Those We Love Most (17 page)

The old ways of selling and of relationships and deals by handshake had given way to a cutthroat price-driven age. There were times Roger felt as if he were keeping current only by his fingernails. Hell, he still quietly dictated things to Cristina, his secretary. He had never quite learned to type proficiently on a keyboard once they’d all made the leap to personal computers.

Unbelievable
, he thought. Roger sat back in his chair and let out his breath. After all his preliminary work in Florida, he would not be the lead on the Crown deal. He set his face in an even expression and headed back out into the hallway and toward the lunchroom to get a cup of coffee. He felt his heartbeat ratchet up, driven by an internal suppression of rage like steam in an espresso machine. He was damned tempted to walk out the door right now, grab his briefcase, and leave for the day. But that would only give them more of a reason to nudge him further aside. He needed to mark his territory and hide any signs of weakness.

Kindler was spouting bullshit, the same crap that had come out of Roger’s mouth when he himself had been subtly putting older colleagues out to pasture back in the day. Roger poured a styrofoam cup of coffee in the office kitchenette and noticed a brief unsteadiness in his hands, a quivering as a splash of brown liquid hit the Formica countertop. He leaned against the lunchroom table momentarily and closed his eyes.

What had they seen at the firm? Were his memory lapses noticeable to his colleagues? he wondered nervously. Roger let himself panic for a minute as he scrolled through moments in internal and client meetings over the past few months. Had they been picking up on times when he might have forgotten something, missed information, scrambled an issue or a detail? This self-consciousness and insecurity, to which he was largely unaccustomed, hit with a jolt. The thought that he had possibly been a topic of discussion in this manner had not occurred to him before, and it blunted his anger, suddenly humbling him. He worked to back himself away from this paranoid line of thought as he shuffled down the office hallway back to his desk.

Relax
, he told himself, back in the confines of his office. This isn’t personal. This isn’t about anything other than the youth culture that’s pervading all of corporate America. Companies in every sector were throwing away their greatest resource. Men his age, who knew where the skeletons were buried and how to make the clocks run, were in the process of being devalued after decades of loyal service for the younger, more cost-effective model.

Maybe it really was time to think about a retirement timetable. Hell, he was sixty-five, and although that still felt mentally young, he knew some of their friends were beginning to have health issues. God knows Margaret had been talking about trips she wanted to take. Images of tour buses, chirpy guides with flags, and pasty couples with cameras and bulging waists and buttocks filled his head, depressing him further.

Roger thought briefly of calling Julia. She would make him feel calm, powerful, and in control. In the past her voice had contained the power to reassure him, to disconnect him from the silly urgencies of his job that sometimes clouded his visual field with false importance. Or that had been how it used to work, anyway. Now, he realized, calling Julia would only conjure up complexities and emotions that he wasn’t prepared to deal with. He lacked the energy. Roger only wanted to close his eyes in the privacy of his office, to reorganize his thoughts and regroup.

Clearing his throat, he drew a deep breath of air into his nose and let it out in one uninterrupted stream from his mouth. This simple relaxation technique Margaret had once taught him calmed him. Hell, work was important but it wasn’t everything. Maybe he didn’t have the lead on the Crown deal, but he’d had a long and successful career at the company, was a member of a country club, a scratch golfer, a friend, a loving father and grandfather. He’d been a steady provider as a husband, although he knew that on balance his role as a devoted spouse was perhaps less than stellar. Roger could feel his heart rate settling back down to normal as he worked this mantra like the stations of the cross. He tipped his head back against his chair and closed his eyes.

His cell phone’s ringtone broke the momentary silence. It was Julia. Roger marveled, as he often had, at her uncanny ability to call just when he was thinking of her. A range of emotions competed with one another, from excitement to joy, and then trepidation as he pressed the answer button without thinking, an involuntary reaction.

“Hi there,” he said with manufactured warmth, rubbing his temple.

“Hello, stranger.” The tone of her voice reached for an easiness he knew she didn’t feel. He understood how much it must have taken to call him yet again. It had been at least two weeks since he had initiated a call to her, probably since the middle of November.

“I have been a stranger.” Roger sighed. “I’m sorry. Would you believe I was just thinking about you?” The words sounded hollow, and he felt stuck.

“I don’t believe it. We haven’t spoken in a week. But I’m ready to forgive you.” She was Julia again, without any overt sense of petulance that he could detect.

“But can I forgive myself?” he said suddenly, as if the words had just slipped off his lips, unconnected to his brain. Perhaps she hadn’t understood.

She was quiet for a moment and then she piped up, a trace of anxiety straining her voice. “What do you mean, Roger?”

“I just … don’t … I don’t know, Julia …” Roger blurted out unthinking. “I don’t know where I am right now. The world is such a different place for us than it used to be. There are people … people here who need me.”

“I need you too,” she said simply, and let it fall flat. He pictured the tanned backs of her hands, the long, talonlike nails, which were always painted a bright pink or coral, so different from Margaret’s earth-chafed fingers.

“I know you do. And I need you too. I do. I’m just dealing with so much here. Maura … her family, the other kids.” There was an apologetic smile in his voice and he was mindful not to throw his wife’s name into that litany.

“It’s been months, Roger. Almost three months since I’ve seen you, and that was only one night. Five months since everything happened with your grandson. I have tried to give you space.” Julia’s voice lacked patience now. It was rising slightly, generosity spent. “Surely your daughter and your family are getting stronger, moving down the road to recovery?”

Her innocently pat question made Roger bristle. It would be so easy to flare up now, after the disastrous meeting he’d had with Kindler. How simple it would be to erupt, to rise up and just smote this connection from the center of his heart. Who were they exactly to each other now? A fading affair? It had felt like something more before the accident, something with interesting possibility. Now he felt spent. For the moment Roger wrestled with an explanation for how Julia fit into his life. She was not a mistake exactly, certainly not something he regretted. But things had changed. What possible benefit could he provide in her life?

She had once told him that her romantic options were limited to a stream of widowers looking for someone to care for them and men in loud shirts who loved betting on the greyhounds at the track. This parade of “factory seconds,” as she called them, held no real interest for her. Julia assured him she would never marry again. She liked their arrangement just fine, she insisted, although he believed she secretly desired more from him, even a commitment. But frankly, what she chose to do during the in-between time was none of his business, although he assumed she had been faithful.

The truth was, he still wanted her physically. Guilt, desire, spontaneity, and need were all bundled into one large cable connected straight to his heart and groin. Seeing Julia would be his consolation for getting screwed over at work, he rationalized. This was what all hardworking executives deserved after a lifetime of servitude. A little pleasure. And no one got hurt. He could so easily book a trip to Tampa, drum up a reason to drop in on the Santy/Gruber folks and solidify a few relationships.

“I can’t come down to see you right now, Julia. I can’t. But I’ve just gotten out of a meeting, and it looks like I’ll be down in the next two weeks.”

“You can’t come or won’t come?” The pouty childish petulance had crept back into her tone. “You were always able to find some excuse to run down here in the past.”

“There’s a deal here in Chicago that needs me. A big deal,” he lied. “And then the girls, Maura the most. And of course, Margaret.” There. He’d said it; he’d uttered her name. “She needs my presence in a way that she didn’t before the accident. She’s more … fragile.” He had searched for a word and found one that didn’t fit Margaret precisely. But it sounded convincing to him. He hoped it would sound right to her too.

Julia sighed. “I understand. I really do.”

“I hope you do,” said Roger. “Because I love you.” And he meant it.

“I love you too. I’m going to call you soon. Or maybe you call me. That would be nice. Can you call me?”

“I will,” Roger promised. “I will.”

“I love you,” she said again with a tinge of pleading.

This sidewinder conversation made him feel just the tiniest bit conniving and dirty. Hanging up with Julia he felt a new sensation, as if he had done something in a subtle shade of wrong, like he’d walked out of a convenience store inadvertently clutching the newspaper after only paying for the soda.

He couldn’t fight the feeling of overall damage and impotence, coming at him now on the heels of the meeting with Kindler. Did he even have the desire to keep all of those balls in the air? Roger had always been an expert at maintaining separate chambers in his heart. But Julia, her unabashed expectations and all that she offered, were suddenly, inexplicably overwhelming to him. It was as if at any moment, walking this tightrope wire of an act, he could fall to one side without knowing if either Margaret or Julia would be there to break his fall.

Hey, buddy, let’s go throw the ball while it’s still light out,” said Pete. He had unexpectedly come home in the middle of the afternoon, explaining he wanted to see the kids. “Yessss,” yelled Ryan as he leapt instantly off the couch, pumping his fist in the air, eager and buoyant. It was heart wrenching for Maura to see how desperate her son was for this attention. In the months since James had died, the kids had sometimes functioned more like sidebars to their family life, objects that had needs, rather than the centers of their universe.

Although she was not included in the invitation, Maura knew it would feel good for all of them to get outside. The sky was gunmetal gray, but that wasn’t enough to dampen her spirits. She watched through the window as one of the last stubborn leaves on the maple dislodged in the wind and gracefully spiraled to the ground. They had made it through Thanksgiving at Pete’s sister’s house, a place that held no real memories of past holidays with James. But Christmas, at her parents’ this year, would be difficult.

“We’re going to work on your arm,” said Pete.

“OK, Dad,” answered Ryan in a voice that sounded so plaintively grateful that Maura had to turn away for a second. He was already scrambling for his sneakers in the mudroom cubbies, the sounds of the Disney Channel distantly blaring from the family room. Maura noted for the fiftieth time how their former firm rules and limits about TV viewing had devolved into a kind of path of least resistance, without either she or Pete seeming to care.

“You guys had better put on coats,” Maura suggested cheerfully.

“Nah, we’re tough guys, eh, bud?” Pete said with a conspiratorial shrug to Ryan. “A fleece is fine, go grab your mitt.”

Maura stepped back to let them pass.

“We won’t be out long,” Pete said, and he brushed by her, squeezing her arm, and she felt warm gratitude for his spontaneity. Through the kitchen window she observed them both, Ryan running back and forth the length of the yard and Pete’s long, lazy underhand throws. She heard the ball hitting the conditioned leather of the mitt interspersed with snippets of conversation about Ryan’s “throwing arm” and the Sox. She warmed to the normalcy of the scene before her, something so lacking in their lives over the past few months.

A few nights earlier Maura had woken up next to Pete only to find that he was spooning her in a way that they hadn’t in months, certainly since before James’s death. Unable to fall back asleep, she had stayed that way for a while, absorbing the simple pleasure of the heat coming off his body. His breathing and the pores of his skin exuded the boozy fragrance she associated with holiday rum cakes, and yet she found that oddly comforting. And then Pete had stirred, half-woken, and moved away groggily.

At the window, Maura watched Pete tossing the ball to Ryan in a wide arc. Ryan missed the catch and ran with his glove held high across the almost frozen grass. She studied her husband objectively. Pete’s frame was still the inverted pyramid outline of his football days. He was chubbier around the gut, like so many husbands their age now, thicker, paunchier, but not seriously overweight. His shoulders were broad, his hair mostly all there, not completely gray or thinning, the balding camouflaged by a close buzz cut like some of her friends’ husbands had begun to do.

Observing Pete she felt a thawing of some of the harsher judgments that had congealed in the past few months in particular. There was a chance for them, thought Maura, a decent chance if they could tap into their shared history and trove of feelings. Perhaps they could each just keep moving slowly forward. Maybe that was a form of progress.