With Friends Like These: A Novel (43 page)

“You’re wrong. Sam negotiated a rider so that the details of what I did—”

“Your crime?”

“My
behavior
would stay confidential.”

“Everyone at Denton and all their friends must know about this. And it doesn’t mean you aren’t guilty. It doesn’t mean you weren’t …” What word to choose? “Sleazy. And let’s say no one’s aware of this but us and a bunch of lawyers and Edgar and Charlene.” I pictured her face, smug, and wondered what she had known when we were together in Beverly Hills. “I still have to know why you took such a risk.”

I heard a laugh crossed with a grunt. “
Why?
You are such a child. Do you have any idea what our monthly nut is?”

We both understood that the question was rhetorical. “You’re telling me this went on for years,” I said. “It must have started around the time Dash was born, when we bought the brownstone.” Xander nodded in agreement. “But we never had to buy that house, the antiques, all those rare books, the cars—we never needed any of it. When I think of what you spent on cigars alone …” I wagged my finger near Xander’s nose. “It was you who wanted it all, more than I did.”

I didn’t expect him to say, “That’s BS—you wanted everything as much as I did. Maybe more. Cut the crap and stop being so dammed sanctimonious. I did it all for you.”

I wasn’t going to ratify this comment. I felt ancient, haggard, ill, and—to be honest—guilty myself, of gullibility, of empty-headedness, of my own greed. I pictured Xander’s integrity whooshing down a toilet, along with my innocence, as I considered the questions I should have been asking every day for years. After close to five minutes I wiped away the snot that had dripped on my chin and took my husband’s hand.

“Okay,” I said. “What now?” Xander, the captain of the good ship
Keaton
, failed to respond. I knew the plan would be up to me.

  
Talia

I have always loved the first day of school, the electricity of expectation crackling even when the weather is soupy hot. Today the calendar announced September, but the temperature was stuck at ninety, as it had been for five soggy days. The classroom was clean and orderly, so colorful it looked animated. It had, however, no air-conditioning. The head teacher was a large young woman with arms that looked as comforting as pillows. Her sleeveless dress, too neon green for her floury complexion, revealed darkening stains. She was deep in conversation, trying to make herself understood by a mother who apparently spoke no English.

Henry had been magnetized by a tall, leggy girl, the bossy type who at four possessed the authority that frequently accompanies silky hair and impossibly long eyelashes. Behind her, my son was a wagging tail. The girl’s name tag said Ella. By the time Ella turned ten, she’d probably have more finely honed instincts about handling men than I ever would.

I let my eyes survey the room and was drawn to a circle of mothers, strangers to me, jabbering. “Don’t look now, but that’s her,” one whispered, loud enough for me to overhear.

“Who?” another mother asked, raising an eyebrow toward the doorway.

“You know, that blonde whose husband swindled his clients? It was all over the
Post
for weeks.”

“Mrs. Kickback Keaton? I think you’re right. Look who’s slumming.”

That’s when I saw Chloe, here, after all those months. She was trying to detach herself from Dash, whose eyes were narrow with suspicion, his pinchworthy cheeks angled into planes and valleys that resembled his father’s. Dash had shot up over the summer and was no longer a full head shorter than Henry, nor was he dressed in anything remotely adorable. No suspenders, bow tie, or sweater featuring an animal. I could fast-forward and imagine that, year by year, Dashiel Keaton would become increasingly handsome. I missed that bashful boy.

When the “Greed, Graft, and Glory” profile of Xander had appeared in
New York
, I’d called Chloe. My message went unanswered. The following week, after the bloggers latched on to Xander’s story, wearing it out with their self-satisfied puns and strained analogies, I’d sent her a string of e-mails. Each bounced back, undeliverable. Finally I snail-mailed a note I’d rewritten several times.
This must be rough. Thinking of you. I’m here. Call me if you feel like it
. I’d hoped for a response. Nothing.

Seeing Chloe, Mean Maxine was urging me to avoid eye contact, to hide my face in my newspaper.
You’re the last person she wants to talk to
crawled along the bottom of my consciousness like a warning for a tropical storm. But there are times I need to tell Mean Maxine to take a hike. My heart was ready for a risk, no matter how bumbling.

I gathered my tote and Henry’s brand-new backpack and sidestepped through the parents, students, and school supplies—you’d think these kids were off to war, not pre-K—and got within a foot of Chloe, facing her back. I willed her to turn, but my telepathic entreaty was no more effective than my earlier communication. I lost my nerve and turned to slink back to the other side of the room. That was when she swiveled.

We’d last seen each other nine months ago, for her office going-away
party. I’d wished her well and got no warmer a response than did the receptionist and the IT guys. Chloe’s face looked thinner now, and where there’d been fullness, newly revealed cheekbones created a sharper architecture. As if she were trying to recognize me, she squinted, and faint crow’s feet fanned her eyes. These signs of life took pretty to something more.

“Hello,” I said, louder than necessary. “Isn’t it great that the boys will be together?” After smiling, barely, Chloe paused long enough for me to be certain she’d hoped Henry would have ended up anywhere but this school, this class. “Hello, Talia,” she answered, all business, and then she turned her attention to Dash. “What do we say when we meet someone?”

He extended a small hand with newly clipped fingernails. “Good morning.” His face was stern.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fisher-Wells,” she corrected him. He repeated her words.

“Good morning, Dash.” I shook his hand. “Are you excited about starting school?” He burrowed into Chloe’s thigh. “You remember Henry, don’t you?” I wondered if he did. “Do you see him over there?” I pointed to the playhouse. Henry appeared to be serving Ella tea. “I bet he’d love to see you.”

“Go over and say hello,” Chloe said. When Chloe put a hand on his back, he walked toward the children.

I’d gotten as far as putting myself near Chloe—what came next I hadn’t worked out. There was everything to say, but all I could grunt was, “How’s it going at Bespoke?”

“Well enough,” she answered, composed, her gaze neither friendly nor unfriendly. “The hours are long. I’m fairly exhausted. There’s a lot of travel. You? How’s the full-time schedule?”

When Chloe left, I’d taken over her half of our shared job. My salary had doubled, but so had my frustration; I felt bored and underpaid. Tom and I figured it would take until we were fifty to accumulate a down payment for an apartment. “The hours are long,” I said.
And dull
. “I’m fairly
exhausted.” Boredom will do that to you. “But there’s no travel, unless you count New Jersey.” If I were sent to San Francisco—or Milwaukee—I wouldn’t complain.

I considered the stampede of questions I couldn’t ask.
Did you suspect Xander was up to something before it happened?
I had not.
What’s going on with him now?
A while ago Jules had implied that he’d checked into a psychiatric facility, but out of loyalty to Chloe, she revealed nothing more.
What does it feel like to have reporters on your stoop?
I’d combust, along with my marriage.
How do you like being a breadwinner?
Proud but resentful, like I do?
Are you upset that Dash didn’t wind up at Jackson Collegiate?
Betsy O’Neal had told Tom that the Keatons had turned down a spot offered to Dash.
Where are you living?
I’d done my share of online stalking and spotted a listing for their house. After a few weeks, the ad had vanished. Had they found a buyer? Rented it? Left the house unoccupied? If Dash was in this school, had they moved to our district or had they applied from a different part of Brooklyn?

What I most wanted to ask was,
Will you forgive me?
On anyone’s ethical seismograph I’d admit that what I’d done was wrong, small-minded, hurtful. How wrong could be settled by Talmudic tribunal, though I was holding fast to the notion that chasing a job earmarked for Chloe was a misdemeanor, not a felony.

Tell it to the judge
, Mean Maxine sniped.
You tried to steal a friend’s opportunity, intellectual property meant for her. You acted under false pretenses
.

No matter how I or any philosopher looked at it, my behavior diminished me, and apparently it had put a full stop to my friendship when, as it turned out, I was certain that Chloe needed me most. Whom did she have in her corner? Quincy had folded into herself, had moved on. Jules was as overwhelmed as anyone I’d ever known. That left Xander, whom Chloe most likely wanted to kill. I knew I wanted to kill him on her behalf.

“Can you go out for coffee after we leave?” Eliot was expecting me, but what the fuck.

This time Chloe responded quickly. “Sorry—can’t.”

Not
Let’s do it another time
. Not
I wish I could; let me look at my calendar
. Not
I’ll call you
.

I wondered what I could say next that wouldn’t send me shooting through a trapdoor to Chloe’s hell, bad friend division. I wanted to tell her that with me, she didn’t need to pretend to be brave, and that if she wanted to play a game of darts aimed at my head, we’d give it a go, as long as afterward there was the promise of laughter. I wanted to give her a hug, to say I was sorry. But I simply stood with my arms hugging my body to steady myself, certainly looking as foolish as I felt.

“Mommy, Mommy.” Every mother turned toward the voice, but the call was for me. “Can Dash and I have a play date?” Henry had abandoned the lovely Ella, perhaps for the next decade, and he and Dash were perched atop a tower of large blocks, king-of-the-world style.

“Children,” the teacher called out before I could answer. “It’s time for you to each find a place at the table. Our school day is going to begin. Moms and dads,” she added, doing a 180 across the room, “remember, today pickup is at noon.”

“Tom’s coming later,” I said to Chloe, not that she’d asked.

“He’ll see Xander then.” Her most revealing comment of the day.

We gave our sons a goodbye kiss and walked out the door. “Shall I call you, to arrange a play date for the boys?” I asked when we reached the corner.

“Let me think about that,” she said with a cryptic half smile, after a lengthy pause.

Chloe headed to one subway, I to another, walking away from each other, step by step. Halfway down the block, I stopped, turned, and shouted her name. I was ready to run after her and tell her that we couldn’t leave things this way.

She had vanished.

  
Jules