Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(74)

This is what I need. Like hearing the siren of an air raid, it means one preprogrammed thing. Evacuate—get to safety. “Fine, be right back.” My hands come off my thighs and start to swing in a steady cadence. I get to the elevators and my dizziness starts to pass and anger plants my two feet and straightens my back. I can remember our couples dinner with Oliver and Sybil when I lashed out at Julia by telling my version of her first sex. It was a weakness of mine to be so defensive and cruel.

Now I feel just as vicious but not weak. This time I’m an avenger. And this time I want Oliver first. I press the up button for the elevator and wait. None of the noise around me registers as anything. I take the elevator to the twenty-seventh floor and walk out to the right, where I know Oliver’s office is. My walk is unhurried and my breathing is normal, but I can hear it like a scuba diver. My peripheral vision is gone. I can focus only on a narrow band in front of me and the sides are a blur. My veins carrying an extra force of blood are squeezing my sight.

Oliver’s door is closed and I open it and walk in. “We need to talk.”

His calm charade is stripped away and he looks up frightened and ten years younger. He’s sitting in a lounge chair around the front of his desk. “Nick.” His voice cracks. He’s panicking. I must look as crazy as I feel.

“Now.”

“Nick, I’m with people.” He gestures with palms up at two junior bankers sitting on his sofa with laps full of binders and loose papers. He offers them up, hoping for a human shield. I only barely notice them.

“They can stay. They’ll enjoy this.” I sit on the edge of Oliver’s desk. The three of them are sitting around the coffee table. The two junior guys look at each other and I’m looking only at Oliver. He’s frozen. He’s used to working with information and manipulating situations, but now he has no information. He has no idea what I’m capable of and I know he’s worried I’ll hurt him. I want to feign a punch and watch him leap out of his chair.

“Nick, please. This is out of line.”

“How was my wife?”

The kid on the sofa closer to the door shoves the papers from his lap to the coffee table. “We can just go.” He starts out of the room with the other right behind and they close the door after them.

Now I stand and walk slowly to Oliver with my arms crossed until I’m standing over him. “How was my wife?”

He’s rigid and staring at me, waiting for the first punch and dreading it. I reach down and pull the glasses off his face. His eyes clench but he’s otherwise still. With a lens in each hand, I start to bend them back and forth.

“I asked you a question.”

“Did you talk with Julia?”

“Shut up.” The wire bridge snaps and I toss the pieces of his glasses.

“Nick, what are you talking about? I—”

I cuff the back of his head, hard, the way I would hit a forehand. His head rocks forward and his shoulders hunch up, bracing for the next blow. He has gel in his hair, which holds it in an upright position like there’s a steady wind blowing on the back of his head.

When another blow doesn’t come, he lowers his shoulders and looks up at me. It felt so good to hit him that I know I’m going to do it again.

“Nick, please.”

“Do you love her?”

“What? Nick, wait a minute.”

“Do you?”

He doesn’t know the right answer not to get hit. “Nick, I like Julia very much but there’s been nothing.”

“You’re pathetic. You’re just a toy. A plaything to her.” God, I hope I’m right.

He looks like he’s coming out of shock and looking for more conversation with less violence. “Nick, I’m not sleeping with Julia.”

His face is angled up to me just so, and I wind around with an open hand that catches his head flush and sounds like a gunshot. It’s as hard as I can hit and he doesn’t expect it at all. I can feel the weight of his head go from heavy to light as I swing through, the way hitting a baseball or golf ball just right has the sensation of transferring beautiful energy.

My swing rips him out of his chair. His body knocks over the coffee table and he lands crumpled over his knees in a ball with his forehead on the ground. He doesn’t make a noise and I’m not sure he’s conscious.

I jab his hip with the bottom of my shoe to topple him on one side and I can see his face. One hand is covering where I made impact. His eyes are a watery mess and staring at me, both accusing and pleading.

I lean over him with my hands on my knees. “Don’t ever come near me or her again.”

He chokes out a few words. “I swear I didn’t sleep with her.”

“No? Not last night? Sybil didn’t just kick you out of the house?”

“That was a hooker, you *. Not Julia.”

He’s indignant and definitely not lying to me. I stand up straight and breathe a few times. I don’t have a chance to feel relief that Julia didn’t sleep with Oliver, because a new awful feeling has taken hold and this time I’m not on offense. Jesus, this is bad. I got this very wrong. It’s not a slow realization—I see it and feel it right away. I crossed a line almost as bad as sleeping with someone else. This is humiliating to me and more so to Julia. I can’t think of a single word to say.