Dead Time Page 7

  My eye found lovers. Couples holding hands. People stealing kisses. People greeting before they ducked in someplace for a drink. Looks of love.

  Were a patient describing the afternoon to me, I would tell him, “You see what you’re prepared to see.”

  When I got back to my hotel room—I was staying at the Pod Hotel a dozen blocks away—I sat on the edge of the bed below the airconditioning vent until my copious sweat dried. It took a while. I paced. Although I had splurged for a double, square footage was at a premium. I busted my shins into the desk chair before I gave up pacing and flopped on my back on the bed.

  I called Ottavia to cancel our dinner plans. I told her that I had sudden family business; I had to go to White Plains to see my son.

  Her voice told me that she didn’t believe me, and that she was disappointed.

  “I was looking forward to starting my holiday early,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  I expected she would say good-bye and hang up. She didn’t. “Alan,” she started. She held the silence for an interlude before she said, “I have a man I love in Taor-mina.”

  She allowed that truth to expand and fill the air before she hung up.

  I couldn’t decide why I had canceled. Or why I had lied. The only thing I knew for certain was why I had made the date in the first place. As darkness continued to fall, I knew that a night in the city with a lovely woman was just what I needed.

  I also knew the woman should have been my wife.

  I vowed to stay home, within the confines of my pod. I called Lauren.

  In psychology, my reflex to reach out to Lauren is called “undoing.” It’s the trailing half of an ego defense that shrinks refer to as “doing/undoing.” Undoing is the attempted psychological bleaching that we do to cleanse away the residue of some just-committed psychological sullying.

  Planning to go out with Ottavia—and whatever might have come next—had been the “doing.”

  TWELVE

  By the time I had been in New York for nine days Jonas had joined me in the city twice. His visits gave me a chance to eyeball his coping, the license to play tourist—we’d actually made two separate visits to the Empire State Building, one daytime, one nighttime—and his companionship gave me a chance to learn with some relief that I enjoyed my new son’s company when he and I were alone.

  On the first day that Jonas was with me, I dropped my cell phone onto a sidewalk near the Museum of Natural History. My ancient clamshell bounced off the concrete and ricocheted off the rounded base of a newspaper stand before it skittered from the curb into the street. Within two seconds the front tire of a New York taxicab obliterated one of the world’s oldest operating mobile devices.

  Jonas was both horrified and amused. He insisted on rescuing the carcass from the street as though it were the remains of an injured pet. After performing a quick autopsy on the corpse, he held up a thumbnail-size piece of plastic. “Your SIM looks okay,” he said.

  I shrugged. I didn’t know what that meant.

  “That’s good,” he explained, recognizing my ignorance for what it was.

  Our next stop was Times Square. I took him shopping for baseball jerseys for him and for his cousins. He took me shopping for a new phone. The kid’s knowledge about mobile phones made my jaw drop. My old phone had been a technological antique, but it met my needs. Its primary virtue was its simplicity. It could do nothing more—or I’d never learned to coax it to do anything more—than make and receive phone calls. The new phone Jonas selected for me could probably cook a brisket if I would buy the groceries and hit the right buttons. He promised to teach me all of my new phone’s features the next time we were together.

  To cover myself in the interim I begged him to teach me how to make calls on the device, and maybe even answer them. We sat on a bench on the narrow island in the center of Times Square while he gave me my first lessons. The kid had the patience of a born teacher. It was a trait he had not inherited from his mother.

  The lesson was one of those precious moments with kids that parents don’t see coming. I didn’t want it to end.

  Although I was lonesome during the extended periods that Jonas was in White Plains, I recognized from my close call with Ottavia that I had demons to fight. Any shrink will tell you that the greatest time of danger for a suicidal patient is not during the depths of despair. Risk is at its peak during the brief window when the patient first begins to look a little brighter. I recognized the signs. I was beginning to feel brighter.

  My personal danger had nothing to do with suicide. A different kind of self-destruction was on my mind. I recognized that Ottavia represented danger, but convinced myself I could dance around it. Companionship, at least not the kind I had fantasized about with my Manhattan landlady, was not a solution to what was ailing Lauren and me.

  As an antidote I discovered to my relief that I was able to suck excess energy from the city like a parasite. In the short term at least, the incessant verve of Manhattan provided a contact high. I could see a time in the not-too-distant future that I might have to insulate myself from the peripheral mayhem and filter out the background noise of the city. But I wasn’t there, yet. New York was what I needed.

  Summer in the city? Part of the package. I coped by breathing through my mouth and learning to sweat.

  If I’d been walking hungry and empty-handed into the empanadas place on Thirty-ninth when the new phone in my pocket chimed—Jonas’s first task the next time I saw him was going to be to download me a less embarrassing ringtone—I probably would have let the call roll over to voice mail. But I was walking out of the restaurant, still hungry, with my take-out lunch already in hand. My plan was to eat my lunch in close proximity to the air conditioner in Ottavia’s living room. I figured I could take care of the call on the walk back to my flat without postponing my meal.

  Caller ID on my mobile read E LEFFLER. The name rang no bells. I flipped open the phone partly because I was curious to know who E Leffler was.

  “Hello,” I said, joining a dozen pedestrians on that block of Midtown with a mobile phone stuck to an ear. I had intentionally tried to sound neutral in my greeting, but I could tell that I’d tinged the “hello” with suspicion that the caller had reached me in error.

  “Alan? It’s Me,” she said.

  Me. Merideth.

  “Merideth? Hi.” Leffler. Eric Leffler. Ah, yes. Her fiancé, or by now, perhaps husband. The big-time consulting genius. Some hale fellow at the something foundation. A talking head for the network that wrote Merideth’s paychecks.

  I said, “How are you? How’s that baby of yours doing?”

  I did the gestational equation. Merideth had announced that she had been ten weeks pregnant when I saw her after Adrienne’s funeral. She should have been twenty-two, twenty-three weeks along. I imagined her belly. Cantaloupe-to-volleyball round.

  “Not so good,” she said in reply to my question. Her voice was tentative. My marital history with her helped me recognize the sticky cadence—she was inserting staccato pauses during quick inhales while trying not to descend into whimpers.

  “What are—”

  “Listen,” she said. “Okay? Just listen.” She completed an audible cycle of inhale and exhale. “I’m calling because I need you to get in touch with somebody for me…somebody we knew back when…we were together. An old friend of ours, or yours.”

  “Merideth, I’m—”

  “I’m not done,” she said. “Please listen. I also need to know if Sam Purdy is still on suspension. For that thing…he did? Diane told me about it at Adrienne’s funeral. I need to talk with him—or maybe you can talk to him for me—to see if he would be interested in doing a job for me. For us?”

  Us? Me and Merideth? My pulse skipped at the idea that she and I had a job that needed doing.

  Sam Purdy was a Boulder police detective, and a good friend. He was in the midst of a six-month suspension without pay from the department for misleading his superi
ors about a personal conflict he had on a case he had been investigating. The conflict? He’d been sleeping with the victim, who happened to be another cop.

  Merideth grew tired of waiting for me to respond to her entreaty. She said, “It’s something…private, or we’d hire someone here. Very…private. For me, and for Eric. Do you think Sam would…Could you talk to him maybe…? As a favor for me…Please? I know you guys are…”

  The part about calling Sam didn’t trouble me—Sam may have been eager for some work—but my role in the equation that Merideth was scrawling on the board remained indecipherable, and my discomfort at getting a call from her hadn’t abated. Whom did she want me to contact? I reviewed the roster of people in Boulder who had been our friends during our marriage.

  Too long a list. I got nowhere.

  I said, “Sam’s still on leave. For another few months, I think. Merideth, what’s wrong? What’s going on? You’re crying, or at least trying very hard not to.”

  With that, the effort to stem the tears ended. She sniffled for a few seconds before she blurted, “I lost the baby, Alan. Right after I was in Boulder. I can’t lose another one. I just can’t.”

  The lost baby? I made a guess. I said, “You had another miscarriage?”

  I was baffled as to why she would need Sam Purdy’s help if my conjecture were true. The I-can’t-lose-another-one part? I had no idea.

  “It was awful. The worst. They were all bad, but this one was…the worst. Only a few days after Adrienne’s funeral. I’d almost completed a full trimester. I thought I was safe, you know. Home free? No warning. I had some funny pains that didn’t seem serious, and then some cramps. Then”—she swallowed—“some spotting.” The sticky cadence became more pronounced as she continued. “And then…one more goddamn D and C and…I swear I can’t let it…Not now…Not again, no…No.”

  I felt sad for her. “I’m so sorry,” I said. I remained perplexed. What did she mean by “another one”? And how could Sam be of any help with Merideth’s reproductive problems? “Where does Sam fit in, Merideth? I don’t understand.”

  “Okay…I didn’t think you’d answer the phone. I thought you’d be with a patient and I’d just leave you a message.” She blew her nose. “The surrogate has gone missing. Or we think she has. At least I do. She’s hasn’t been at her place here in, like, three days. She’s not at…her apartment in L.A., where she lives, either. She’s not answering her cell. It’s not like her, not at all. She’s a friendly person, outgoing, she’s chatty, and she always returns my calls. Eric doesn’t want to use anyone local to find her because…well, that’s too long a story…I was hoping that maybe Sam, you know, could do something discreetly…Look around, maybe. Contact people who know her. Unofficially, I mean. We have some ideas, and we can pay him, Alan. That’s not a problem. He just needs to talk with some people for us.”

  The surrogate? “The surrogate? You have a surrogate? For your baby? I don’t get it. She’s carrying…?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she’s…missing, and you want Sam to find her?”

  I was hoping for some elucidation, but she didn’t offer any. “Have you called the police, Merideth?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  I could have asked her why not. It didn’t feel like the time. “Are you at work?” I asked.

  She made a nasal sound that might have been another quick blow into a tissue. I interpreted it as assent. “L.A. or New York?” I said.

  Merideth had worked in California for a long time before taking her current network weekly newsmagazine gig. Adrienne had told me that Merideth still spent a week or so every couple of months in L.A. She’d held on to her L.A. condo.

  “New York.”

  “Can you take a short break?” I said.

  After another moment spent trying to recompose herself, she managed to say, “I probably should, shouldn’t I? That’s a good idea, Alan. I’ll go get some iced coffee or something. Thank you. Thanks.”

  “I mean right now, Merideth—can you take a break and meet me? I’m in the city. In New York. Not too far from you.”

  “What?”

  The solitary word did dual duty—part wonder, part accusation.

  “I’m offering to meet you. Pick a place close to your office. Give me twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. I’m down near Grand Central.” I looked around for a street sign at the nearest intersection. “Madison, near Thirty-ninth.”

  “You’re in the city?”

  “Jonas. Adrienne’s son. My—Our son. I’ll explain when I see you.”

  She was silent. I began to steel myself for some repeat of the caution she’d offered when she was in Boulder about our “generosity” in agreeing to become Jonas’s new parents. What I should have been steeling myself for was my ex-wife’s susceptibility to narcissistic bruising.

  Where Merideth was concerned, I was blessedly out of practice.

  Her silence extended. I said, “He’s spending a few weeks with his uncle—Adrienne’s brother—in White Plains. I need to be close by. He’s…vulnerable. It’s been a tough stretch for him.”

  She moved her cell too close to her lips. The sound of her breathing hit my ear like a strong wind. “You’re in town. And you didn’t call?”

  Here it comes. I could have said, “No, Merideth, I didn’t call you.” But it seemed superfluous and unkind. I took my own temperature—I felt no animosity toward her. Just compassion. I stayed silent.

  “How long have you been in the city?” she asked.

  She was handing me a saltbox while she exposed a fresh wound on her flesh. The familiar choreography between us, simple steps executed with perfection, brought back memories. Not good ones.

  “Only a few days,” I said, reducing my stay by a factor of three, reflexively buying into whatever guilt promotion she was shoving my way.

  “Is he with you now? Jonas?”

  “No. He’s with his aunt and uncle today. Hey, I’m here, and I’m offering to meet you. Right now. You want to come down here? Would you like me to come there? We can talk. Would you like that?”

  THIRTEEN

  I should not have let her pick the spot.

  I should have said, “I’ll be at the Whole Foods in Columbus Circle in half an hour. We’ll get a smoothie.” Or, “How about Bryant Park? Why don’t you come down here?” Merideth wouldn’t need any help from me in finding Bryant Park—I was certain she finagled seats in the tents for a few of the runway shows during Fashion Week.

  Hell, even a deli, or a coffee shop, or a bar at some Midtown hotel near her network studios would have made a fine spot to meet. But, no, I let her pick the spot.

  The story of our marriage.

  She chose Strawberry Fields.

  By the time the cab turned into the southern end of Central Park I’d refocused on the fact that Merideth felt she had a real crisis on her hands.

  The surrogate? Is missing? That was what she had said.

  During our marriage we’d had a few tunes that we considered our songs. “Strawberry Fields Forever” was one. Merideth had arrived in our relationship with a pristine copy of the original 45 but lacked a turntable that would play it. It turned out that I possessed a turntable. At the time we thought the serendipity was evidence of how naturally we completed each other.

  I considered the possibility that she had grown fond of the Lennon garden since she’d moved to New York City. Maybe it was a place that would provide solace to her at a moment of emotional upheaval. Perhaps she’d pulled me uptown thirtysomething blocks instead of meeting me halfway for a damn good reason. Perhaps her choice wasn’t about sending me a message.

  And perhaps my next New York cabbie would have a name I could pronounce.

  I knew that no matter how late I arrived I would get to Central Park before she did. It was a given. Merideth didn’t wait, at least not for me, or for our friends.

  I didn’t bother to scan the paths or the benches for her when I arrived. She wouldn’t be ther
e. Merideth didn’t show up like the rest of us. She made entrances. An entrance requires an audience. Protocol required that I had to take my seat, flip through Playbill a couple of times, roll it into a tube, and wait for the house lights to dim.

  Central Park wasn’t crowded. The day was too muggy and too hot for all but the most die-hard strollers and tourists. I sat on a bench below a tree and tried to think cool thoughts. Almost fifteen minutes after our appointed rendezvous time I watched a black Town Car roll to a curb on the west side.

  The orchestra in the pit in my head started playing “Penny Lane.” The rear door of the Lincoln sufficed as the curtain. Merideth stepped from the backseat as though she’d practiced the choreography. There was not a single clumsy moment as she unfurled herself from the car. She paused two steps from the curb, unconsciously holding a pose as though she’d hit her mark.

  She was wearing bronze metallic shades, an eggplant shirtdress that hung on her like jersey but shimmered in the summer light as though every tenth thread had been spun from gold, and heels that seemed impractical for a workday in the city. Her hair was pulled back into a taut ponytail. She carried a long, thin purse in her right hand that looked like it might have been designed to transport a demi-baguette or a large salami.

  Merideth appeared confident and benevolent as she began striding into the garden. It was as though Central Park, or at least this section of it, were hers alone and that she felt a profound sense of civic pride for sharing it.

  She also looked gorgeous, though her beauty didn’t stir me as it once had. Neither my brain nor my groin registered any attraction to her. I felt only the twice-removed presence of watching a familiar actress stepping onstage.

  I’d already attended too many of Merideth’s performances to fail to predict what would be coming next. My ex-wife was a thespian who, regardless of role, always ended up playing some version of herself.