Dante's Dilemma (5 page)

She laughed. “I know who you are. The new neighbor. I watched you moving in last week. I'm sorry I didn't come over to introduce myself. Horribly rude, I know, but it was finals week and I literally had a hundred papers to grade. My name's Candace, by the way. Candace McIntyre.”

“Mark Angelotti. I'd offer to shake hands with you but I only have two.”

“Oh, hell. Rude of me again. Here, I'll take that bag back. But now I haven't any hands free, either. I suppose we could just sniff each other, like dogs. How come you don't have one, if it's OK to ask?”

“I did, but he developed fleas.”

“Oh, but they . . .” She stopped herself and laughed again. “You're just pulling my leg.”

“Now that
would
be rude. So you're a teacher?”

“Renaissance literature. At the University of Chicago. I just moved there from McGill. I thought the weather would be an improvement. Obviously wishful thinking on my part.”

“Candace from Canada. Has a certain ring to it.”

“So long as you don't ever call me Candy, eh?” she said, exaggerating the last syllable in what was clearly intended as jest.

After the miserable day, I was enjoying the banter, so I said, “I've got one of those names, too.”

“As in prone to misuse? Give.”

“Dante. My first name.”

“That's not so bad. Why don't you care for it?”

“Long story, but if you teach literature you might be able to guess. My father made me read the
Commedia
when I was a kid. It scared me to death.”

“I'll bet. All those sinners having their flesh torn apart by harpies or being buried upside down in burning mud. Though as horrific fates go, not much worse than your average fairy tale. It's amazing what they used to read to us when we were young,” she added, helpfully identifying herself as someone around my age. “But you haven't told me what you do for a living.”

“Doctor.”

She didn't miss a beat. “Not a surgeon, I trust?”

I was really beginning to like her. “Psychiatrist. But we're both going to need surgical help if we stay out here much longer.” We were still standing just inside the gate, where the wind was rasping my cheeks like a scouring pad.

“You're right,” she said. “I shouldn't keep you outside on such a wretched night. I don't suppose you have time to stop in for a drink?”

I was sorely tempted. Hallie Sanchez hadn't returned my calls in weeks. And I could tell from Candace's confident manner that she liked men and men liked her, usually a good sign that a woman's looks were nothing to sneer at. But I couldn't take time off for female companionship that night, not with the unopened package from Annie's lawyers still burning a hole in my backpack.

“I'd like that. But I'm afraid I've got to take a rain check. I have a mountain of work to get through myself this evening.”

“Understood. But how about on Saturday? I'm supposed to attend an end-of-quarter faculty party and I could use an escort, not to mention an excuse for leaving early if the conversation begins to waver.”

I hesitated, thinking again of Hallie. But if I didn't move on to greener pastures, I'd end up one of those pathetic old men staring down the bottom of a bottle each night.

“I think we have a deal,” I said.

“By the way, I'm unattached if that isn't already apparent.”

“Me too,” I said, wishing it weren't so.

Candace and I said our good-byes and I entered my home, removing my Mets hat, overcoat, and scarf before distributing them among the hooks just inside the door. I was determined to shed some of the habits that made my old home look like a “before” photo in
Good Housekeeping
, a resolution aided by the former owners, who appeared to have spent a tidy fortune at IKEA. There were storage bins for everything, including an umbrella stand that held half a dozen canes in various stages of health, and cubbies for all my footwear—assuming it ever came out of hiding. There were even wall racks for my bicycles, though I'd decided that mine were too valuable to be left out where they could be spotted through the foyer window. Instead, they resided in a locked room next to the garage, which I hoped to turn into a shop-cum-exercise room when I could find the time.

I climbed up the short stairway to the first floor, a spacious kitchen/dining/living area with French doors leading to an outdoor deck. Even in its largely unfurnished state, the place felt like a palace, though it didn't begin to compare to some of the residences I'd shared with Annie, the duplex in the Upper Eighties and the restored farmhouse in Fairfield County. Inevitably my thoughts drifted back to those early days, my dawning awareness that marrying my boss's daughter had been the biggest mistake of my life. The strained year following the birth of our first child, Jack, had only amplified our differences, leaving me feeling trapped and desperate. By that time we'd moved to a turn-of-the century Colonial in Cos Cob, and I began using the commute to the city as a pretext for spending long hours away from home.

Jonathan had been off-base with his sneering insinuation about sex with an intern. I'd never been that reckless, either in my choice of sexual partners or their number. All of my affairs had been carefully planned to escape Roger Whittaker's attention, even if I sometimes carried them out within spitting distance of the hospital where we worked. Recklessness, however, didn't do enough to describe the way I'd dismissed Annie's fears when Jack developed what seemed like an ordinary childhood fever. Eight months pregnant with our second child, she hadn't questioned my excuse when I said I needed to work late that night. The ink was still fresh on Jack's death certificate when I confessed my true whereabouts, earning me perhaps a few points for honesty, though they did nothing to lessen Roger's rage.

The divorce settlement presented to me on the day of Jack's funeral was breathtakingly simple: I was to become a virtual stranger to my younger son. Though I'd later come to regret it, I gave in to every one of Roger's terms. Half out of my mind with grief and shame, I was in no shape to argue, and deep within my soul I
agreed
with him. My neglect had ended the life of one child. How could I ever again be trusted with the care of another? When Louis was born a few weeks later, I couldn't even bring myself to hold him, never dreaming that the glimpses I stole of him through the glass wall of the hospital nursery would be the only ones I would ever have.

I trudged over to the kitchen, taking a frozen dinner from the freezer and shoving it into the microwave—one of the few appliances that didn't feel like it had been designed by a Silicon Valley engineer—before pouring myself a shot of bourbon, which I downed in a single gulp. The first floor had only one other room, a small den that I was turning into an office, and I went there next with the package, to get the scanner-printer started on its contents. After feeding the pages into the machine, I headed upstairs to my bedroom to change, counting off the steps to the second floor to reinforce the map that was still in the “Under Construction” stages in my mind.

On the way back, I stopped in the empty bedroom that I vainly hoped might be Louis's someday. It was one of the reasons I'd bought the house, so that he and I could spend time together in surroundings less crowded and shabby than my old apartment. The scanner was still clicking away downstairs, so I sat down on the hardwood floor with my back to the wall, imagining how I would transform it into the kind of space a small boy would love. Nothing over the top, no beds shaped like racecars or hand-painted murals. But a soft carpet and blond wood furniture and brightly colored fabrics. And shelves—lots of shelves—for toys and books and the games we would play together on nights like this, in front of a cozy fire.

I caught what I was doing and climbed clumsily back to my feet. I could hear the coils of embossed paper overflowing the scanner's tray and piling up on the floor below. If their quantity was any indication, Louis wouldn't be visiting any time soon.

As I descended the stairs, my footsteps echoing off the bare walls were only one reminder of the lonely life I had made for myself.

FIVE

The next morning I was on the phone to my lawyer as soon as the hour would permit, catching her as she was driving to her office in New Haven.

“What's the matter? You sound upset,” Kay Bergen said into the car's handset. In the background, I could hear the heavy commuter traffic on I-95.

“I slept poorly.” In fact, I had practically worn a hole in my mattress with all my tossing and turning the night before. I'd given up the fight around 4 a.m. and made good use of my new home's opportunities for pacing back and forth, before ringing Kay up promptly at 7 EST.

“Uh-oh,” Kay said. “I take it your ex wasn't gung ho about our proposal.” By proposal, she meant the letter to Annie I had drawn up with Kay's help, asking for changes to the divorce decree. I hadn't let on to Annie that I'd hired a lawyer, hoping to maintain the modest thaw in our relationship that had allowed me to spend time with Louis half a dozen times in the past year. I had hoped to formalize that arrangement, as well as obtain permission for longer visits, both on the East Coast and with me in Chicago.

“That would be accurate,” I said.

“I don't understand. I thought you said the last meeting went well.”

I'd thought so too, remembering the Sunday the month before, when Annie and I'd shared coffee in the study that used to be mine while Louis was eating lunch with his nanny. I'd never liked the room—Annie had done it up in English squire style, all chintz-covered sofas and hunting prints—and I felt more uncomfortable there than ever, balancing a cup of Limoges in my lap with my cane on the seat right beside me. In keeping with her finishing-school manners, I was sure Annie's eyes rarely strayed in its direction. I briefly wondered how time had treated her. Annie had always made heads turn with her elegant looks, and if I had to guess, she was as lovely as ever: blond hair done up in a loose chignon and only the barest touch of makeup on her bone-china complexion.

Our conversation was cordial, and I'd even begun to relax a bit when I made the mistake of asking where the third member of our party was.

“He's not coming.”

I wasn't sure what to make of this. I hadn't been looking forward to seeing—or more accurately, not seeing—my ex-father-in-law, but Annie was insistent. Involving Roger in the discussion from the outset would lead to less misunderstanding and give him the illusion he still had veto power. Annie had never been this strategic in her dealings with her father, so I went along with a face-to-face meeting, as much to get the ordeal behind me as to further my fragile truce with her. “So he didn't want the pleasure of my company after all?”

“He said that while he was sure he would relish the spectacle, he would rather become an Alzheimer's patient than be found in the same room with you.”

I was no longer relaxed. “So where does that leave us?”

“I'll work on him some more.” Annie stopped and exhaled deeply, sending the scent of French Roast my way. “This isn't easy for me either, having you here—in our home. But I don't want Louis growing up thinking his father walked out on him without so much as a look back.”

Her words bit into me like a drill saw.
So that's what she thought.
I felt myself color rapidly. “You know I was only trying to make things easier on you . . . after everything. I never meant—”

“I'm not interested in your excuses. We can just be grateful Louis has one parent who cares more about his welfare than their own convenience.”

I had to fight to keep a level tone. “I didn't fly all the way out here because it was convenient. Today or any of the other times you said I could come.”

“I'll grant that. And it's the only reason we're talking right now. To tell you the truth, I was shocked when you finally asked to see him. If it hadn't been for that and—”

I waited for her to say it.

“—the fact that he was asking so many questions, you wouldn't be welcome.”

“Is that everything?”

“And . . . that you seem to be good with him,” she said grudgingly.

Now, mentally replaying the conversation, it appeared I'd missed something significant. Or maybe it was that when Annie and I fumbled a handshake at the door, I thought I detected a new cut-stone ring on her third right-hand finger.

“Mark, are you still there?” Kay asked over her car phone.

“Sorry. I was drifting. Annie's remarrying.”

“So? Usually that puts women in a good mood.”

“I don't know about her mood, but it's sure got her making plans.” Or was it Roger doing the planning? For the first time, I began to wonder about my former father-in-law's prolonged vendetta against me. Was there something else behind his fury I was missing?