FIVE
MY HOUSE IN Stamford was in the woods not far from the northern border of town. It sat on the edge of a short cliff formed by glacial boulders. At the bottom of the cliff was a small pond that made a home for Canada geese and bullfrogs. The deck off the rear of the house was shaded by a canopy of oak and maple in the summer, and by hemlocks year round. We had a lot of freeloading birds who worked the half dozen feeders mounted off the deck and in the surrounding trees. One of the few things I enjoyed doing around the house was inventing ways to keep the squirrels out of the feeders. It was a battle of wits I never entirely won. There was one tough, mangy old squirrel who used to sit on the railing and stare at me. I thought he might be the head of engineering, sizing up the competition.
There was a wall of glass between the deck and the living room. It was so hot that afternoon I couldn’t leave the air-conditioning, so I just sat there and looked through the windows at the competing fauna. I was on my third tumbler of Absolut when Abby came home from wherever she went during the day. She didn’t expect to see me there.
“My God, you frightened me. What are you doing home?”
“Drinking.”
“Obviously.”
She dropped a handful of large plastic bags filled with merchandise on the sofa next to me and poured herself a stiff one from the wet bar in the corner of the room.
“And smoking, too, I see.”
“Yeah. You can’t quit these things for too long. It’s not good for you.”
“Yes, of course. What’s it been, twenty years?”
“About.”
Abby moved very gracefully. She flowed into a chair on the other side of the room, sat back and crossed her legs, resting her elbow on the armrest so she could hold her drink aloft, shaking it occasionally to dissolve the ice. She wore a silk blouse with large square pockets and an off-white skirt. A gold chain looped around her neck and disappeared down the open front of her blouse. Her legs were deeply tanned, nicely offset by a pair of white high heels. Her hair was still mostly natural blond, formed into elegant waves that made me think of Ethel Kennedy. Maintenance costs for hair, nails and face ran about five-hundred a month, not including yoga, health club and massage therapy. And it showed. Abby set an unachievable standard for women her age.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Are you going to tell me why you’re sitting there getting plastered? Or do I have to guess.”
“Seemed like the best course of action, all things considered.”
The ceiling in our living room was two stories high. There was a balcony above that led to three of the bedrooms. One was my daughter’s. She used to sit up there Christmas night and wait for the grownups to go to bed so Santa could make the scene. When I went upstairs I’d scoop up her limp little body and put her to bed, always wondering if she was faking it.
The house had been designed by an architect who’d been a friend of Abby’s father. She told me this guy was the only architect alive who could possibly do the job. I didn’t think we needed an architect at all. Or for that matter, a custom-designed house. She said I had no aesthetic sensibilities. I’d never seen Abby open a book, or listen to a piece of music that wasn’t on a greatest hits album, or go to a museum that wasn’t having a fundraiser or an opening everyone was talking about. In Abby’s world you defined things worth caring for by how they were classified by her parents’ social set. It was much easier than valuing possessions, vacation spots, friendships and personal beliefs on their intrinsic merits. To this day, I don’t think I could tell you what that house actually looked like. I do remember that I didn’t like living in it.
“The mall was so crowded I thought I’d scream,” Abby said to me. “The people here are so rude and pushy. I don’t know why it doesn’t bother you.”
“The people here” was Abby’s secret code for Jews, presumably plentiful in the area because of our proximity to New York. Abby had grown up in a suburb of Boston that fairly bristled with anti-Semitism. It frustrated her that I didn’t share her feelings. It forced her to keep her bigotry euphemistic, but after twenty-five years, I could interpret.
“Because I love people,” I said.
“Oh please. You hate people.”
“Not all people. Only some people.”
“Could have fooled me.”
She watched the ice swirl in the glass, then took a sip.
“No, you’re right,” she proclaimed. “You’re simply indifferent. You don’t even know there
The way she was looking at her glass I thought she might be trying to see her own reflection. Checking her lipstick.
“Camels. They come in a filter now.”
“How salubrious.”
I looked around at our living room and wondered why it looked the way it did. I paid for it all, but really didn’t understand the significance of the furniture or the decorations. Abby once told me I wouldn’t be much at interior design. She said you had to grow up with nice things to know which things were nice.
“What’re all those boxes in the back seat of your car?”
“That’s the stuff from the office I wanted to keep.”
She cocked her head like a spaniel hearing a high-pitched sound.
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, most of the stuff I threw out or just left there. But some of it I couldn’t part with. Hard to explain, but something tells you to hold on to certain things.”
She leaned forward in her chair, holding the drink in both hands.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“If you don’t take it with you, they’ll just throw it out.”
“Are you completely drunk?”
“No, not yet. It’s not that easy to do anymore.”
“You’ve had enough practice.”
“Drinking, Abby. I’ve practiced drinking, but not getting drunk. That’s a very important distinction.”
“There’s a word for people who drink all the time and never get drunk.”
“Unlucky?”
I went over to the bar and filled up my tumbler again. Abby watched me in silence. When I sat down, she asked again.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on or should I just go take my shower and get on with my day.”
“I quit my job.”
She sat back again, relieved.
“That’s amusing. And I got elected pope.”
“No, I actually quit. I don’t have a job anymore.”
“What are you saying?”
“I said, ‘I quit,’ and they said, ‘okay.’ More or less.”
“More or less?”
“It’s not entirely official yet. I think I have to write a letter, or sign something. I don’t know, it’s been a while since I did this kind of thing.”
I looked to see how the wildlife was doing out on the deck, but nothing was stirring. Too hot, maybe.
“What the hell …”
