New York Echoes Page 6

  “You can’t be serious,” Charlie had replied to the sudden pronouncement, after he had recovered his equilibrium. Carol had chosen the moment right after Charlie had refreshed himself from the long plane trip, had showered, and gotten into his pajamas and robe.

  “I know this comes as a shock, Charlie. I’m sorry, really sorry.”

  Quite obviously, she had rehearsed this necessary confrontation over and over again in her mind. Knowing her intimately, he knew she needed to get this over with quickly, having made the decision some time ago. This was not a situation that one activates without long deliberation.

  “Is there someone else?” Charlie asked, opting to cut to the chase. What other reason could there be?

  “Yes there is,” Carol admitted with unflinching candor. It was as if she had predicted his responses and had studied her lines.

  “May I ask who?”

  “John Fletcher, a business associate. You’ve never met him.”

  “For how long?” Charlie said, finally feeling the blow, his voice constricting.

  “More than a year.”

  Charlie felt the blood rise. He knew his face had flushed and that if he held out his arms, his hands would be shaking. He had, of course, encountered defeats and disappointment in his life, but nothing more cataclysmic than this. There was no game plan in his arsenal of reactions. He was, quite literally, emotionally crushed. Worse, he felt foolish. How could he have not known?

  “The heart has its own agenda, Charlie,” Carol said. She had, he decided, worked long and hard on finding that response. How else to justify such a life-changing decision? Blame it on the unknown, the profound mystery.

  “No second thoughts?” he asked, taking refuge in politeness. Although he desperately wanted to show his rage, he had suddenly decided that such a reaction would imply weakness and loss of dignity, something he could not bring himself to display in front of her. He had been cuckolded. There was no other word for it. She had come to his bed after wallowing in the embrace of her lover, the remains of his sperm in her body. The image was beyond awful.

  “And Sharon? Does she know?”

  Carol nodded.

  “You could have at least told me first,” Charlie said, feeling all self-respect drained, his pride demolished. He sensed the first tiny stirrings of hatred.

  “I think it needed to be a mother-daughter thing,” she shrugged.

  She had worked that out as well, Charlie thought, a ploy to gain sympathy and justify her betrayal of the child’s father.

  “We cried together. She needs to talk with you. I told her that I would be telling you tonight. She loves you, Charlie, and she needs us both.”

  Apparently she had won her point.

  “My God . . .” he began but he couldn’t go on.

  It would soon be time to go to sleep, and he found himself worried about the sleeping arrangements. Perhaps as a distraction his mind began filling with the technicalities of separation and divorce, domicile arrangements, property divisions, legal details. The turmoil ahead seemed daunting.

  “We have got to be civilized and sensible about this, Charlie.”

  Charlie shrugged. The “civilized and sensible” cliché seemed the least important item on his emotional agenda. What he really wanted to do was go into a dark room, shut the door, curl up in a fetal position and go to sleep, forever if possible, to spare himself the impending pain and agony.

  Following the long-standing tradition of an amicable divorce, he moved into a hotel and, in time, into a small apartment near his office. The meeting with his daughter had been fatherly, with no bitter or hateful allusions to her mother’s affair as anything more than a natural event, merely a manifestation of a midlife crisis. He resisted any temptation to characterize her mother in a way that would be emotionally disturbing to his daughter.

  In his loneliness and despair as he tried to adjust to his new life, he had slowly begun to feel a growing rage, which he was finding unable to keep under control. He tried to rationalize his situation by ascribing it more to self-pity and merely a passing trauma that time would eventually heal. But as the myriad details of separation and divorce progressed, he was growing exceedingly less understanding. They had each hired lawyers who diligently and expensively prepared documents and listed their possessions and the details of their dispossession, about which he found himself growing increasingly uncomfortable.

  When they met they were polite and proper, especially if their daughter was present. As time went on they met infrequently, letting their lawyers deal with the details. Once or twice he had actually seen Carol with her new lover, John Fletcher, noting that he was definitely cut from a different cloth. Once they had met in a restaurant. Fletcher struck him as a Waspy country club frat boy, straight featured and uncircumcised, a goy down to his toenails. So she had receded back to her roots. He was certain of this truth even as he smiled and shook the man’s hand. At that moment, hatred for Carol gushed over him like a tsunami.

  It was a delayed action, and his lawyer had advised him to resist recrimination, settle the matter, and go on with his life. Of course, he agreed in principal, but he knew the so-called civilized and sensible paradigm was totally shattered. He was becoming increasingly pissed off. He had been screwed, betrayed by a conniving, deceptive, lying bitch. The Blonde Goddess had morphed into the witch of the west and all points of the compass.

  Living in his one-bedroom, furnished apartment while the lawyers worked out the division of property, he would often think of her living in the lap of luxury in their once prized apartment, now populated by her lover, the Wasp goy, sleeping in his bed, screwing his once worshipped blonde goddess, handling his cherished leather-bound books, and enjoying his appreciating art. It began to inflame him emotionally and, finally defying his lawyer’s good advice, he began to throw obstacles in the way of what once was an amicable divorce procedure.

  “I want all of my leather-bounds, most of the artwork, half of the furniture and half of every fucking thing in the apartment. I want half of everything down to every spoon, knife, and fork in the silverware. I want the apartment sold immediately.”

  “It’s your nickel,” the lawyer told him, an obvious reference to his fee.

  “Exactly.”

  His resistance was, at first, adamant. Her lawyer, at Carol’s behest, tried various strategies to compromise. Of course, she had her own agenda regarding the possessions, some of which was unreasonable as far as he was concerned. It was, he supposed, a typical standoff. At one point his daughter intervened, urging both parents to make peace for the sake of their own happiness. Her plea made sense, of course, and he hated the idea of being the cause of any emotional pain to his beloved daughter. Apparently Carol and her lover were planning to marry after their divorce was final, another item to fuel his anger.

  Finally, after months of wrangling, he decided that it was self-defeating and ridiculously expensive to continue the battle, and he carefully drew up lines of compromise, although on some issues, particularly when it came to his books and some of the artwork, he was still determined to hold the line. To achieve a final settlement, the lawyers arranged a meeting in the boardroom of Carol’s lawyer.

  They sat at either side of the conference table, icily polite. Despite his bubbling rage, he admitted to himself that she did look quite beautiful and self-possessed. She had, after all, found a companion with whom to share her life. He had not been successful in this regard, although he had tried.

  Thankfully, he had managed to compensate by working longer and harder in his practice and had increased his income, which helped with his legal bills. With discipline, he tried valiantly to effect a calm demeanor. Unfortunately, the sight of his Blonde Goddess, looking haughty and beautiful, did not stir warm nostalgic memories of the happy days of their marriage. Instead he dwelled on the unsavory aspects of her cunning deception. How had he not known? How could she have done this to him? Worse, why had he not made peace with this affront to his dignity an
d self-worth? Yes, he assured himself, it was about time to shed the corrosive power of his inner rage before it destroyed him.

  The lawyers calmly outlined the differences that separated them. Although it hurt, he agreed to divide the artwork, giving up some especially favorite work, and she finally consented to let him have his beloved leather-bound books. At this point, he was in a compromising mood, wanting at last to put all this behind him. He had lost and it was time, he told himself, with lawyerly logic, for dignified face-saving surrender.

  She wanted to keep the apartment and through her lawyer, she made an offer. He was about to concede on this point, but he hesitated. Her lawyer said she had had an appraisal and he handed Charlie the document citing the value.

  “I’d like to have my own appraisal done,” he said to her lawyer.

  “Oh come on, Charlie,” Carol blurted, revealing her impatience. “This is the right price.”

  “He is entitled to it,” Charlie’s lawyer said, turning to his client seeking approval.

  “The fact is that I demand it,” Charlie said, as if his sense of fairness felt suddenly violated.

  “You people are impossible,” Carol blurted.

  “We people?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He could see the beginning of an accelerating anger.

  “No, I don’t,” he said deliberately fueling the exchange.

  “Jesus, must I say it, Charlie.”

  “Yes, you must.”

  She drew in her breath and shook her head:

  “Jews, Charlie. Jews. All you can think about. Money. Money. Money.” He felt his insides curdle. “I mean face it, Charlie. There has to be a reason why Jews are persecuted and reviled for thousands of years. It took me a long time to see it. You Jews are the most impossible people on earth. You think you’re smarter than the rest of us poor goyem. So fucking superior. You know everything. The fact is, as I have learned, you are a vicious, greedy people. You take. All that baloney about giving, justice, fighting for the underdog. It’s all bullshit, an attempt to make you look goody-goody so people won’t see the real flaws and subterfuge behind the façade.” She stopped for a moment and exchanged glances with her own lawyer, who, as he knew, was not Jewish, probably deliberately chosen.

  Charlie’s lawyer was Jewish, but held back any reaction, looking toward Charlie with an expression of concern. He made a movement with his hands, which signaled to Charlie to restrain himself. Charlie did not need to be told. There was no defense, no possible argument to be mounted against this time-tested canard. No one as far as he knew, especially a Jew, had ever understood the logic behind it. It was too embedded in the culture of the planet, perhaps a genetic fault in the human species, beyond explanation or rationality. He felt a sudden epiphany, the realization of an absurdity that had morphed into a universal mindset. There were, therefore, only two choices: fight or flee.

  “I know I sound awful,” Carol said, but without any sign of remorse. “Unfortunately it’s true, Charlie. Jews are that way. You people can’t help yourself. That’s the way you’re programmed. You have this compulsive need to take advantage. Believe me, Charlie, I understand. It’s just part of your makeup and any corrective strategy is out of your hands. And, unfortunately, out of mine.”

  She grew silent, as if something had ballooned inside her and some mysterious pinprick had deflated the balloon. Charlie was surprised that his own anger had abated. He thought suddenly of his daughter. In Carol’s mind was she, too, poisoned by his genes? He wanted to bring up the point, but decided against it. How would such a view impact his daughter? He decided to remain silent and turned to his lawyer.

  “Accept the appraisal,” Charlie told him, standing up, lifting his hand and waving a tepid goodbye. Fight or flee. He had chosen the latter.

  East Side, West Side

  by Warren Adler

  “Done,” Susan Charrap had said, her voice a low, hoarse whisper on the cell phone. “You’re free now.”

  A burden removed, he had thought at first, even though it had been totally unexpected. Searching for a response, he was confused. It had been discussed, but there had been no resolution.

  “You should have told me,” he admonished.

  “Why? I’m free now as well.”

  “After all, I do have some say.”

  “Not anymore,” she said. He remembered the long silence, hearing vague background noises, horns honking, outdoor sounds. Then she said: “I don’t want to see you ever again. Not ever. Do you understand? Not ever.”

  She had her own place on the East Side off 73rd and Lexington, a two-room apartment in an older walk-up. He lived on West 80th off Amsterdam. She spent more time at his place than her own. When he had finally accepted the ultimatum a few weeks later, he had sent her clothes and other odd possessions back to her. The fact was that he had taken it seriously for his own reasons, feeling, after long reflection, that she had it right: He was the unwilling one.

  But he was twenty-five then, just starting to get a leg up with the firm. He was hardly ready for fatherhood and all its inhibiting responsibilities.

  “I feel trapped,” he had argued. He hated the idea.

  “So do I.”

  “Well then.”

  “Well then what?”

  “You know what you have to do.”

  It wasn’t a question of money. They were both making good salaries. She was freelancing commercial art. He was established at the firm.

  “People do it all the time. We don’t even have to get married.”

  They had avoided the issue of responsibility. People in love, physically attracted, could be careless. To cite her neglect, he thought at the time, would be dishonorable. Indeed, he truly felt that this procedure was the practical solution for them in that moment. There would be plenty of time, he had told her. She seemed to have agreed and that was that. Until she called him with the news. Then it was over.

  But it wasn’t over, not really. Five years hadn’t granted him the complete cure. Withdrawal had been difficult since he loved her, truly loved her. Not that he thought of her as often, as time went on. Other things happened. He imagined he fell in love again with Dorothy, then Barbara. At that moment, he thought Barbara was the one and now that he was thirty and had moved up in the firm, he could honestly tell himself he was nearly ready. Not quite, but nearly.

  Barbara and he lived together in his larger West Side apartment and were seriously discussing the official ring ceremony and all it implied. There were pros and cons, of course. They wanted to be absolutely one hundred percent certain that they were the ones, that this was the time.

  It was in the middle of that debate that he saw, of all people, Susan Charrap. He had been jogging along the main access in Central Park at 72nd on Saturday. It was late morning. He and Barbara usually slept in on Saturdays. He wasn’t sure at first. Actually, it had amazed him that he had never bumped into her, not once. Admittedly, sometimes he had passed her old place, even stopped to watch, wondering what she was doing.

  There were times, too, when he thought he had glimpsed the back of her head or a passing side view, but he had been mistaken, and after awhile he became less alert to the possibility.

  This time he was dead certain. He was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low against the late spring sun. If she had been alone, he imagined he might have simply stopped, identified himself, and, after a few brief pleasantries, he would jog on. But she was holding the hand of a little boy, and for some reason he did not have the courage to reveal himself.

  After she had passed by, he suddenly found himself with the overwhelming urge to follow her. By then he had jogged all the way to the east side of the park. Following her at a distance, he hid, literally hid, behind a tree and watched her go into the children’s playground. The little boy began to play in the nearby monkey climb with other children. She sat on a bench, opened the New York Times, and began to read, periodically lifting her head to observe the little boy.


  So she had probably married, he concluded after watching her for a while. Had found another life and just as he had predicted, in time she had had a child. She was still quite beautiful, he decided, acknowledging a trill of the old feeling, that pulse-quickening sensation of emotional memory. God, he had loved her.

  It had taken him a long time after their breakup to make peace with his behavior. At times, especially on those sleepless, dead-of-night confrontations with the truth, he berated himself for his cowardice, his utter lack of character, his refusal to take a risk, his putting his career above his sense of honor. She, on the other hand, had seen what he was truly made of and had taken the bold step, an act of far greater courage than his, to protect her integrity.

  Eventually, he forgave himself. Not quite. But he no longer brooded over his failings. Okay, he was a lot less than heroic, but he had done the practical thing and now he had moved upward and was ready to face whatever came his way. He stopped beating himself up. He had fallen in love with a beautiful, decent, honest girl with whom he was compatible and with whom he was comfortable.

  “Are you okay, Ben?” Barbara had asked when he got back to the apartment after jogging.

  Of course he was okay. What had she detected in his expression or demeanor?

  “Don’t I look okay?”

  “Maybe it’s my imagination. You look, I don’t know, funny.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  That night he awoke in a sweat, suddenly wide awake. The little boy! He was not a good judge of children’s age, but he figured that the little boy might be about five or pretty close. Could it be? He spent the next few hours running the gamut of speculation. Over and over again, he heard her words on the phone, “Done, you’re free now.”

  “You look tired,” Barbara said at breakfast.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Must be a cold coming on.”

  It was part of the protocol these days to be reasonably candid about past relationships, and he had been. Up to a point. He could not bring himself to tell her the full story. Perhaps he was too embarrassed, or a true confession would make him seem lesser in her eyes. He hadn’t dwelt on it. Besides, it was over, a blip in his personal history. Or was it?