The Futures(38)

*

More than a month earlier, as the market panic was reaching its climax, I’d put the final touches on the WestCorp deal. The numbers were dazzling. Michael had said it right: this was a check just waiting to be cashed. Early one October morning, after working straight through the night, I was finally done. The very last piece was in place. This was the deal that would permanently cement Spire’s dominance, during the most volatile moment of our lifetime—and I was right in the middle of it. I left the folder on Michael’s chair and went for a walk in the cool dawn, stopping at a bench in an empty Times Square with a coffee and Danish in hand, watching the city wake, the taxis and pedestrians flowing up and down the streets, the conclusion vibrating through me like a note struck on a piano.

Back in the office that morning, I shaved and changed into the spare shirt I kept in my desk drawer. I sat, calmly, waiting for the call from Michael. But morning passed, then afternoon, without a word from him. I went past his office around 8:00 p.m., but his door was closed.

Nothing the following day, either. Or the day after that. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I went by his office. He ignored me while I hovered in the doorway. I cleared my throat. “Michael. Just checking—what’s the latest on the WestCorp deal?”

That got his attention. He turned to look at me.

“Something’s come up,” he said. “It’s on hold until I iron out a few more details.”

“Oh. Okay. So—”

“So I’ll let you know.” He turned back to his computer.

Panic rose as I walked back to my desk. What did he mean? Iron what out? But there had been a finality in his tone. I was just a low-level analyst, after all. He didn’t owe me any explanation. These kinds of things happened. Deals were called off all the time, for all sorts of reasons.

But it made me feel sick, physically sick, the thought of so many days and nights disappearing with nothing to show for it. Who was I? What was I doing there? I’d always had an answer before. I was a boy from British Columbia. A student. A hockey player, most of all. When graduation erased that, I found a new scaffolding. I was an analyst at Spire Management; that was the life I was building for myself. Everything else that was fading into the background—Julia, my friends—was made bearable by this. The sureness of my work and the nearness of success. Without that, I started to come loose.

My solution: I’d keep busy, so busy I wouldn’t have time to think. I jumped at every assignment, tried to fill the hours, insurance against the worst outcome. Roger and the other analysts must have sensed the change—my constant volunteering, joining them for lunch when before I’d been too busy. Julia could sense it, too. She was cooler and quieter than ever in the moments we overlapped at home. She sat there looking at me, but her mind was somewhere else. It was like she could tell how desperately I was faking my way through it, and it disgusted her.

Until just a few days before the trip to Las Vegas, when something had changed. I got home early and found Julia standing at the stove. Stirring a pot, flipping through a magazine, one bare foot lifted to scratch the back of her calf. “It smells amazing,” I said. When she turned, it was the old Julia who was looking at me: the spill of blond hair over her shoulder, her eyes crinkled at the corners from her smile. “There’ll be enough for both of us,” she offered. After we ate, I led her into the bedroom. The sex was good, not the best ever, but it was what I had needed: the two of us, finally in the same place again. It was so sad that this tiny moment of tenderness was even worth remarking on.

The next night, I stopped by McGuigan’s with the guys after work. Just for a drink, one drink. It was a weeknight, and I wanted to get home early again. To get things back on track with Julia. I sat at the bar, waiting for Maria. I was going to end this flirtation, or whatever it was, before it went any further. I’d slip in a mention of my girlfriend, which would do the trick. A clean break.

Maria came over and drew a pint of Guinness without needing to ask. Part of me wished that we’d gotten our chance—that I’d made a move one of those late nights, saying good-bye on the sidewalk outside the bar, a one-time slip that could be forgiven. I sipped my beer, feeling nostalgic. I’d finish the drink before I said anything.

Another man came into the bar and sat a few stools down, a tanned guy in a leather jacket. Maria said something to him, then poured him a generous whiskey. I lifted my glass to get her attention. She came back over and placed another pint of Guinness on the bar, then said,

“This is it for me tonight. Cathy’ll take care of your tab.”

“Where are you going? Actually, I wanted to talk to you about—”

“I’m off early,” she said. “I’ve got plans.”

A minute later, she emerged from the back with her coat on. The guy in the leather jacket stood and gestured at her to go ahead. They passed me on their way out, and as an afterthought, Maria turned on her heel.

“Oops. I should introduce you. Evan, this is Wyeth. Wyeth, Evan.”

I was used to towering over other people, but Wyeth was the same height as me. “Hey. Maria’s favorite customer,” I said, extending a hand and forcing a smile.

“Hey. Maria’s boyfriend,” he said.

Maria smiled, then tugged on Wyeth’s sleeve. “See you later, Evan,” she called over her shoulder. Through the window, I watched them pause on the sidewalk. Maria stood on her toes and kissed him, for a long time.