A Fatal Debt

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said, my teenage self unable to conjure up more.

From that moment on, I had an uneasy sense around my father of being trapped together in our deception, him not knowing whether I had blurted out the truth to her. It was too difficult for either of us to acknowledge, so our secret was buried with her.

Ten years later, my mother had died of cancer while I was at medical school in London. It was the catalyst for me to depart for New York, escaping my father’s guilt-ridden bonhomie and Jane’s relief that she no longer had to compete. Jane sat a couple of rows back at the service, while my father occupied a front pew with my brother and me, and edged up to stand beside him only at the gravesite. It hadn’t made her presence there any less painful.

I bumped into Jane on the way out of the hospital, in the store that sold newspapers, sweets, and shiny helium balloons bearing cheerful messages for the patients. She was squatting with her back to me to pick up a magazine, and the white strap of her bra was pressed up against her cream blouse in a way that provoked in me desire mixed with hostility. That wasn’t, I’d come to realize in adulthood, a contradiction. I kissed her airily on the cheek, barely grazing her skin, and told her that my father looked well.

“Have you got time for a cup of coffee, at least?” she said, as if it were typical of me to be rushing off.

Look, I’ve just flown across the bloody Atlantic to see him, I thought, but I kept it to myself and nodded. We found a seat in the hospital’s atrium, holding two cups of foamed milk sprinkled with brown powder. The space was lit from above by a cloudy sky.

“How are you?” she said. “We haven’t seen you for ages. I hope you told Roger he’ll have to change his diet. You know what he’s like.”

“I sure do,” I said, matching her smile despite the tug of rivalry I still felt when she talked of my father proprietarily. We remained in temporary harmony while I explained what had happened to his heart in terms she grasped, and she looked appreciative.

Our detente didn’t last. “When will we see Rebecca again?” she said, licking the foam with her tongue. “I think she’s great, Ben. Don’t you let her go.”

“I’m afraid we’re taking a break,” I said stiffly.

“Oh, Ben. Why? She’s such a lovely girl.”

That was Jane. No sensitivity, no sense that there were things she shouldn’t push. I hadn’t paid for a psych to probe into my guilty secrets-I just wanted to be left alone. I felt a prickle of sweat and longed to be out of there, no longer held to emotional account.

“Yes, she is. You’re right, Jane. It’s all my fault,” I said, standing up.

My heart was starting to race with all my long-held resentment against her. It didn’t take much to trigger it, and I knew that I had to finish our conversation before I said something I’d regret. As I did so, I looked up and saw a black Audi that I recognized halting outside the entrance. It shouldn’t have been there, but I was glad it had flouted the rules.

“I’ve got to go. I’m getting a lift,” I said to her upturned face. “I’ll call later to see how Dad is. Take care.”

I hurried across the atrium before Jane could stop me, the doors at the entrance sliding obediently open to let me escape.

5

As I reached the Audi, a slim young man in a dark blue uniform got out and opened the rear passenger door, revealing a man sitting comfortably in the back. He was in his mid-fifties, long-legged and broad-chested, with a pink face. His mottled gray hair was unkempt for a banker’s, brushing his collar at the back and flopping over his forehead so that his nose protruded like a mole’s. His dark gray suit looked expensive but slightly crumpled. He had a rich voice, the product of an English public school, and the self-assurance that went with it.

“Hello there,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m Felix.”

He’d called earlier that morning as I’d arrived at the hospital, saying that he’d be sharing my flight home if I didn’t mind. His name was Felix Lustgarten, he’d said, and he was an old colleague and friend of Harry’s. I hadn’t felt in a position to refuse, not that there was any reason to, and I was still absorbing the shock of what had happened after I’d called Nora on Tuesday morning.

I’d told her that I wouldn’t be able to see Harry on Wednesday after all, and she ought to take Harry to see another psych-Jim Whitehead, I’d suggested. Nora had been sympathetic but implacable. After asking about my father and expressing her regret, she’d promised to sort it out. After half an hour, she’d called back to say that she’d arranged for me to fly to London and be back to see Harry as we’d arranged on Wednesday. I hadn’t thought she could be serious, but she’d been as good as her word.

“Nora told me your father’s been poorly. I do hope he’s recovering,” Felix said.

“He’s doing better, thanks,” I said.

The Audi pulled away from the hospital and turned onto the A4 back toward London as Felix adjusted the rear air-conditioning. The car was as hushed as its driver; sitting in those deep leather seats was like being swaddled. I could feel myself relax as the driver accelerated silently past an obstructive truck. This was the cocoon I’d yearned for as Jane had poked tactlessly at my raw emotions. Even Felix’s presence was soothing: he had an air of amused detachment that I liked.

“We can shoot you back in comfort, anyway,” he said. “Nora insisted I take good care of you.”

“That’s thoughtful of you, Mr. Lustgarten.”

“Felix, please. No one calls me Mister, not even the doorman at my apartment. Actually, I wish he did. Perhaps I should tip him more for the holidays.” He leaned forward to address the driver. “How does the traffic look, Frank?”

“A bit nasty along the Embankment, but we’re going against it,” the man replied.

“Jolly good. You might tell George we’re on our way and we should be wheels up by eleven.” He turned back and regarded me quizzically. “Now then, I understand you’re not allowed to tell me anything, but I can talk, can’t I?”

“I can’t stop you,” I said.

“Hah! Well, nobody can, apart from my wife, bless her. Anyway, Nora told me about Harry, poor chap. He’s in a bit of a state, isn’t he?”

“That’s what Mrs. Shapiro told you?”

Like Jane, Felix was pushing me about things I didn’t want to talk about, but I didn’t find it uncomfortable because it wasn’t about me. It was a patient whose privacy I wanted to protect, not my own. I was used to that.

“Christ, you don’t give much away,” Felix muttered.

“Do you work here?” I said.

“Nope. New York, where the action is. Mind you, there’s been a bit too much of it lately. Every time I look up, another bank has disappeared. At this rate, there won’t be any money left for my bonus.”

He lapsed into silence for a few minutes, thumbing at his BlackBerry, and I looked out of the window. We reached the Embankment and passed the London Eye, heading east. The hum of the tarmac under the tires was hypnotic, and I could feel myself slipping into a doze when Felix’s BlackBerry rang shrilly, making me start.

“Oh dear,” he said, looking at the name on the screen. “Have you read Wind in the Willows? As soon as Toad goes to jail, the weasels invade Toad Hall. We’ve got company.” He held his BlackBerry to his ear. “John? … Delighted to have you on board. Lots of room. We’ll be there soon.”

He clicked off and looked balefully at me. “Hell is other people. I’m afraid a couple of investment bankers want to cadge a lift. They’ve been here holding out the begging bowl to the Arabs for capital because Harry lost it all-our new masters, I’m afraid. So much for our chat. I wouldn’t trust John with a secret, although it’s supposed to be his job to keep them. In fact, I don’t trust him, period.”

“I thought you were an investment banker,” I said, puzzled by his contempt for his colleague.

“A banker? Not me, Doctor. I’m just a humble PR man, paid to make them look good. It’s a dirty job, but