The Summer We Fell Apart Page 17
“What are you going to do this summer, George?” Owen asked, stepping to the side of Amy and tipping the beer bottle to his lips.
“Summer?” George asked, confused. As far as he knew, it was marginally still winter.
Owen nodded.
“I don’t know,” he answered finally.
“We can always use a couple more hands painting. If you want?”
George nodded. Now he knew what he was getting at: Owen and his bandmates ran a house-painting service and they seemed, in between gigs, to have a never-ending supply of jobs.
“I’m not much of a painter, O.”
Owen laughed. “Whatever, just floating it out there to you.” He took another swig of beer. “I bet you’re a quick study.”
George nodded forlornly. He wondered what Sam and Asa would do this summer.
Suddenly, Amy lifted the wad of dough and tossed it into the trash, ending the mutilation and admitting defeat. “All right, that’s it. Out we go.” She washed her hands off in the sink as Owen and George laughed.
“What?” she asked, feigning innocence. “I know when to get out. A lesson you’d be wise to learn, Georgie.” She patted him on the shoulder on the way to get her coat.
George ended up getting so drunk he had to spend the night on the couch at Amy’s and Owen’s. He didn’t wake up until after noon, and when he tried to sit up, his head felt the size of a balloon in the Thanksgiving Day parade. Underdog or Snoopy.
Silently, Amy handed him a mug of black coffee and a couple of aspirin. Grateful for both, he got himself into a semi-sitting position and swallowed the pills, chasing them down with the coffee. He waited until his stomach settled before he held a shaky hand out for a refill. Amy obliged him with that and an untoasted sesame seed bagel before she collapsed into the gold velvet chair opposite the couch.
“That chair is so fucking ugly,” George said as he nibbled the bagel.
“It belonged to Owen’s aunt Tilda,” Amy said as she ran a hand up and down the velvet-covered arm.
“Still ugly,” George said.
Amy shrugged. “His aunt thought it was pretty at one time, I guess.”
“Family,” George said. “Mothers and aunts who pretend to be mothers. Fuck them all.”
“Hey,” Amy said gently. “You can’t blame this one on Mom. I thought you said she was great with Asa?”
“She was.” George closed his eyes and moaned. “Wait, you’re siding with her?” He opened one eye to peer at his sister.
“There’s no side to take, Georgie.” She leaned forward and frowned. “I’m so sorry you’re sad, you know I am.”
George nodded.
“But it scares me when you lose control.”
“What?” he asked, too hung over to make a connection between words.
“Last night. You: drunk. It scares me because all I could think was how awful Finn looked at Dad’s funeral and then there you are trying to blot it all out with beer.” She shrugged. “It just scared me.”
George rubbed a hand all over his face. Being drunk like that scared him as well, and he couldn’t remember the last time he was so totally out of it. “I’m all right, Amy. I mean, I feel like shit, but I’ll survive.” In response, his intestines clenched ominously from the coffee and the bagel. He sat up straighter to alleviate the sharp pains in his gut but they only seemed to intensify. Man. He did not have the stamina to be a drunk.
Amy nodded and gnawed her bottom lip. “If you want to give this one last shot, I think you’re going to have to go to him. Put yourself out there. I mean, George, come on, he’s not answering the phone. Track him down if this is what you want. Tell him how you feel. What have you got to lose?”
Thoughts of dying alone in a crappy hospital bed with no insurance and a few family members begrudgingly by his side filled his head again. Maybe that was his fate? Maybe that was the fate of all the men in his family? Amy was right. Finn had looked like walking death at their father’s funeral and George wasn’t able to get a thing out of him about where he was living or even how he was surviving. Could Finn be very far behind their father? Why not George as well? He certainly didn’t have the propensity to drink himself into a stupor, but he was sure another self-destructive behavior would surface if he tried hard enough. Again he thought: Amy was right. Why did he always play it so safe?
“George!” Amy shouted.
He flinched and covered his ear with the hand not holding the coffee. “Ouch.”
“Either take my suggestion or forget about him. But do something, okay?” She stood and shook out her skirt. “Do something,” she said again as she crossed the room to the coatrack by the door.
“Where you going?” George managed to get out as he watched Amy wind a scarf around her neck.
“Work,” she stated. “Owen will be back here for rehearsal in about an hour so you better get up and take a shower. Clear your head, yes?”
“How come you didn’t get so drunk?” George wailed as he massaged his temples.
“Who was going to carry you home?”
Horrified, George said, “You had to carry me? How?”
Amy grinned and ducked down to pick up one of his shoes. She dangled it in the air but George couldn’t focus. “We really kind of dragged you. Sorry about your shoes.” She tossed it toward the couch and it hit the back with a thud before bouncing to the floor.
George peered over the back of the couch and looked forlornly at his shoe. Fuck. The leather along the tops of his black shoes was gray from where it had been torn off.
His head was throbbing and he squinted at his sister. “Tell Owen I said thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not leaving my sorry ass on the street.”
Amy laughed. Halfway out the door, she stopped and called, “I love you, Georgie.”
Lapses in syntax left George unable to formulate a response before Amy slammed the front door. He felt the hollow sound reverberate in his chest as he considered pulling the blankets up over his head and going back to sleep. But then the thought of anyone coming in and catching him like this was all he needed to force him off the couch and take baby steps toward the bathroom.
On the subway into Manhattan, George sat with his head in his hands, staring down at the unbelievably huge scuffmarks on the toes of his shoes. He doubted even polish would fix the gashes in the leather. He tried to imagine what it had been like for Amy and Owen to drag him through the streets of Brooklyn. The thought of it was beyond humiliating.
He rode the line down to the Canal Street stop without going home to shower or change. Sam would have to take him as he was. While the statement was filled with false bravado, George felt empowered, as if thinking it would make it come true. At least he felt pumped up on the sidewalk outside of Sam’s studio but not so much as he made his way up the darkened stairs. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that the missing stair treads Sam had so carefully led George past looked like the blackened gap-toothed piehole of a drunk. He felt along the wall on the second floor landing until he came to the door to the studio with Sam’s massive padlock secured tightly. George bent down and tried to look beneath the crack under the door but he didn’t see any light. Sam wasn’t here.
His only other choice was to head to Sam’s apartment and he hoped that not only was Sam there but Asa as well. He wanted to plead his case to both of them. No more subterfuge. Everything had to be out in the open, which was the only way it would work. He was convinced of it.
However, his convictions faded fast, along with his courage, as he banged on a door that would not open. Sam and Asa were not here either. George checked his watch: 4:45 on a Saturday afternoon. They could be anywhere.
He shuffled back down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. He wandered down Sixth Avenue through Chelsea. His temples and a spot behind his left eye throbbed lightly if he walked too quickly; otherwise, he was feeling remarkably clear-headed. He continued on Sixth, reluctant to stray too far from the neighb
orhood but needing to stay on the move, only stopping when he came to a Food Emporium. His stomach felt hollow and so he ducked in for a quart of milk. Along with that he bought a turkey sandwich wrapped tightly in a womb of cellophane. Back out on the street, he freed his sandwich and took several large bites. As he chewed, he pondered his surroundings. Across the street and down a block was French Roast, where he and Sam had met for coffee.
He tossed the half-eaten sandwich in the trash and tore the safety tab off the milk. He opened his mouth wide and poured, swallowing slowly and evenly so he wouldn’t choke. When he had had enough, he put the milk next to the sandwich on top of the trash and started walking.
George hadn’t realized how hard and fast his heart was beating until he stopped in front of the restaurant and pressed his face to the glass. He felt his heart slam against his ribs as he peered through the window. He didn’t realize until he stood there, breathing hot milky circles on the window, that he fully expected Sam to be sitting at the counter. When it was apparent that Sam wasn’t, he felt the weight of disappointment settle on him. Still he scanned the half-empty booths for signs of either Sam or Asa, but there were none.
There was no way he was giving up now and going home. He went back to Sam’s apartment building and banged on the door. Again, no one answered. With his back against the door, he slid down onto the floor and shut his eyes. Sam shared the second floor of the brownstone with only one other apartment, in the front of the building. He knew from Asa that the guy was away, because Asa mentioned that he had been feeding the guy’s cat. So, as his lids grew heavy, he wasn’t worried that a neighbor would discover him there and call the police. Besides, he was only going to rest in the hall for a minute until he figured out what to do.
When George heard someone say his name, he thought he was dreaming. He didn’t even try to open his eyes, because being asleep felt so good. Although, as they persisted in calling his name, he became vaguely aware that his body was at an awkward angle, half-sitting, half-lying down. His right ass cheek was asleep as was the hand curled beneath his chin, and his neck throbbed ominously from the way his head rested in the curve of his arm. He tried to tuck back into unconsciousness but it was too late. He was starting to come out of that place that had felt blissfully weightless when he had been asleep.
“George?” Sam said, with a thread of concern. “George, are you all right?”
George blinked as his vision cleared. Hearing the worry in Sam’s voice gave him hope. Sam was crouched down before him in the hallway outside his door. His dark hair was loose and fell forward into his face. George tried to raise his hand to push it back away from Sam’s eyes but his fingers were asleep. Sam caught his hand where it hovered in front of his face and held it in his own. George’s fingers tingled painfully but he did nothing to remove them from Sam’s warm grasp.
“Are you all right?” Sam asked again when George didn’t answer. “George?”
Behind Sam, George could make out the tall form of Asa stepping through the shadows of the staircase and into the light of the hallway with a look of alarm on his young face as he surveyed the scene before him. Unfortunately, in his mind’s eye, George pictured what Asa was witnessing: his teacher slumped against his door, smelling like the remains of last night’s bender.
“I’m sorry for this,” George said in Asa’s direction, his tongue chalky and fat as he sought to formulate his thoughts into words. He added, “For everything,” before he turned back to Sam. “But I don’t want to live without you.” He was aware that, with the hand that wasn’t holding onto George’s, Sam was stroking his cheek. “Either of you,” he added, directing his final comment to Asa. “Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.”
“Oh, baby, I know,” Sam replied. “I know, me too.”
George barely heard Sam’s admission because he was on a roll. “And this week has been shit and I never want that to happen again. I’m sorry I went behind your back and I’m sorry I worry and make things bigger than they are and that I didn’t trust you to know your own kid. This is me and I’m probably never going to change so you should know that right now. I’m insecure and I’m serious most of the time and I get off on climbing the mountains I make out of molehills. But I love you. I love you.” He felt water gathering at the corners of his eyes and the clot caught in his throat prohibited him from speaking anymore.
He allowed Sam to help him up. The feeling had returned to his hand and so, as Sam squeezed his fingers, he could now squeeze back. When George was upright, he and Sam swayed together holding on to each other. It was Asa who eventually reached around them and put the key into the lock.
When neither he nor Sam made a move to go inside, Asa said with a hint of youthful exasperation in his voice, “Are you going in, or what?”
George lifted his head and peered over Sam to Asa. “It’s okay with you?” he asked.
Asa nodded without hesitation, which, at this very moment, was as good a response as George could have hoped for. It may be that Asa was just trying to get his father and George out of the hall to spare him any further awkwardness. Or not. George would have to wait and see because he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Either way, George followed Sam over the threshold and into the apartment while Asa, bringing up the rear, closed the door firmly behind the three of them.
part three
Kate
six
THINGS I WANT(ED) TO DO TODAY
Just as Kate was ready to leave work for the evening, Benjamin Harris stuck his head in the doorway of her office and asked if they could have breakfast in the morning. Keep it private, he’d requested. Kate’s throat closed up. This was it, she was sure, her offer for partner. She agreed, with a nod, and he had smiled and disappeared. After that, she used her nerves as an excuse to have a cigarette. Officially, this meant she was up to ten in one day.
Considering that before she found the list written on the back of an envelope offering her father financial freedom from Citibank, before his funeral, she only allowed herself two stress-relieving smokes per week—four if she was trying a particularly arduous case—she could hardly believe she still kept count. But of course that was her way of telling herself that she had it all under control. If she could still count, then she wasn’t a nicotine addict. Any addictions were a sign of weakness, and as far as Kate was concerned, self-discipline, self-control, and self-deprivation were worthy characteristics in an attorney. Her only allowable excess should be her job.
The first thing she did every night when she came in the door was remove her clothes and put them on the balcony of her tenth-floor Foggy Bottom apartment to air out. She gave the fine Italian wool jacket a good shake before she slipped it onto the padded hanger and then did the same for the slacks. She paused a moment. From the balcony she could see the lights of the Watergate Hotel and always, always, felt a pang of sadness for being born too late. She thought that presently there were too many crybabies in the law profession (and the world in general, but that was another story) and she felt a nostalgia for the seventies, for Deep Throat, for good old investigative journalism, for that buffoon G. Gordon Liddy and, of course, Richard Nixon. The last good political gaffe had been the Clintons’. And yet Ken Starr had made so many litigious bungles with Whitewater and the whole sex thing that he managed to turn it into a tabloid’s wet dream; even the Washington Post couldn’t rise above adding more fuel to the fire against the entire law profession. The First Amendment was a bitch.
She had been courted and courted well. So when Kate joined one of D.C.’s oldest firms fresh out of Columbia Law School, she thought she was choosing to be a part of that distinguished, honorable law profession. She wouldn’t admit this to anyone, but she had envisioned herself a female version of Atticus Finch, and the firm, because she was one of three women on staff and the only attorney (the others were paralegals), had dangled the civil liberties—female equality—Roe v. Wade carrots in front of her. Kate had been prepared to storm the high courts with her argum
ents in the name of women everywhere. Instead, within a year of her accepting the offer, the managing partner dropped dead on the golf course and his son, Benjamin, took the reins. He began to woo celebrities after he handled and won a case where a certain Oscar-winning actress now in (forced) retirement had accused her very high-profile senator husband of using the Congressional Pages as his personal escort service.
Soon after that, every wronged B-list celebrity came calling. Kate actually had to write a brief based upon her study of photographs of breast augmentations noting density of tissue due to the level of saline in the implants, cup size, roundness, and nipple size, and she had been forced to use the phrase silver dollar and not have it refer to the coin. Soon the big publicity guns had put the firm on retainer. Now they handled legal damage control for any number of actors and actresses that Kate could watch at home on her DVD player if she so desired.
All this celebrity clientele and the possibility that she might have to show up on television at any moment, given the capricious and ridiculous nature of her clients and the advent of twenty-four-hour entertainment channels, meant that Kate had to splurge on her wardrobe. No more perfectly acceptable suits from the sale rack at Ann Taylor or Filene’s Basement. Now she had Prada and Donna Karan and several pairs of Ferragamos for her feet, along with a dozen or so form-fitting white dress shirts, cashmere sweaters, and a cache of “good” accessories. Which was precisely why she treated her clothing as though it had a life of its own. Why she held the cigarette away from her body when she smoked, why she put the suits on the balcony for airing the second she took them off. And if the humiliating (albeit necessary) concession to dressing the part along with five years and eighty-hour work weeks wasn’t enough to put her in the enviable position of being made partner—an offer she felt was forthcoming over eggs and coffee in less than eight hours, an offer that would make her the youngest partner in the firm—she would be gone in a heartbeat.