Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(62)

We both sip our drinks and sit quietly for a moment. “Nick, Julia is not the type for affairs. Of course, people who are not the type still have affairs all the time for one reason or another.”

“Meaning it takes two? Meaning I drove her to it?”

“Meaning there’s no point in talking about whether she crossed the line. We don’t know and I can’t comment on it. It’s not the most important thing anyway. What matters is why she would even consider it in the first place.”

“Look, I know I have a role in this, I’m not an idiot. But starting an affair with another man is a different matter.”

“Nick, let’s leave the affair question to the side for a moment.”

Susan is treading lightly around this. My relationship with Julia is potentially till death do us part, so she may be speaking carefully about a person who is supposed to be a permanent member of the family, but it’s frustrating me. “How are we supposed to put an affair to the side?”

“Because the affair itself isn’t what matters. It’s your relationship with Julia.”

“It’s been on a slow and steady descent to unhappiness for a long time.”

“Do you want to work on it?”

“Yes, we’re trying to figure out how.”

“You need to believe you’re worth it. Not just Julia or your marriage, but you. Sometimes you seem a little self-loathing, whether it’s you or your job.”

I’m following along with what Susan’s saying and actively weighing whether it has any relevance to what’s happening. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“I know the type of stuff you get up to at work. It’s easier to be a sister to than a wife to. I also know it’s not really you.”

“I don’t know anymore, Susie. I’ve changed since you really knew me well. I’m not the person you grew up with.”

“Nick, the last thirteen years don’t define you and never have in the slightest. You’re the same person you always have been from the beginning.” She stands from the couch, steps to me, and pokes the center of my chest. “Before you were ten years old, the man you would become was already in there. The point is that I do know you well. You’re a good person. Nothing else can be saved if you can’t believe that.”

I finish my drink. “Maybe you’re right.”

She smiles and her tone gets more offhanded. “If anything, you’re a little closed off. You never take chances with yourself.”

She’s right about that and I don’t want to talk about it. It’s easier to be closed off. Sometimes it’s just easier to say nothing, or even to let yourself slip into a pattern of self-castigation because it’s easier to accept the punishment than to try for better. Sue knows she’s close to the heart of it and I’m uncomfortable, so she lets me off the hook.

“You are a good man, Nick.”

“In that case, please apologize to Ted for me. I was in a bad mood and might have been a little rude.”

Susan makes a sigh mixed with a laugh. “Oh, God. How bad?”

“Not horrible.”

She stands and hugs me.

“Thanks, Susie.” She pulls my face down and kisses my forehead. “I’m going to give Andy and Caroline a hug, then slip out.”

“I love you, Nick.”

“I love you too.”

I avoid my mother on the way out and am in Susan’s driveway when I run into my dad arriving to the party.

“Hiya, Nick.”

He slips between bumpers of tightly parked cars to give me a hug. Not the kind that is slow and sentimental but the kind that means in our relationship we always hug. The thing is, this has started only since I’ve been in my thirties. I think the old man has always had it in him, but it wasn’t until this stage of his life that he decided it’s important. Maybe he got some therapy.

He looks a lot like I might in twenty years, only more professorial. He’s always wearing tweed jackets and old leather shoes. He still practices as an orthopedic surgeon.

Two types of people go into medicine. Some because they manage to get tuition together and it gives them a safe and lifelong career. Even if they aren’t very good, they won’t go unemployed, and it’s respectable enough for cocktail parties. Susan’s husband, Ted, is one of these.

The others choose it because it’s a noble and intellectual profession. Dr. Tom Farmer is one of these.

“How are you, Dad?”

“How’s city life?” He lives only forty-five minutes away but is still fascinated by the city and can’t understand how a person can live in it.

“The same. It’s where the action is.”

“How’s your lovely wife?”

“She’s fine. She had some errands to run, so she couldn’t make the party.”

“How are things at work?” Dad likes to stay in regular touch. I can tell when he’s short on time because he asks the punch line questions, then signs off.

“It’s a living.” It doesn’t feel obnoxious to respond with punch line answers.

“Nick, what do you say we get together for duck hunting? Your mother and I fixed up the old blind this fall. We could get a hunt in before the end of the season.”

I expected some form of this. He ends every conversation trying to make a plan to see each other the next time, as though he’s convincing us both this is important to him. I think he hasn’t come to terms with the moment on the train platform when he saw me off to boarding school and sent the message that spending more time with me wasn’t a priority. “That would be great, Dad. Maybe in a few weeks.”