Ark (19 page)

“So you slept with that Mandy.”

“Things were already over between us by that time. You suffocated the air out of the relationship. You were on top of me at every second. Now, look at my marriage to Sheila.”

“What about it?”

“We live three thousand miles apart. That works out very well for us.”

“But you don't like to be around her.”

“Not true. I love her from a distance.”

Snorting, Laura rose in her white robe and went to retrieve a second bottle of wine from the kitchen. She talked from the other room. Why, if Oliver had shown more confidence in her, she would have made him happy. He destroyed her self-esteem. It was his fault that she couldn't give him the space he needed.

“I take some responsibility.”

“And I felt used. I was supporting you all those years.”

“How much do I owe you? I think I brought my checkbook.” Oliver was wearing black, pocketless running shorts and a torn red T-shirt. There was a ten-dollar bill stuck behind his headband.

“Oh, I don't know, a few hundred thousand.”

“That much? God, that is a lot.”

“Well, how much do you have?”

“Maybe two thousand.”

“No, that's not going to cut it.”

Afterward, Oliver would return home and be given tasks straightaway. These pages had to be photocopied, there was a shop up the street that charged only five cents a copy, he should make sure to paperclip each set of pages. He should pick up a three-ringed hole puncher, too. And some more pens. She didn't mind it if he spent a little extra on a pen that actually worked. She demonstrated for him. Did he see, these pens were crap. It looked like they had ink, but they didn't. She could also use a stronger coffee bean. The supermarket brands might have been all right for his father, but times had changed. After a single cup her hands should be shaking. And could he buy fruit that wasn't so ripe?

“Thanks.”

On occasion, Laura would come down to Oliver's neighborhood and accompany him on his errands. They would end up in a restaurant.

“I've been telling my wife that I've been exercising over these last weeks, but I think I've put on ten pounds.”

“Good. You're too skinny.”

“It's Sheila. Being around her takes weight off a person.”

“What is the latest news?”

“About the case?”

“Yes, the case.”

“I don't know. But I should ask my wife, shouldn't I?”

Back home and inquiring about the lawsuit, Sheila had very little information. “It's moving along,” she told him. “It's such a slow process.”

Yes, he told her. That's what he thought she'd say. But was there anything more she wanted him to do? Nothing? Okay, then he was going for a run in Central Park.

A half-hour later, uptown on Columbus, his ex-fiancée was suggesting that they not drink white wine this afternoon. She was sick of the stuff. How about a gimlet? The roof of the building was outfitted with a patio. They brought their cocktails upstairs and reclined on chaises. Oliver said he would feel guilty for shirking his work, but Sheila had made it clear to him that he wasn't needed.

“She treats you like you're an idiot. It isn't right.”

“I appreciate that, honey.”

“You're not there just to make photocopies and do the shopping. She should make real use of you.”

“It's nice to hear you say it, Laura.”

The next day, Sheila sent Oliver to the New York Public Library. She wanted him to find press pieces on
Shout!
Oliver had always said that Doris had put herself at the center of their media coverage, and Sheila would like to paint the picture of a woman desperate for credit and attention. Oliver thought it was a good idea, too. But the library was a mystery to him. The archives had been digitized. And yet how did the new system work? And was there anyone in the library who could help him? He was gone from the apartment eight hours, and four were spent at the library in utter confusion. The rest of the time he was at Laura's, bemoaning his trials.

“What do I look like, a research assistant? I spent my youth in nightclubs, listening to music.”

“So what did you find?”

“A couple of articles. Sheila won't be satisfied, I can tell you that much.”

And she wasn't. Four pieces? That was all he'd come up with? How was it possible? There must be hundreds of articles out there. He had to try again, and do better. Oliver apologized. He said he didn't feel comfortable in a library. Maybe Sheila should do that work herself. He would be happy to read through anything she found and underline the relevant passages.

But then Sheila kicked him off the job. Told him to go out and get her a tuna wrap with a sour pickle.

“She doesn't have any patience with me. It's insulting.”

“Don't take it so hard,” Laura told him. “She's under a lot of pressure.”

“So am I.”

“Of course you are. But you deal better with stress.”

Oliver accepted that. Then he clapped his hands, applauding Laura's lasagna. It was delicious. And the garlic bread was out of this world. She had never cooked for him this way when they'd been together.

“I went to culinary school after we broke up. I had to do something to get out of my head. You remember how bad things were for me.”

“Well, they taught you well.”

Oliver went home with a full stomach. Sheila was on the floor in the living room, doing pushups. She told him to drop down beside her and do fifty of his own.

“That's not possible. I'm stuffed.”

“You already ate?”

“After my run in the park, I was famished. I had a cheeseburger.”

Sheila didn't ask for more details. She put a laundry bag in Oliver's arms. He should take it down to the basement and run a cycle of clothes.

“Can I sit first?”

“Okay. But if you're going to get everything cleaned and folded and put away in the drawers before bedtime, I suggest you do it now.”

So, a moment later, Oliver went down to the laundry room. He had to get his wife out of New York. No, she couldn't stay. Not if he was to live. When was the last time he'd slept past 8 a.m.? Sheila wouldn't let him. Every morning it was, “Up, up, up. Come on. We've got work to do.” And then, thirty minutes later, she'd have him out on the sidewalk with a to-do list. He'd had enough. He would bring it up with her tomorrow. He would tell her that he needed a break, and that she should go home to L.A.

And yet the next morning, when Oliver woke, Sheila was gone. There was no note. She wasn't answering her phone. What time was it, anyway? 10 a.m.? Oh, joy. He opened the shades and brewed a pot of coffee and scrambled eggs. This was the way it was meant to be. He took a long shower. He dried off in the bed beside an open window, gazing down at the McKim Building. Maybe he'd read a book. Or a magazine. Or how about a little television? But a moment later, Oliver got to his feet. He wanted to be out in the world.

He called Laura and asked her to meet him in an hour at Penn Station. Where were they going? That was a surprise, he said. They got on a Long Island Railroad. The train car was empty on a Thursday morning in September. They drank coffee out of paper cups, split a bagel, read the
New York Post
, played gin rummy. The train pulled into Southampton at twenty after one. They got into a taxi parked outside the station. The driver complimented them on picking such a gorgeous day to come out to the beach. Minutes later, the car pulled up in front of the Arkin house. Oliver paid with a twenty, and the car skidded away. The front door of the house was locked, but Oliver found the extra set of keys under the rock near the juniper tree at the foot of the steps. The alarm sounded when the door opened. Oliver knew the code: 0913. His father's birthday. It surprised him that the lights went on when he hit the switch. He'd figured the bills had been going unpaid and that the power would have been cut. Everything was very clean. It smelled like Pine-sol. The domed skylight above the living room, cracked for years, had been replaced. The glass dining table where his father had sat reading and taking notes was now a wooden farm table with benches for seats. There was the swimming pool, visible through two large sliding doors. It had been covered with a green tarp for the last five years of his parents' lives. His parents had had no interest in swimming, and with the grandchildren grown, they'd seen no reason to pay for the upkeep. So why was the cover off, the water treated and clean of leaves and debris? They decided Doris was renting out the house and taking cash on the side, and that Oliver would have to nail her for this.

Next, they found old swimsuits in a dresser. The water in the pool was cold but revivifying. Laura said Oliver's hair was too long and she would give him a trim. Offered to get rid of the beard, too. She preferred his face shaven. He looked old. Oliver kicked hard at the water. Rotating like a seal, he gazed at her with a half-serious, half-mocking expression, told her he liked his hair and beard as they were and, in time, she would learn to do the same. More importantly, what were they going to do about food? They should have a long lunch.

They toweled off on the deck, got back in their clothes, and walked into town. Laura wanted lobsters and caviar and champagne. Oliver knew just the place. Their table was outdoors on a red brick patio enclosed by cypresses. The waiter over-poured Laura's glass, spilling champagne. She said it was okay. However, the sun was shining so strongly here, and did he mind putting up an umbrella? Now shaded, they were comfortable. So how many pounds should their lobsters weigh? Two and a half? Three? The food took a long time to come out. But that, too, was okay. They were in no rush. Oliver cracked Laura's shells, poked his forefinger through the leg joints and pushed out the meat. The butter ran down their arms. Greasy fingerprints marked their champagne flutes. Oliver thought the second bottle of champagne was probably a mistake, but Laura wasn't of the same opinion. They would sober up in the ocean afterward. And what did it matter if they didn't? A day trip like this deserved a lot of drink.

An hour later, Laura paid the tab with four one-hundred-dollar bills. At the beach, the sand burned their feet. Their bathing suits were back at the house, but they stood in ankle-deep water with their arms around each other's waists and their eyes set on a large vessel moving across the horizon. They expressed their wish for night. In the dark, they could take off their clothes and get in the water. That wasn't possible just now. There were people everywhere.

When they got back to the house, it was 5:30 p.m. They spent time in the basement looking through old things. Eliza's clothes were zipped up in plastic garment bags and hanging on racks. There were vases and lamps, lucite folding chairs, chandeliers, Art Nouveau screens, photo albums, doors, books, and boxes full of door knobs. Laura was holding a framed photograph of Oliver's parents from the winter of 1960. Eliza wore a black mink coat. Ben was in a black pinstriped suit, smoking a cigar.

“The power couple.”

Oliver took the frame from Laura's hands, staring. “This man.”

“I was so afraid of him,” Laura said, releasing a short, high-pitched laugh.

“Who wasn't?”

“What about Rebecca? Ben loved her. She had nothing to fear.”

“I'm not sure she sees it that way.”

“How does she see it, Oliver?” But before he could answer, Laura said, “I would ask her myself, but she doesn't return any of my calls.”

A light chain hung between them. Oliver could feel the heat coming off the uncovered bulb overhead. He positioned the photo of Eliza and Ben under his arm, looking Laura in the eyes. He said, “She's as busy as the mayor.”

“It's more than that. She's angry with me. She's cut me off. You know, you put so much time in with a person—and for what? They don't care. They'll just use you and throw you out.”

“Rebecca was a child when you knew her.”

“Fourteen by the end. For a girl, that's old enough to know everything.”

Oliver shook his head. “Give her a break.”

“All right. I'm just telling you how it is.”

Now Oliver was saying that they should get going. Their train back to New York was in forty minutes. It would be trouble if they missed it. The next train wouldn't get them back to the city until after 10 p.m., and Sheila would want to know where he had been.

“I thought we were going to put our suits on and go for a swim in the ocean.”

“Sorry, Laura. We're out of time.”

“You don't want to try and do it quickly?”

“No. I'm all clean and dressed. We'll do it another day.”

A half hour later, their taxi was pulling up in front of the train station. Only four people were waiting on the platform. Oliver bought tickets at the kiosk. Suddenly Laura was apologizing. She hadn't meant to blame Rebecca for what had happened between them. Could he just forget about it so that they could enjoy the rest of their time together?

The train was coming now. Oliver took Laura's hand. “Of course,” he said.

Laura kissed a spot on his face just to the left of his nose. At one time in their lives she had made a point of kissing him there often. She pushed her head against his shoulder, and said, “Thank you, Oliver.”

X. TRUST

 

That same Thursday morning in September, Rebecca woke at 5 a.m. She had taken her old red ten-speed Peugeot out of storage the week before and had been biking early in the day or late at night, when there were fewer cars on the road. Riding now on the gold coast of Fifth Avenue, where the Plaza and Tiffany's and Trump Towers came and went from view, she could feel the unevenness of the pavement through the handlebars. The sky was gray. Mornings like these reminded Rebecca that New York was a city on the water. Damp and cool, with seagulls circling above and the light fog hovering over black streets—she changed gears, looking for more resistance, the bike chain making the sound of a funicular going up rails. She was panting hard, digging past St. Patrick's. Her vision seemed exceptionally sharp, her arms full of strength. On Forty-Ninth, she made a right turn, heading through Rockefeller Center, her legs pumping quickly. Then she pulled over in front of Radio City. Her phone was ringing. It was Sheila. She didn't answer, but went into the park at Central Park South, took the loop all the way past Lasker Rink, where the road inclined sharply, and back down the West Side, exiting onto Seventy-Seventh Street at the Natural History Museum. She walked her bike the last last two blocks home. Stepping off the elevator onto the sixth floor, she saw Gertrude Fish standing in front of her door in a black bathrobe, smoking a cigarette, her hand pressed to her head. She was reading a notice from the building. There was one on every doormat. Rebecca had never seen Gertrude at this hour. Her dark eyes wanted no part of the light. Her back was hunched over dramatically. But now she looked up at Rebecca and pointed. “You've got a post-coital glow.”