In my mind’s eye, I could picture Monty on the other end of the line, grinning one of his famous smiles, all teeth and blindingly white. “Okay, okay. Do this. Wait three months. Three months. Can you do that? If you still feel the same way, I know a guy in family law. One of the best.”
I acquiesced, certain that I would feel even more strongly about it in a few months.
But I didn’t. The months came and went, and I didn’t feel the same sense of urgency. My moment of clarity had passed.
TEN
One night, I work late. I am tracking down the lost funds of James Tritt, an important client. I explore curvy electronic paths in my search for Mr. Tritt’s lost money. This is my forte. No human contact is involved, just a faintly glowing computer terminal to light my solitary investigations. I have called Rachel to tell her that I miss her, that I hope to be home soon, but the truth is that I prefer the company of this quietly humming machine to that of my wife. My machine responds to me in ways that I can foresee and easily understand.
My secretary, Grace, has diligently stayed late with me. I imagine, foolishly, that she merely wants to appear ambitious. She drops a stack of folders on my desk.
“How’s it coming?”
I blink at her, having momentarily forgotten how to communicate on a purely human level.
“Well, believe it or not, I think I’m finally on to something.”
Grace moves around the desk. She stands too close to me, leans over my shoulder to see the computer screen.
“What is it?”
“Well, it seems that Mr. James Tritt isn’t always James Tritt.”
“I don’t get it.”
I don’t really want to let her into my electronic world, but at the same time I welcome the opportunity to show off my skills. I press a few keys, and confidential bank documents appear on the screen.
“Sometimes he’s Jimmy. Tritt named his son after himself, and I think that James Junior has been using his father’s identity.”
“How can you know that?”
“If I have James Junior’s social security number, this program lets me look into his personal accounts at any institution. The deposits and investments correspond to the amounts missing from the father’s accounts.”
Grace squeezes my shoulder. The gesture is just that-a gesture, a simple nonverbal communication. You did it. Congratulations. All the same, I feel awkward. Grace has been my secretary for only a year, and this is the first time that I can recall physical contact between us. The squeeze lingers a moment longer than it should. Then her other hand joins the first. She begins to lightly massage my shoulders. I try to act as though I am grateful, as if I am at ease with this casual contact, while in fact I am not comfortable with it at all. I put my hand over hers. Pat it lightly and pull away.
“Listen, Grace, I’m almost finished here. You should go home.”
“You sure? I can stay.”
“No, really, you should go.”
“You know, I really don’t mind staying.”
“No.”
Later, I call Rachel again. She answers on the seventh ring. Immediately I recognize the alcohol in her voice. I hear the television in the background. She tries to disguise her drunkenness but overcompensates, pronouncing each word with excruciating accuracy. She sounds like a drunk trying not to sound drunk. I know that soon she will dip into her pharmaceutical supply and augment her drunkenness with a carefully chosen pill. Depending on the pill chosen, I know that when I arrive home later I will be greeted by either a catatonic stupor or the ravings of a maniac whose lunacy is directed toward me.
“I’m just wrapping up. Thirty minutes. No more.”
I try to sound casual, pretend that I don’t know she is drunk. I say a silent prayer for catatonia.
“I love you, too,” I say. It is my catechism to ward off evil. The office door opens. Grace stands in the doorway holding a carton of take-out food. I hang up the phone.
“I thought you were going home.”
“I figured you hadn’t eaten all day. I got Chinese.”
After we’ve eaten, I walk Grace to her car in the underground parking lot. This late at night, the lot is mostly empty. Our footsteps sound lonely. Grace hooks her arm through mine.
“I really appreciate your walking me.”
“I really appreciate the dinner.”
She tightens her grasp on my arm. “You should come over to my place. Have a drink. Unwind a little.”
I don’t respond. I try to imagine what it would be like to enjoy the company of a sane woman. I wonder how my life might be different had I chosen another wife. Did I really ever have a choice? Does Grace carry some silent badge of incipient insanity, some telltale sign that she is unstable? Is that why I find myself attracted to her? Or is she what she appears to be-an intelligent, attractive woman? Is this my opportunity for a second chance? I imagine myself making love to this woman, not submitting to her, but enjoying her body as she enjoys mine. I imagine myself gaining strength and insight from her. I imagine this small infidelity changing me in some intrinsic way. I imagine myself leaving Rachel.
“Oh, come on! It would be fun. Live a little.”
I feel the change welling up inside me. I feel mischievous, giddy, and alive. “Well, maybe just for-”
A horrible moan oozes from Grace’s slack mouth. Her grasp on my arm tightens painfully. Her car is in front of us. The windshield is smashed. The glass is cracked and opaque like a cataract.
“Oh, my God! My car! Jesus Christ. Who…”
All four of the tires have been mercilessly slashed. Chunks and ribbons of black rubber litter the area. A kitchen knife protrudes from one of the tires. I extricate myself from Grace’s grip. I have to squat down and leverage myself against the wheel to pull the knife out. I put it in my coat pocket.
“I can’t fucking believe this! I can’t even fucking imagi-”
I back away from the car. Away from Grace.
“What are you doing?”
I back away. I look at the ground, because I can’t look at her. My feet carry me away from her. “I’m sorry. I have to.”
“Have to? Have to what? Where the fuck are you going? You can’t leave me here!”
“I’m sorry,” I say. There is nothing else for me to say.
“You can’t leave me here!”
But I can, and I do.
When I get home, all the lights are off. I walk through the dark house and into the kitchen. I take the knife from my pocket and return it to the vacant spot in the cutlery block.
In the bedroom, I submit to Rachel. The sex act is animalistic. She is vicious. She scratches me until I bleed. Scratches herself. She cries out in her climax. Sweaty and blood-smeared, she dismounts me.
Later, we lie facing away from each other. Her breathing is deep and regular. I close my eyes.
“You know that if you ever cheated on me, I’d kill the slut. You know that, don’t you? Then I’d kill you.”
I know. I know. I know. I know.
“I know.”
ELEVEN
After reaching my apogee as a professional, after sentencing my son to the subcellar of psychotropic medications, after surrendering myself to the prison of marriage, I seek out the services of a psychiatrist. I do this by looking in the Yellow Pages of our local telephone directory. This strikes me as pedestrian, but I know of no other way to go about it. I, of course, do not tell Rachel.
My psychiatrist is Dr. Salinger, a gray-haired man with a short-cropped beard. He looks, I think, the way a psychiatrist should look. He strikes me as insightful, intelligent. I tell him that I believe my wife suffers from a personality disorder. I tell him that she is in some way damaged. That she carries a malignant gene. That she passed this rogue gene on to our son. I tell him that I wonder sometimes if they both-my wife and son-might not be better off dead. Rachel out of her misery, free of her tormenting mood swings, and Albert saved from the constant darkness.