Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(11)

I’ve thought a lot about making that move, but there’s nowhere else I can do this job. “Truer words never spoken, Charlie. It’s complicated here.” I give him a jab in the arm, Jerry-style, only I mean it. Maybe Jerry does too, in his way. “On that note, my friend, I’m off to see the wife.”

I walk through the lobby and around the corner and take the elevator to the third floor. We live in a brick prewar building with only six stories. I like the low skyline in Greenwich Village. It’s one of the few places in the city where you can see a big sky.

The apartment is dark, so I take a tour to every lamp and wall switch to brighten things. I see the coffee table crippled in the living room. I had gotten home late and drunk last night and taken a stumble into it. One of the legs has splintered off and the top has caved in. It looks as though Julia has swept it into a heap for me to deal with later. Julia decorated the place in a French country theme and we have lots of woods and neutral tones in the rugs and the fabrics of the furniture. She wanted to add accents of color, so the curtains and throw pillows are soft blues and red. It feels like a nice place to be.

I round back to the front door and empty my pockets of keys and phone onto the console table. I notice a voicemail from my mother and check it, telling myself whatever it is, not to let it bother me.

Nicholas, it’s your mother. Doesn’t your phone let you know that a person has called even if they don’t leave a message? In the future, if you see that I’ve made a call, just assume I’d like you to call me so that I don’t need to speak into these silly recorders. Good-bye.

I should have deleted without listening. I put the phone down and move to the living room. I don’t feel like sitting in front of the TV, so I decide to start a book, which I’m always telling myself would be a good thing. I walk to the built-in bookcase in the living room to browse the titles. Julia’s always reading new books and our shelves fill up with them. I want to find something better than a spy novel but still entertaining. Julia always goes in for that kind and I have the thought that it would be nice if we read the same book and could talk about it.

Half-tucked behind a stack of books on the end of one shelf is an old photograph of my family. I’m about twelve years old and sitting on a stool next to my little sister, Susan. We’re both in front of my parents, who are standing in front of a background of trees and sky, only it’s obvious the photo was taken indoors. It’s one of those corny professional photos and there must be about five hundred thousand other families that were plopped in front of that same fake background.

I focus on my mother’s face, concentrating on it as though I’m trying to recognize her. It’s a handsome face, but I wouldn’t say beautiful. It’s too strong for that, and full but with hard angles. She looks like she could have been an English queen. Not the gentle, maternal kind, but the kind that could lead her people into battle and be as tough as any king.

There are the first streaks of gray running through her black hair. This is the face of my mother that I remember when I think of her. It’s the face I grew up with before I finished growing up away from home at boarding school. I remember that face the day they sent me to Hotchkiss. It wasn’t long after this photograph was taken. My parents had wanted to see some show in the city and so they decided to take Susan to lunch and to see the show. On the way they dropped me at Grand Central so I could get the Metro-North train to Wassaic Station, then a taxi to the Hotchkiss campus, which I’d never seen before.

I was scared half to death and I remember standing on the platform with my bags on the ground under my hands, staring at the three of them, when tears started to fill to the brim of my eyelids, enough that my mother could notice. She looked disappointed and a little rushed to get to her show. She put her hands on her hips and leaned forward and said, “Stop playing the victim, Nicholas. Not attractive.” My tears drained back inside like someone pulling the stopper on a sink of water.

My dad stepped forward and shook my hand. “Good luck, son.”

I looked at Susan, who was crying, and that made me feel better. I kept looking at only her. I was afraid to look back at my mother or I might start to cry again. Finally my dad took Susan’s hand and the three of them left.

I hear Julia’s keys in the apartment door and I put back the photo and walk away without a book.





5 | JULIA FARMER


November 15, 2005

JULIA WALKS IN STILL WEARING HER WORKOUT clothes from the gym. She had been a high jumper for the Duke track team and her body is even better now fourteen years later. No kids and the fact that she deals with stress and insecurity by scheduling more personal training sessions at the gym have kept her toned.

“Hiya, babe.”

“Hi, Nick. Didn’t expect you this early.” It’s 8 p.m. I can’t tell if there’s an edge to this. It’s a neutral tone. We haven’t spoken all day so she wouldn’t know whether to expect me early or late, but I know my drunken collapse into bed last night and the wrecked coffee table have her angry. She doesn’t eat later than 8 p.m. for fear that the meal turns to fat overnight, so I know she’s already taken care of her dinner. This is the norm for weekdays. The default is that we’re on our own unless specifically stated otherwise.

“Just took the guys out for a bite and a couple drinks, then wanted to get home.” I lean over and plant a kiss on her cheek. It’s salty from her exercise.