Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(57)

She’s at a loss for words. Then she finds one. “Asshole.”

“Asshole? Oliver tries on new personalities like a change of clothes. I’m the one helping you and I’m the *?”

“You like being ironic?”

“I can’t stand it.”

“I’d like you to leave.”

“Of course.” The door is still cracked and I’m through it. I wonder if she’ll tell Oliver about our little chat. Probably not. Probably I just made her more alone and unhappy.





PART IV


In theory, there’s no difference between theory and practice. In practice there is.

—YOGI BERRA





20 | JUST A THOUGHT


January 28, 2006

MY MARRIAGE IS ABOUT TO SHATTER AND I MAKE A connection to my parents that I have never made before. It isn’t that any of the four people in the two marriages are at all similar, but there is a dynamic that is relevant. My father’s easygoing way, which I have always counted among his best qualities, I now call into question. My mother is a bitch, and in plain view. Not once did my father ever challenge her on this, even when on the receiving end of her coldness. Not a single word of reproach. Now I see that he taught himself to deny that my mother was a bitch at all. Rather than have the conversation, he was more comfortable living in a self-fashioned fantasy. I now understand that he could have done better by all of us.

Julia’s parents to me are just something to be suffered. If anything, the roles are reversed and her dad is the active pain in the ass while her mom goes along.

Our dinner plans with them have been set for this Saturday. This is the type of thing I usually might find an excuse to miss, but tonight I sense it is an opportunity. Blindly doing the opposite of what my impulses have been in the past seems like a sound plan, so I try to be cheery about the dinner. The problem is I hate spending time with her father even under normal circumstances. The mother isn’t actively horrible but she’s complicit in her husband’s jackass behavior and so I can’t stand her either. My cheeriness sounds a little hyper and false.

I had made sure to come home late Friday and she was up early Saturday, so this afternoon is our first time together since my reading the diary. I’ve been avoiding her, steeling myself for how to act around her. She doesn’t know I’ve seen the diary, so her interpretation of my avoidance could be anything. Probably she thinks I’m just sour about having to spend the evening with her parents. There’s some truth in that.

It’s an hour drive to the restaurant in Oyster Bay. “It feels nice to drive out of the city. It’s a mini getaway.” It feels like I’m working for every minute.

“It’s nice to get a change of scenery,” she responds, and I pat her left knee with my right hand, keeping my eyes still on the road.

“It’ll be good to see your dad. It’s important.” My new rule is to say only positive things. If I have a negative thought, I’ll filter it before it gets to my mouth.

We’re through the Midtown Tunnel and on the Long Island Expressway going east. I’m in the passing lane doing about seventy. In the rearview I see a black Nissan bombing up the right-hand lane. It has a spoiler on the back and performance tires with fancy hubcaps. It has racing stripes down the side. It has a weird suspension like it’s meant for drag racing. Probably a twelve-thousand-dollar car with twenty thousand worth of extras. Absurd. I think all of this but don’t say it, keeping with the new rule.

The car is screaming up toward us and there is a gap where he can pass me on the right and slip into my lane before he reaches the car in front of him. There’s a car about fifty yards in front of me, so he’ll have to switch lanes back again. I hate this kind of idiot driver.

I press down on the accelerator to get even with the car in the right lane and close the gap to pin in the Nissan. I want to see him smack his steering wheel and scream into the dashboard.

I had meant to subtly accelerate, but the rpm needle jumps and the pitch of the engine makes everything feel urgent. Julia moves her hands from her lap to the sides of her seat and hangs on.

“Crap,” I mutter under my breath. I get off the accelerator and touch up the brake. The damn Nissan is on us in a second and its engine sounds like a blender. I see the teenaged bastard behind the wheel, and he slips into our lane in front of us with about three feet between his bumpers and the cars on either end. He’s in our lane for about a three count before he passes the car to his right and is back over in that lane again. I feel a little proud of myself for granting passage. Julia’s hands come off the seat. I think she’s relieved but hardly proud.

The restaurant is cedar-shingled and looks like a converted old inn. The parking lot is a driveway that has been expanded for more cars and winds around the side of the building. I pass a few open spaces and park around the corner from the entrance. There’s no benefit to doing this. I realize when I’ve stopped that it just isn’t the way a person who wants to get inside would do it. I shut off the car but don’t make a move for my door.

She turns to me. “You ready?” She’s trying to sound cheerful too.

“I’m hungry.”

“Nick, at least try to fake it. Just for a couple hours. Please.”

“It’ll be just fine as long as he doesn’t talk much.”