair and put on lipstick and whatever else she slathered on her face. He waited, noticing how full of light the room was, tree branches tapping the windows. The decor and layout, the contrived arrangement of furniture and ersatz art, including Beth’s amateur pottery, assaulted his intelligence. Why live like this? Why act out a middle-class life in a middle-class suburb surrounded by people the same age, with similar educations and families? Within nearly identical confines, they all worked, ate, fucked, and slept, trying to maintain an equally banal standard. If Beth expected him to pray for forgiveness and strive for demonstrations of—what? soul-searching? Zach needed to live elsewhere. His still muddy hands in his pockets curled into fists, which he deliberately flattened.
She pattered down the stairs in her L.L. Bean loafers, jeans, and turtleneck. But when he turned to face her, she paused on the landing. She modulated her voice and he winced at her caution. “Want some lunch?”
“No, thank you. Let me shower and change clothes first.”
That achieved, he found her waiting for him at the dining room table, which increased his already terrible annoyance. Rather than stay inside their fabricated domicile another second, he suggested they go out to lunch.
He said they needed to discuss some necessary things. Did she know a place where they were unlikely to encounter anyone who knew them?
“Oh, I see. Your approach confused me, Zach. But yes, if that’s what you want.”
“We need to discuss where things stand.”
“Are you sure you want to get into this while gobbling a meal someplace out of town?” They glanced at each other.
Getting a jacket, Beth rubbed the bridge of her nose. “You want to eat in public to keep the discussion civil. How could I fall for your same old tricks?”
“Let’s go to that Indian place. The one owned by the guy who wears a red turban.”
“He’s Sikh. And if you’re thinking of that restaurant in Connecticut, fine. We’ll take separate cars.”
“That much, Beth, I assumed went without saying.”
**
Misery Loves Company
Zach backed into the cul-de-sac and changed his mind. He had nothing more to say to Beth—nothing. Shifting gears, he returned to the driveway. When he pulled his key from the ignition and looked up, Beth in her new PT Cruiser honked the horn, gave him the finger, and peeled out of there.
Meaning: he was free! He stormed upstairs and crammed his stuff into a suitcase, a garment bag, and two backpacks. Heading for the university, he bought a supersize meal at the first drive-through—wolfed the food and spilled Diet Coke while speeding and switching lanes in a fury.
His computer shed a nice light inside his stale, little office. Regulating his adrenaline, he emailed the local BSA Council, resigning as Scoutmaster. His next impulse? He made the mistake of phoning Vida, hanging up before the first ring fully sounded. No doubt the call registered at her end, but what were the odds that in her cumbersome state she caught the caller ID?
Before his own phone could ring in retaliation, he hurried to the gym, changed, and hopped on a treadmill. Vertigo threatened his stride, but Zach slowed his pace and hung on. Sweating profusely, he survived sixty minutes. In the locker room, he sat on a bench in oblivion. Was a colleague, in fact, laying his hand on Zach’s bare thigh? The pale, skinny man seemed to know Zach a lot better than Zach knew him. Delving for a name, he thought—Duncan, who said he missed them being neighbors but now that they were both going through a divorce they could be neighbors again. The noisy crowd faded away, and Duncan blathered about an optimistic spirit and then listed the pros, cons, and intricacies of his own divorce. Blinking as if Duncan’s uninvited confessions might dissolve like a daydream, Zach allowed his apparent friend’s hand to remain where it was.
“Guess we’re in the same boat,” Duncan said.
“What boat?” Awakening to fact that the interaction was all too real, Zach shoved Duncan away.
Heading for the shower, he walked slowly and cautiously in case his ex-neighbor and equal in the poli-sci department followed him. Luckily, he did not. Zach stood under the shower, alternating the blast from as hot as he could stand it to as cold. Yet his mind continued to match details that evidently had filtered through Beth’s chatter with Duncan’s surreal litany. Beth and Duncan’s wife, Wren, played tennis twice a week. That was how Duncan knew Zach’s marriage was limping miserably through its last lap. While Zach knew—none of this was a hallucination—Duncan had been living in graduate student housing for months. He and Wren had retained lawyers, who were partners, both benefiting from the shared billable hours. His children were small, which probably made everything easier. At least their questions were easier to answer.
In twilight, he headed back to his office. Throughout the walk, he vacillated between dismissing Duncan’s sticky camaraderie and admonishing himself: Why did he suppose his personal situation was uncommon?
In any case, he knew what to do and booked a room at the Hotel Belleclaire through the weekend. His children, Matt and Rosalind, were old enough to be absorbed in their own lives. They might protest or even take sides, but what choice was there? Zach would assume all the blame, because he could bear it, not because he deserved it. The compelling, intelligent, lifelong Eagle Scout, blond, strong, disciplined Zach, who had once practiced his gestures in a mirror to check his ambition—which had raced, and still raced, faster than he could metabolize it—required no justification. He owed nobody anything.
Certainly, he owed Beth nothing. Zach had managed to play his role in their marriage by not limiting his energies. She did not possess the sophistication to appreciate how Zach might figure in the world-at-large. He had reached the juncture where he could no longer live with such a simple-minded woman. When she looked at him now, with her round blue eyes, her plump cheeks burning with hope and desire, he understood all too well she would never comprehend a fraction of who he was. What could he possibly tell her? They were already divorced. That much was indisputable. Done and done, Q.E.D.
He skimmed through random documents on his computer, looking for a way to salvage his career, which he had ignored for years. The accolades from V.I.P.s raining upon him while he stood beside Vida had blinded him. His connection to her, which had put him front and center among the serious, more original thinkers at the Institute, had suddenly hurled him, body and soul, into the undergrowth. For Vida had gotten what (in hindsight) she had wanted from him all along. Zach had to pull up his bootstraps and publish an important book, posthaste. Make it known he was available to serve as keynote speaker wherever and whenever. Above all, he must wage a take-no-prisoners campaign to impress Dorothy Zimmerman, with or without the Institute’s imprimatur.
Unfortunately for him, Professor Zimmerman, the university’s dean for the School of International and Public Affairs (SIPA), had never seen Zach in action. Their entire acquaintance consisted of faculty meetings and tenure reviews. He should have written a few serious papers that examined Developing World political strategies. Dorothy topped the list of authorities in that field. Of course, she valued the Institute’s efforts to rally the private sector. How else would Zach have come to be the Julian Wilson Professor of Policy and Economic Dialogue? Tenure or not, however, he would lose his stature unless he found another benefactor. Those carefree days of squiring the beautiful Vida in the company of deep-pocketed men and women; of directing and leading his sweet little family; of volunteering as Scoutmaster, and teaching a few graduate courses in Environmental Economics, had vanished.
If his telephone rang, he would have ignored it. But someone was knocking on his office door. Without looking up, he said, “Not now. I’m busy.”
“This cannot wait,” someone said.
When it dawned on him that whoever kept knocking was not going to quit, Zach swung open the door and grunted at Duncan. “What it is?”
**
Chin Up
Uninvited, this man, Duncan Chapman, pushed into Zach’s office and slouched on his couch. “Why are you sitting in the dark without even your computer’s illumination?”
Zach shrugged. He stood up and flicked on the lights. Back at his desk, he said, “What is it you want, Professor?”
"Don’t pretend you don’t know me, Severins.”
“I am pretending no such thing. And yet I must ask, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Is that so? If indeed you know me so well, what’s my field in SIPA?”
Before protesting—what an insufferable twit!—Zach said, “You teach that racism continues to ruin the global economy, destroying any hope for progress in the foreseeable future. All well and good but it hasn’t yet affected my own work in public policy.”
“Unfortunately, true. But congratulations. I didn’t expect you to know anything except that our wives are best friends.”
Duncan grinned and Zach glared. “I’ve never had any interest in Beth’s tennis or housewife coffee klatches.”
“I suppose not. But if you haven’t eaten already, what about dinner at that Mexican place?”
Zach hadn’t eaten all day. And he was no homophobe; just deeply aware, and proud, of his manhood as well as far too secure for this guy’s limp wrist to bother him. Besides, he loved Mexican food and without Duncan’s invitation would have eaten alone with a sorry few at the nearest diner. So without directly looking at this intrusive weirdo, he said, “Mexican? Yes, I’m hungry.”
Duncan then smiled idiotically, crossed his legs like a woman, and watched Zach put on a new, well-cut sports jacket. Careful to block the man’s view, Zach nonetheless felt keen attention trained upon him as he straightened his jacket and buttoned it in the middle. He refrained, however, from adjusting the lapels while this creep stared at him.
They walked to the restaurant, which was distant enough so that Zach would have taken a taxi. Duncan stepped so close to him that their shoulders and hands might touch except Zach kept zigzagging, stalling, and even drifting off the curb and into the street.
At Alma’s Cantina, over an uncomfortably close table for two, they ordered enchiladas and Negra Modelo—on tap. Duncan asked for details about Zach’s impending divorce.
“Not open for discussion. Comprende?”
“All right,” Duncan said. “Can we talk about mine then? Because for me, divorcing Wren after so many years is devastating.”
Devastating? Fine, Duncan’s vocabulary tended toward theatrics. Zach had expected as much. Yet what he had not expected, after firmly setting the boundary, was for Duncan to allude to the Severin’s dissolving marriage relative to his own amicable split. Apparently, Duncan visited Wren often and more often than not, Beth joined them. Weekdays, while their children were at school, Wren and Beth spent hours discussing their marital disappointments. On top of which, they visited a fitness trainer named Leon together twice a week. “Leon coaxes them into important upper body-work with kettle balls—so crucial for the female anatomy—and on alternating sessions he gives one or the other an hour-long deep-tissue massage.”
Zach maintained a neutral, if frozen, expression.
“If I were a jealous man, I’d be bothered by this fellow,” Duncan said, and gave Zach a pointed look.
Zach presented a pained grin (fast becoming his stock expression with Duncan) and they split the bill.
Walking back, the man wasn’t so clingy and Zach managed to ask, “If you’re divorcing your wife, aren’t you too angry and frustrated to talk about other people and their situations? Specifically, Duncan, mine?”
“My divorce from Wren is all the more painful because we still love each other. My guilt toward her and about the child will haunt me the rest of my life. Every step of the procedure is awful, a notch below death on the grief-meter.”
“Grief-meter?”
“Laugh if you want, but you’ll see, the expression is apt. It may sound like psychobabble but I’ve yet to hear anyone else use the term.”
“For good reason.”
“Listen, Severins, at Beth’s request, I’m happy to help you.” Outside the SIPA building where Zach’s office was, the men stood in dim, yellowy light. “You don’t have to be my friend, but I’ve done you a huge favor. Danny Gibbons in University Housing is a very dear friend of mine and Beth and Wren asked me if I could expedite things for you. Danny has assured me you’ll be incredibly lucky with the UAH. The waiting list runs into the thousands.”
Zach saw the pieces fitting into place. UAH—University Apartment Housing. Still, Duncan, Wren, and Beth had anticipated this? And gossiped about it?
Swallowing his rage, he managed to say, “Unlike you and the wives, I had not anticipated a divorce until this morning. So thank you. Housing hadn’t dawned on me yet.” (Zach was far too cultured, despite his wish to shatter Duncan’s pointy skull, not to behave graciously.)
“Danny expects a vacancy in Lenfest Hall sometime this month. A furnished studio, top floor in a building reserved for law students. And Lenfest has that nice bamboo garden.”
Zach said, “Bamboo garden. Well.” He was anxious to escape. High time he returned to listing quick, impressive career steps. Now that he would no longer be jetting back and forth to Washington, he would be on campus nonstop, and needed to prioritize exactly how to turbo-charge his profile.
Duncan lingered; Zach felt unable to hurry away, let alone slam the door in Duncan’s face. Near the entrance, they looked at each other. Zach turned away but looked again. “How is that you’re divorcing your wife if you still love her? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking, why?”
“Wren and I are still in couple’s therapy and will continue it long after the legal rigmarole. But we’re past delusion—and embarrassment.”
Zach seconded that; embarrassment was unmanly and ridiculous.
“At my age?” Duncan continued, “In these days? If I feel any stigma, it’s my own pathetic issue. Who knows why it took me forty years to come out? It’s not as if I didn’t know. But as much as I love Wren and my children, as much as I love being a father, sometime last year I just couldn’t hide anymore. I was tired of lying. My life is half over—time to stop denying who I am.”
Zach wasn’t surprised but he had never imagined he would have to listen to this—no retreat possible. By now he had recalled that Duncan was highly regarded by all of Columbia and uncommonly popular with both students and faculty.
“We’re all like that, Duncan. As long as you can fool yourself, you will.”
“Exactly. I misjudged you, Zach. The women led me to believe you disapproved of gay people—your commitment to Boy Scouts and such.”
Just when he assumed his queasiness had hit its peak! And yet, his career, his profile: he couldn’t afford to alienate this man. Hesitating, he managed to raise a non-hostile eyebrow.
Duncan laughed, shaking his head. “Please don’t be disappointed, Zach, but you’re not my type.”
Shit, Christ, Goddamn! Now Zach was embarrassed. “Good,” he said.
“So no hard feelings? None of us can have everything, can we?” Duncan Chapman then held a loose fist under Zach’s chin, as in, “chin up.”
**
The Good Daughter
They stopped grappling the moment they heard their son at the front door.
“This is weird,” Matt was telling his friend, “She never locks anything.”
For weeks, Beth and Zach had shamefully pandered to a furious, bestial lust. Matt and his fellow Eagle Scout had finished their finals before noon. Ready to graduate from high school in a month, they pounded on the door—their stuff was in there!
Eventually, they gave up and Zach sneaked away until Beth yelled after him, “Never again!”
“Damn it, Beth—obviously!”
On Sunday, he and Matt sat just above third base while the Yankees lost miserably to the Red Sox. Yet Matt hardly noticed, being too busy complimenting his mother as often as he dared. She had lost weight. She made the best cupcakes. “And, Dad, don’t you think Mom’s understanding? She hardly ever gets mad.”
“Yes,” he said. “Your mother’s very understanding.”
The next morning the dean’s secretary phoned: “Dorothy wants to meet with you as soon as possible.”
“How about…now?”
“I’ll check.” Two seconds later, the secretary said, “Give her five minutes.”
Zach buttoned his blazer and swigged mouthwash from a liter-size bottle. He spat blue fluid into the bushes and hurried over to the towering SIPA building. A few months ago, he would have considered every strategy before this meeting. Now he just wanted it over. The Institute had cast him into the darkness and Columbia University was about to send him packing.
Dorothy said she was sorry to report that the department had voted his misconduct egregious and had ruled he should find a tenured position elsewhere. “You may petition,” she said, “but—”
“No,” Zach said. “Just tell me how long I’ve got before I absolutely have to be out.”
Instead of answering that, she said, “As it turns out, you’re in luck, Zach. I can recommend you to the University of Nebraska. Their PoliSci School wants a proven leader with influence.”
Knowing better than to balk, he said, “Thank you, Dorothy. It might be very exciting.”
“I’m sure you’ll inspire your students there as you have here,” she said.
“I’m grateful you see it that way, Dorothy. My cousin lives in Nebraska.”
They shook hands, he thanked her again, and she said, “You’ll find it rewarding, Zach.” Then she closed the door to her stately, high-ceilinged office with bay windows and gleaming dark wood.
Inside his own squat, dusty office, Zach phoned Luke Graham from Dartmouth and Clay Cummins from Georgetown, who both were unavailable. His list of colleagues, including long shots, numbered eighteen. He phoned each of them, leaving his once-respected name, numbers, and email addresses with assistants or voicemail. On Wednesday, he called again and repeated his message. By Friday, nobody had returned his calls. But they all knew Zach wouldn’t quit until they told him, “No.”
Saturday evening he waited at Track 37 inside Grand Central and soon spotted his daughter Rosalind among the throng. The girl who dressed like a punk last year had come to prefer sleek little dresses. She waved to him.
They had reservations at The Four Seasons because she had been asking for weeks and, in Zach’s opinion, Rosalind deserved a treat. After flunking eighth grade, she had aced an extra-heavy course load by special arrangement two years running. When she made the top honor roll again this semester, he offered to take her to any restaurant she wanted.
So what if her mother bitched that she had never been to The Four Seasons.
“Confidentially, Rosalind, your mother never asked.”
With no makeup, long shiny blond hair, and her newfound prettiness, Rosalind dazzled her father, and knew it. They swung through the MetLife building and along Park Avenue where they linked arms and traded glances like conspirators.
The maître d’ showed them to a table by the ethereal white marble pool. A waiter asked if they wanted to start with drinks. Rosalind glanced at her father. They might serve her a daiquiri here: she couldn’t imagine being carded in such a gorgeous place. Zach frowned at her unspoken request, but winked, “For me a dram of Glenfiddich and for the young lady…”
“A daiquiri, please.”
When the waiter spoke, she almost panicked. But the man, who knew how and when to break the rules, asked what kind of daiquiri?
“Do you serve them frozen?”
They did.
Rosalind had never tasted one before and said it was delicious. Zach warned her, “It’s not a Slushie.” She pouted and pushed it aside. “Whatever a ‘Slushie’ is,” he grinned and she sat up straighter.
“So Daddy, do you still see the lady in Washington?”
“I haven’t for a while. But your mother and I will both be glad when the divorce is final.”
“Do you love the lady in Washington?”
“You’re interested in love and how it works, aren’t you?”
“What do you expect?” his daughter said. “You’re so mysterious about her.”
“Romantic love works completely differently than the love between parents and children,” Zach said. “Decent parents, and even some indecent ones, love their children forever.”
Her glass almost empty now, she twirled the stem. “But you haven’t said whether you’re in love.”
“Her name is Vida Korbett.”
Menus arrived. Rosalind peered over hers. “If you’re in love with her, why are spending every weekend with Matt and I?”
“‘Matt and me.’ Aren’t you taking Advanced Placement English?”
Rosalind blushed.
Zach said, “My graduate students make the same mistake.”
“I won’t again, Daddy. Especially if you tell me all about Vida.” Rosalind leaned toward him, her expression full of mischief.
And without malice or forethought, Zach said, “She’s pregnant.”
“Oh my God! Really? A half-sibling!”
“Vida’s so thrilled she’s unofficially quit her job to be a full-time mother to the twins.”
“Twins?” Rosalind shrieked.
“Girls,” Zach said, “But they’re not identical.”
“This is so cool.” Rosalind stopped talking while the waiter served their first course. She chewed a bite of salad, closing her eyes. Zach had shoveled too much into his mouth and Rosalind said, “Does Mommy know? Oh my God, she doesn’t!”
“I haven’t found the time to tell her yet.”
“Want me to?”
“No, honey. You can’t.”
They ate chocolate cake for dessert and Rosalind divulged that Matt had decided to postpone college. Zach said nothing and she smirked.
Walking to the train, he realized he must phone Beth, pronto.
But unprompted, Rosalind said, “Let me be the one to tell her, Daddy. I really don’t mind.”
“You will later.”
“So you expect me to say nothing?”
“Of course not. I’ll call her while you’re on the train.”
“You’re telling her over the phone that your lover is having twin baby girls? Lotsa luck!”
Zach needed several stiff drinks. Better to inform Beth via voicemail than foist this upon his daughter. But entering the station, he saw the damage was done. Rosalind knew his secret and Beth didn’t.
**
His Only Friend
Zach dreamed that he asked Vida, this time with love and devotion: “Will you marry me?”
“So you can keep your job?”
He woke damp with guilt and yet relieved that by now Rosalind had told Beth all about Vida’s pregnancy. And no matter how angry and betrayed Beth felt, she would never blame Rosalind. It was Zach who had thrust the knife in her back. Despite her stupidity, Beth had always harbored the truth: Zach was so wrong that “why and when” scarcely mattered.
While showering he swore he would telephone her within five minutes. He couldn’t hide forever. Although… allowing a few days to pass seemed reasonable. Better to let the fire die down before dousing it with gasoline. Besides, Beth knew. The damage was done.
Perhaps thinking he shouldn’t “hide” from Beth was inaccurate. Zach Severins didn’t hide, for Christ’s sake! But wasn’t it best if he never spoke directly to her again?
Sitting in ragged underpants, he watched the interaction as if attending a bad play.
Guess what, Mom.
What?
Dad’s lover, Vida, is expecting twin girls any minute now.
The twins were insult enough, but Beth would harangue him forever for tossing Rosalind into the maelstrom. His daughter’s eagerness, Beth would say, was age-appropriate—not a random attitude for Zach’s convenience. Shuddering, he opened his nightstand drawer and downed a quaff of whisky.
But the play continued: Beth chats about Rosalind’s volleyball games next week, maintaining her impeccable niceness until Rosalind is asleep. Valiant but god-awful Beth leaves a note for both Matt and Rosalind: If you need me, I’m at Wren’s house.
After he dressed, Zach checked his voicemail. No calls. He had expected a response from Luke at Dartmouth at the very least. But after twenty years of advising these assholes? Nothing: Not one Institute member, not one renowned thinker whose awards and laudations stemmed straight from Zach’s advocacy, had responded.
How ironic that his only ally was newly gay and proud Duncan. And yet how grateful he was for their standing brunch date. Wearing a new plaid cashmere scarf against the increasing cold, Zach hurried to Bistro Ten 18 on Amsterdam Avenue.
Seated at a window table, Duncan grinned and half-stood, raising a Bloody Mary garnished with a twelve-inch celery stalk.
Zach ordered a double Bloody Mary, “No celery, please,” and revealed that Beth had just learned of Vida’s pregnancy, without saying how. Duncan wanted details—not about any confrontation: He wanted to talk about gestation and whether Vida would attempt vaginal delivery or opt for a C-section.
“Giving birth to two babies at once!” He shook his head, adorned with recently brightened and cleverly tousled hair. “Hard to fathom.”
“Duncan, I’m hoping to eat.” He ordered a skirt steak, three fried eggs, extra home fries, and another Bloody Mary.
Duncan sipped his drink from a tiny green straw.
“I suppose you’ve heard Dorothy’s strong-arming me out. I have no idea where this is coming from but after emphasizing that my ordinary misconduct was enough to stuff me in some backwater U., she alluded to rumors of ‘domestic abuse.’”
“What did you say?”
“I let her know the implication was slanderous and actionable.”
“And?”
“And she has a position ready and waiting for me in Nebraska.”
“Omaha or Lincoln?”
“What the fuck difference does it make?”
Duncan’s superb posture somehow improved a millimeter. “Lincoln has an outstanding Public Policy program. And Omaha? A huge Poli-sci department.”
“No shit.”
Duncan prattled a while about the fantastic opportunities at both campuses until Zach said, “Unless you want to come with me, shut up.”
“Maybe in time you’ll listen to me, Zach. Because I know professors in both quite lovely cities. If you were serious about me coming with you, my family in Westchester and the community at St. John the Divine are my only reasons not to.”
“Either you’re humoring me or you really would mosey off to Nebraska, just us two. One is as disturbing as the other. No offense.”
Tipping a coy shoulder toward his friend, Duncan breathed: “None taken.”
What a fucker! But Zach had to admit the gay guy forced a sense of humor on him—never his claim to fame. And goddamnit if Duncan didn’t live a helluva lot closer to the Scout Law than Zach ever had. He was exceptionally “trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, cheerful, and reverent.” However, Duncan was not “obedient,” nor anywhere close to what the movement intended by “clean.” Did homosexuals call it intercourse? Certainly, Robert Baden-Powell, who founded the Boy Scouts in 1907, had never imagined such goings-on. Instantly upon grasping this notion, though, Zach wasn’t so sure. Still and all, Duncan, because of his homosexuality, was the Anti-Eagle Scout.
Outside the restaurant, he laid his hand slightly low on Zach’s back—just slightly. A gesture of kindness, no more, but Zach jumped away and Duncan pretended not to notice. As usual, the men walked, not quite side by side, to Riverside Park.
**
New Life
Satisfied by brunch, Zach grew happy for no reason other than the spring sunshine, and in his good mood said, “It’s Omaha, Duncan. Tell me what you know.”
“To be honest, not a great deal.” He had met an assistant professor at a gender politics conference in Honolulu. “We only knew each other that one night but he raved about the Omaha campus and his brilliant students. Anyone will tell you UNO’s practical research is highly regarded. I can look up my friend—I’m sure he’d remember me.”
“Please don’t.”
But Duncan looked thin and vulnerable, trying to save his nice new hair from being blown by the wind. Instead of squirming, Zach said, “Let’s wait until the president and chancellor have interviewed me.”
“Do you mean to say the position they’re forcing you into is Dean of the entire Poli-sci department? President and chancellor—what else could it be?”
“It is. You think it’s a promotion?”
Duncan smirked and waved his hands as if Zach’s complaint had been a bad joke. Which made Zach wonder—maybe it was. Had certain members at the Younger Institute not claimed Vida as their princess whose honor he had failed to uphold, never mind that he was merely abiding her wishes, Dorothy wouldn’t be telling him to leave. But perhaps that was only one factor. She might have sounded him out even if he were still among the rainmakers. She knew, as did everyone, Zach was getting divorced. He wasn’t tied to New York. If Nebraska’s not-insignificant Poli-sci department wanted leadership, who better than Zach?
As he and Duncan walked along the river, Zach recalled his dynamic style and positive energy, both badly sapped by tearing apart his and Beth’s hideously conjoined identities. That, thank God, was finished. Time to reclaim his vast powers of persuasion and charm; his clean, honest ambition. All his magnetic force surged through him—or resurged.
Duncan asked, “What’s the rush?”
For Zach had increased the pace. While slaying his monstrous marriage for nearly a year now, he had lost the habit of tapping into his fount of determination. Reinvigorated, he only needed to see Vida to win her forever. She had wanted to marry him as recently as last year. Instead of bowing to her restrictions, he should have wooed her with all his charm. Rather than slavishly follow her into the lap of luxury where his furious energies fell into a sweet lull, almost a slumber. No more!
Clamping a hand on his friend’s shoulder—a first, Zach touching Duncan rather than flinching from him—he thanked him for pointing out the only way. They rounded a corner and Zach said his love for Vida superseded all other goals. Duncan recited an amorous phrase.
“Is that from a famous poem?”
“No, the lyrics from an old torch song. I’ll email it to you.”
“Ordinarily, Duncan, I’d say no thanks. But to get Vida back, I need fresh bait.”
“Don’t think of it like that.” He shook his head. “You’re following your heart, Zach and need to tell her that. Admit you let too much time pass just because she said so, when if you had been true to yourself you would have shouted your love for her into the night every night! But now the day has come when you cannot hold back. She must accept your love for what it is—whether she shares it or not.”
“Exactly,” Zach said. “Better late than never.”
Duncan sighed. “Have you ever suffered unrequited love, Zach?”
“It doesn’t exist.”
“You might find out differently. Be prepared.”
He laughed. “You do know that’s my motto, right?”
Hurrying to his apartment in Lenfest Hall, Zach pulled out an iPad and declared his love just as Duncan had described it. He had never written a love letter and never imagined he would.
Dear Vida, I’m writing from my heart, he wrote. No proofreading, no revision: I refuse to take back a single word. My love for you is unbound and uncalculated from now on.
He sent the email. And when he saw her—either this evening or tomorrow morning—he would break the news about Nebraska. He was starting to play Sudoku when she called.
“Zach, you cannot visit me.”
“I must, Vida.”
“You must not. You cannot. My sister Samantha is here. She’s taking care of me.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“No! Zach. Don’t come. You’re not invited.”
“But two days ago—you said… Vida, I’ve told my wife about the babies. And am pushing full speed ahead on the divorce because I want to marry you. I need to be with you.”
“During the last two days, Zach, I’ve changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Having you here would make me uncomfortable. You haven’t seen me in months. Then, too, I owe Samantha. She hates you, Zach. And if she knew you better, she’d hate you more. And you would hate her. Think of the kind of woman you hate the most and intensify everything about her—that’s Samantha. The two of you wouldn’t last ten minutes in the same room.”
“Vida, you don’t know that. But you’re right about us not having seen each other in months. You don’t know how I’ve reclaimed my powers now that I’m free. Remember my enthusiasm? Remember my terrific charm? My magnetism? Intensify them and—that’s me now.”
Vida hung up and the next morning Zach visited a jeweler who designed a ring for her. A big, pink sapphire flanked by twin pink pearls. He sent her another email, quoting the Johnny Hartman ballad Duncan had downloaded for him. He considered just sending her the song but if she were distracted, she might not get the lyrics that Duncan found so moving: “A lifetime with you would be one heavenly day...”
He spoke to his lawyer, saying “Give Beth whatever she demands. I want to marry someone else.” Convinced that the position in Omaha was indeed a promotion, he arranged for an interview next week. The UNO president sounded excited. If Zach could stay two days, he said, the chancellor and vice chancellor would be equally eager to meet him.
He was crossing the campus when his phone rang in his pants. Vida’s sister, Samantha Freeman said, “She had a C-section an hour ago.”
“She did? Is Vida all right? And the babies?”
“They’re all doing well. Both girls weigh more than five pounds. They’re perfect. Excellent apgars.”
“Excellent apgars!” Zach shouted. “Can I talk to Vida?”
“She’s still in recovery.”
“I’m on the next plane.”
**
The Pearls
Samantha said that Vida had asked her to phone him and so she had. The babies’ names, since he asked, were Alice Rose and Corrine Marketta.
“Alice Rose. Corrine Marketta,” Zach said as if he had never heard such lustrous—and illustrious—names.
Samantha responded, warily: The babies’ maternal great-great grandmother had been named Alice Markett. Marketta was Greek and meant pearl.
This pleased Zach, or rather he was pleased with himself for choosing twin pearls for their mother’s rose-colored sapphire ring. But he waited until the jet reached cruising speed before retrieving it from his carry-on. The jewels mesmerized him; they were perfect.
After he presented his ID and logged in, the nurse at the desk said, “Wash your hands thoroughly in the restroom while I get you sterilized.” She meant an enormous decontaminated suit to cover his clothes and a mask, cap, and foot-coverings made of papery blue material: an antiseptic precaution for Vida’s private room where the babies slept instead of the general ward.
He crept in quietly while Vida was nursing baby Alice. Samantha, also covered in sterilized blue, was cuddling Corrine. On the windowsill, he noticed two terrariums filled with green moss and minuscule ferns.
The moment she saw him, Vida’s full, radiant face lit up even brighter. “Hi, Dad.”
Then she dabbed Alice’s tiny pink mouth and handed her to Zach, causing love and protective instincts to flood his body. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he said to himself, but still out loud.
Samantha put Corrine in a bassinet long enough to help Vida shift onto her opposite side. “Are you comfortable? Do you feel secure like that?” Vida nodded. Once Corrine was nursing hungrily, Samantha turned to Zach. “All of us were beautiful once. All of us, believe it or not, were once little miracles. Even you.”
“That’s true.” Zach stroked Alice’s tiny fingers. He touched the tip of her nose. Samantha sidled next to him, to whisk the baby into her bassinet.
“Alice needs to nap after nursing. The routine is important.”
“Samantha. What’s the harm if her father holds her a few minutes?”
Alice had emerged first. The doctor pulled her up, and before anyone had spanked her to initiate her first breath, she had cried as if in triumph. “Her eyes are the darkest blue right now,” Vida said. “But they will probably turn brown like her hair.”
“She’s…”
“C-section babies are always pretty,” Samantha said.
Zach loved holding baby Alice; he had forgotten how peaceful, how hopeful, and happy holding his newborn child felt.
But not even a minute later, Samantha took Alice from him and laid her in a tiny crib. Then Vida handed Corinne to him, but again only for a minute, while Samantha helped her shift into position for Corinne to suck the other nipple.
He held Corinne so briefly—Samantha being so efficient—yet he brimmed with joy. Corrine’s eyes appeared slightly bigger than Alice’s and not quite as dark. Her hair was longer and curlier. He stared at the infant, wondering what she saw and what she heard. Not much—had been the consensus last time around. But Zach’s little Alice and Corrine refuted all that Piaget nonsense. Anyone watching his newborn daughters could see they were intently communicating: Here I am! Be prepared!
Vida’s doctor, a sprightly young woman with short, reddish hair, knocked lightly on the door frame. She wanted to examine Vida’s incision and talk to her privately. After which, Vida should rest. Could Zach and Samantha return in a few hours? Before leaving, Zach set the box containing the ring on Vida’s bed stand.
Sharp-featured Samantha resembled Vida only, if and where, opposites converged. Where Vida curved, her sister bristled. Vida brightened her surroundings, while Samantha, leading Zach to her car, exuded futility and gloom. Unlocking her car, she asked, “Are you checked into a hotel? If not, Vida asked me to invite you to stay in her room. It’ll be cheaper.”
“No, thank you, Samantha. I’m set—just need to call a cab.”
“Don’t fool yourself. My sister acts glad to see you because she’s in a state of elation. The truth is you’re the last person she needs. And you can be damn sure she has no intention of moving to Omaha.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Dorothy Zimmerman called to see if the terrariums had arrived. So we know you have an interview the day after tomorrow, which is when Vida and the babies come home. Vida was conscious for the whole procedure, thanks to an epidural.”
“That’s my girl.”
“She’s not your girl. At one point, I almost had her convinced to keep your name off their birth certificates.”
“Can she do that? After all, I am their father. Doesn’t that give me rights?”
“Not as many as you think. Vida doesn’t want or need child support. And while you’re in the hinterlands playing academic, she and the babies will live here or possibly Potomac, Maryland.”
“But I’m their father. Alice and Corrine Severins.”
“Well, Vida’s much too kind. You’re married to someone else. So the hospital will present you and Vida with an affidavit. If I were you, Fatty, I’d make sure to get all the paperwork signed and notarized before you go to Omaha. Because when you get back,Vida will have regained her senses.”
**
Emergency Landing
Before returning to New York, Zach called his daughter Rosalind. Because she’d be delighted to learn the twins had arrived healthy and eager to meet her. For once, she answered his call. What she said, however, was not encouraging. “Two words, Dad: Fuck you.”
He called again and apologized to voice mail. Without forethought, he said that baby Alice reminded him of her. (She hadn’t until he said so, but…) Rosalind, too, once had looked at him with newborn triumph. At this she picked up, “Alice and Corrine—I’ve got that. Want me to tell Mom?”
All right, he deserved that. Further, because of the stalemate with Beth, he had opted to skip his son’s high school graduation. He hadn’t thought until now that he really ought to send him congratulations and a generous gift certificate. That evening, he scrolled through his email and found that last week Matt had reported he needed a year off from school. He realized his father would object but Reed College had already approved his deferment. What Matt wanted to know was—would Zach still pay his tuition when the time came? Against his innate sense of order and rigor, Zach answered an exhausted, “Yes,” adding a P.S. wondering if they could get together, not this next weekend, but the one after.
Before bed, he listed interview questions to review during his flight tomorrow. Unlike Dorothy Zimmerman, Zach didn’t presume his dealings with East Coast bigwigs would impress Midwest academics. Having grown up in Illinois, he thought it more likely they would suspect him of a fawning snobbery.
At nine a.m., he settled into his business class seat, only to be joined by an eight-year-old girl traveling from New Jersey, where she lived with her mother, to Omaha where her father, a lawyer, lived with his new wife, also a lawyer. It was her first time flying, and she trembled, blinking back tears. Zach told her that he traveled on airplanes every week. Statistically, it was safer than riding in a car. She nodded anxiously. Her mother had said the same thing.
“My name is Emma.”
He nodded and returned to his laptop yet the child stared at him intently. So he glanced at her, raising an eyebrow.
“Now you’re supposed to tell me your name.”
“Oh, that’s right. Do you want to call me Zach?”
“Is that your name?”
“Of course it is.”
She grinned. “Then of course, Zach. That’s what I’ll call you.”
A small exchange but for Zach a first—an eight-year-old girl teasing him? He realized the past year had hurled him into a no-man’s-land of rocky ground. But only now did it penetrate that by adapting to the terrain, his authoritative manner had ceased to intimidate. Never had children questioned him outright—not even Rosalind. Not even when he was a child himself!
Taking stock, as he did ritually, Zach perceived no dwindling of his righteous determination. Yet perhaps his harshest self-scrutiny involved deception. And perhaps all those years of running around with Vida had softened him. In order to befriend people in power, he had made a habit of holding in abeyance his innate scorn of banality. No wonder Dorothy Zimmerman hadn’t shied from prodding him to resign. But then he had welcomed the change. Or no, feeling little Emma’s persistent attention, Zach recalled that at first Dorothy’s announcement infuriated him. Then Duncan had declared it a promotion. As if wispy Duncan were the man to blaze Zach’s trail! Sitting straighter, he brushed off any possibility that his ramrod command had weakened.
Emma’s anxiety felt stifling.
“Don’t you have a video game to play? A book or something?”
“No, do you?”
“I’ll get you a headset if you want to watch TV or listen to music.” He shivered seeing her serious little face.
“Zach, are you afraid to die?”
The question, put so directly by a little girl, startled him enough so that he forgot the protocol for indignation and didn’t even bristle. Although, had someone like Duncan asked, he would never have deigned to answer.
“Afraid of death? I don’t think so, Emma. Each of us dies when it’s his turn.”
Two hours later the plane hit the runway and bucked. A sickening grinding and scraping accompanied several hard collisions with the ground. The full-capacity load of passengers froze, silent and terrified. From the window, Zach watched sparks flying from the ground. The jet bounced and scraped as heads collided with the ceiling despite seat-belts.
When the jet rose steeply into the air, people breathed louder, somewhat relieved. The pilot announced a problem with deceleration—the plane’s landing gear was functioning abnormally. The pilot would circle at lower than usual altitude for twenty minutes while the ground crew prepared for an emergency landing.
During this interval, passengers mumbled desperately. Prayers of, “Oh God, please,” and occasional moans. Emma had been squeezing Zach’s fingers since the first hit on the runway. To his surprise, he was stroking her hair protectively.
Re-approaching the runway, the plane plowed through a wall of foam but bounced higher and harder. Bodies slammed forward and back as luggage flew from the overhead bins. Emma’s eyes were squeezed shut and Zach noticed tooth-marks on her lower lip.
The plane veered off the runway into a corn field, smashing into the crop at hundreds of miles per hour. The foam barrier had dampened the sparks. Slowly but surely the corn stalks and tilled rows of earth reduced their momentum, but as they crashed through acres of mounded dirt and half-grown corn, the floor beneath Zach and Emma ripped apart. They saw flattened green stalks and billows of smoke.
Over the grinding metal, sirens sounded. Out the window, Zach saw trucks towing a black rubber sheet, racing ahead of the plane’s trajectory. He whispered, “Brace yourself,” to Emma as they suffered a shocking impact. The rubber sheared off the plane’s wings whereupon it angled acutely forward but—stopped. As Zach unfastened his and Emma’s seat-belts and lifted her toward the exit chute, she wrapped her arms around his neck and said, “Not our turn to die!”
**
Whippoorwill
The little girl Emma told her father that she hadn’t worried for a second, because her friend Zach was “an expert at worrying. He took care of everything, Daddy.”
Introducing himself as Henry, the man asked Zach the best place to send a box of Omaha steaks as a thank-you gesture.
“Not necessary,” Zach said. “Besides, I’m a vegetarian.”
“Are you sure?”
Zach waved good-bye to Emma and recalled one-upmanship Midwestern style: out-nice the other guy.
The airline had retrieved his carry-on, which was dropped at his feet while a doctor took his blood pressure for the fourth time. Zach signed a release and before he could call a taxi, UNO’s President Larry Blount rushed into the hospital. He drove Zach to his big, cheerful home and asked if he could use a drink.
“Yes, I suppose I could. Thank you.”
“Wait, have you eaten? My wife’s spending two weeks at a spa in Texas but I can grill a few hamburgers.”
“The airline treated us to sandwiches,” Zach said.
Sitting outside, they sipped Hennessy XO.
“Good for the heart,” Larry said, “and the soul.”
And Zach said, “That whippoorwill sounds very close.”
“I keep old branches and thistles in the yard and one comes every summer. Are you familiar with birds, Zach?”
“I used to be, when I was a Boy Scout.”
“That’s right. Eagle and NESA—noticed that on your CV.”
“Most people probably don’t list such an early position, but to this day being an Eagle Scout is my finest achievement.”
“Exactly how I feel, Zach. The BSA is very big here. You know—the Scott Foundation.”
“Oh, yes.” Zach certainly should have known about it. He knew that Omaha supported a symphony, art galleries, museums, an opera, and dance companies. And he knew the Fontenelle Forest Association’s range of biodiversity: over two hundred species of warblers. How had he overlooked the Scott Foundation, whose name seemed to be everywhere?
The committee meeting was at four p.m. What would Zach enjoy doing? Walking in the forest.
Among the oaks and hickories, Larry told him that he’d seen bald eagles the last five winters. “One year I watched a nest. Ever seen bald eagles in flight, Zach?”
“Never. When I was a kid, they were still endangered.”
The men were bird-watching until they happened to zoom in on an attractive, slight woman right in front of them listening for woodpeckers. She jumped to her feet and Larry said, “Zach Severins, this is Kristina Marius.”
An hour later, driving back, Larry explained that Kristina taught environmental biology and was very popular with all the students. “Especially this year with the tuition protesters, which is curious because she’s related to all of Omaha’s well-to-do.”
“You mean, Warren Buffet?”
Larry didn’t know about that, only that she was a prominent board member with every enterprise, for profit or non.
What had impressed Zach was her smile. Kristina’s eyes scrunched up, each one curving symmetrically with her mouth. Her eyes and hair appeared to be the same color as her sprinkling of freckles.
Hours later, when Larry issued Zach into the committee meeting, there she was, wearing a turquoise dress and a Navajo squash blossom necklace. Her wispy light brown hair was twisted up elegantly. She stood; the others didn’t. And smiling the same sweet, funny smile, she extended her hand. “Good to see you again, Zach.”
Everyone wanted to hear about the plane’s crash landing. Zach tried to discuss his ideas for urban planning and cleaner transportation.
Finally, the committee acknowledged that his partnership with the Younger Institute’s Director of Development counted as a plus. That in itself was a pleasant surprise. But Larry used it to address Zach’s over-the-top compensation. Ostensibly speaking to Zach, he said: “As you all know, we’re striving to fulfill the growing demand for education and committed to becoming a leading research center. But when we raised tuition last year, we faced a small but vocal group of protesters. Luckily, Zach’s extremely good at raising capital and nurturing long-term development.”
That evening at a very good restaurant, Larry confided that Zach could count on becoming dean and administrator. “Naturally, I would never tell you if I weren’t certain.”
Before driving him to the airport the next morning, Larry showed Zach the Missouri River. The morning sun on the water reminded him of the yearly canoe trips he took with his son Matt—last year being the exception.
Flying straight from Omaha to visit Vida and the babies, he mapped out a canoe trip on the Delaware River. Three days, three nights: If he and Matt started from Milford Beach, they could land at Kittatinny Point. The trip would include white water excitement without pushing them. For once, Zach wanted adventure without strain.
Matt, however, wouldn’t answer his phone; he had even turned off his voice mail. From his apartment, Zach tried his old home number, because unless Beth had updated the phone, it wouldn’t flash his name.
Matt said, “Hey,” but before Zach said anything, the boy breathed irritably. “No, Dad, I haven’t found a job. Mom thinks something might turn up where she and Wren work out.”
“That’s not why I’ve been trying to reach you, Matt.”
“Yeah? Well, I won’t start as a trainer or anything. Probably laundry.”
“Matt, I’ve mapped out a three-day canoe trip for us—whenever you’re free.”
“Let me check with Mom. I need to know she’s safe.”
“Matt, she’s looked after you your whole life. Why wouldn’t she be safe?”
“Last year, some guy slugged her. Know anything about that, Dad?”
“Matt, did your mother say I hit her?”
“She’d never say that, no matter what you did to her.”
“Ask her, Matt. As I recall, last year she underwent some serious dental work.”
“Is that what you tell yourself? Dental work?”
“Matt—you know…” Zack didn’t say out loud the words making him twitch. Faster than he could grasp, little Emma and her powerful sense of mortality rose in his mind. So—permit Matt his hostility. Be glad he loved his mother.
“Can I book the trip for July?”
“Make it August.”
“Any three days you’re free, Matt.”
“Fine.”
“Promise?”
“I said, fine.”
His son hung up.
**
The Big Difference
Throughout the summer, Columbia University paid Zach his full salary. Officially, he was adjusting the syllabus. Dorothy Zimmerman, however, told him this was pro forma: his courses were thorough and up-to-date. His apartment, his office, and parking space remained his own until September. The University of Nebraska had hired him, retroactively, as both dean and administrator of their Poli-sci department. Combined, this influx of money boosted his confidence and his bank account enough to inspire generosity.
On most weekends, he visited UNO or Vida, who had hired a nanny and already bought an estate in Maryland so that when baby Alice and Corrine were older, they could have ponies. Zach put the legally decreed child support into trust funds.
The twins were six weeks old when they, Vida, and the nanny moved into a home with separate wings and cottages. Also included in their household were: a groundskeeper and his wife, who worked as Vida’s housekeeper; a full-time cook who tended a vegetable garden; and Vida’s gentleman-friend, a Republican state senator named Henry. The property included a huge, sparkling swimming pool and pristine tennis courts canopied by leafy trees. Vida and Henry entertained friends and benefactors almost continuously and Zach really was welcome any time. So while Vida and her coterie lounged by the pool or played leisurely tennis games, Zach walked around carrying Alice and Corrine, sometimes one in each arm, sometimes cuddling them one at a time. He sang them songs he remembered Beth singing to Rosalind and Matt, while he was busy earning his Ph.D. Although in those days, his perception of himself as an Eagle—an outdoorsman, academic, and ambitious provider—prohibited singing to babies, his own, or anyone else’s. A lot had changed in twenty years.
As for Rosalind and Matt, after the divorce became final and Beth resumed speaking to him, they grew more open and fond of their father than ever before. Matt followed his inclination to please his mother—and his father, providing he wasn’t hurting Beth.
In contrast, Rosalind maintained a chilly silence for weeks while her mother strongly suggested she start showing Zach some respect and appreciation.
Reluctantly, she agreed to write him an email once a week but “neither should hold his or her breath for phone calls.”
“Tell her,” Zach told Beth, “that I’m glad she wrote ‘his or her’ and not ‘their’—since as she knows, ‘neither should hold their breath’ is common usage but incorrect.”
“Wait a second,” Beth said. “I better write that down.”
He had laughed. “Tell her I’m pleased she’s such a little stickler.”
In the same email, Rosalind had reported: “Mom says I must write you ‘a nice, long,’ letter or stay home, like, indefinitely. I have my own life, Dad, and it doesn’t exist within the confines of this house. But thanks very much for giving Mom the house and paying off the mortgage. She says that if you hadn’t done that, she would need to sell it. And we would live in a cramped apartment like the one Ellen from the food co-op has.
“I grew up believing you and Mom had principles. But when I became a teenager, you got greedy and blew them off. You had a long-term affair. Mom pretended you weren’t because you both wanted everyone to think we were the real deal—one happy little family. But that meant you had to live a lie rather than simply telling an occasional white lie, which (I don’t know about you) doesn’t go against Mom’s principles.
“Anyway, you both went against most of your principles most of the time, lying, cheating, and being self-indulgent assholes. (Pardon me. Or pardon my ‘French,’ whichever’s easier.) You screamed and yelled and stuffed your faces until you looked like balloon people. And you’re still going against everything you taught me: You bribed Mom with enough money to maintain her lifestyle. Since she took the bribe, she’s threatening to punish Matt and me unless we give you proper gratitude. So consider me—gratefully yours, Rosalind.”
Zach stopped by the house later that week. He and Matt reviewed their canoe trip, planned their meals, and composed a checklist of camping equipment. Rosalind ran from the front door as Zach was pulling out of the driveway. “I wrote you another email, Dad, apologizing.” She kissed his cheek. “If I’m a stickler, I inherited the tendency from you.”
He opened Rosalind’s new email when he reached his office. Her mother had pointed out stuff that Rosalind should have figured out on her own.
“After all, why spell out every tawdry detail? Such as, if we moved to a cramped apartment and Mom had to work as a receptionist all the hours she could get, Matt and I would have to do the grocery shopping. We’d have to cook and do the dishes and all the other errands and housework. We wouldn’t have time for parties and friends. We wouldn’t be buying the latest electronics and we certainly wouldn’t have our own credit cards. We wouldn’t have a cheerful mother who was glad to arrange things so we were free to study hard and play hard. If she couldn’t afford to pursue her artistically satisfying but non-lucrative pottery-making, and take fitness classes and get massages from Leon, she’d be irritable even if we did all the housework including the laundry. Not only would Matt and I not have friends but she wouldn’t either. She’d feel sorry for herself until she was so depressed she lost her health. Then Matt and I would have to take care of her the rest of our lives! So Mom said to think about the difference between a bribe and generosity.
“Here’s my new way of thinking: A bribe is when you pay someone to cover up your wrong-doings or even to look the other way. It has nothing to do with being a loving father and ex-husband. Thank you for giving us whatever we want. (I know the legal requirement wouldn’t make a dent.)
“You’re extremely generous and I’m sorry for being a spoiled brat. Love, Rosalind.
P.S. Any time you feel like taking me to the Four Seasons, I’d love to go.”
**
Yellowjackets
Zach had scheduled the canoe trip from Monday, August 15th through Thursday the 18th, so that before heading home they could spend the night in a lodge.
Sunday evening, Duncan dropped by Zach’s office to say good-bye and found him sitting on the carpet surrounded by life jackets; whistles; fire starters; sun hats; sun screen; bug repellent; quick-dry clothing; binoculars; washing kits; pocket knives and more.
“You look like a kid who’s unwrapped all his Christmas presents.”
“Let me show you something,” Zach said reaching for the First Aid kit.
Duncan said, “Wow. Guess you really are prepared.”
“Matt and I have canoed this trip before so we know: Flat water, white water—it can get wild, no matter what season.”
Duncan nodded and sighed. “I feel like I’m losing my best friend.”
“Not me,” Zach laughed. “I’ll be back here all the time; two of my kids live here.”
“Well, I’m taking a vacation, too. Just to Fire Island, but it’s my first venture out.”
Zach said, “Have fun. And don’t worry about being different from the next guy. Look at how different we are. I’m seriously gonna miss you in Nebraska.”
Duncan’s face lit up.
“Did I really say that?” Zach chuckled and vigorously shook Duncan’s hand, knowing he wanted a hug. Too bad—Zach wasn’t a hugger.
His friend stepped back as if in acknowledgement. “You have fun, too, Zach. And—good luck.”
“What the hell. Come here.” Zach gave him a bear hug. For a few seconds, Duncan was too surprised to reciprocate but then he slapped Zach’s back, turned his face to hide its sadness, and hurried away.
Five a.m. the next morning, Zach honked outside his old home. Matt staggered to the driveway, carrying a load of Boy Scout camping gear.
“Don’t bother with that stuff,” Zach said. “I’ve packed everything we’ll need.”
Matt admired the new canoe loaded on top of the car.
“Kevlar,” Zach said. “Sixteen and a half feet long and only fifty-four pounds.”
They didn’t talk, driving to Milford landing. Zach turned on old rock and roll they both liked or at least didn’t mind: Nirvana, Clapton, the Rolling Stones.
Almost two hours later, when they stepped from the air-conditioned car into the early morning heat, they both wavered in the soupy air. Zach, who was sensitive to sun and bug bites, had worn special new featherweight clothing, bright yellow pants and a long-sleeved jacket. But the jacket stuck to him like Saran Wrap. He yanked it off, preferring to risk the elements in a tank top.
Being heavier and, he assumed, stronger, Zach paddled from the stern. They glided through calm water. Soon, however, Zach itched from the heat. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He calculated the last time he and Matt had canoed and figured it was fifty or sixty pounds ago.
Reluctantly, he asked Matt to bank at Minisink Island.
When they stepped out, Zach’s inflamed face startled his son. “Dad, why not give me a chance?”
So after Zach rested for five minutes, Matt took the stern. Yet even when not exerting himself, Zach still sweated in sheets. He concentrated on his stroke and sipped water every other beat. He had intended to go over various employment plans with his son, since Matt wasn’t going to college. But Zach could not paddle, think clearly, and hold himself upright all at once, let alone talk. Periodically, he pulled in his paddle, filled his hat with water, and drenched his head. Whenever he slapped a mosquito, it splattered blood.
Several times, the boat encountered a frill of white water. Matt executed ferries solo and thrilled at the peel-outs. They had started so early that neither had eaten breakfast. Zach felt faint but waited until Matt suggested lunch. They banked the canoe north of the Sandystorm site. After they settled it high on the shore, Zach sat in the river as if in a soothing bath. Matt laid out lunch on a small tarp. Steak sandwiches with broiled onions that Zach had prepared late last night. They downed bottles of water and polished off a big bag of soft chocolate chip cookies.
Now Zach felt fine. His clothes were already dry, his blood sugar up. Of course, it was blazing hot, but what did he expect in August? “My turn at the stern, okay, Matt?”
“Sure.”
Then Zach’s hat rolled from his hand and the slope carried it towards the shore. Bounding after it, Zach landed hard and dislodged a big, flat rock. A buzzing black funnel of wasps geysered from the earth. Zach stumbled, covered in layers of wasps, and after whirling about in terror, threw himself in the water.
Yellowjackets. Matt tore the First Aid kit from the canoe and remembered that yellowjackets build underground nests along river banks. When his father failed to surface for air, Matt plowed through the cloud of wasps, waded into the river, and dragged him out.
He called 911 and tried to keep his voice level.
His father had ripped off his clothing, still thick with yellowjackets even as they drowned. Matt noticed how swollen Zach’s face was, especially his mouth. He knew badly stung lips were serious, perhaps lethal. Worse than Zach’s mouth, however, were his neck and ears, red as blood and swelling; hives spread over his chest and belly.
“The River Rescue Patrol is on its way, Dad. Hang on.”
Zach rolled to his right and vomited—another serious, possibly deadly, symptom. Matt propped up his father’s feet, grabbed the First Aid kit, and injected adrenaline for ten seconds. He wiped his father's mottled, bloated body with aloe-cleansing tissues. Then he covered him with a Space Blanket.
Matt put his face close to Zach’s. “Dad? Dad!”
His dad was breathing but probably unconscious.
Within minutes or hours or an entire afternoon shrinking on the horizon, the patrol boat arrived. Rescue workers asked about allergies. Matt said his father was sensitive to bug bites and sunburn—that’s all.
The volunteer medics asked if the wasps had covered his father in clumps.
“They engulfed him.”
The River Rescue Patrol raced the emergency boat upstream to Milford where an ambulance was waiting. The medics asked Matt to follow in his own car. Zach had suffered so many stings, his blood poisoned by so much venom, they needed to treat him for septic shock.
Matt drove on the ambulance’s tail, its siren clearing the way. Technicians wheeled his father into the trauma room. Through a small, wired window, Matt watched four doctors bend over his father. A curly-haired nurse touched his shoulder. Blinking at her, he said, “I can donate blood if my dad needs a transfusion.”
“I know, honey.” The woman pushed her glasses at the bridge of her nose before issuing him into a small room—two chairs, a side table, and a phone. He’d left his cell at the picnic site. “Make whatever phone calls are necessary, sweetheart. And if your dad can use that transfusion, I’ll tell the doctors you’re a donor.”
The End
