“I did get drunk, but not with Jock.”
“Who were you with?” The question is short, sharp and to the point. It sums up Julianne— spontaneous and direct, with every line of communication a trunk route.
“I spent the night with Elisa Velasco.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“Yes.”
“You had sex with a prostitute?”
“She’s not a prostitute anymore.”
“Did you use a condom?”
“Listen to me, Julianne. She hasn’t been a prostitute for years.”
“DID… YOU… USE… A… CONDOM?” Each word is clearly articulated. She is standing over my chair. Her eyes swim with tears.
“No.”
She delivers the slap with the force of her entire body. I reel sideways, clutching my cheek. I taste blood on the inside of my mouth and hear a high-pitched ringing inside my ears.
Julianne’s hand is on my thigh. Her voice is soft. “Did I hit you too hard? I’m not used to this.”
“I’m OK,” I reassure her.
She hits me again, this time even harder. I finish up on my knees, staring at the polished floorboards.
“You selfish, stupid, gutless, two-timing, lying bastard!” She is shaking her hand in pain.
I’m now a big clumsy unmoving target. She beats me with her good fist, hammering on my back. She is screaming: “A prostitute! Without a condom! And then you came home and you fucked me!”
“No! Please! You don’t understand…”
“Get out of here! You are not wanted in this house! You will
I crouch on the floor, feeling wretched and pathetic. She turns and walks away, down the hallway to the front room. I pull myself up and follow her, desperate for some sign that this isn’t the end.
I find her kneeling in front of the Christmas tree with a pair of garden shears in her hand. She has neatly lopped off the top third of the tree. It now looks like a large green lampshade.
“I’m so sorry.”
She doesn’t answer.
“Please listen to me.”
“Why? What are you going to say to me? That you love me? That she meant nothing? That you
That’s the difficulty when arguing with Julianne. She unleashes so many accusations at once that no single answer satisfies them collectively. And the moment you start trying to divide the questions up, she hits you again with a new series.
She is crying properly now. Her tears glisten in the lamplight like a string of beads draped down her cheeks.
“I made a mistake. When Jock told me about the Parkinson’s it felt like a death sentence. Everything was going to change— all our plans. The future. I know I said the opposite. It’s not true. Why give me this life and then give me this disease? Why give me the joy and beauty of you and Charlie and then snatch it away? It’s like showing someone a glimpse of what life could be like and in the next breath telling them it can never happen.”
I kneel beside her, my knees almost touching hers.
“I didn’t know how to tell you. I needed time to think. I couldn’t talk to my parents or friends, who were going to feel sorry for me and give me chin-up speeches and brave smiles. That’s why I went to see Elisa. She’s a stranger, but also a friend. There’s good in her.”
Julianne wipes her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater and stares at the fireplace.
“I didn’t plan to sleep with her. It just happened. I wish I could change that. We’re not having an affair. It was one night.”
“What about Catherine McBride? Did you sleep with her?”
“No.”
“Well why did she apply to be your secretary? What would make her think you would ever give her a job after what she put us through?”
“I don’t know.”
Julianne looks at her bruised hand and then at my cheek.
“What do you want, Joe? Do you want to be free? Is that it? Do you want to face this alone?”
“I don’t want to drag you and Charlie down with me.”
My maudlin tone infuriates her. She bunches her fists in frustration.
“Why do you always have to be so fucking sure of yourself? Why can’t you just admit you need help? I know you’re sick. I know you’re tired. Well, here’s a news flash: we’re all sick and we’re all tired. I’m sick of being marginalized and tired of being pushed aside. Now I want you to leave.”
“But I love you.”
“Leave!”
“What about us? What about Charlie?”
She gives me a cold unwavering stare. “Maybe I still love you, Joe, but at the moment I can’t stand you.”
4
When it is over— the packing, the walking out the door and the cab ride to Jock’s doorstep— I feel like I did on my first day at boarding school. Abandoned. A single memory comes back to me, with all the light and shade of reality. I am standing on the front steps of Charterhouse as my father hugs me and feels the sob in my chest. “Not in front of your mother,” he whispers.
He turns to walk away and says to my mother, “Not in front of the boy,” as she dabs at her eyes.
Jock insists I’ll feel better after a shower, a shave and a decent meal. He orders takeout from his local Indian, but I’m asleep on the sofa before it arrives. He eats alone.
In the motley half-light, leaking through the blinds, I can see tinfoil trays stacked beside the sink, with orange-and-yellow gravy erupting over the sides. The TV remote is pressing into my spine and the weekly program guide is wedged under my head. I don’t know how I managed to sleep at all.
My mind keeps flashing back to Julianne and the look she gave me. It went far beyond disappointment. Sadness is not a big enough word. It was as though something had frozen inside her. Very rarely do we fight. Julianne can argue with passion and emotion. If I try to be too clever or become insensitive she accuses me of arrogance and I see the hurt in her eyes. This time I saw only emptiness. A vast, windswept landscape that a man could die trying to cross.
Jock is awake. I can hear him singing in the shower. I try to swing my legs to the floor but nothing happens. For a fleeting moment I fear I’m paralyzed. Then I realize that I can feel the weight of the blankets. Concentrating my thoughts, my legs grudgingly respond.
The bradykinesia is becoming more obvious. Stress is a factor in Parkinson’s disease. I’m supposed to get plenty of sleep, exercise regularly and try not to worry about things.
Yeah, right!
Jock lives in a mansion block overlooking Hampstead Heath. Downstairs there is a doorman who holds an umbrella over your head when it rains. He wears a uniform and calls people “Guv” or “Madam.”
Jock and his second wife used to own the entire top floor, but since the divorce he can only afford a one- bedroom apartment. He also had to sell his Harley and give her the cottage in the Cotswolds. Whenever he sees an expensive sports car he claims it belongs to Natasha.
“When I look back it’s not the ex-wives that frighten me, it’s the mothers-in-law,” he says. Since his divorce he has become, as Jeffrey Bernard would say, a sort of roving dinner guest on the outside looking in and a fly on the
