married to Nicole since I was twenty-three, and I wasn't exactly a sexual dynamo before that, so even when I got separated I felt like I was cheating by being with another woman.
I also was leery of mixing business with pleasure, cognizant as I was of the difficulties that can result. But the main reason I hesitated to sleep with Laurie is because whenever I brought it up she said no. Two weeks ago she changed her mind, which coincidentally was the exact moment I stopped hesitating.
But tonight Laurie is not my lover, nor is she my investigator. She is my friend, and the time with her at Charlie's is comforting. She drives me home, pulling up in front of my house at around nine. I live in Franklin Lakes, an upscale suburban community about a half-hour northeast of New York City. Each house, including mine, has manicured lawns and perfectly maintained flowers, none of which are maintained by those of us who live here. I've never checked, but Franklin Lakes must have the highest number of gardeners per capita in the United States.
What it doesn't have is the feel of a neighborhood, at least not the ones I remember. I am on a waving relationship with my neighbors; it is the suburban equivalent of a nodding, elevator relationship for those who live in high-rise apartments.
“You want to come in?” I ask.
“I don't think I should. I think you might need some time alone.”
I don't argue, because we both know she's right; her staying over tonight wouldn't feel right for either of us.
It's just as well that Laurie doesn't come in, because when I go into the house Nicole is sitting on the leather sofa in the den, petting Tara and waiting for me.
“Hello, Andy.”
“Nicole …” is the cleverest retort I can come up with.
“I heard about Nelson … I was in Seattle visiting my grandmother … I got here as fast as I could … oh, Andy …”
She comes over and hugs me, though it makes me feel awkward. I wonder if she feels the same, but there's no sign of it. Actually, I don't think “awkward” is something Nicole ever allows herself to feel. Feeling awkward would just make her feel awkward, so she simply avoids it.
“He was really crazy about you,” I say, driven by a sudden need to make her feel better.
“And I felt the same way about him. Are you okay?”
“I'm hanging in. I'm not sure it's totally hit me yet.”
She still has her arms around me, it's one of the longest hugs I've ever experienced. And there's no sign of it ending anytime soon.
“Andy, I've been thinking … even before this … I don't want to just give up on us.”
I'm at a loss for words, not an everyday occurrence for me, which goes on for quite a while. The uncomfortable silence is enough to get her to break the hug.
“It's your turn to say something,” she says, though I already knew that.
I give it my best shot. “Nicole, we've been separated for six months. In that time I have not become a big- time corporate attorney, nor have I decided to run for Congress.”
“Andy …”
“And I still represent people who think Beef Wellington is a wrestler. In short, I'm not what you seem to want anymore.”
“So maybe I can try and change. It's worth a try, isn't it?”
I'm not sure and I tell her so. She takes that as a qualified yes.
“So I was thinking we could start dating … have dinner or something?”
“You want to start dating?” I ask. “What's the matter, you can't find anybody to take you to the prom?” This is meant to sound tough; it comes off as cutesy.
“Andy, let's start over.” She renews the hug again, this time with certain body parts rubbing against certain other body parts.
“Am I going to have to get you a corsage?” I have now openly switched to cutesy. Even Tara looks disgusted.
Nobody's ever accused me of being a tower of strength, least of all Nicole. I think we're going to try. This would have been a good day for my father.
THE HOUSEOF MY FIRST EIGHTEEN YEARS WAS ON 42nd Street in Paterson, New Jersey. This is of considerable significance because of the manner in which Paterson has developed. There is a downtown area, economically poor and overwhelmingly African-American. Then there are the numbered streets, 1 through 42, ending at the Passaic River. The river is where 43rd Street would be.
The higher the street number, the more expensive and desirable the houses. For years, almost all of the people living in the streets above 20 were white. Gradually, though, African-Americans started moving “upward” to the mid-20s, then the early 30s, and on toward the heavenly 40s. The whites would then move further up, fearful that the mixing of the neighborhood was driving their home values down.
Looking at the big picture, it was as if the whites were being driven to the sea, in this case the river, and that it eventually would part and allow them to flee to the suburbs. This they did, in droves, and Paterson is now overwhelmingly African-American. The houses look exactly the same, but the people look different.
It is a source of great pride to me that my parents never followed the masses across the river, but a source of some shame that I did. But I love that house, and that neighborhood, and I love my parents even more for not abandoning it.
I drive to the house, with Tara sitting in the front seat and looking out the window at the neighborhood, checking it out as if she is thinking of buying property here. We arrive at the house, now empty of family, and I take a deep breath as we walk toward it. We walk up the steps where I covered myself in glory playing stoopball. We step up onto the porch from which I used to watch summer thunderstorms, mesmerized as the water hit the ground so hard that it bounced six inches back in the air.
And then we enter the house. You could blindfold me and I could describe every square inch of the house, tell you every piece of furniture that has ever been in it, yet I could barely remember what any house I've lived in since looks like.
Once inside, the pain begins inside my stomach and keeps boring inward. By the time I'm in the den it has reached previously unexplored depths, but I resolve not to give in to it. My resolve lasts for about eight seconds, and I start sobbing. Tara nuzzles next to me, letting me know that she loves me and is there for me. I wonder if she can comprehend how much that helps; I believe she can. The power of a dog's love is astonishing.
I compose myself and get started. My father kept everything in four file cabinets in his office, and for the next three hours I go through papers and documents. Everything seems characteristically straightforward and organized; my father would never have had it any other way. My unspoken (even to myself ) dread that I would find something troubling (an old love letter to a mistress?) soon gives way to semiboredom as I plow through the material.
I seem to remember that there are a lot of things in the attic, so I take a stepladder and go up there. It's dusty; this area obviously was not a frequent place of visitation. There are boxes of old papers, books, photographs, and memorabilia, and despite myself I get lost in them. I realize with a flash of guilt that I have not similarly chronicled my own life, then I realize with a flash of sadness that there will not be anyone to notice.
Many of the items I see trigger old memories, though some are literally before my time. There is a yellowed newspaper clipping from the day that my then thirteen-year-old father slipped through an ice crack in a local pond, along with a picture of Philip, dripping wet after heroically pulling him out. It is an incident my father related to me perhaps half a dozen times; he truly credited Philip with saving his life. Surprisingly, I never heard Philip mention it, though it would certainly have added luster to his political resume.
I pick up a photograph of my parents at the beach. What strikes me about it is how comfortable they look together; I can never remember a time when it was any other way. Looking at their youthfulness, it seems amazing that they are gone, or even that they ever existed in this form.
The photograph is in a frame, and as I go to put it back, I see there is something behind it, as if hidden. I pry open the frame and pull out another picture, which is of four men, arm in arm, smiling and laughing as they pose for the camera. All of the men seem to be in their early twenties, and my father is one of them. There are two 1960s model cars in the driveway behind them, one sideways to the camera and one facing it.
The black and white shot was taken at night, and the young men seem jovial, perhaps intoxicated. In the
